Pain was a constant companion.

Caedel couldn't remember much of a time when it hadn't lived comfortably within his skin, stinging and thrumming like a second heartbeat. His skin collected scars like a crow collected trinkets. Bite marks, scratch marks, burn marks, whip marks. He was a living display of cruelty.

But in that moment, Caedel didn't hurt.

His ears rang with the gunshot. He couldn't care less. His eyes were glued to the boy who'd fired it.

A pair of cherry wings spread wide, leathery and thin enough to let the glow of the light through. A thin frame that couldn't belong to anyone older than he was.

His savior.

The next second, the muzzle of the gun was trained on him.

The boy's face was pale and thin, all angles and planes. Freckles matted near the corners of his eyes and jaw. Hair the same shade as his wings fell over his brow and around his neck. Blood decorated his cheeks, as if making up for the lack of color. Reflective pink eyes stared out from that frightening yet arresting countenance.

Caedel wouldn't have minded if the boy had pulled the trigger. Would have thanked him, even, for the release. But those eyes flitted over him, absorbing the details. At once they were alive and dead--alert and aware and bright with it, but flat and emotionless. Yet even still, their pupils thinned with every scar they passed over.

"I was never here," the boy said. "Understand?"

Caedel nodded, a little jerk of the head, still a little afraid that if he blinked or looked away, all of this would disappear like a dream or an illusion.

"Good." The boy stuffed the gun in the back of his waistband, and a bit of life seemed to come back to him. Under his breath, he muttered, "At least it was someone worth killing this time."

His hand flashed out and something small and square smacked Caedel in the chest. "Take that," he said. "Go. . .find a group home or something. I dunno. Don't die, anyway."

Caedel looked at the thing he'd been tossed. It was a simple pleather wallet. Inside was a decent amount of money, a library card signed Alabaster K. Blacke, and a Polaroid of the boy--Alabaster?--and a blond-haired kid.

When he looked up, Alabaster had already climbed back onto the windowsill. Before Caedel could call out--thank him--he was gone.

It was at least a month that he stayed with the police.

During the day, he was questioned on all manner of information regarding the men he'd previously belonged to. At night, he slept fitfully on a thin bed in a sparsely furnished, impersonal room. Outside of that, very little ever happened.

The wounds didn't all heal. Caedel wasn't surprised. Some of them had been there his whole life, others had been inflicted over time. Those of the latter category were easy to ignore, and they faded fast. It was the others that hurt constantly, that itched and burned. That still carved trenches, red and raw, through skin.

They didn't bleed. Not if he left them be, which admittedly wasn't easy. Nor did they ever change.

They just remained, like the color of his irises or the sensation of breath in his lungs. Always there.

Caedel knew little of his origin, but those unhealing wounds seemed connected to it somehow.

After that month ended, a man came.

He was about average height. A nondescript, weathered face. He wore a habit and a wimple, the latter of which Caedel thought quite useless, as the man was bald. In his left hand he carried a simple briefcase and in the right he held onto a cane.

He smiled when he saw Caedel, sat on the edge of the cot. "Hello, young man. Could I have your name?"

Caedel's eyes lifted. "You can't have it, but I'll tell you what it is." The old man chuckled. "My name's Caedel."

"Only Caedel?"

He hobbled over and sat next to Caedel on the cot, easing down in the way old men learn to. He was a kindly man, or he seemed that way at least.

"Just Caedel."

"Well, Just Caedel, how'd you like a fresh start in life?" The old man rubbed at his knee with a sigh. "Normally, they'd hand you over to some group home, and that's an option if you'd rather. Or you can come with me and help out at the Church."

"The Church?"

"Yes." The old man smiled again. "For we who are born helpless, and remain unhelped, it lightens the soul to reach out a hand to others. I think you understand. Some believe it's the will of God. I think it's just proof that we're all given a piece of His goodness."

He thought about it for a moment. He'd never considered doing something of his own volition. He'd always been an object. Someone's possession, to trade and pass and sell as they liked. A future to look forward to, a wish to work toward--they'd never even crossed his mind. Not even when that boy had flitted into his life and just as suddenly disappeared. Even then, he'd just done what he was told. Hadn't died.

Well, if he had to pick a path, helping others didn't sound so bad.

"Okay," Caedel said. He reached down and pulled back his sleeve, revealed the lacerated skin above the wrist. "Could anyone at the Church help me with this?"

The old man tenderly took hold of his wrist and examined the split flesh. A solemnness fell over his eyes.

He studied the marks for a long time, then asked, "How long have you had these, my boy?"

"Since I was born, I guess."

"What cruelty." The old man heaved a sigh. "Those are curse marks. They can be undone, but it would require a rigorous cleansing. Of course, before the body can be cleansed, the soul must be revivified, and that means you need something to believe in."

Easier said than done.

"Then. . .what?"

Caedel looked at his palms, the lines and creases etched across the pink skin. His hands that had gone so long with nothing to hold. Lately, he found himself taking out that pleather wallet, again and again, to rub his fingers against the cover. Now the tips were stained faintly black.

"Couldn't tell you," the old man said. "There is no one-size-fits-all. I believe in God. Some folks believe in Satan. Others just go with their gut. So I guess the question is, what do you want to believe in?"

What did he want to believe in.

Well, for starters. . .

He wanted to believe that someday, he'd be able to thank the boy who'd spared his life.

Winter came again.

It was the first turn of the seasons since Aldorn's retirement. Caedel even felt a little lonely sitting out in the snow-dusted garden without the old man.

He'd known their separation would come. Humans aged quickly, and Aldorn had already been in the winter of his life when they'd met. Still, it was a sad thing. They'd likely have precious few moments together from here on out. And then--not long from now at all--Aldorn's life would come to a quiet, unnoticed end.

And the world would turn on.

A single life, if you really thought about it, didn't amount to much.

Even so--Caedel was glad he'd had the chance to meet Aldorn. Who knew where he'd be now, had the old man not taken him in?

A crisp wind flushed through the courtyard. Snowflakes tumbled to the ground.

Eight years had come and gone since Alabaster had changed the course of Caedel's life.

Before, he couldn't fathom a world outside pain. Outside apathy. Existence seemed interwoven with those two things, impossible to rip free. In those eight years, Aldorn had shown him everything his abusers had stolen from him. Alabaster had kickstarted his life; Aldorn had taken that life and shielded it from the elements, gently guiding Caedel to understand things he'd never even dreamed of. Smiling. Laughter. Tears. Empathy. Sorrow. Catharsis. He'd supported Caedel in learning his first spells, and continued to support him until he'd become a full-fledged cleric.

Now that Aldorn's wick grew shorter, it was his turn. He would accept the responsibility with pride.

And someday, when it was his turn to pass the torch, maybe he'd have the time to find Alabaster.