SONDER : ALPHA, Leader of the Fallen

1 § 3 [ The Cost ]

It was on the tip of her tongue now, her name, like a tickle in the back of her mind that she couldn’t quite reach. If she could abstain, she’d have it back. Just a little more.

Maybe her condition was accelerating: it didn’t usually take this long to retrieve her own name.

But these gloomy thoughts would not do. The Daughter of Darkness wanted to sing! She could barely keep herself from skipping. She had braided and unbraided her hair, deciding to leave it loose in shiny waves.

Would he be handsome, this Angel? He couldn’t literally be one, so what had The Lady meant by angel? Maybe he looked like one: then he’d be blonde, and spritely, like an elvish man! Or he could be tall, dark and brooding— she didn’t know what an angel would look like. Or, Angel could mean he was honourable, like a knight, or a Saint.

She had so little to go off of— how would she know him?

Though she knew her thoughts were flights of fancy, she dreamed about the mysterious Angel anyways, the one who would whisk her away and keep her safe from the Wraith. It was impossible, for her, to have any connection, with the way she was. She turned over her gloved hands, a deep, leathered purple hugging her fingers tight and extending up to her elbows, the sleeves of her blouse falling to her wrists over the gloves as a double-layer of surety.

But she dreamed anyways, and she could keep her girlish wishes a secret in her heart, a shameful secret locked tightly away, because she could never know love.

So caught in her dreams was she, that she failed to notice the shadowed thing following her every movement down the winding, cobblestone streets.

The Daughter of Darkness paused to brush her fingers along the petals of a lilac bush, one of many rimming the streets. She plucked a sprig free with a snap. She twirled it in her fingers, and, desperate for a touch of normalcy, she bit the finger of her glove and yanked it with her teeth, draping it over the crook of her other arm.

With shaking fingers, she brushed the dainty petals. For just a moment she could forget. Her heart swelled at the silky feel and she took a deep breath of the beautiful little thing— but— life was so fragile, already it was dying in her fingers. She sighed, wishing she could have a moment more as the petals wilted, greying. Though it died, the scent was exquisite, so she tucked it behind her ear to enjoy it a little longer as she pulled her glove back up to her elbow.

The wind whistled then through the branches of the many lilac bushes, like a mourning tune for the dying bloom. The collective, sussurant breath stunned her: her name! It started with an ’S’!

She turned to take a shortcut, skipping down a darkened alley, humming. Her name was coming back, as it always did. Maybe it was a sign: she’d meet her angel today.

But, she didn’t really want to meet him today. Tomorrow would be a better day. She didn’t want to be disappointed by reality: the fantasy in her head could play just a little longer. She pulled the lilac from her ear, its blackened, withered corpse beginning to crumble in her fingers.

In her dreams, she could hold an entire bouquet with her bare hands. She could braid them through her hair, tuck them in her pockets. She would waltz with a man in a vast field of flowers, feeling them tickle her legs under her skirts. In her dreams, she wasn’t lonely, drifting, nameless. No, in her dreams, someone could love her, could touch her. Someone would be there for her, always, and she wouldn’t have had to survive the things she had, even though she couldn’t remember what any of that really was.

She let the dream crumble, letting the little, dead lilac tumble from her hand.

As it hit the dirty stones at her feet, she felt it: not the shadowed eyes, but the chill.

Her breath frosted in the air, her bones trembled. She spun, looking all about her as her heart threatened to give her away in the sudden silence echoing in the old streets.

Not today, Wraith, not today!

Her eyes darted. She backed up. One step, then another. She glanced over her shoulder and spotted frost creeping up the brick of the walls and she whimpered.

He had found her, then.

She whirled on her heel and fled.

The lilac on the ground crumbled into dust in the winter’s breath, and all the hope she had been building crumbled right alongside it.

~*~*~

The Town of Emberley was so clean.

Azrael stroked the black stubble on his jaw, ignoring the looks of shock and scorn thrown his way. He passed some sort of pub, some Cauldron place, and winked at a gaggle of ladies. One of them fanned herself, her cheeks flushed as she turned away. Another gawked in her shock, and the third, a bold ginger, lifted her skirts above her ankle with the smile of a knowing coquette.

Azrael chuckled. Whores, no doubt, but the sight of him was so shocking that two of the three had forgotten their own profession.

He couldn’t look that bad. He ran a hand through his tousled locks, giving a half-hearted attempt to right at least that. Azrael caught sight of himself in a shop window. Yeah, there’s no helping that.

Viscera coated his trousers. Though the faded, red dye hid most, it couldn’t hide everything that came from a battle. His black boots were flecked with rubescent rust, and half his head was sticky where he had probably lain in his own blood. The stark, white bandages were the oddity.

No, Azrael did not fit in this picture-perfect, little town.

Still, he could be impressed with the immaculate streets and the ordered rows of blooms and bushes of purple flowers. Emberley needed more men in this town, though. Despite the clean streets, the homes were falling apart. Roofs needed re-shingling, and though the hedges were trimmed and well-watered, railings were splintering and steps were sagging. Some of the doors were clinging for dear life to rusting hinges, and the waking hustle of the town produced groans, creaks and whining— but not from the residents.

Azrael thought no more on the lack of men, though he should have wondered.

Instead, the warlord rolled his shoulders back and basked in the morning light with an appreciative groan, his skin much-loved by sunlit kisses, evidenced by its hues of café au lait. He closed his eyes and tilted his chin up to feel her warmth on his face, a soft breeze whispering through his whiskers.

He filled his lungs with the fresh scent of all those purple flowers— they did make the air sweet— then, oddly, he shivered, a sudden chill creeping through the air, at odds with—

—He stumbled, eyes snapping open as a child barrelled right into his chest and bounced off with a thump.

His brow knit on his forehead at her purple garments. It wasn’t the colour that struck him, it was the layers on layers, too many for the summer heat. She lifted her head and he was taken by her perfect, delicate face and rose-petal lips that parted in surprise. His jaw slackened his scowl and he forgot his irritation, his gaze dipping— oh, that was no child. Creamy breasts peeked from a risqué, keyhole neckline, probably to help with the heat in all those flouncy layers.

He knelt on a single knee, offering his hand. After a heartbeat, just when Azrael thought the fright of him would have his help rejected, she slipped delicate, gloved fingers into his. He held her tiny hand as her shy gaze finally returned his own.

Misty aqua peered at him. Her eyes were crystalline and as delicate as the rest of her.

Azrael pulled her up to her feet, but she stumbled and he caught her about the waist, long, wavy hair spilling over her shoulder.

The colour.

His heart stopped.

Her colour.

Sophia’s hair, from my dream…

Shaking fingers reached for a lock and he pinched it, the silky strands a marvel.

Her hair was soft, and pink, like a pale rose.

Azrael’s eyes snapped back to hers: they weren’t the same— alexandrite did not shimmer there— just a pale, shining blue.

“M- my apologies, Sir.”

“Your name?” he ordered.

“Excuse me, please. I was not watching where-”

“-Your name, Lady?”

“Lady? No, I—” She worried that perfect lip as Azrael’s heart seized in his chest.

It wasn’t her.

It couldn’t be.

But it had been so many years, how could he know?

His eyes flicked to her shoulders: no wings.

Azrael stepped back once, to take her in. He would recognize Sophia. There was no way he wouldn’t.

This woman was tiny. She had a pointed chin and a slender neck. Her skin was pale: he had never seen anyone paler. Her shoulders were slight, feminine; her body could fit well within his frame. Azrael eyed her dainty breasts, then her slender waist he was sure he could circle in his hands. She was like a doll in those billowy skirts and draping sleeves that hid the rest of her, though when the breeze shifted the fabric he was sure he spotted the hints of very generous curves, something round and soft for his hands to grasp.

No, this wasn’t a doll, he decided. His gaze travelled languidly over her face: her pert nose and fey-like features framed those petal lips that begged for him.

This little, pale thing with her pink cheeks, flushing at his perusal of her, was a delicate rose.

The lady scowled at him, but she did not flinch from his gaze. She drew herself up. She didn’t seem to like him devouring her with his eyes. Despite himself, Azrael smirked, stepping closer to her and fisting that beautiful hair.

She trembled, but she did not back down.

The rose had thorns.

He released her hair and reached for her face. She flinched away from his touch and squeezed those daring eyes shut, but he brushed his fingers like a whisper along her jaw and turned her to face him again.

His fingers slid around to thread through the hair at her nape, the hair he couldn’t stop touching, as his thumb lazily stroked the cheek that felt exactly as soft as it had appeared. Azrael’s roughened voice gentled, “Are you alright, from the fall?”

Those eyes of hers snapped open, a gasp on her lips. Those crystalline eyes darted between his in awe and Azrael scowled anew. Was she afraid of his eyes, his blood-red eyes, like all the others?

The woman began to tremble and Azrael drew his hand away from her, clenching his fist.

He knew how he looked. Before, he could pretend it was scandal that drew the gazes of women, but his bruised pride knew better.

If they looked hard enough, the humans always saw the monster.

He shifted his feet, turning from her, but then she surged forward on her toes and grasped his arm.

“Wait— just— just a moment!”

Azrael quirked a brow. The curious lady stripped her gloves, dropping them to the ground carelessly.

She worried her hands, watching her trembling fingers, then peered back up at him, terror in her eyes. “May I?” Her voice was a whisper.

Azrael did not know what she wanted to may, but he nodded anyways.

Slowly, she placed her shaking fingers back on his arm. “How? How is this possible?” Her hands became searching and she squeezed him.

“I beg your pardon?”

“How can I touch you?” She turned that gaze back to him. He grimaced as tears formed. He didn’t know what he had done to make her cry, but she needed to stop before she started. He pulled her hand from his arm and kissed the backs of her fingers. Her lips trembled.

“No, no, don’t cry, you are hurt, aren’t you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“Then why?” Azrael couldn’t release her hand.

“I— I can’t explain.”

“Am I that pretty?”

A beat passed. Then, the most beautiful smile erupted on her face. “That’s not-”

“-No, you’re right. I’m not pretty, am I? I’m roguishly handsome. Striking.”

She giggled. The tears were gone. “And full of yourself.”

“ ‘And’, hm? So you do find me striking.”

“Striking…” she nibbled her lip, flushing with her admission; “I suppose, you are.”

Azrael grinned, his chest surging with pride. “I’m Azrael.” He bowed with a flourish and kissed her fingers again, his eyes trained to hers. “Now, you, pretty Rose. Your name?”

“I—” she started, then shivered. Her breath fogged on the air, that odd chill returning with a bite. Her eyes widened and she yanked her hand from his. “I need to go, I’m sorry.” She gathered her skirts, backing up.

“No, wait, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you—” Azrael started towards her, but she whirled on her heels and bolted.

The once-Angel could do nothing but stand there, clenching and unclenching his fist, as that rose-petal hair fluttered behind her with its taunting shimmer.

“Azrael?”

Azrael’s feet had moved of their own accord, about to take off after her.

But that voice.

Instead, he pivoted on his heel, and relief washed over him, his shoulders sagging as a tension he hadn’t known was plaguing him seeped out like air from a balloon.

“Luke?”

The man looked angry. Luke strode closer, poking a finger at his chest. “Ye are supposed t’ be resting in the room! No’ gallivanting about lookin’ like death, scaring ladies and—”

Azrael threw his arms about the man in a bear’s hug. Luke paused, sputtered, then begrudgingly clapped his back in return.

Azrael stepped back, holding the man’s shoulders, taking him in. “I thought you dead you fool!”

Luke’s cerulean eyes twinkled. “Me? Dead? From what, a dog?”

“Dog? Dog?! The thing was a bear!”

“Hmph, di’ no’ fight like one.”

“A wolf then!”

“No’ so fierce.”

“Damnit, Luke, the thing was a Wolf-bear— how are you here?”

Luke smirked. “How are you here, oh Lord Commander?”

Azrael scowled.

“Aye, the thing was uglier than ye—” Luke eyed him up and down; “—somehow. But was no’ that tough.”

“Oh, f**k off.”

“Do no’ be mad. We canny win them all. Next time.” Luke’s s**t-eating grin widened as he patted Azrael’s shoulder. “Now, ye really shouldn’t be out and about.”

“Who else is here, Luke?”

He frowned. “Just us.”

“Where are the others?”

“Presumably, heading home. As should we.”

Azrael sighed, running his hand down his face. “Anyone lost?”

Luke shook his head, solemn. “I do no’ ken, Az. I really do no’ ken.”

“The mission?”

The blonde shook his head again.

They were silent a moment, but then Luke clapped him on the back and started in the direction of the Inn. “Come on now, yer bandage needs changing.”

His bandages… Azrael had forgotten. He twisted to look at his shoulder: what was once white— maybe a little pink— was now red and sopping. He scowled, feeling light-headed. He hadn’t noticed before. Why hadn’t he noticed before?

Luke paused, worry in his eyes. “Ye’ve no’ been lookin’, have ye?”

“No, why?”

“Do no’.”

“That bad?”

“That bad.”

~*~*~

Luke left Azrael alone in the adjoining powder room, who now eyed himself in the mirror, scowling at the sorry sight that met his red-eyed gaze. Emberley was a poor town, without running water, so he had made sure to bring up two pails to their room. He used the first to splash his face and remove the blood caking his ear, cheek and hair. The water quickly became a viscous, ruddy rust, the metallic tang hitting his nose with its sharp scent. The second pail Azrael would use to wash once the blood was cleared. He stripped, rolling aching muscles, then began to unwind the bandages over his shoulder.

A gaping hole stuffed with linens greeted his gaze. No wonder he couldn’t move his arm, with what muscle was he supposed to? His stomach coiled with disgust— it was ghastly, even for a warrior. But he had to see it. Would he ever hold a sword again? Azrael ripped out linen after linen, plucking bloodied petals off a flower, as his heart drummed: will I, or won’t I, hold a sword?

The wound was ugly— the beast had indeed taken its pound of flesh as payment for Azrael’s rashness. Purple and white edges, like a carnation fed ink, as some flesh bruised and other parts died. The base of the wound was what caught his eye and froze his drumming heart: it was black, where it should have been the reddest.

Hurriedly he tore off more bandages in horror, dropping them with a sopping squelch at his feet as more of his chest and bicep were revealed, a stale, iron tang assaulting his nose. The black snaked through his veins, the infested branches bulging out of his arm like overgrown roots.

“No…”

Azrael scratched at himself, pulling his skin and craning to see where the black went, how deep. Inky fingers coiled all down his arm, but the other branches…

His knees buckled, but he caught himself, breaths heaving. The branches were stretching, reaching, trying to burrow their way to his heart…

With a start, Azrael knew what Bear-wolf was.

Now, he did drop to his knees, gaze vacant. It was a death sentence. His kind didn’t mix with… Lycan. Its venom would kill him. The black march would press on, hunting, until he was gone. There was no stopping this.

And with how deep the wound was, he didn’t have long.

“Az… I told ye no’ t’ look,” Luke’s gentle voice came from the doorway.

Azrael’s lips worked, but nothing came out.

Luke approached with a stack of fresh linens. The soldier knelt, redressing Azrael’s wound.

But it didn’t matter.

A sliver of thought crawled to the surface and whispered: it’s almost over. A sense of relief splashed over him like a pail of cold water. Almost two-thousand years of fighting an endless and impossible war. Too many years. How could so many years have had so little meaning?

Where had he gotten? He had saved thousands of Priedæøn children, yes, but almost just as many had been stolen back. As soft as a whisper with a condescending edge, another thought rose: was it worth it?

Was it?

Shame crashed through him like a drowning wave.

Of course it was worth it. Even one child saved was worth it. But they didn’t know why he fought for them. They couldn’t understand. Freedom. Life. Feeling the sun on their faces, the wind in their hair and clean air in their lungs. To see colour, and beauty, and simply to feel.

If the Priedae won… He couldn’t let them win.

How could he be relieved of his burden when so many lives depended on him?

Finally Azrael’s heart shivered back to life with anger. At the Priedae. At the unexpected lycan. At himself for nearly giving up. And the anger filled him with the strength to keep the despair at bay.

Luke spoke again, “I’m sorry, Az, I’ll fetch supplies from town, give ye some time to… Come t’ terms. I’ll be back soon. Do no’ leave this room, aye? I do no’ even ken how ye managed no’ to pass out in town already.”

Azrael scarcely heard his words.

His duties remained. He had to prepare his people. There was so much left to do, so much they needed to know in order to win this war. His long-term tactics were a close-guarded secret— he hadn’t trusted anyone with them, but now, that would have to change. The Priedae turned coats like those fancy, big-city revolving doors.

He would lead with dignity and pride. He would lead with conviction. He would leave his people better than he had found them and build them up as high as he could with the time he had left.

He would fight for them until his last breath.

Azrael would need to name a successor, while he was still alive. He had time. Not much, but it would have to be enough. And he would need to tell his people everything: his past, his secrets, the horrors he had witnessed in Prieda, and his deepest shame. They had to understand.

Azrael would have them win, and he would pay any cost.

Or… Azrael could do it. He knew how to end the war. Had known, since the start. And he could do it himself, before he died.

But that cost… That cost was an ugly price to pay.

With each determined heartbeat in his chest, the inky sickness in him thrummed forward with its own determination to reach its coiling fingers around his heart.