Stolen Flames

Chapter One: The Beginning

Christmas Eve - Fourteen Years Ago

"There." A woman smiled down at her son as she lit the final candle in their advent wreath. "Doesn't that look pretty?"

The boy nodded, gazing at the flames in awe. He was about 3 years old, and his bright blue eyes shone with interest as he reached out. His mother took his hand gently when his fingers were mere centimeters away from the fire.

"No, John," she said, leading him carefully into the kitchen. "You can't touch the fire. It's very hot and it will hurt you."

He gazed up at her in confusion. He hadn't felt any heat. What did she mean?

"Do you know why we light five candles on Christmas night?" The woman asked, sitting John down at the table and bringing a plate of cookies over to him. He grabbed one excitedly and crammed it into his mouth, shaking his head at his mother's question. She sat down across from him and took a cookie of her own. "The four tall, white candles stand for love, joy, peace, and hope. Those are all things that Jesus tried to teach us while he was here on Earth. And the fat, short candle in the middle represents Jesus himself, and the Holy Ghost."

John swallowed a chunk of cookie. "But why are they in a weath?" She smiled at her son's lisp.

"To represent the eternal love that God has for us. Wreaths are made in circles to symbolize that God will always, always love us. Because circles don't really have a beginning or an end, do they?"

John shook his head, chewing on another cookie. His mother looked at the clock mounted on the wall. "Nine o'clock!" she said, laughing at John's suddenly stricken face. "It's time for you to go to bed. You want Santa to come, don't you?"

"Yuh-huh but.. One more?" He pointed at the cookie plate, pouting slightly. She laughed again and nodded.

"All right. One more. But only one, you hear, John Allerdyce?"

He nodded happily and took one more cookie, munching it with gusto. She grinned at him.

"I love you sprout. You know that, right?"

He smiled and nodded more vigourously. "I wove you too, momma." He said.

She shepherded him upstairs, turning out the lights as she went. As she tucked him into bed, she could have sworn she heard a crash from down in the living room. She kissed him lightly on the cheek and crept silently down the stairs. She glanced over the living room quickly. The Santa presents were under the tree, the Christmas lights were turned on. Everything was as calm and wonderfully magical as she wanted it to be for her son's fourth Christmas. She tiptoed back upstairs, glanced into John's room to make sure he was safely asleep, then went into her own bedroom and shut the door quietly behind her.

- -

He smelled smoke. His eyes watered as he sat up in bed, his head spinning from the strange smell. He heard a crackling noise, saw red light, and heard a scream of pure terror from somewhere outside.

"Oh my god!" A high-pitched, feminine voice called out. "Their house is on fire!"

He ran halfway down the stairs, and saw the flames. They were licking the walls, almost caressing them, leaving black, charred marks in their wake. He ran back upstairs, into his mother's room. He screamed.

"Momma!"

She was lying there on her bed, her face black, her eyes wide and staring. He screamed again and grabbed her shoulders, shaking her, tears running down her face. The fire was all around them.

The bed burst into flame. His mother's nightgown followed suit. He beat at it with his hands but they did nothing. Suddenly, her entire body was engulfed by fire. She opened her eyes.

"John."

He ran. His clothes were covered with the leaping, roaring flames. He felt them burn off him, but felt no heat. He was holding fire in his hands, but he felt nothing.

He raced into the yard, landing, naked, in the snow. His body was robed in flame. His neighbours, a middle-aged woman and her husband, rushed forward to help him but he scrambled away from them.

"Momma!" He shrieked, throwing himself into the white covering at his feet. The fire melted the snow, and then died in the puddle of water as he sat there, sobbing, whispering the word 'Momma' over and over again.

- -

A/N - That's the fist chapter. I hope you like it.