Chapter Text
Isco still dreams at night—of whimsical notes of songbirds that greeted him in the morning and golden apples that hung like jewels from rounded, bushy trees. He dreams of sunsets that tinted the heavens in splendid orange, pink, and red, and the fields of stars that once adorned the ink-black sky, which he and Antonio had meticulously mapped as children, telling their own tales of gods and heroes.
It has been many years since Isco last heard the melodies of songbirds, tasted the sweetness of apples, or seen sunsets and stars, but he supposes he should be grateful that he dreams at all, a glimmer of hope in the most brutal of times. Because reality is hellish—a nightmare since the moment of waking to a harsh gust of wind past boarded windows, or an eerie howl of a wolf, a ghost, a creature too powerful to be kept by the spiked wires encircling his house. But perhaps the worst, cruelest twist of all is that Isco is alone upon waking—his mother's gentle smile, his father's safe reassurance, and Antonio's wild laughter all fading with the morning mist.
Isco has his father’s rifle by his pillow, sparingly used but undoubtedly necessary to warn off looters and wild animals. He has stopped sleeping in his bed a long time ago, opting instead to stack his quilts and pillows beneath the long, mahogany table in the otherwise empty dining room. Explosions in recent months have been few and far in between, but one can never be too careful, especially when the sharp, metal debris of the last air strike still lie untouched in a garden that once flourished with snow peas, cauliflower, and a golden apple tree.
So when the ground shakes one morning as dawn is barely breaking—as white, blinding light floods through the cracks at the window, engulfing everything in it’s path—Isco remains resolutely calm, bringing his hand to the scruff of the Labrador by his side, urging the whimpering animal to shush.
He knows it’s different this time—the impact close enough to make the entire house shake, the thunder so loud that it dulls his senses. Isco doesn’t dare to open his eyes, fearing the embers that would blind him as they did to so many before. And in that moment, the prospect of death seems strangely relieving, despite everything in his nature urging him to survive. Isco has persevered for so long—blessed with relative fortune in a world irredeemably cursed—and few will scorn him for this brief moment of capitulation, when fate dangles the promise of peace so alluringly before his tired eyes.
But death does not greet him that day, the lights and sounds soon fading and leaving nothing but the weak glimmer of dawn and the ringing inside Isco’s ears. He waits an indefinite span of time before pushing aside his down quilt and rising to his feet. He slips his arms through his father’s old leather jacket and pulls the strings tight on his heavy, army boots. He wraps his scarf three times to cover his neck and mouth and slings the rifle over his shoulder. Messi scampers next to him and pushes his nose against Isco’s thigh, softly growling as he follows his master outside.
Flecks of dust swirls with the feverish wind, settling like snow on Isco’s clothes and hair. Not so far into the distance, a pillar of smoke rises from the woods, glowing ethereal blue like nothing the boy has ever seen. Perhaps an army jet was shot down, or even a carrier plane, but if it had been a missile, surely Isco’s house would have been singed to cinders.
Isco pushes past the thorns and brambles, plodding deeper into the dark, dust-coated woods. The wind grows hotter as he approaches the site of impact, carrying a few helpless leaves charred black at the edges. Isco does not find any burnt metal or airplane debris or supplies that may have survived the crash. Instead, he sees a crater the size of a football field, dark-rimmed like a black halo among charred, leafless trees. At the center lies a small ball of fire—a gleam of blue, yellow, and white that is fighting to shine against the harsh wind and dry dust.
Isco only dares to approach once the light has faded to nothing. He orders his Labrador to sit and wait as he skids down the edge of the crater and onto the smooth compacted earth. He takes each step with caution, regarding with solemn awe at the destruction caused by what he can only assume to be a meteor. Everything from trees, stones, cliffs, and hills have been flattened by the impact, narrowly evading Isco's house by a mile or two.
Halfway to the core, Isco manages to make out the form of a person and thinks surely his eyes are playing tricks on him. He picks up his pace, the rhythmic thudding of his heavy boots filling the otherwise unnatural silence, until he reaches the unconscious stranger—a young man, he finally realizes—tanned, dark-haired, and sweet-faced. He couldn’t be more than Isco’s age, barely pushing 20 years.
Isco kneels beside him and examines the extent of the injuries—burns at the left shoulder, bruises at the hip, cuts and scrapes along an arm bending in an awkward angle. It’s a miracle that the boy is still alive, let alone breathing and sustaining seemingly nonfatal wounds.
Isco shrugs off his jacket and covers the boy, preserving his modesty for whatever it’s worth. He takes the less battered arm and drapes it over his shoulder, before lifting the stranger gently until he could support most of his weight on his shoulders and back.
He takes a clumsy step forward, adjusting to balance their centers of gravity. The boy is a few inches taller, making the trek out of the crater more awkward than anticipated. Messi is pacing restlessly by the time Isco reaches the edge, growling and making himself nuisance.
“Shh,” Isco coos, nudging his dog away from the stranger’s limp form. “It’s fine. He’s fine. Let’s go home.”