Bonfire Beacon of West Hill
@flufftober
(Foyle's War adjacent) May 1945
The fire leaps up into the summer night, which has only just now come to velvet-dark, a high tower of glittering orange, throwing sparks and spits from it's peak, as if it too wants to join the twinkle of lights whic have sprung up all over the city.
it's almost too bright, compared to the darkness she's been accustomed to, had to be, over these last years. But she can't pull her eyes from it, even as the breeze shifts and tips smoke in her face, the dance and skip of the flames.
A fire, a Bonfire fuelled with nothing worse than wood on the hights of the south coast. Even a year ago, this would have meant the worst, as it would have done for centuries before - Invasion.
Now, now now it was a beacon and a hope, a marker as clear as anythign else. No more Blackout, no more invasion-risk. No more War, in Europe at least. She turns her eyes away out to sea, blinking to acustm them to darkness again. Somewhere out there, is France.
Are they celebrating too, now it is truely over, and Hitler is gone. Is, perhaps, this bonfire tall enough that they will see it over there, and know that the celebration is shared by the other side of the channel.
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A/N this could be Sam, or Anne Roberts, or another young woman in Hastings that night.
