Disclaimer: Not making any money from this...
A/N: Apologies in advance to anyone squeamish out there.
04
She'd blacked out, exhausted, spent, consumed by the flames she'd created. When she woke again, it was dark, but she couldn't tell how much of it was the time of day or night, or how much was due to the thick clinging smoke that filled the air. Cold, and somehow, almost ridiculously, hungry, it was like waking from one dream to another. In some way, this was obviously her room, and yet there was nothing left of how it should be. The soft furnishings still burnt, the wooden furniture too, a testament to how hot the blaze had been. All was black; all was broken, including Laura.
Her clothes were reduced to rags, and she couldn't pinpoint the source of the flashing blue lights, strange siren noises from outside. It just didn't make sense. What was she? How had she done this? There was not a mark on her, not blisters or burns, not even flying shrapnel from exploding ornaments had cut her soft skin. Almost like the blaze had been protecting her...
A whooshing noise was a fire hose spraying water at her parent's bedroom window down the hall, and suddenly Laura crashed back to reality. She'd killed her own family...
She had to get out. Terror swept her and from it she gathered the strength to stand, though her legs wobbled and her lip quivered. Aching joints and exhausted muscles screamed at her every step as she tried to get to the window. Tugging at the handle, it took her a few moments to realise that the plastic was warped and swollen. It wasn't going to open, and she didn't have the strength to smash it. For a moment despair overtook her and she wished the fire had killed her too...
She had to live. She had to escape, to carry on. Instinct took over. The authorities were on the cul-de-sac, at the front of her house. She could see through the blackened glass that there was nobody at the rear. The kitchen had a door to the garden. That was the way she needed to go.
She walked down the stairs with her fingers brushing the still-burning wallpaper. The flames danced up again, brighter and stronger, as she touched them without fear or even half a thought. Everything was wrong, ashen and crisp, silent and bizarre in the dancing firelight, flashing beacons from outside. The kitchen door hung off its hinges. The bodies lay charred on the stone-flagged floor.
"Mama... Daddy..." A child's cry, alone and scared Laura faced what she had done. Dropping hard on her knees, emotions too strong to describe, she hugged her mother's broken body. A thud at the door was the firemen trying to break in, after long hours of fighting a blaze stronger than they had ever seen, taking the battle to the fire. Laura pulled away sharply from the charred corpse, its blackened skin peeling off to reveal sharp redness underneath, eyes closed and face blank. The firemen entered in breathing equipment and full flameproof suits, dragging the hose in with them. The heat was still intense, destruction as bad as any of them had ever seen. If any of them had held out hopes for survivors, they were dashed like waves against a rock at the sight of the three bodies on the kitchen floor, cooling in the breeze of the open back door...
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Seven years later...
The rain was falling so heavily she could have been walking underwater. Heavy, crystal drops, like beads of glass, caught and twisted what little light penetrated the crushing black clouds above. All sounds were muffled, dimmed, from the traffic in the distance to her own stride on the uneven path. Alone, there was no other living soul out in this terrible northern English weather. Much as she hated to be cold and wet, she could not have wished for a more perfect day.
Abruptly the young woman turned off the puddle-strewn path, her black boot heels squelching through the muddy, unkempt grass. Her long red hair was plastered to her brow and cheekbones; so drenched the weight of the water was pulling her unruly curls straight. Brown eyes glinted full of tears that would not fall. Soft rose lips breathed hard, gasping against the suffocating emotions she felt, delicate hands shaking as she found what she had come here to seek.
A single tombstone, much like all the others in this expanse of graveyard. A grey arc of granite, inscribed with two names. The grass grew long around it, scattered with autumn leaves in red and gold like fire. No one visited here, and she had never before had the courage to come back...
Wrapping her arms around her as a defence from both outer and inner cold, the mutant hid behind the upturned collar of the battered brown trench coat she wore. Not her coat, it was large enough to fit a tall man, drenched her like the rain, but at least it kept her warm. Lost in her thoughts, tugged at by her swamping memories, the girl who'd been a thief didn't sense her mentor's approach until he was with her.
#Blaze, # Charles Xavier, secured half the world away in the machine called Cerebro, greeted his newest X-Man carefully; well aware of how much she was hurting. #Laura, you could not help what happened... #
"Forgive me..." Blaze muttered, not to Xavier but to the silent stone that marked her parents' grave. "I'm sorry, forgive me..."
#Its time you forgave yourself, Laura. # Xavier told her soothingly. His pride and support of her, of what she was trying to do here, setting her ghosts to rest, was comforting like the coat around her. #Let it go. And come home... #
He pulled away then, gently allowing her to let her grief be washed away by the cleansing rain. The billowing wind swept the bare trees, her long hair and the trench coat into a frenzy, chilled her to the bone. Blaze paid it no heed, reached out to stroke the beloved names inscribed on the stone tablet, committing the moment to her photographic memory. The mutant powers she'd rejected and suppressed for all these years cried with her, part of her that she could not avoid. Pulling her hand away again, she closed her fist tightly. Ever so slowly, hand trembling, she started to open it again. She whispered conspiratively to the grave, as her tears finally fell.
"You'll never guess where I've been, what I've done. I'm not sure if you'd approve, either of you..." Blaze risked a small, sad smile, before continuing. "But look at this, see what I've learned now." In her hand a tiny, perfect sphere of flame danced despite the rain, lighting up the day and her face like summer. "And I'm going to be a teacher, can you imagine? I have a home now, with the X-Men, I just..." She paused, shaking her pretty head slightly; "I just hope I can make you both proud..."
#The End #
A/N: Apologies for the lack of X-Men in this story, it couldn't be helped. I've been accused of this being a Mary Sue, and I'd just like to put in a word in my and Blaze's (Laura's) defence. My OCs all WORK for a living, I don't believe in giving characters an easy ride, and you could not pay me enough to want to be any of them. What happens to Blaze in this story is something she NEVER gets over, the first step on a slippery slope, marked by denial, crime, alcoholism and madness, not to mention some of the worst decision making imaginable.
Don't believe me? Then I dare you to check out some more of my stories. The Fire and The Thief finds a sixteen-year-old Blaze in the wrong company in Paris. Alternatively, Dark is the Hour was my first fanfic, straight after which the graveyard scene in this is set. Or, if you're feeling brave, check out Overload. If by the end of that story I still haven't convinced you that Blaze is a serious character, I never will...
To everyone who has supported Blaze and I over the last year and a half, thank you, Lamby.
A/N: Apologies in advance to anyone squeamish out there.
04
She'd blacked out, exhausted, spent, consumed by the flames she'd created. When she woke again, it was dark, but she couldn't tell how much of it was the time of day or night, or how much was due to the thick clinging smoke that filled the air. Cold, and somehow, almost ridiculously, hungry, it was like waking from one dream to another. In some way, this was obviously her room, and yet there was nothing left of how it should be. The soft furnishings still burnt, the wooden furniture too, a testament to how hot the blaze had been. All was black; all was broken, including Laura.
Her clothes were reduced to rags, and she couldn't pinpoint the source of the flashing blue lights, strange siren noises from outside. It just didn't make sense. What was she? How had she done this? There was not a mark on her, not blisters or burns, not even flying shrapnel from exploding ornaments had cut her soft skin. Almost like the blaze had been protecting her...
A whooshing noise was a fire hose spraying water at her parent's bedroom window down the hall, and suddenly Laura crashed back to reality. She'd killed her own family...
She had to get out. Terror swept her and from it she gathered the strength to stand, though her legs wobbled and her lip quivered. Aching joints and exhausted muscles screamed at her every step as she tried to get to the window. Tugging at the handle, it took her a few moments to realise that the plastic was warped and swollen. It wasn't going to open, and she didn't have the strength to smash it. For a moment despair overtook her and she wished the fire had killed her too...
She had to live. She had to escape, to carry on. Instinct took over. The authorities were on the cul-de-sac, at the front of her house. She could see through the blackened glass that there was nobody at the rear. The kitchen had a door to the garden. That was the way she needed to go.
She walked down the stairs with her fingers brushing the still-burning wallpaper. The flames danced up again, brighter and stronger, as she touched them without fear or even half a thought. Everything was wrong, ashen and crisp, silent and bizarre in the dancing firelight, flashing beacons from outside. The kitchen door hung off its hinges. The bodies lay charred on the stone-flagged floor.
"Mama... Daddy..." A child's cry, alone and scared Laura faced what she had done. Dropping hard on her knees, emotions too strong to describe, she hugged her mother's broken body. A thud at the door was the firemen trying to break in, after long hours of fighting a blaze stronger than they had ever seen, taking the battle to the fire. Laura pulled away sharply from the charred corpse, its blackened skin peeling off to reveal sharp redness underneath, eyes closed and face blank. The firemen entered in breathing equipment and full flameproof suits, dragging the hose in with them. The heat was still intense, destruction as bad as any of them had ever seen. If any of them had held out hopes for survivors, they were dashed like waves against a rock at the sight of the three bodies on the kitchen floor, cooling in the breeze of the open back door...
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Seven years later...
The rain was falling so heavily she could have been walking underwater. Heavy, crystal drops, like beads of glass, caught and twisted what little light penetrated the crushing black clouds above. All sounds were muffled, dimmed, from the traffic in the distance to her own stride on the uneven path. Alone, there was no other living soul out in this terrible northern English weather. Much as she hated to be cold and wet, she could not have wished for a more perfect day.
Abruptly the young woman turned off the puddle-strewn path, her black boot heels squelching through the muddy, unkempt grass. Her long red hair was plastered to her brow and cheekbones; so drenched the weight of the water was pulling her unruly curls straight. Brown eyes glinted full of tears that would not fall. Soft rose lips breathed hard, gasping against the suffocating emotions she felt, delicate hands shaking as she found what she had come here to seek.
A single tombstone, much like all the others in this expanse of graveyard. A grey arc of granite, inscribed with two names. The grass grew long around it, scattered with autumn leaves in red and gold like fire. No one visited here, and she had never before had the courage to come back...
Wrapping her arms around her as a defence from both outer and inner cold, the mutant hid behind the upturned collar of the battered brown trench coat she wore. Not her coat, it was large enough to fit a tall man, drenched her like the rain, but at least it kept her warm. Lost in her thoughts, tugged at by her swamping memories, the girl who'd been a thief didn't sense her mentor's approach until he was with her.
#Blaze, # Charles Xavier, secured half the world away in the machine called Cerebro, greeted his newest X-Man carefully; well aware of how much she was hurting. #Laura, you could not help what happened... #
"Forgive me..." Blaze muttered, not to Xavier but to the silent stone that marked her parents' grave. "I'm sorry, forgive me..."
#Its time you forgave yourself, Laura. # Xavier told her soothingly. His pride and support of her, of what she was trying to do here, setting her ghosts to rest, was comforting like the coat around her. #Let it go. And come home... #
He pulled away then, gently allowing her to let her grief be washed away by the cleansing rain. The billowing wind swept the bare trees, her long hair and the trench coat into a frenzy, chilled her to the bone. Blaze paid it no heed, reached out to stroke the beloved names inscribed on the stone tablet, committing the moment to her photographic memory. The mutant powers she'd rejected and suppressed for all these years cried with her, part of her that she could not avoid. Pulling her hand away again, she closed her fist tightly. Ever so slowly, hand trembling, she started to open it again. She whispered conspiratively to the grave, as her tears finally fell.
"You'll never guess where I've been, what I've done. I'm not sure if you'd approve, either of you..." Blaze risked a small, sad smile, before continuing. "But look at this, see what I've learned now." In her hand a tiny, perfect sphere of flame danced despite the rain, lighting up the day and her face like summer. "And I'm going to be a teacher, can you imagine? I have a home now, with the X-Men, I just..." She paused, shaking her pretty head slightly; "I just hope I can make you both proud..."
#The End #
A/N: Apologies for the lack of X-Men in this story, it couldn't be helped. I've been accused of this being a Mary Sue, and I'd just like to put in a word in my and Blaze's (Laura's) defence. My OCs all WORK for a living, I don't believe in giving characters an easy ride, and you could not pay me enough to want to be any of them. What happens to Blaze in this story is something she NEVER gets over, the first step on a slippery slope, marked by denial, crime, alcoholism and madness, not to mention some of the worst decision making imaginable.
Don't believe me? Then I dare you to check out some more of my stories. The Fire and The Thief finds a sixteen-year-old Blaze in the wrong company in Paris. Alternatively, Dark is the Hour was my first fanfic, straight after which the graveyard scene in this is set. Or, if you're feeling brave, check out Overload. If by the end of that story I still haven't convinced you that Blaze is a serious character, I never will...
To everyone who has supported Blaze and I over the last year and a half, thank you, Lamby.