SONDER : ALPHA, Leader of the Fallen

1 § 7 [ Vengeance ]

Saskia’s eyes fluttered open as the twilight descended with a hush. She sat upright, a blanket tumbling from her shoulders into her lap. With a shudder, she realized she was very cold, and very naked.

She snatched at the blanket with shaking fingers, eyes darting about her.

Then she remembered him: Azrael, the Angel in her dream. She remembered everything. Saskia had never remembered anything so clearly after taking life.

Saskia: Her name.

She remembered her name.

Excitement quickly drowned her doubts. “Azrael…?” She barely dared to whisper as she glanced about what seemed to be a crude and makeshift camp, half-prepared. She lay on a blanket, clutching a second tightly. There was no fire, though there were two rucksacks, two saddles and— she craned her neck— two horses tied over the branches of a low bush. She was at the bottom of a hill in a miniature valley, with a simple stream meandering over gleaming rocks and weaving between endless grasses.

She started to panic, pulling the blanket up to her chin, wondering who had brought her here. Then she breathed in his scent, the scent she remembered from that odd dream. Her eyelids fluttered shut in bliss as she pressed her nose deep. His scent was warm and masculine; he smelled like chai, sweet, spicy, home.

She took another deep breath of his scent, but grimaced when she noted an oceanic note. She scowled and shuddered, dropping the blanket. Saskia couldn’t remember why she didn’t like the ocean.

A haphazard pile of clothes lay in a tumble at her side. She quickly snatched it up, pulling them on without another thought. The torn sleeves sat right above her wrists, and the pants too were shorn above her ankles. She cinched a makeshift belt around her waist. Though the clothes dwarfed her, they were usable. How thoughtful. Warmth bloomed in her chest and a girlish delight vibrated through her.

She twirled on her toes, a princess in rags. He had thought of her, and— she gasped as she remembered— hadn’t he held her all night? Her heart fluttered.

“Does it fit alright?”

Saskia startled, whirling about: that was not Azrael. She readied to run.

This man was tall and broad-shouldered, but slender, his hips tapering into a slim ’V’. He wasn’t as tall as Azrael, though he was still very handsome. His blonde hair was carefully combed and shone with a rich, honey-gold in the dying light, his eyes a deep, oceanic cerulean. He had thick stubble on his jaw. He would be sigh-worthy, if not for the cold, suspicious hostility in those stunningly bright eyes.

His gaze appraised her, lazily rolling down her form, lingering at the sleeves and the ends of her pants. He nodded, as though approving the fit. Had this man provided her clothes? Not Azrael?

“Luke.” He held out his hand, thought better of it, then withdrew with a subtle shake of his head. Did he know what she was? “Saskia, aye?”

“How-”

“-It’s what Azrael called ye,” he said with a shrug; “is it no’ correct?”

“I— I suppose-”

“-Ye suppose?” he scoffed. “Do ye no’ ken yer own name?”

She stepped back at his harsh tone, worrying her hands. ‘Ken’? His drawl sounded familiar. Where had she heard it?

“Azrael will be back soon. Try no’ t’ be appalled at him, aye?” Luke sighed, his voice strained— it seemed he was trying to sound nicer.

“Appalled? Why would I be appalled?”

Luke studied her, his lips pressed in a grim line. “Just… give him the benefit of any doubting, aye?” He knelt stiffly on the grass and rolled the two blankets together, then strapped them quickly to one of the packs. He began saddling the horses.

Just as Saskia went to see if she could help him, he muttered, “let’s go now, Az told us to meet him back at the-” he spat the next word; “-town. Can ye ride?”

She didn’t know. Could she? Had she? Warily, she approached one of the horses.

Luke rolled his eyes. “I guess no’. Come on, then.”

He held out his hand to her, but she only eyed it. “You can’t— We can’t-”

“-Touch? Aye, we can, lass. Come now.” Impatiently, he snagged her wrist with a tug and she flinched from him but… Nothing happened.

Saskia’s eyes widened as she sputtered, but he was lifting her by her waist up and onto the horse. He was stronger than he looked.

“How-” she started.

“-Another time, Saskia dear.” Though his words were friendlier, Luke seemed antsy, like something bad was coming. “Come on, lass,” he groaned, his tone growing frustrated; “throw yer wee leg over the saddle now, aye?”

She scrambled to do as told, earning another eye roll and an audible sigh when she almost fell from the horse and he had to catch her. His touch lingered and she shuddered. Her cheeks flushed in embarrassment when she realized he was simply waiting for her to steady herself.

Luke seemed to think a moment, but he kept his lips pressed in that line, his eyes darting about them as he saddled the other horse, then tied her reins to his. He mounted in one fluid motion, not wasting a moment as he nudged the mare.

“Sometimes,” he began softly; “sacrifices need to be made.” Saskia almost missed his murmur.

They rode up the hill in silence as night continued to cast her illusions over the grasses. Once they crested, Saskia was able to see Emberley dotting the horizon, dark, purple clouds hanging over it like a portent.

She cast about for something to say, or ask. The only sound came from the breeze rustling the grasses and the occasional flutter of birds’ wings.

Saskia nearly fell from the saddle when a sharp caw of a raven resounded over the plains. Luke merely glanced at her with yet another eye roll, then continued on stoically with his brows drawn.

Finally they passed the town’s sign: Welc me t t e Town of Ember y! It was faded, decorated with a border of painted lilacs. The words were done in a happy, cheery spruce, save for Ember y in a rusted, peeling cursive. The sign had been more warning than welcome.

“Wait here.” Luke dismounted, draping both reins over a lilac bush.

“No,” she started in a rising panic; “I can’t, these people, they just-”

“-Aye, lass, I ken.” Luke strode to her, his voice gentle. He reached for her hand, then pulled back before he touched her. He clenched his fist. “They canny hurt ye, lass. Az will have made sure of that by now.”

“What do you mean?”

“Best no’ t’ dwell. Ye need anything, lass? Better clothes? Brushes? Female… Things?”

She shook her head, but she thought of her little hollow tree. Her box was there, and her knife. She opened her mouth—

“Now, do no’ go and make us look for ye, aye, lass? Stay put.” He reached out again to pat her, but once more he held himself back.

Her lip trembled at that. He could touch her, but he wouldn’t, not even to comfort her. He was steeling his own reflexes. She couldn’t help what she was. She pulled her hands into her chest as she tried to wrestle her sudden aching under control. Luke acted as though she would hurt him, as though she could simply decide to and find a way.

“Gloves,” she said quickly; “I— I’d like my gloves.” She looked down at her bare hands.

From the corner of her eye she noted that Luke had nodded, then off he went without another word, leaving her there up on the horse.

Saskia meant to behave, but after a minute she felt her legs cramping. She shifted, taking care to bare no skin and to not touch the horse, then she tumbled to the ground to a derisive snort from the mare. She groaned, climbing gingerly to her feet as she hissed at the pain, her legs numb. With a curse, Saskia stretched, then waited. She Paced. She fretted.

Then, she felt something.

An unbridled rage prickled her awareness, surging from everywhere and no where, bringing with it the sharp, tangy scent of the salted sea. Saskia shuddered at its raw power as it quickly overwhelmed her, her knees hitting the dirt road as wave after wave of unadulterated fury wracked her. She scratched fistfuls of dirt as her teeth grit.

The anger felt good, powerful.

A desire began to well, a thirst. She wanted revenge. But this vengeance wasn’t hers. This fury was an anger remembered.

Remembered from what?

A grin split its way across her face as she stood on quivering legs, a singular thought whistling through her mind in an endless, repeating echo: kill them all…! Kill them all for hurting us…!

This anger wasn’t hers. Its power was so seductive, so delicious in its promised delirium— but it wasn’t hers.

Her leaden feet began to drag her forward, into Emberley.

~*~*~

The Emberley Pub: Cauldrons over Embers

“Must you be vulgar?” The Lady scowled from beneath her emerald hood, a blue tinge to the side of her lips.

Ryaku merely grinned toothily, his teeth pointed and gleaming, despite the gloom. He was tipping the faded, violet chair back on its legs, his booted feet crossed at the ankles and propped on the dusty table, fingers laced behind his head.

The Lady, of course, was seated primly, her hands folded in her lap, her emerald cloak adorned with silver, pine needle embroidery tucked carefully so as not to crease the rich fabric with her sitting.

“Why?” he finally answered; “are we eating here, with the ghosts?” He tilted slightly to the side, allowing his curtain of hair to fall from his eye, the grotesque one.

“Cover that.”

“Not all who are different bare shame, my Lady.”

“You should wear a patch.”

“Why? I can see.” He shrugged.

“The patch is not for your sight, Wyrm.”

Ryaku laughed, nearly tipping out of his chair. He planted his feet firmly on the floor. “Oh, you only call me that when you’re quite disgruntled, hm?” He stood, adjusting his burgundy tail-coat. He buttoned the maroon vest peeking from under his notched lapels, then performed a sweeping, dapper bow, his hand held out to her. He raised his head in the bow, his hair properly hiding his eye as the other gleamed at her, wicked and golden. “Better?”

She waved him off with a flick of her wrist. “Be done with it.”

Ryaku straightened with another toothy grin. “You won’t like it.”

She frowned.

“She’s red.”

The Lady raised a brow, barely visible under the shadowed hood. When Ryaku did not elaborate, and instead dropped back in his seat and buffed his nails, she prompted, “and?”

Ryaku feigned confusion. “Oh, you don’t know? Azrael’s red. She drained him. She’s red. Two, and two, should make four.”

The Lady’s scowl of displeasure turned into a grimace of anger. The already dim room darkened as her shadows stirred, but Ryaku was unafraid. She may be one of the most powerful beings in the realms, but so was he, and Ryaku knew her dirty, little secret.

“Alright, I’ll spell it out. R-E-D.”

“Are you quite finished?”

“Hm, perhaps.” He tipped back in the chair again, crossing his ankles on the table, tapping his chin.

The Lady said nothing, but her vexation would have its limit.

“She took some of his power, the root one, the one he shouldn’t have anymore.”

The Lady’s brows rose. “You are mistaken, the Angel is neutered.”

“Well, that’s quite the way to put it.”

“They aren’t better than animals, those Priedae… He would never shorten his life, and risk his vengeance— no, Ryaku, you must be mistaken, indeed.”

“I don’t make mistakes, but it seems you have.”

“An oversight, nothing more.”

Ryaku steepled his fingers with a smirk. She was vexed by this news, he could see it in the creeping blue tinging her face as her illusion threatened to melt.

“Something must have changed.”

“Surely,” he drawled.

“The Angel is young, perhaps-”

“-Perhaps, you aren’t as all-knowing as you think you are.” Ryaku returned to his fingernails.

“I shouldn’t have punished her. Burning her caused this.”

“Your vanity caused this.”

“Watch her, I must know how much his power will affect her.”

“She didn’t seem to remember me, I think you are in the clear-”

“-We, Wyrm.”

“I do not agree with your plan, as you may recall. She’s suffered enough-”

“-Her suffering is meaningless, she can’t remember any of it.”

Ryaku turned his gaze to her, his toothy grin long gone. He held his tongue as he checked his anger. “If you abuse your toys, they eventually break.”

“That’s what she is, Wyrm, my toy. Nothing more.”

He had enough. He stood, striding to the door, his heavy boots clacking on the wooden floor.

“Locate the Wraith. Bring him to her.”

Her order gave Ryaku pause. “The King will kill her.”

“The Wraith will not. And if he does,” The Lady sighed; “although a shame, I have other, ‘toys,’ as you put it.”

“I will not bring the King to her.”

“He is no King, Wyrm. Bring him to her, and let him test her new… Debasement. And if you will not, I shall.”

“You will do your own dirty work, then.”

“You disappoint. You are too fond of her.”

“You mistake me, I am fond of life, and not fond of wasting it.”

“She has not been alive for many years, or did you not put two and two together, Wyrm?”

Ryaku scowled, his fist clenched. He left the pub to the sound of her laughter.

~*~*~

The stream trickled with a pealing of bells as it wove through rocks and splashed against itself. But the sound changed with every step, the tinkling turning into crackles and splintering snaps as the water froze. Frost crept along the endless grasses, painting a thick layer of glass over each dancing strand until each danced no more.

A frozen silence descended over the grasslands after one last rush of wings as birds returned to roost, huddling for warmth and fluffing up their feathers. But in the silence was its own music, the music of ice, the pealing creaks and groans as it shifted and spread its icy tendrils over the plains.

The wind no longer stirred the grasses, nor the leaves of the few bushes. The wind no longer ruled over the grasslands at all.

The Wraith’s breath did not fog on the cold air as he knelt by the stream. He ran his fingers over the crystallizing dirt and breathed deep. He could smell her. She had lain here. But he smelled another.

He closed his eyes and breathed again. Two others. More alfar: ljósálfar. But they smelled wrong. Weak. Diluted. Diminished.

Aezarethi, the fallen ones.

So, what was the story here? The Wraith squatted in the frozen dirt, his forearms hanging over his knees as he laced his fingers, his head tilted in thought. Ljósálfar, associating with a svartalfr? Was she a prisoner? Why would they keep her, and not just kill her?

Better for him. Her head was his.

The Wraith cast his white gaze about the little valley: no signs of struggle. Was she strong enough now, after all these years, to fight ljósálfar? He doubted it. She might be a parasite, but she was weak. She hadn’t drained anything stronger than a human, not since he had begun tracking her. Her power could not have grown enough. The Wraith paused when his snowy eyes spotted hoof marks, almost hiding under the thickening tendrils of crawling ice in the dirt. He rose to toe the ice away, as his wraith shrieked its displeasure at his ear. He scowled, raising a brow at the swirling of crystals that was forming. The little ice spirit persisted even after he waved it off, his power seeping into this coalescing entity whether he liked it or not.

The Wraith returned to his work. Two sets of hooves. Two horses. Not three. He swept his gaze over the earth until he spotted a third set of tracks: boots, deep and heavy. He stepped along the prints, a frown pulling at his lips as he breathed again, the scent assaulting him. It was mixed with hers, dark, malicious, greedy.

How was her power clinging to a ljósálfr like cheap perfume? The Wraith did not like this. Something was happening. The little scourge was making friends and the friends were harvesting her abilities. How?

He might have to kill the Aezarethi too. Their dominion must remain balanced. The power of a svartalfr could win their petty, little war. Then what?

Would they come after his people next, like the Priedae had?

Of course they would. And, like the Priedae, the Aezarethi would learn they could not harm his people without first killing their King. The Wraith would never be able to go home, and he would once more be hunted by ljósálfar.

Priedae, Aezarethi— it mattered not, the ljósálfar were all the same. Arrogant, proud and holier-than-thou.

The coalescing ice spirit grew with his displeasure and shrieked again, floating through the air and twirling about the boot prints. The Wraith waved it off again, but it trilled and insisted until he scented the air.

His brow perked. This was not possible. He scented again, disconcerted. Under the diluted smell of the Aezarethi, and almost covered by hers, he smelled lycan.

But lycan did not mix with alfr.

Yet, here it was: one creature, with the scent of three. An abomination.

The Wraith stood, following the boots and the hooves towards Emberley. The abomination had to go. The svartalfr had to go. Either would allow the war to tilt, and on its completion, his people would be the next to suffer.

And the King yearned to finally return home. He could not stay away a century more.

Finally, his odyssey and vengeance would be one and the same.