In Flames - 1. Chapter 1

It all started with fire.

Mankind made fire. Then man used fire to light his way in the dark, cook his meat, defend himself and his hovel against the creatures in the wild and the night. And then man forgot about fire.

Man thought that he had tamed fire, bottled in up in pilot lights and glass jars, segmented it in flint locks and sulphur matches. Man used fire for his own ends, and he forgot to be fearful and respectful of fire. But the main thing that man forgot, was that the first fire, was not his originally. Fire was first made by the gods, and when man thought that he held mastery over the fiery elements, one god in particular made sure that his sons reminded mankind how dangerous fire could be.

Fire can do many things, and any fire big enough, built and stoked with enough adoration and respect, can warp the fabric of the universe.

There is one small town in the south of England, that still recognises fire, whose people remember that fire is wild and dangerous and cannot be tamed. A town who every year hold up to the sky a reflection of the fire of the gods and demons, who shout their love and respect of fire to the stars burning bright above. Six thousand torches soaked it pitch, and town that attempted to outshine the sun. In that town, they build one fire every year, bigger than any other. The men who build that fire are dressed in their stripy jumpers and smuggled trousers. They construct it in such a way so that it will burn brightest, loudest, most forceful. It is a fire to celebrate and revere all fire.

In that fire, sometimes, if there is enough reverence and adulation and awe, sometimes a demon is born.

*

The boy stumbled as he walked, swayed dangerously, collided with a high, rough brick wall and made a muffled grunt of pain and hurt. He rubbed his shoulder and snivelled. Atoki leant against the wall and hung his head, glad that the hood of the long coat was hiding his face. His face… he sniffed, wanting to give in and cry again, but there was a group of slightly tipsy revellers at the end of the road heading his way, and Atoki wasn’t going to be caught crying twice in one night. He sucked back the tears, chin in his chest, and took long deep breaths until the people had gone past. He heaved himself away from the wall, cursing silently at his screaming muscles for a brief moment, and continued on his way.

Aris had stopped him from going to the procession, from joining in with the celebrations and the fireworks, but Atoki was damned if he wasn’t going to make it as far as the fire site.

It wasn’t far to the field, a five minute walk down the twisted streets on a good day, but this was not a good day for Atoki, and he stopped often to catch his breath and take stock of his injuries. His lungs rasped when he breathed, and he was sure that something in his chest had cracked, maybe a rib or two. His whole abdomen hurt, but Atoki had no idea if he was just bruised or if he was somehow leaking blood internally. It was dark, but his vision was fuzzy on the left side, and his cheek hurt too. He knew that his lip was spilt that side, and his teeth had cut the inside of his cheek, because all the way down the road he had spat out the mixed taste of copper-salt-blood and saliva.

It was nearly two in the morning by the time Atoki stumbled into the field where the biggest of the five fires had been built. The mass of the people had gone, returned to their homes or having caught trains and taxi’s back to the city, or driven their tired cars to outlying towns and villages. The fire had burnt down from its three storey height, but there were still people about. Little bands of drunken revellers gone sleepy and boys from the smugglers brigade clearing up litter and burnt out torches. The men of the fireworks company are long gone taking their leftover explosives and chemical glitters. The remnants of the fire still burnt deep and red like the centre of the sun.

Atoki fixed his remaining good eye on the fire and shuffled onwards. He’d known as soon as he’d said it, that there was no way Aris was going to let him go. Aris had been in one of his moods, but it was The Fifth, and Atoki had pushed him without realising how foul and black Aris’s mood was. And now he was broken and badly hurt.

At least he’d gotten out.

And that will do you no good, because everything you own is in that flat. If you go back either he’ll kill you for getting away…Or worse.

He’d gotten out. Atoki sucked down a deep breath of cold smoky air and coughed so painfully he thought maybe one of his lungs had given out completely. Even if it was just for tonight, he was thankful he’d gotten out of his life. He finally escaped from the hell of the last nine months and broken free of Aris. Even if only just for tonight, tonight was going to have to be enough.

He ignored the little group of revellers gigging with acoustic guitars and ukuleles and marched achingly forwards towards the fire.

A fire to end all fires…

Atoki wished he’d seen it when it was set alight, been able to shout in carnal, primal, pagan joy at the raging fire as it burned to the sky and outshone every star under heaven. Something about a fire that large just made his heart burn brighter, beat faster, sent rich love and awe coursing through his veins. He’d missed it. For the second time that night, he wept for the loss of the fire, though it still burnt brightly, still gave of a heat so high that to stand within twenty feet was madness. Atoki almost didn’t notice, his good eye shaded with his long lashes, as he walked forwards, as though the centre of the fire was his inexorable destination. His clothes crackled with the heat, his skin hot and flush even under the shaggy layers of combats. He trod forwards.

Just tonight was never going to be enough.

I wish someone could come and take this all away. Atoki knew better than to really ask, fires didn’t grant wishes. I just want it all to end.

As he reached the scorched grass and earth, someone shouted. Atoki ignored them. All he wanted was to be warm and whole and untouchable. The fire was untouchable, and it seemed like a good idea at the time. He stepped forwards.

At first, the pain that rose through him from the fire was negligible compared to the pain of his body and the snivelling shameful pain in his heart and his head. Then it multiplied.

Fire, take me.

Atoki stepped forwards more, into the blistering heat of the flames, to the place where there was nothing but heat and light and the crackling of the wood below.

Fire, break me.

The boy curled his arms around his chest, made himself as small as possible as he crumpled, his long coat folded around his shape like so much damp paper around a stone.

Fire, I implore you, save me.

His eyes weren’t working. The pain was intense, more enormous than anything he had ever known. But at least Aris would never get him back, the fire would cleanse him, destroy him, bring an end to the stupid pitiful life he lead. The fire would make sure that no one could touch him again. There was a last brief moment of pain and suffering, a scream he recognised as his own that tore the air with jagged claws of audio and then nothing.

No, not nothing.

Softness, warmth, the presence of being held, something strong and secure wrapped about him, coddled as though he was precious. Atoki fought the feeling, the sensation so similar to that hazy drug of first love that had lead him down such a dangerous path, and found that outside of the presence the fire still raged.

He was protected, untouchable to the outside world.

This must be what death is like… There were no bright lights or choirs of angels, just the strange and untranslatable feeling that the fire which he adored and feared, somehow loved him back. Convinced he was dying, convinced that there was nothing left but to let his conscious mind slide into the void from which it would never return, Atoki closed his eyes, and let go of the life he’d led.

*

The new demon looked down at itself. There was the feeling of… change. As if the shape it wore was purely temporary and he could shift it whenever he wanted, but only in certain ways. He rolled his sturdy neck and felt his horns brushing at his thickly furred shoulders. There was an identity somewhere… it was hard to reach, but it was as though he’d known it before, and he decided to focus on that later.

He’d been called.

The fire had burnt bright with a thousand torches, built higher than the surrounding buildings out of wood and paper and whatever else could have been found. There had been shouting and music and people who had roared his name in their hearts as the flames had lit the sky and made the campfire stars shy and afraid to show themselves. The flames had been lit with love and the primal desire to celebrate the oncoming winter, the fire had been built with care and worshipful detail. And then there had been one soul keening high and desperate for salvation, a soul broken with anger and rage, hurt and hate, a desperation to be free and a love of fire.

He’d been called, so he had come. A demon born of flames…

Vruuaska shook his great head again, then looked from his body with its four legs, huge paws and thick dense fur, to the figure he had wrapped around. The boy was now safe. His soul at rest, in peace, believing itself dead. Vruuaska took in his injures, the bleeding lip, the swollen cheek black with bruising in the shape of a man’s fist, the narrow body so obviously broken and full of pain, and for the first time he felt anger. Not just the reflected anger of others, the tribute by which they made the fire, but true hot, lava like anger in his own body. Someone had dared to hurt his… his… his what? The boy who had called him. Another had laid hands on him and left ugly marks.

The demon raised his muzzle to the sky and let out a mighty roar.

The crackling noise of the flames and snapping of wood magnified a thousand times into a sound that Sathriel himself would have been proud of. Vruuaska would see to it that whoever had hurt the boy would pay for it dearly. But he couldn’t leave the creature he was wrapped around, he would not leave the boy to be consumed by the fire. He had called Vruuaska into existence with the force of his despair and desire, so Vruuaska would stay with him.

The night drew on, and Vruuaska, unable to fully explore his new shape and body, and unwilling to rouse the boy do to the same, lay his great wedge shaped head over the sleeping figure and closed his fire brand eyes. There would be plenty of time to get to know each other better.