A/N: I actually like this a little. It's just a little background history of Pan set...sometime in time and space, although I always thought after the movie.


Fires In The Sky

By Weregrrl

Pan relaxed slightly as the night air hit his figure in a rush. He was cutting it close, walking around at this time of night in the mortal realm. The sun had very nearly grazed his cheek as he unfolded from the shadows of the underworld, his limbs creaking as a tree's boughs, jagged and mercilessly aged by the seasons. Heavy with the years he carried on his back, he stood, silently allowing the wind to graze his skin and tangle his already matted hair as it danced nimbly by. His life was coming to an end, he felt, but as he stood in the glorious, dark, freedom of the upperworld, he could not find it in himself to care for anything, much less the future. His world was gone, regardless of what he wished. This was the very reason he was dying, because even an escapee from a massacre will eventually be forced to meet with his demise.

And what better way to go, thought he, than head on.

Being who he was, and after living throughout the lifetimes of many mortals and fae alike, Pan thought he had developed a fairly accurate pallet when it came to tasting the thoughts of others. Oh, he was no mind-reader, but it was not unknown to him the myths about his kind, the implications of the glances shot his way. He was well aware of his supposed "immortality"; his God-hood. In truth, satyrs lived very long lives, but they were far from immortal, and most definitely not invincible – just a tad harder to kill than most. And Pan had already died. Multiples of them. He was not entirely sure as to how the legend of 'Pan' had began, as it was a ceremonial name only, bestowed upon those who, at birth, had been chosen to tend the fields and forests of the Ancient Land. He snorted in his contemplative state. He hoped he looked dissimilar to the past Pan of the forests. His horns had been atrocious. He frightened even the young of his own kind; stumbling kids, still new to their hooves found themselves gaining accuracy quickly in running from the poor creature. Considering the ingrained love of all things new in the world by most fauns, this had upset the fool greatly until he had mated and produced his own kids, all blessed with the physical gifts of their mother, and the surprising kindness of their father. Alas, they had been driven with the rest of the satyrs from the upperworld when the rebellious fae of the North had appeared amongst the humans, convincing them to strip the forests of their trees due to their own envy of the hoofed creatures' prospering community.

Pan shook his head slightly, as if to rid himself of the memories of that time, so far ago. The images still blazed, as the fires had that night, behind his eyes; on that terrible night that the forests had burned. Streaks of ebony and flaming red crossed his ageless memory, smoke suffocated, as vicious flames lapped gently at his skin, burning and peeling the bark-like substance without actually seeming threatening; becoming entrancing even to his innocence. He had been so young then…and he had failed his duty. If it were not for his negligence; if he had been there in time; if his sense of smell was more developed – so many ifs! And yet only one conclusion: the satyrs had retreated underground, falling into the darkness of myths and legends, and old wives tales as they did so. The majority of sidhe had followed soon after, and magic faded from above. Perhaps the most shocking of all for him though, was when the youngling fauns began to age at an alarming rate, loosing their glossy fur, their soft skin; turned to impenetrable masses of bark, foliage; when the lilting voices of his kind became the scraping gasps of a forest in agony; when going back into the sun resulted in the loss of memories and assurances of a most painful death. And then there was nothing to be done – the hooves of kids, concealed beneath twisting claws of wood, struck into the ground, gaining more strength each time they were upheaved, until the last of the fauns were trapped and became a wooden relic, breath slowing, hearts ceasing, and yet never did their veins halt in the production of magic. He was the only one left. He felt sure this was only due to his role as forest-keeper. The trees refused to let him die, or perhaps he was already so dead inside that it mattered not whether he still walked upon two legs, for his essence was missing now; gone.

Pan rubbed the bridge of his nose gently, sighing. Try as he might, he could not help but dwell on his past misdeeds. A sudden brightness far beyond alerted the faun to a disturbance in the world, his breath hitching as he replayed thoughts of the fires. Catching sight of the sun rising, the creature smirked sardonically. So it was the heavens mocking him, was it? He almost laughed aloud at the irony. Such a 'God' he was. Thinking momentarily of letting the fire in the sky take him, Pan shook his head with disgust. He hadn't yet paid nearly enough for his sins. Perhaps one day…but not now. True, he sensed his death as imminent, yet for all his years, Pan was still only a young man-goat. He had so many things to do before he let death take him. Loping back into the darkness from whence he came, Pan allowed yet another twisted smile grace his lips. Perhaps the ending of his days was not so close after all. With that thought to guide him, the satyr hobbled through the low underground tunnels to an odd patch of trees, where he proceeded to settle down at the roots of a particularly wild looking oak, its leaves and branches twined throughout each other in an almost alarming array. Shaking his head drowsily, he could not help but think upon how truly unruly his father's horns had been before drifting off into a familiar state of oblivion.