He's An Amewiccan Beauty (Frerard)

4: Frank's Forehead Is A Jonas Brothers Song

He stood amidst the flames, he watched, he waited as the whole world began to burn, and perhaps something dark and twisted inside him began to grow satisfied with the destruction, with the mess he'd caused, and with the hell he'd made of the world around himself, because before, he'd spent his time: nineteen years in the dark, nineteen years waiting, nineteen years unknown, but now the world was alive, aflame, so bright, literally on flame, and illuminated in golden hue, everything suddenly became crystal clear.

He held power inside himself, he held righteousness, he held more than he knew, and only the fire and the way it burned seemed to enlighten him to that, it was as if the world was doing all it could to shelter him, protect him from the flames, protect him from himself, because Ray had been right, as he always was, and the fire was indeed as much as a part of him as the blood in his veins was.

Frank just wasn't sure as to how, as to why yet.

But in the state of destruction and chaos, he found himself frozen, intrigued, immersed in horror and curiosity: unable to look away with a heart pounding in his chest, a heartbeat only increasing as the world continued burn, and he continued look into the now illuminated darkness, to see the world for what it really was, to see her: her always, her, omnipresent, as she would be, perhaps ever more; he would live with that - he had little choice about it.

Guilt dictated all choice, all reason from this point onwards, and Frank was still struggling to grasp what he'd done, to explain it, to speak it aloud, but his subconscious was more than satisfied with the truth, and the darker parts of it perhaps even relishing in it - the very parts that had intensified, lighting up as he'd first grabbed that book in the library; the library which she had indeed lead him to.

She'd lead herself to her own demise, indirectly, but there was little Frank could do in regards to her and her presence, between the trees, in the darkness, across from him, standing amidst the flames, burning like him, but not safe from the flames, they'd already taken her; Frank held her gaze, his insides beginning to quiver a little as he did so, and as those eyes seemed to burn into him with more force than the fire could ever do; he tried to brush her off, he knew he had to, he knew she wasn't real.

Jamia Nestor was a body, Jamia Nestor was a burned body in a coffin and Frank Iero had put her there, even if he wasn't quite able to make sense of it yet himself, but he was beyond certain that the Jamia Nestor he saw in the flames beyond the tree line was indeed nothing more than a manifestation of guilt.

Because not even all the power in the world could save him from guilt, could save him from flaw, emotion, empathy, sympathy, the demons of his own humanity, the things he ought to cling to, but now, found himself fearing as other silhouettes began to join Jamia upon the horizon: figures, not as real as they appeared, of course, but Frank was nowhere near stupid enough to consider testing that theory.

He began to make out faces, he began to make out the identities of the figures as they approached in the flames, and orange glow illuminated their eyes, and their skin began to grow red as it singed, but no screams, no pain, silence, silence, and fire, burning.

His family, first: parents, grandfather, and his sister, then Bert, then Gerard, then Mikey, then Ray.

However not a single face, no matter how close they reached could unnerve him quite as Jamia's hand: Jamia being the one figure still stood at the tree line, perhaps unable to reach Frank, or perhaps perfectly able but just not ready to yet.

And it was only as his family reached just a few meters in front of him that Frank came to remember his state of immobility: frozen to the spot, unable to move, unable to run from his own demons, unable to run from what he'd done, all power, all flame, beautiful and enchanting in all glory could do nothing to save him from the people he loved, and what he'd done, what he'd done to them.