AN — Written for the "Light" prompt on who_contest. When our son was born, I asked my husband how it felt. He told me that it was like being on fire.


"You're the light of my life, Rory Williams." Rory's mum stood in front of him readjusting his cravat and buttonhole and looked up at him with pride shining in her eyes. Rory leaned forward and kissed her softly on the cheek, careful not to smudge her make-up. "Love you, Mum."

She used to call him that—the light of her life—all the time when he was little. She stopped when, as a teenager, he nearly died of embarrassment when she said it in front of his new mates from school. Even though she never said it anymore, he could still tell that she was thinking it, but she kept it to herself. She was good like that, his mum. She was cool.

Rory always thought he understood the meaning of the phrase; that's how he felt about Amy. But two years after his wedding day, when he had last heard his mum say it, he picked up his day old daughter and realised that he had been in the dark all along. She was crying in the white cradle they had her in, her little face red and contorted. He shushed as he lifted her out and into his arms. She stopped and became very still and looked at him, looked right into him with her dark blue eyes. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever set eyes upon.

The light of his love for her, instant and blinding, burst out through his skin, and he was sure that if anyone was watching that they could see it. He felt like he was on fire, set alight by this tiny person he had known for mere seconds. It was beautiful and terrible, and it hurt like hell.

He thought of how his mum must have felt when she couldn't tell him, and he vowed that he would tell his daughter as often as he could, for as long as she would let him. He pressed his lips to her velvet-soft forehead and squeezed his eyes shut. "You're the light of my life, Melody Williams."