Convergence: Burnt Memories
Title: Burnt Memories
Fandom: X-Men, Convergence ‘verse
Characters: St. John Allerdyce aka. Pyro, mentions of others
Word Count: 582
Rating: It has at least one swear word and major angst. I’d give it a PG rating.
Summary: A little insight into the fire ravaged mind of one Pyromaniac.
Author's Notes: I have no clue where this came from. I had a few sentences written down from ages ago and it turned into this. I hope you enjoy it. Title taken from the Stutterfly song of the same name.
Fire. It has many connotations, many uses, many facets. To some, it is a source of comfort, to many, of fear, wild, unpredictable, dangerous. All it takes is one small spark combined with fuel as simple as the wind and off it goes, burning it’s way through anything, everything. Until it runs out on it’s own, or by the controlling hand of man.
I am one of the former. I’ve never feared the flame; it’s not the way I was brought up.
To be respectfully cautious, my father often said, of the flame. He was a volunteer Fire Fighter, you see, outside of his military work.
I remember times, Before, back when I was younger, perhaps three or four, when my brothers and I would lie on a makeshift bed in front of the fireplace in our living room, our parents on either side of us, whispering cautionary tales of the fire.
I remember the smiles they’d share as they held us close, a "physical representation of unity" or whatever it was my father said. Before it all went to shit, of course.
Y’know, I’d often wondered if my fathers job and love of fire, combined with both my parents childhoods in the heat of the Aussie Outback helped to contribute to my fire manipulating abilities.
"Never try to control the fire, Sinjin," my father would say to me every now and again, "it’s foolish of a person to try and contain such an unpredictable force of nature."
It’s a lesson I carry very close to my heart. And for good reason.
I know I say I manipulate the fire, but that’s not exactly true. I don’t control it in any real way.
I embrace it.
The fire and I are the one and the same. I feel only half-alive on my own than as I do with the flame. Extinguish my fire, and there will be only me, plain old St. John Allerdyce. Human. Worthless. Weak.
The only thing other than fire that can give me that feeling is Tessa, but she's not here anymore. Now it's just me and my fire...
They all tell me to control my fire, control my anger. The fire is the only thing I have that connects me to my real father, the man that brought me up to be everything I wanted to be and more, who taught me the value of the fire as ally and life as a whole.
Ironic seeing that’s what killed him. My mother was never the same again, after that. Life soon followed suit. She remarried. He was an asshole. But, as much as it kills me, I couldn’t be who I am today if it weren’t for that sadistic fuck.
But fire and me? We’ve always had an understanding of each other. And that fucker was the first to go when we paired up. I lost both of my fathers by fire, my beloved mother. But at least my family didn’t have to put up with him any more, and for that I can’t regret what I did.
Fire. It has many connotations, many uses, many facets. To some, it is a source of comfort; to many, of fear; wild, unpredictable, dangerous. All it takes is one small spark combined with fuel as simple as the wind and off it goes, burning it’s way through anything, everything. Until it runs out on it’s own, or by the controlling hand of man.
Me? I am one of the former. I’ve never feared the flame; it’s not the way I was brought up.
I am Pyro. And it’s good to burn.
Fandom: X-Men, Convergence ‘verse
Characters: St. John Allerdyce aka. Pyro, mentions of others
Word Count: 582
Rating: It has at least one swear word and major angst. I’d give it a PG rating.
Summary: A little insight into the fire ravaged mind of one Pyromaniac.
Author's Notes: I have no clue where this came from. I had a few sentences written down from ages ago and it turned into this. I hope you enjoy it. Title taken from the Stutterfly song of the same name.
Fire. It has many connotations, many uses, many facets. To some, it is a source of comfort, to many, of fear, wild, unpredictable, dangerous. All it takes is one small spark combined with fuel as simple as the wind and off it goes, burning it’s way through anything, everything. Until it runs out on it’s own, or by the controlling hand of man.
I am one of the former. I’ve never feared the flame; it’s not the way I was brought up.
To be respectfully cautious, my father often said, of the flame. He was a volunteer Fire Fighter, you see, outside of his military work.
I remember times, Before, back when I was younger, perhaps three or four, when my brothers and I would lie on a makeshift bed in front of the fireplace in our living room, our parents on either side of us, whispering cautionary tales of the fire.
I remember the smiles they’d share as they held us close, a "physical representation of unity" or whatever it was my father said. Before it all went to shit, of course.
Y’know, I’d often wondered if my fathers job and love of fire, combined with both my parents childhoods in the heat of the Aussie Outback helped to contribute to my fire manipulating abilities.
"Never try to control the fire, Sinjin," my father would say to me every now and again, "it’s foolish of a person to try and contain such an unpredictable force of nature."
It’s a lesson I carry very close to my heart. And for good reason.
I know I say I manipulate the fire, but that’s not exactly true. I don’t control it in any real way.
I embrace it.
The fire and I are the one and the same. I feel only half-alive on my own than as I do with the flame. Extinguish my fire, and there will be only me, plain old St. John Allerdyce. Human. Worthless. Weak.
The only thing other than fire that can give me that feeling is Tessa, but she's not here anymore. Now it's just me and my fire...
They all tell me to control my fire, control my anger. The fire is the only thing I have that connects me to my real father, the man that brought me up to be everything I wanted to be and more, who taught me the value of the fire as ally and life as a whole.
Ironic seeing that’s what killed him. My mother was never the same again, after that. Life soon followed suit. She remarried. He was an asshole. But, as much as it kills me, I couldn’t be who I am today if it weren’t for that sadistic fuck.
But fire and me? We’ve always had an understanding of each other. And that fucker was the first to go when we paired up. I lost both of my fathers by fire, my beloved mother. But at least my family didn’t have to put up with him any more, and for that I can’t regret what I did.
Fire. It has many connotations, many uses, many facets. To some, it is a source of comfort; to many, of fear; wild, unpredictable, dangerous. All it takes is one small spark combined with fuel as simple as the wind and off it goes, burning it’s way through anything, everything. Until it runs out on it’s own, or by the controlling hand of man.
Me? I am one of the former. I’ve never feared the flame; it’s not the way I was brought up.
I am Pyro. And it’s good to burn.