From: Allan Urechko <apoc@pangea.ca>
Subject: [Orig][FanFic]  Rekindled

Hello, hello.  My name is Allan Urechko, and as you might have guessed
by the form of my posting, I'm new to the writing scene.  I hope that I
haven't stepped all over story posting ettiquette.  If so, my apologies. 

Anyway, here you all go.  Thanks to Shazorn for his help as a prereader.

Any C&C will be greatly appreciated.  So will expansive demonstrations
of gratitude.  So would money (hey, I can dream, can't I?).

As this is my very first real true blue finished short story, please be
gentle. -_-!

Finally, (get on with it already!!) this is an original flavour, and so
I owe nobody credit (originality is, of course, hiding your sources).

	
REKINDLED 

"I wake up in the morning and I ask myself,
	Is life worth living?  Should I blast myself?"
					2Pac, I Wonder if Heaven's Got a Ghetto

Most people yearn for heaven, to pass beyond those iron gates into the
land of plenty.  A return to home, they say.  But heaven doesn't exist
for all of us, does it?  	
	My first direct encounter with the Seraphim was when I was five.  I was
lying on my face; someone had recently kicked me in the mouth.  Blood
spilled over teeth like jagged bone fragments lying in an ever growing
pool of scarlet.  That was the hardest I'd ever been kicked to date.  My
vision was swimming.  I didn't care about the pain, only the
humiliation.  I swore the bastard wouldn't make me puke.
	But he kicked me in the stomach, and I did.  That got him really mad. 
I'd messed up his pretty leather boots.  And so he really went to town
on me.  I was left with burning wounds.  My face looked like a car
crash.  My breath stank of blood and vomit.  Somewhere during the
beating, I lost my bladder, and my thighs were starting to itch.  I
could see the bones of my arm jutting out of the skin that's supposed to
encase them, like iceberg tips on a red sea.  I lay in that puddle for
two days while my body bent me back to normal.  I can still pop that
shoulder out if I try. 
	I bet you're probably thinking, "What did I do to deserve this?"  Must
have been something pretty bad, hey?  I probably stole something
valuable, or maybe I spit on him, or called him something.  Maybe I hurt
his little girl or something like that?  It takes a lot to make a man do
that kind of shit to a little runt like I was, hey?
	But that wasn't the case.  He did it because he was asked to.  His wife
said, "You know, I wonder what that little boy would look like with his
face kicked in?  Please, darling, show me."  You think I'm lying?  It's
all it takes when no one thinks you exist.  I wasn't real, after all;
just a story to kick in.  Doesn't matter, they don't feel pain.
	That wasn't the only time, either.  Later on, when I was about eleven,
a Seraph by the name of Damien approached me with an offer I should have
refused.  I would get all the food I wanted, for a price.  That price
was to be kicked on, spit on, laughed at, and humiliated.  He'd take me
in, let me eat.  Then, once I was finished, I would be beaten until I
begged him to forgive me; forgive me for stealing his food, for wasting
his time, for messing up his carpet.  He'd step on my head a few times,
saying he couldn't hear me.  Telling me how hard he tried for me, how
hard it was to be kind when I used him like that.  How evil and sick and
twisted I was.  How I deserved all this and more from him.  Some days,
he wasn't even that nice.  
	Afterwards, he would fix my wounds.  I know this because there were
bandages on me when I came to.  The odd time I would drift in and out of
consciousness, and I would hear him whispering to me softly, his breath
on my cheek, "It's okay, it's okay, I'm here now.  No one can hurt you
now.  I'll protect you.  I love you like a son, my only son.  There,
there..."  This kept up until I was thirteen.  I went through phases
with this guy.  Sometimes I would truly hate him for what he did to me. 
Sometimes I would pity him and hate the society that drove this pathetic
dickhead to insanity.  Sometimes I really believed that I did deserve
what I got, that I had in fact, stolen his bread and betrayed his
trust.  Those were the times when the beatings were the worst.
	You see he liked it when I was feisty.  He wanted me to fight back, but
just a little.  I would flee him around the table; we'd both be
laughing.  Then he'd throw a chair at me, knock me down, and work my
face with his fists a little.  Then he'd take off his belt and threaten
me with it.
	"Now you've done it, you little thief.  I didn't want to do this.  If
you had just taken your punishment, this wouldn't have had to happen." 
He'd raise the belt, eyes alive with anticipation.  "This is your
doing!"
	I was supposed to bring my hands up, screaming out in surprise.  I was
to yell with every swing, "No, good sir!  I beg thee, no more!  You are
true and kind, good sir!  I was so wrong, so horribly wrong!"  After
saying that, over and over, you started to believe it a little.  Then
the beating got really bad, then I'd black out, then I'd wake up outside
in bandages.
	The worst thing was that I began to like him.  I hated him for the
beatings.  I wanted to kill him sometimes.  But I was his property,
see?  And that gave me certain rights.  No one else could beat me, or
break me.  He defended me a couple of times from the other Seraphim.  So
I thought maybe he did care a little about me.  It was all in the way he
played the game.  What can I say but that he was good at it.
	Finally, I just snapped.  I don't know why.  Something inside me just
cracked, and I couldn't take it anymore.  He was chasing me around the
table, but I wasn't laughing.  I stopped running around the table, and
he bowled me over.  He was above me then, belt off, uncertain because
I'd forgotten my lines.  I remember our gaze met, and his dreamily half
lidded eyes widened suddenly.  I opened my mouth, and a scream emerged,
followed by something else, something frantic and glorious and so, so
hot.
	Funny.  Whenever I stare into a fire, I think of him.  I watch the wood
crack and pop.  I watch the flyaway ashes hover crazily on thermals
produced by the flames.  I sometimes then throw grass on the fire, just
so I can recall exactly what it looked like when his hair caught up.
	I couldn't talk for days afterwards.

	"Icicle, icicle, where are you going?
	Where are you going?
	Icicle, icicle, where are you going?
	I have a hiding place when spring rushes in.
	Will you keep watch for me?  I hear them calling.
	Gonna lay down, gonna lay down."
					Tori Amos, Icicle

"Then the fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun, and power was
given to him to scorch men with fire.
	And men were scorched with great heat, and they blasphemed the name of
God who has power over these plagues; and they did not repent and give
Him glory."
		Revelations 16: 8-9

	Perhaps two days had passed.  My arms were aching fiercely.  I was
terribly tired, but I knew that to sleep was to die.  I would suffocate
the instant my head hit my chest.  Such is the way of crucifixion.  
	"How shall we execute him?"
	"I'm feeling positively biblical today!  I think a crucifixion is in
order, wouldn't you agree?"
	"I was hoping for something more... poetic, or ironic, perhaps.  A
drowning?  Or burned alive?  These things have much more relevance."
	"Oh, indeed?  Personally, this 'eye for an eye' fad has become tiresome
these last few centuries; how old, how... archaic.   Are we not
artists?"
	"Well, we shall have to bring it up with the committee.  Personally, I
believe they will accept my bid for execution rights over yours.  You
are possibly too avant-garde.  They won't even look twice at your
plans.  Humph!"
	"We shall see."
	Lucky for me they chose to crucify me.  I have to admit that the snakes
for chains was an interesting touch.  The poison prevented me from
healing, or from more drastic physical alterations.  In short, I
couldn't shift.  The metal cross heated to excruciating temperatures
during the daytime, forcing me to arch my back away from it.  This
action would force my head and neck against the cross, causing great
burning...
	"...which will cause him to pull his head away, forcing his back
against the burning cross again!  I call it the 'vicious circle', a
colloquial turn of phrase I picked up on Earth."
	"Pure genius, Raphael!  Another winner!"
	"Also, when night falls, the temperature of the cross will fall as
well, causing stinging cold to seep into the burns..."
	...which would keep the process going all day and night.  Flesh from my
back was stuck to the cross.  The reek was tremendous.
	"Claps all around, gentlemen!  We've found our execution!"
	Michael spent the first day watching me.  There he sat, my only view
save the burnt wreckage of his son's house.  He sat there, flecks of
spittle leaving his open mouth as he breathed.  Other Seraphim would
walk by, some curious about my condition, some curious about his.
	"A damn shame about your son," said one eerily smiling Seraph.
	Spittle would spray when Michael spoke, his voice warm and thick. 
"Such is the price of beauty."
	I knew he wanted to come up to me, to talk to me, but was unwilling to
destroy the atmosphere.  The theme was heat; the heat of his eyes, his
breath, the cross and my dying body; the heat of anger and lust.  His
stare was putrid.  He wouldn't stop smiling.  He sat in the lotus
position and dribbled spittle.  He sat and watched me, drooling out of
the corner of his mouth.  He sat, and waited.
	He left the first night.  There were tears in his eyes when he came up
to finally talk to me.  
	"You are wonderful, child.  I see what my son saw, now.  I cannot wait
to own your corpse.  It will be stuffed and hung from this very cross in
my rock garden.  Preserved for all time in this heat, this glory."
	  Young parents in love would watch with pride as their children pelted
me with stones.  Why, one Seraph even brought along his students to
witness and critique the techniques used by the infamous Raphael.
	"Do you see how complex the pulley system that keeps his balance is? 
This, my students, is why even artists must master the sciences!  It is
a triumph, I declare!"  The students would not sagely, and pass on.
	"Oh, look dear!  That little boy is laughing!  Quick honey, the
camera!"
	During the second day, three men and a girl came to visit.  The first
was tall and gaunt, with cold calculating eyes and a body that moved
with the grace of the wind.  The second was massive; even his chin was
strong.  The third was flame haired, and a cruel twist had worked its
way permanently into his smile.  The young girl was maybe fifteen,
perhaps more.  It's hard to tell the age of Seraphim, anyway.  She had
long red hair like the third man, clean, tanned skin, and a demure
smile.  She was cute.  It struck me as funny that I could think such
things during my torment.  Perhaps my suffering wasn't as drastic as I
had thought.  God, it was hot that day.  The air rippled, and it
appeared to me in my delusion that these four travellers had stepped out
of the very ground.  The massive one spoke first, his eyes aflame.
	"What barbaric display is this?"
	Replied the fiery haired one, "I believe it's called a crucifixion,
brother."
	"Do not mock me, brother.  I ask why a mere boy such as this deserves
such morbid attentions?"
	"Indeed, brother?  I fear your question is poorly directed.  If you
wish answers, ask him yourself."
	The giant leaned close to me, smiling in a friendly, yet grave manner
(a hard feat, I must say).  "Can you speak, lad?"
	"I can sing, too."
	The redhead's voice was icy.  "You will have a civil tongue in your
head, or no tongue at all!"
	"Leave him be brother.  That's good lad; there's still some fight in
you.  Now boy, who did this to you?"
	"I think Raphael won the bid."
	"Bid?"
	Haltingly I told him how executions were run.  It's simple, really. 
Any public executions are presented to a board of judges who decide on
the merit of the artistic piece.  Artists present their work, and the
best display is chosen.  There are even prizes for best display, longest
living victim, and best acoustics.
	"That's monstrous!"  The giant reared back indignantly.
	"Tell me, boy," said the redheaded man, "what was your crime?"
	"I put down a mad dog."
	"Murder?  A Seraph?  You?  HA!"
	"I burned him to death."
	"Then I say leave him.  That a man could aspire to kill a god..."
	"I WILL NOT!"
	"You will."  This was from the previously silent one.  "We are
emissaries on a mission of PEACE.  Any such actions will be construed as
acts of war."
	The giant looked enraged, then distraught.  He sighed, shrunk in on
himself.  "Sorry lad, but treaties are often founded on the basest
deeds.  Forgive me."
	They left.  Only the girl looked back.  I remember arching my back
seventeen times before she returned alone.  She sat on a large rock that
had stopped nearby to rest.  She regarded me thoughtfully.  It struck me
as proper that she sat where Michael had rested earlier.  Would she be
as cruel, I wondered?  Would she kiss me as one woman did only two hours
ago?  She smelled of lavender.  If I breathed hard enough, would she
disappear?
	"What do they call you?"
	I remained silent, breathing.
	"You were the one who burned Damien?"  It wasn't precisely a question. 
I wondered if she would talk of the weather next.
	"I like your ears."  I was in self preservation mode.  My ears were
cat-like in this form.  I could hear exceptionally well.  People would
often walk by and feel my ears, laughing in their way that makes me want
to scream just to drown the sound out.  I swear I can feel their voices,
iridescent and oily.  Her laugh was clear and cool like fresh water. 
	I said nothing, anticipating the joke that always accompanied my
silence.  Cat got your tongue?
	"I like the quiet, here, with you."
	She then turned to stare at the two moons.  Today, the sky was a misty
green, and the clouds were red like her delicate lips.  "Red sky at
night, sailor's delight."  The moons shone through the clouds, white as
chalk.  The air felt salted.  I was shivering violently.
	"You said you could sing."  A smile played at her lips.  "If you sing
for me, then I will let you down."
	I spat a little blood to clear my throat, and this is what I sang:

	"Fighting evil by moonlight,
	Winning love by daylight,
	Never gonna give up the fight,
	The only one named Sailor Moon."
	
	She laughed and clapped her hands in delight.  "I like you!  You are so
very refreshing."  She jumped off the rock, and it rolled away
noiselessly.  "My grandfather is very kind, but terribly boring.  I
would take you with us if I could."  She walked closer.  "But maybe I
would then tire of you."  White wings began to carve their way out of
her back.  She leaned so close our noses touched.  Half lidded eyes
locked on mine, and she whispered, "I know a place.  Michael cannot
reach you there.  You will be safe.  Do you want that?"
	I couldn't speak, only stare into the bottomless eyes.  They weren't
precisely kind.  It was like being pulled into an undertow.  I was
dragged along ten kilometres of blue eyes.  Her laughter was small and
sharp.  It ran like an icicle down my spine, cold and so very sharp. 
She turned to each snake and they wordlessly let go.  The poison that
ran into my wrists ceased.  I fell forward into her arms.
	"All you must do is ask me to."
	I knew I was crying because the rivulets that ran down my face were
cold, not hot.  I began to shake ever harder.  She wrapped me in her
arms, her cloak covering me.
	"Ask me to, and I will take you."
	My tears traced the outlines of arms, running down to her elbows, then
evacuating.  I was becoming hysterical.
	"Ask me."
	My hair was plastered to my head by sweat and blood.  My eyes were
blinded by the saltiness of my tears.  I had so little water left in
me.  I was crying salt all over a young girl.
	"Ask."
	I think I bit through my lip.  I cannot recall.  I only know that the
salty taste of my tears mingled with the copper of my blood.  Her arms
were marbled in crimson and sorrow. 
	"Ask."
	"No," I finally managed.  "I cannot ask for your help.  No one's help. 
No one."
	"Really?  Never?"
	I couldn't reply, I was crying too hard.
	She smiled again and held me tighter.  I felt the wound on my back
closing.  Suddenly I felt the wind blow across me, through me.  The
night was bitterly cold.  I was weightless, moving through the air at
great speed.  She was flying away from the cross, from Michael, from the
hollowed out shell that was my life with Damien.  I cried and I cried,
and she held me like a baby as we flew through an infinity of green sky.
	"I hear a thunder in the distance
	See a vision of a cross
	 I feel the pain that was given
	On that sad day of loss
	A lion roars in the darkness
	Only he holds the key
	A light to free me from my burden 
	And grant me life eternally."
				Creed, My Own Prison

	"I will hold you to your answer," she said as she pushed another log
into the fire.  I wiped away what remained of my tears, and threw some
grass into the blaze.