SONDER : ALPHA, Leader of the Fallen

1 § 6 [ All Will Be Made Right ]

All around her was fire.

Cracking, roaring, searing fire.

It encircled her, drawing closer, pressing, laughing, mocking.

She huddled into herself as the flaming tendrils towered over her, nearly crowding out the black sky.

The sky was raining tears, but the water did not reach the flames. It sizzled into steam, evaporating before any contact could be made. Acrid smoke choked her lungs, so she curled into herself, wanting to return to a deep sleep where the heat could no longer lash at her.

Then a whispered wind carried a word: Ssssassskiaaa…

It was barely audible above the roaring of the flames, yet she heard it clearly.

Saskia.

What was Saskia?

The little creature lifted her head, turning towards the echo that called her. There, beyond the wall of flames, she thought she sensed something else. She started towards the inferno, then halted when the heat lashed against her face, singing her whiskers and burning her pink nose. She paced back and forth on silver paws, her little heart beating in her chest.

Saskia… It came again. The call.

She coiled her body, then leapt, springing at the wall of flames, leaping, soaring, burning. She sailed through the air for years as the flames licked away her fur with scorching tongues.

Then she was through, landing on ashen paws and collapsing in the harsh dirt. She curled back into herself in as tight of a ball as she could to hide from the heat that continued to scald her. But now, a cool breeze broke the heat, carrying its call: Saskia… Come to me…

Somehow, her little scorched body stood on shaking legs. She limped forward, leaving the flames behind, away from the only source of light and into the darkness.

She climbed a sheer hill between dense trees, thorns cutting into her toes and brambles catching on what was left of her fur. Twigs snatched at her with grasping fingers. She whimpered as the earth cut into the work started by the fires, but she pushed on. She crested the hill, leaving what was left of the burning forest behind her. To one side, was a vast ocean, with farmland bordering its rocky beach. It was dark and murky, like looking at a home through a pool of swamp water. Something called to her there, and she felt as though if she went to the ocean she could go home and rest. Her pain would end. She could find a hearth and curl up in someone’s arms.

A memory tickled at her and she started towards the ocean, but paused when another breeze rustled soothing fingertips through her fur: Saskia, not that way…

She paused and sat on the brambles and thorns with a wince. She looked longingly at the farm and the ocean, its rocky beach. A home sharpened into focus, her heart leaping to see a light past its windows.

A woman sat in a chair with stitch work in her hands as two little girls stared up at her, rapt.

The little feline knew the woman was telling a story of heroes and gods, of princes and dragons. And the little feline wanted nothing more but to sit at her feet and bask in her warmth.

She would find peace there. There, she could sleep. No more pain. She rose.

Saskia, come to me. Fight…

Fight? Fight what?

She stared for a while with longing, her heart aching, like she had lost something and now was her one and only chance to find it again, but now she was about to walk away from it forever.

She turned, obeying the soft breeze, and looked to the other side at the bottom of the hill.

Before her lay a vast expanse of colourless sand under a sky with no sun. Grey dust swirled in the air, shimmering with the pulsing, lashing heat.

The last thing she wanted was more heat.

She paused and looked again at the little home with the woman and the two girls.

She took off into a run. If she didn’t run, she would turn back.

Her paws gripped the scorching sands and her lungs choked on the dirty air. She sneezed, then coughed. She could turn back now.

But she didn’t.

She ran across the grey sands for years, until a red glow just past a cresting dune called to her aching paws.

The glow was familiar. Ruby-red, and warm, but in a pleasant way, not like the flames.

She neared enough to see him: a man, with ruby-red eyes. The glow came from him and it pulsed, deep and ancient. His eyes shone with sadness, with anger, and loneliness. He was tall and strong, thick with muscle, his features proud and arrogant, despite the hollow emptiness of his eyes.

From his back spanned massive, feathered wings that flexed and beat softly, each movement stirring up twisting, cyclonic eddies of dirt. The structure of the wings were black, but iridescent, like obsidian and oil. The features gradated from that shimmering, living black into a bright red, like his eyes.

Those wings were massive. He was massive.

His gaze met hers and she shrank into herself, feeling so small against such a splendid creature. He spoke, without moving his lips, his wings beating as a breeze reached her fur: Saskia.

Her ears twitched. He was the echo in the breeze. But what was that word he repeated?

Come to me.

She did.

He bent, sweeping her up in his arms, cradling her gently. She curled up in his warmth.

Heal now, sweet Rose. Take from me.

He stroked her fur and her eyes fluttered shut as she basked. His glow began to envelop her with a warm, gentle feeling. She did not feel that ugly high when she stole a soul to feed her own. Instead, she felt the feeling of life. She felt the fires far behind her die as he stroked her, his glow growing, infusing her every cell.

Then, she wasn’t a creature anymore. She was humanoid, returning to her mortal form, and he held her to him, peering down at her with those endless, red eyes.

He smiled at her with his lonely, sad gaze, so she reached up her fingers to brush against the side of his face. He leaned into her touch, then bent.

Closer, closer.

Her breath caught, his fanned her lips.

Then, something dark twisted around her leg, a grasping tendril that buried into her skin and dug towards her heart, something that had followed her from the ocean, from the hearth, from the woman and the two girls hearing stories.

Before she could cry out with the pain, their lips met.

Then her eyes snapped open and she was back.

~*~*~

She scrambled away from someone she had never seen before, breaking his hold on her shoulders. She moved cat-like, on all fours and hunched, looking about her. The stranger held up his hands, his cerulean eyes hard.

Then she spotted him. The angel, from her visions. But this angel, here, now, had no wings, and no warm glow. He sat, unmoving, but his eyes were hard, drilling into hers. A lazy, crooked smile bloomed on his face and his deep, husky voice all but purred, “you found me, Saskia.”

She approached cautiously, tilting her head. Just like in her vision, he said that word again. His insouciantly red eyes were warm, and deep, tainted with that edge of ancient loneliness.

Azrael. The man from Emberley. No, not a man, the Angel.

Azrael reached out to her, pulling on her wrist until she tumbled into his lap and fell against his broad, naked chest. Her cheeks flushed.

He tucked his head against the top of hers and hummed out a breath. Even now, in this world, she could feel his power coiling in his body, his essence dwarfing hers. He only appeared to be a man, a man with impossibly red eyes, a man who now seemed incredibly tired.

“Rest now, little Rose,” he whispered against her hair. But it seemed like he needed the rest, not her. She had been powered by the sun itself.

The stranger behind her stirred, but she paid him no mind when her angel laid onto a blanket that the stranger had unrolled for them, pulling her down with him. His strong arms held her against his chest, her head over his heart. She could hear its strong drumming, so she closed her eyes to listen, feeling his warmth enveloping her.

As she began to drift to sleep, a sudden tiredness stealing throughout her limbs, she thought she heard his heart skip its beats. Then it stuttered into silence, unmoving.

Panic bloomed in her as she counted her own heartbeats against the silence of his.

She had killed him.

She had killed this glorious creature.

Then his heart thudded again and she let out the breath she didn’t know she was holding, the rhythmic thud in his chest almost regular again.

Almost.

~*~*~

Luke watched them sleep for a moment as his anger and frustration crested. He clenched his fists in his lap, shaking his head at Azrael’s impulsiveness. Luke had always known him to be impulsive, but this… This rashness was on another level.

A svartalfr. Azrael shared his soul to heal a svartalfr.

The moment her crystal eyes had turned black, they both had seen her for what she was. Azrael was no fool, and that piece of soul he would never get back. It would be consumed, ravaged, treated like cheap food for her, keeping her parasitic little existence going.

Azrael called the Priedae parasites. But her kind…

Luke stood. Paced. Ran hands through his hair as they rested.

He felt badly for the girl, he really, truly did. She had suffered. Her legs had been black, charred all the way up to her hips, her hair singed from the heat and her body covered in ash. She was lucky the flames hadn’t fully engulfed her when the rain started with a sudden and torrential downpour.

Luke wondered about that.

But now, here she lay, like nothing had happened to her, safe in Azrael’s arms, his precious, red essence brightening her veins all across her body. Everywhere her pulse kissed, his red thrummed with vigour. It danced down her arms, her legs, her torso, glowing with power and an ancient heaviness.

The blackened ash was almost gone now, repairing rapidly as they slept. Her hair was lengthening, her pale pink strands brightening into a blood red. Her eyelashes were red. Her eyes, when they had snapped open with slitted, feline pupils, had been red.

Azrael’s red, that she had no right to. His vitality, his stolen glow infused her. He would never be the same again. Her greedy little body would deplete his energy in no time until that little bit of Azrael’s life sputtered out in her voracious fire that could never be satisfied, consuming everything it touched into ash, always hungering for more.

Luke wanted so badly to resent her. But he couldn’t. She was so peaceful, this poor, wretched creature that had almost been burned alive. He blinked away the tears that threatened as that raw wound deep within itched, his beautiful wife dancing through his memories, laughing, smiling, then screaming…

Luke shook his head and paced anew, forcing his lungs to breathe deeply. He blocked it all out, even as his body insisted on remembering that day. He forced himself to stop and look at her, to watch her peace. Luke’s lips trembled. She was here, and they could do nothing for his wife.

All because this girl had to be a svartalfr, and his wife had been a dǫkkalfr.

Luke grasped his own blanket and pulled it over them, covering her nakedness. The poor girl would notice that, when she woke. Luke wondered if he could handle returning to the village to find her clothes.

With a shudder he decided he couldn’t. He couldn’t look into the eyes of murderers, the eyes of such heartless creatures that could burn a living being at the stake. With a shudder, Luke realized he had already seen their eyes: the merchants, the medicine peddler, the stableman, the Innkeeper, Pepper, Teddy…

He had seen the eyes of those that were capable of taking his daughter’s mother away, the most loving, glorious creature he had ever known, all over what she had been born to be.

But wasn’t that what this girl had been burned for too?

Luke reached to stroke her hair but paused. He couldn’t bring himself to touch the svartalfr. Even if she hadn’t chosen to be one.

He turned, striding to the saddlebags and rummaging for the extra clothes he had prepared for himself and Azrael. Azrael wanted this pet, so he would lose his clothes for her.

Luke tore the bottoms of the pants— the girl was tiny. He used the torn fabric to create strips, tying the ends together until he had a cord he could thread through the belt loops of the trousers to cinch the waist. Azrael’s shirt was next. Off came the sleeves so they wouldn’t swallow her hands. He dropped his shoddy tailoring in a pile next to the couple.

They would sleep for some time. She would need rest to incorporate Azrael’s essence into her body to heal fully, but Azrael would never recover. He would feel that lack of vigour for the rest of his days. He had already sacrificed the root of his power many centuries ago, for Luke. To keep Luke safe.

How much more would this man sacrifice for others?

Luke’s heart clenched with his fists.

He should keep watch, in case the citizens of Emberley were searching for their witch. He couldn’t let Azrael’s sacrifice be in vain.

But he couldn’t sit still. His body still remembered, coiling with a helpless tension. His heart was pounding a mile a minute, and he struggled to stay present, to not let the memories come surging forth to consume him.

He would go to hunt. He wouldn’t go far. Then he would return. He would whittle her some shoes from wood to keep his mind and hands busy.

Yes. Shoes. Food. Water.

Goals to keep him focussed. To keep his mind here.

Once they awoke, he would press Azrael. He couldn’t keep this creature. He couldn’t take this deadly thing into their home, where most of them did not have the strength to resist her touch as Azrael did. If his daughter touched her— Luke clenched his fists so tightly his nails bit into his rough palms.

Azrael had better have a plan for her.

~*~*~

The kiss of the sun alit the tip of Azrael’s nose, pouring her tender touches down his cheeks, his shoulders, painting her warmth everywhere she could see.

He woke with a start as though waking from the dead: he took a sharp inhale and shot upright, a bundle tumbling from his arms with a soft protest. His heart pounded in his chest, his head swimming from the sudden movement.

He almost felt human.

Almost.

Azrael steadied himself, then grinned broadly at the treat beside him.

There she lay, his Rose, his Saskia. He reached his hand out to brush impossibly red hair from her pink cheeks. Even in sleep, she shivered at his touch, which delighted him. He remembered how she had screamed his name, trusting him to save her. He wasn’t pleased that she had been hurt or needed saving— in fact, his rage simmered still in his chest— but she had sought him, trusted him. And that filled him with pride.

His little kitten curled beside his thigh, clutching his singed pants. She turned in her sleep, her back facing him now and a white, creamy shoulder and a slender neck peeked from the cascading blanket. His eyebrow perked as he recalled that she wore nothing, the fire having burnt it all away.

His fingers twitched. He shouldn’t.

He did.

Azrael tugged the blanket down, exposing her back, the tiny narrowing of her waist, the teasing swell of her hips.

The black ash was gone, leaving his pristine rose in its place, healed with a pinkish glow. Azrael paused in surprise as he spied a pattern on her back, his fingers following curving blue pigment along her shoulder blades. He traced intricate knot-work with animals swirling amid the coiling lines etched deep into her skin.

His fingers then walked their way from the surprising tattoos, ghosting down her spine. He grinned in wicked delight when he elicited a shiver from her.

But then, he stilled and pulled his hand away: that one wasn’t supposed to be responding to him. He turned his hands over, marvelling. Both arms were working like nothing had ever happened.

He clenched his fist. Unclenched. Tested his grip. Azrael’s jaw went slack, his eyebrows shooting up. He marvelled at his sword hand, noting his fingernails were obsidian, black like her power.

He looked at his forearm. No inky, poisoned veins rose against his tanned flesh. He tore at his bandaging.

Nothing.

No, there: a crescent scar, rimmed in black where the beast had sunk its teeth. His flesh was filled in, and only the barest tendrils of ink spread their reaching, wispy fingers from the scar.

The black death was beaten into submission. By her. He was whole, with only a hint of the darkness.

Azrael’s mind reeled. How had she done this?

He wracked his memory, of their meeting in the spirit realm, his angelic soul to her feline fylgja. He thought back to her lips, the rightness of it, the peace that had flooded into him to fill what she took. He thought back to their perfect fit, her softness against his hardness, like she had been made to fit him.

The feeling of completeness had surprised him.

But then she had changed. His little kitten’s light had darkened as her own shadow rose from beneath her and enveloped her, squeezing her essence, trying to crush her.

Then, just like that, he had blinked and the darkness was gone. She was herself again, and she had splayed her fingers over the lycan’s bite, grasping, then ripping its venom from him.

Had she meant to? Did this little kitten heal him?

His jaw slackened as he peered at her with new eyes. She had returned a gift to him even as she took, extending his very short life.

Azrael raised shaking fingers— healed and working fingers— to her impossibly soft cheek, brushing her hair from her face over her back.

“Oh, Rose, you should not have done that…” He stroked her cheek, his chest full and sad.

Such a precious gift deserved another in return.

Azrael was decided, some crazed part of him in control. A whisper in his mind warned him that she would not like what he would do, not one bit, but he ignored it as he rose to his feet, leaving his sleeping beauty to rest in peace.

A svartalfr would be a powerful ally: she could very well turn the tides of his war. It might just be enough. He told himself that was why he must keep her. It couldn’t be the inexplicable draw he had to her, or her crystal eyes, her shy smile, her innocent, kitten-like soul. But to keep her, he had to convince her to come with him, to Aezareth, to his home. He would prove to her now that he could protect her, that he could keep her safe.

And, given that shadow he had seen, she needed him.

Azrael might have been an angel, once.

But he had always been the avenging kind.

~*~*~

One golden eye peered at her as she slept.

Black hair cascaded over his face, hiding the other one, the one she remembered to be deformed.

Yet, she did not really remember. Memories of his face echoed, but only that: she couldn’t hear them. She couldn’t picture his full face in her mind’s eye.

The svartalfr stirred in her rest, bereft of her angel’s heat next to her. She raised her head, and the owner of that golden eye merely smiled at her. She dropped her head back to the blanket, closing her eyes again, knowing him to be safe.

He continued to stare at her, his gaze raking along the length of her body. She was so tired and heavy she could not do a thing to stop him: she couldn’t pull the blanket or even turn over. She was a leaden rock sinking into a lake of sleep.

The man neared. His black hair, sleek, straight and shiny with expensive oils, continued to hide half his face like a drawn curtain, even as he moved, his golden eye gleaming like a rising dawn beyond the veil between worlds.

His pupil was slitted, she saw. Like a lizard? Or a snake? But that didn’t seem right. He would be very upset to be compared to an earthly reptile— he was much nobler, she recalled him saying many times.

He squatted next to her as that leaden heaviness pinned her limbs. He lifted a strand of her hair, glowing red with Azrael’s essence, then a frown pulled his soft smile from his lips.

It felt wrong.

The wrongness made her want to run.

But this man, he was safe, he was always safe, why would she run?

“Shh, Daughter of Darkness,” he whispered; “all will be made right again.”

Her eyes were so heavy. She felt more than saw his receding footsteps. She wanted to call to him, to ask what he meant, but darkness held her in its wicked embrace.

She returned to the realm of sleep, sinking under the lake of dreams.