SONDER : ALPHA, Leader of the Fallen

1 § 4 [ Dreams, Fantasies & Nightmares ]

The Lady walked in darkness. Each step crafted shadows, springing from her emerald, slippered toes and stretching their greedy tendrils around her like a plague, until there were so many shadows that even the sun above began to hide her face behind a curtain of purple clouds. She lifted her arms, her hooded robes fluttering in an unfelt breeze. Her fingers coiled with a clap of thunder. Lightning lit the darkened sky. Thunder boomed again, a warning echo and, satisfied, The Lady dropped her arms, then began to murmur unseen into the ears of each of the humans hurrying about the square.

She wrapped Emberley in shadows, storms and whispers like a mother swaddling her babe with lullabies and kisses.

But The Lady was very displeased. Her plans had not unfolded the way she wished: her babe had misbehaved.

One by one, her Watchers coalesced in her shadows. Beady, black eyes glimmered up at her in mindless awe from sunken, ashen faces with waxy skin. They held their clawed hands against their chests, posed like preying mantids, their talons long and shining. They were small things, her Watchers. But in a swarm, the damage they could render was inspiring.

Two returned to her side, chittering to her their news. Simple, her creatures, but astute, observant. She nodded to her spies, and they scampered off to continue watching.

More Watchers followed, slinking from the shadows. As they thronged through her shadowed rift, glee-filled and hungry, they peered at the humans beginning to pour into the town’s square.

“Not yet.”

They hissed their disappointment.

The Lady patted the head of the nearest with a chuckle. “Soon, my loves.”

First, The Lady would deal with her most prized pet. Then her others could continue their feast. There weren’t many men left for them, but her Watchers did not care. Their pea-sized brains only saw what was here and now— they saw not what had been, nor what would be— an odd clarity, or a sorts, that she almost envied.

She turned, shutting her rift with a flick of her wrist.

Then, her third spy scampered to her skirts with its news.

The Lady frowned, allowing her displeasure to show. Her Watchers cowered at her expression. But it wasn’t for them that she scowled.

Her prized pet was misbehaving, still, and had failed to rectify its mistake.

So, her pet would need to learn its place.

Again.

~*~*~

As the sun climbed higher behind a sudden darkening of thunderheads, a waking flurry descended upon the town square, dust kicking up from the cobblestones under hurried feet, a constant, droning thrum beginning as a hum, then building into a fever pitch of clamour. With the cacophony arose a stench as unwashed bodies began to pack together, the market springing to life.

Luke breathed deep with a chuckle, a wide grin on his face. He didn’t seem to notice the reek, nor the cursing, nor even the subtle shoving and jostling as people enforced their own space in the square, knocking past each other like ducks weaving through water lilies in an over-crowded pond.

His mission was to procure at least a horse, medical supplies, and food for the upcoming odyssey, but he had something in this moment much more important to accomplish.

Papa lived, yet again, so sweet Lulubell would need a present to make up for lost time. His poor daughter was in the clutches of her sole Auntie, and Luke could only guess at the terrible things her Auntie was doing to her, like forcing her to learn continents, and numbers.

A girl her age should be tucked in front of her dollhouse deciding which dresses best matched her dollies’ braids. She was much too young for fractions. Luke shuddered, but he couldn’t let the image spoil his mood.

He flitted among vendors, excitedly searching for the perfect gift. He caught whispers as he browsed, but he couldn’t pay them any mind. Only his precious girl ought to be in his thoughts now.

Luke frowned when he pushed aside a geography book with disgust, tipping over an abacus. The vendor righted her wares with a patient smile, but he turned on his heel before she could even try to convince him that his baby needed more lessons.

No, Luke was simply not an enabler.

Someone grasped his arm. He turned with a raised brow to find the same vendor: the one with the educational materials. “Sir, at least have a look at my other wares, you look like you need them.”

“Thank ye, madam, but I’ve my eye on something different.”

“Sometimes, we don’t yet know what we need, until we see it. Come, come!” She tugged, and Luke sighed, dragging his feet behind her. He would humour the woman.

She parked herself behind a stall with a flair, then bent to pull an old, wooden chest from below her table. She puffed out a breath, thick dust twistering in the air. Luke frowned, crossing his arms, his head tilted skeptically. Curiousity had him, so he remained.

The woman looked like an old gypsie with jewels in her hair and around her neck. Odd, that she would wear jewels in an open market rife with thieves; though, Emberley, a town where everyone was acquainted, didn’t seem to be the type of place that would have many pickpockets. The woman’s skirts were fluffed, her neckline plunging just enough.

Luke quirked a brow: she quite resembled Pepper, the bar-lassy. Or, rather, Pepper resembled her, this fortune-teller. Luke’s eyes darted again about her table: no crystal ball, no cards, no bones…

She threw the lid of her chest open with a wooden groan, then pulled out a string of beads, holding it aloft to him. They glimmered in the rising light of the day and an excited hum went through him as he snatched it.

He had never purchased jewellery for his Lulubell, she would be thrilled! He turned the glimmering beads over in his fingers. As he handled the cord, a frown replaced his excitement. Not all of the beads were shiny and colourful. Lulubell wouldn’t like the black ones or the dull ones.

When his fingers brushed bone fragments, Luke passed the necklace back quickly. He would not give his daughter a necklace of the dead.

“Look closely, my boy.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“No, closely.”

“This do no’ fit what I’m after.”

“Then look closer.”

Luke scowled. “Looking closer do no’ change what this is.”

“It’s what you need.”

“If I look closely?”

“Yes!”

“Then I’ll keep my eyes so close they’ll close, thanks.”

With a huff, the woman whacked him with her cane. “Fool boy!”

“Where did ye get that from?!”

“Typical man, with the observational skills of a gopher in the ground!” She rolled her eyes. You haven’t any talisman in these times!”

“I do no’ need a talisman!”

“Fool boy! Don’t you realize? You need protection!”

“What’s with ye people and calling me ‘boy’?”

“There are witches, here-”

“-Witches,” Luke rolled his eyes; “demons, too, am t’ suppose?”

“Of course!”

“Familiars?”

“Why, yes!”

“Goblins?”

“Not that we’ve yet to see-”

“Beasties, ghosts and ghouls?”

The woman’s eyes widened. “There are?”

“Oh, aye, and I do no’ need protection from any. Do ye ken how?”

“How?”

“They are no’ real, poor madam.”

At that, the woman blinked wide, then laughter erupted from her with a howl. “ ’Tis why you’ve no amulet? Simply because you do not see. But, dear boy, there is a witch in this town. And tonight, she will burn.”

Luke’s mouth set in a hard line. He turned once more and walked to another stall, ignoring her hollering at his back. His mood was soured, but he fingered some silk, though his hands shook. It was a sunny yellow, soft, and would brighten his girl’s beautiful eyes.

As he unfolded it to hold it up to the light, wondering if it would be enough for a dress, this merchant said in a murmur he almost missed, “Sir, she’s right. There is a witch in town. We’ve had a few deaths, you should be wary.”

Luke scowled, dropping the silk. He clenched his hands to stop the tremble as a panic began to rise. He turned without another word, sorry that today, Lulubell would have no present.

But this talk of witches did not bode well. Azrael and he could linger no longer.

~*~*~

The Daughter of Darkness sprinted down streets, her skirts in hand, her leather boots scuffling along the stones. It was hard to run in these sorts of dresses and the heat was lashing her now as her breaths started to wheeze.

Fear kept her going.

But while her gut coiled with terror, her heart thudded with excitement: she wanted to go back. To turn around, and run back to him, to the stranger with eyes like insouciant rubies, nestled lovingly under thick brows and rimmed in dense, obsidian eyelashes. She wanted to trace his strong jaw with her fingertips as those eyes bored into hers— what would it be like? To feel a man’s face, to brush his stubble with her fingers—

—Her feet skidded to a halt. She had forgotten. The Lady had told her to go with him. That he would protect her from the Wraith. And now, she was running. Away from her potential guardian.

But this man seemed nothing like an Angel. Only the Angel could protect her from the Wraith. But how could he not be the one The Lady spoke of?

He had touched her. And lived. She raised shaking fingers to her cheek, brushing her jaw where he had first touched her face. A strange thought came unbidden: he could kiss her. She could have her first kiss.

She scrubbed her cheeks with her hands and shook her head. How could she think such things? The Wraith was coming, she had to run.

But she turned, looking back the way she had come, half-hoping that he was chasing right behind her.

Her lip trembled in her disappointment and she turned again and ran.

She ran until she came upon the town park, the one with the oldest tree. It stood tall and proud, its trunk wider than a man’s arms could encircle. She ducked into its hollow, the entrance hidden in her shadows.

As it had each time she entered her secret tree, a strange memory danced at the edges of her awareness.

It haunted her. An echo of bells. The scent of lavender fields. A crackling sound.

A chuckle, a man’s chuckle.

She shook herself.

She knelt in the moss, the dampness beginning to seep through her skirt. Shaking fingers collected a wooden box of treasures. She popped the lid, running her fingers over its contents.

Her lips trembled and her eyes misted as her heart clenched.

These treasures were precious to her, she knew that, but as always, she could not remember why. Each time she brushed a finger over her only belongings, a shiver echoed in the back of her mind, like the spasms of an autumn leaf about to break free from its branch and drift to the earth. But for her, the leaf kept shivering. It never fell.

The memories echoed, but never came.

She bit her tongue on a sob and slammed the lid of the box shut, shaking. She had to get control of herself: the Wraith was here.

She would not have enough time to find the Angel. The Lady would be disappointed in her: she had never failed her before.

Angry tears began to fall.

She was sick of this.

Sick of this endless running, this endless drifting. She was sick of not mattering to anyone but The Lady. She didn’t even know why: why did the Wraith even want her head? What had she done?

But the answer sat in her belly like a stone: she had killed so many, just to live herself. It wasn’t far-fetched to think she had angered the Wraith by taking someone he loved.

Then didn’t she deserve to give up her head?

She scraped at her tears as she roared in frustration. She couldn’t help what she was. She would give anything to be anything else, even human!

Especially human.

She cast her gaze about the tree, her home for the better part of a week. The wooden walls weeped with the collected morning dew, rolling down to feed the mushrooms rimming the edges of her little bedroom. She smiled softly, brushing her fingers on the toadstools. Someone had told her that fairies did not actually live in mushrooms, like all the humans said.

But she couldn’t remember who that had been, only that he had reason to know such things.

She crawled out of the tree after nestling her box of treasures back inside her fairy ring.

Forget the Angel, she would find Azrael, the man who could touch her.

She was determined to live. Just once. No more running.

And then, the Wraith could have her.

~*~*~

Another boom of thunder echoed.

Azrael scowled at the roiling black above, hiding the sun from him. He liked the rains, but he liked the sun more. The reedy scent of petrichor, though, while the sun was shining? — his favourite days. Azrael sighed heavily, wearily. There couldn’t be many of those days left to him, so he shouldn’t scowl such at the thunder. The children back home loved those marshy days, too; though, they seemed to simply love every day. Azrael’s heart swelled as he thought of them, each one of them lending him a thousand reasons to push on.

But, the coming storm had sprung from clear skies like it had been summoned, and in his world, coincidences often weren’t. Unease settled its turbid weight in his chest. Another clap of thunder covered the mocking chitter behind him.

He hastened down streets and alleys, searching for her.

Azrael had to know for sure.

He would find her, his pretty, little rose. He needed to know her name.

Azrael peered over the heads and bodies hiding her as he pushed through people without a care. His red eyes darted for a flash of her purple skirts and pale, rose-petal hair.

He wasn’t sure if he really believed she was Sophia. He didn’t know if he believed that Sophia really looked the way she had in his dream: Azrael had never dreamed of Prieda in colour. He had never lived in Prieda with colour. He couldn’t know what kind of hair or eyes Sophia had.

But coincidences never were.

~*~*~

The warlord was oblivious to the centre of the square. He was oblivious to the piles of wood being stacked, to the sheet-wrapped bodies that lay in an even, mournful row. He missed the acrid, heavy musk of too much oil in the air.

But Luke was not oblivious. The weighty knowledge of what was to come threatened to drown him, his lungs made leaden with the grease-soaked air, his body moving torpidly through this petrifying stupor.

Every step down the cobblestones was accompanied by an equally hurried pounding, the tireless clanging of a death knell beating deep in his chest. Azrael hadn’t been in their room. Luke checked every alley, every turn, every corner, for him.

Instead of blood-red eyes on a warrior’s face under a messy mop of obsidian, those creatures continued to peer out from the edges of the rising sunlight.

How long had they been watching them? How had Luke not seen them before?

The town was crawling with black, beady eyes and glistening claws. Every shadowed corner echoed their mocking chitters. Shadows were growing like living, writhing things as the sun hid, and more and more of the ashen creatures were springing up like a flood to replace the light.

Angry voices rising with the tide of darkness marked the beginning of the witch hunt in the town square. Luke ran and ran, endlessly searching, his one nightmare on repeat. He needed to find Azrael. They needed to leave.

As Luke rushed down labyrinthine streets, he forgot that he was a soldier. He forgot that his daughter waited for him. He forgot about Aezareth, his home, and he forgot his heroism only days before, taking down the beast that had dealt a near-mortal blow to their stalwart warlord, the most terrifying warrior Luke had ever seen, living, and not.

Luke forgot all of that, because all he could remember was his helplessness on the day he lost Lulubell’s mother.

~*~*~

The name of the Daughter of Darkness had come to her in the thunderous boom as the first, scant drops of rain alit on her nose. Her patience had paid off, her name a soothing balm. Now she could find the man with the ruby eyes— Azrael, she wanted to sigh his name— and introduce herself properly!

So overcome with delight and caught in her fantasy, she hadn’t noticed the boy darting in front of her. They collided, her gloveless hands instinctively grasping his arms to stop him from falling.

The boy shrieked as he yanked from her grasp, collapsing and convulsing when black veins threaded from his arms where she had touched him, a matching set snaking across her own skin.

His piercing cries brought his mother racing, his father hot on her heels and roaring for his boy. Her eyes remained on the contorting child as she trembled. The Daughter of Darkness didn’t care that her name had slipped from her at their touch, his essence leeching through her skin and infusing her with a hit of pleasure as her heart shattered for the boy’s agony.

She hadn’t taken enough to kill him: their contact was too brief. But it didn’t stop the poor thing from suffering in the dirt. She turned over her hands, her fingers shaking almost as much as the boy. Where were her gloves? How could she have forgotten? The black settled under her skin like a living thing gone to sleep. She clenched her fists.

She turned to run, but was too late.

The boy’s father tackled her into the dirt, the air leaving her in a rush as her head swam, glittering stars dancing in her vision. He grasped her throat, then let go with a howl with blackened hands as another hit of pleasure assailed her, her body humming as the stolen essence healed the impact on her head, halting her black blood from seeping.

She began to laugh as she cried. Tears streamed down her cheeks. She tried so hard to reject the rapture that came when she stole life. The humming thrum of energy imbued her, energizing every cell in her body.

Then the father’s blackened fist cracked down on her face and a ringing sprung in her ears. Pain mixed with more pleasure, her vision darkening even as her body healed.

She looked up at the man with haunted, black irises, her native aqua replaced by her black theft. His face was agonized and angry. For a moment they looked at each other, his breaths heaving.

His wife rushed over, wrapping his necrotic fists in linen.

An idea lit the man’s eyes.

The creature cringed.

With his makeshift gloves, he hit her again.

And again.

And again.

He hit her until her whole world went black with a silent snap.