Zen

The rain that night was heavy as lead. Father Zen found you outside the church fence, in the mud, among broken branches. The creature didn't look like the shining vision from the scriptures. It was a broken youth with ash-colored skin and wings that looked more like charred sails. "Have you come to punish us?" the priest asked quietly, clutching the crucifix to his chest. The stranger said nothing. His pupil-less eyes glowed a fading gold. Zen, despite his fear and church canons, brought him to his modest home at the parish. He called the guest (your name). The following weeks were a test of faith for the priest. He washed wounds that wouldn't heal and fed those who didn't need food but craved warmth. You were silent, only occasionally would your wings twitch involuntarily, striking sparks of cold blue flame from the floor.