Embrace the lord's flames and be one with him, let him grant you an eternity of happiness.
Their words hold scorn to them, condemning the light of their lives; their daughter, Lucrecia. I'm a godless creature, born of cinder and dancing embers. I'm the shimmer of lit ember collecting in your heated cauldron, I'm the heat that brings boils to water and in my wake there is much death and ash. I didn't charge these heretics—worshippers—enthused and enthralled by the scolding flames in their kitchen and campfires; men were strange animals. I was promised a wife by these zealous religious fanatics, offering their daughter as appeasement. I've been promised goddesses and princesses before but they are all the same—not—not Lucrecia.
I met her at the garden, sitting on a tree branch. The wind whispering hollow praises in my ears and upon seeing her, she relinquished all my worries, sorrows and increased temptation within the burning flames of my soul. I watched her every day, Lucrecia loved the flowers, sniffing them and indulging herself in the sweet scents they provided, it was her sense of comfort and sanctuary, a sanctuary I was willing to share and build for her; to keep her near me.
My presence was never known to her, I kept it that way. I was afraid—frightened—that I'll consume her in my selfish flames. One day, she didn't come and I wasn't worried until I heard her scream. Without a thought, I hopped off the tree and ran through the garden; using whatever power this body had limited me to without burning it up. When I arrived, I saw the church burning, the screams ceased yet the ignorant and hollow chants come from the religious zealots who desperately wanted my blessing.
When the fire ceased, I ran inside, nothing to be spared not even Lucrecia's ashes were found. I never felt so hollow, my heart dried up and became putrid, pus filled my lungs; there is a disdainful hate towards these humans. I'm left with nothing but this aching pain, angry shrills permeates the air and I'm burning, this form I've taken engulfing in a heated flame, a powerful cinder that burns their land and those involved with the death of my beloved light, Lucrecia.
That once shimmering garden permeating sweet scents and comfort is no more. It burns under my scornful wrath; I'm unable to cry as the tears fade out of existence.
"No…No, Lucrecia…" he moaned. The weight of his body submits to the soft sheets of his bed, perspiration adheres and exudes from his physique. Soft lashes twitch and brush lightly against the top of his cheek bones and the jolts of his eyes move rapidly underneath his soft lids. He groans louder, a glass of water exudes condensation and rapidly boils into a scolding heat, the sweat on his arms and torso evaporate and soon, a cinder sparks in his bed; burning embers contort and dance on his body.
He awakes to the smell of smoke and relaxes his body rather quickly, the flames dancing along his bed cease leaving their marks along the sheets. It was the same dream—nightmare—the sounds of Lucrecia's screams haunt him even in his sleep. This would be the 5th time he's burned his sheets since he moved into the condo, the sounds of cars honk outside his opened window, a subtle breeze slipping through and whispering incessant nonsense in his ears.
A multitude of scars rest on his chest, he heaves in and out, capturing his breath. He gets out of bed and removes his sheets, tosses them away—what else could he do with them?—he went to his bathroom and removed his sweatpants, jumping into a bitter shower, the lack of temperature cooling his boiling blood. It was a start of a new day, he was dressed, fixing his tie and finding his circular, red lensed glasses to settle over his sensitive eyes.
He embarks out his condo and wanders the streets of the Bronx, unsure what he would indulge in. It wasn't until he heard that familiar laughter, that familiar scent that plugged his nostrils 8 years ago. He stops and listens carefully, "Hola!" what he was hearing was unimaginable. His pace quickens and his eyes roaming and reading the faces of ever woman he had come across then he stops, his heart beating and burning, the woman with the basket of flowers. Delicate, pale skin with jeweled undertones, dark hair kept short, wild and unruly.
When she turned his way, he felt the wind get knocked out of him, he was seeing a ghost; it was Lucrecia. He wasn't sure what to think of it but she was standing there, handing out flowers if they were flyers for a fundraiser, "Excuse me," he choked. Lucrecia turns to him; the corners of her mouth tug upward and create a genuine smile. The smile that captured his attention long ago, she was older—8 years—so, she must be twenty six now since she was eighteen on that uneventful night when smoke blocked all the stars out.
"I would like a flower," he spoke.
Lucrecia's expression brightens, her hand falls into her basket and she fishes out a flower, presenting him with a red rose, how romantic. His fingers graze against her small delicate ones, noticing how dirt remains under her nails, "I'm Aedan, Aedan Byrne," smiling sweetly at her. Lucrecia hums, "I'm Lucrecia Del Olmo. Light from the Elm Tree," her sharp Spanish accent resonates in his ears.
"Beautiful name," shamelessly flirting, this was an opportunity to claim his light.