Where the Stars Fell

I.

It is very late. At this hour of the night Lance should be fast asleep in his bed, lost to a dreamless rest. However sleep escapes him, flees from his grasp. Working in the fields from sun up, to when it grows soft and coppery and hangs just below of the land's horizon leaves a weary ache in his bones he is certain will never fade. His stomach growls and cramps, the meager helping of lukewarm broth and stale bread hardly enough sustenance for a growing boy. Every copper piece counts though, and he cannot waste his little earnings on himself.

His father is sick, and his mother isn't faring well either. His brothers and sisters continue to waste away more and more each day. Little skeletons draped in big, billowing clothing. Large, owlish eyes sunken into soft, withering faces. At night their cries of hunger could be heard. Their debt is so deep, the only solution that made sense was to send their eldest son away, no matter how much Lance resented it.

He supposes it is better than being sent off to the docks to become a seafaring soldier, not that it mattered. Lance had been born with what was called a "dead leg." Everyday activities were proven more difficult with this hindrance, his limb like a leaden weight the longer he stayed on it. His wooden cane helps with the burden, although the stares of pity never seem to go away completely.

Lance leans on that very cane now, sitting on the lush grass of the hill leading from the workers' living quarters, down to the sloping valley of the crops they harvest. There isn't much to cultivate, not with the rapid deterioration of the planet's ecosystem within the past few decades, but it is enough for now. His expression is impassive, as opaque as fog kissing a glass window.

Lance has learned to never allow his frustrations to buoy to the surface, far too many eyes waiting for him to crack and wither in defeat, to vanish from the fields with his head held low. It just means more work for them, and they watch the boy like vultures ready for their meal to perish.

Night has swallowed any trace of daylight, stars collected deep in its gullet. They shine together in twisting fractals along the sky, twinkling in reticent amusement. Lance glares up at the stars with an unguarded scowl, watches as they and its pregnant moon flood pearly-white light over him. There isn't a cloud in the sky to conceal just show how ethereal the night is.

For a moment, Lance can't deny the phantasmal pain he feels in his chest. He hates the stars. Hates how they laugh at him, a pitiful creature of quivering flesh and brittle bones. The envy he feels for the celestial bodies is near-palpable. How he longs to be right up there with him, far away from this, nothing more than an observer.

Lance would give up anything to be anything but himself.

It is a fleeting thought, not even a wish, and the stars have chosen not to sail across the sky this particular night. And yet one in particular— one far from the biggest or the brightest in the menagerie, begins to tremble. One moment it is pinned to the sky, before dropping straight down like a stone. Lance watches, jaw slack as the dot of light falls. It grows larger and larger.

Lance has only read about meteors in books, back when he was attending school and his prospects seemed bright. He had learned that meteors are made of metal and stardust, children of comets. Astronomers once said that hundreds of thousands of meteors orbit the Earth each day. The science itself has changed with the times, the atmosphere of the Earth transforming as the planet itself withers and dies.

What Lance never would have expected, is that they were so bright.

Soon the field is illuminated, it is blinding. The boy braces for impact, knowing that he will not be able to pull himself up fast enough. Not with the speed of the meteor falling and his crippled leg. His heart races, palms growing clammy. His mind is a flurry of thoughts. What would become of his mother and father if he were to die? His brother and sister?