SONDER : Prologue

0.5 : ALPHA - AZRAEL, Leader of Lost Souls

If only he had known the differences between the sun and the moon, he may have made different choices.

Sometimes, he also imagined that the sun was his mother, her warm caress down his cheek a comforting lullaby as the night stole in. He didn't know for sure that he had one. He only knew they existed when he came to this world and saw for himself what a mother was. It was hard to miss something you never had, but all the same, he did. And sometimes he couldn't stop himself imagining what it would have been like, having one as a child. He wondered what she could have been like and whether she could have loved him.

Then he would remember what he did, back then, and he would conclude it was better he didn't have one to disappoint. He just had the cold. Just the dark. Just the dust.

Just the dust, the empty, black darkness over-head, and his brother.

Even now, a grown man, he wished his secret wish that he had known her, just once.

They broke camp, tying the horses to a post and fluffing up bedrolls— bedrolls he had insisted Luke return to town for when he realized that he would need to treat his Rose as a lady.

As the ride had worn on, he had been able to flex his fingers, only realizing he could with a subtle set of tingles. It should have made him happy, but it only meant his time was shorter. As he healed— and he would— his soul would die.

It was all a sick joke. He had run from this fate once. Now he couldn't.

He lay back in his bedroll, eyes on the stars just beginning to twinkle past the haze left behind by the day, crunching the last bite of his apple in his teeth before chucking the core to his horse, who destroyed his evidence as though he had paid it to. He drifted off, wishing the sun's rays were still high in the sky, the chill, crisp air reminding him, as it did every night, of a homeland he needed to forget.

But when his brother's face came to mind in his uneasy drift, he bolted up, then stood, and paced. But unlike the many nights that haunted him, he had a distraction, one that had stirred at his movements, sitting up gracefully with a yawn and a stretch, then a soft, delicate purr, "Azrael...?"

Something possessed him and he went to her, squatting next to her. He smirked at her, "did you have a bad dream, little rose?"

"I did," she peered at him with wide eyes. "A nightmare."

He leaned over her now, "I can chase it away, here-"

"Not when the nightmare was you. Unless you plan to chase yourself away."

He frowned, not liking this answer. Then, he saw it. She was smirking! His thorny rose was playing with him! With a growl, he dug a hand into her bedroll to hook under her knees and yank her out, pulling her against his chest and striding away from the camp.

She hissed, quiet, to not wake Luke, "what on earth are you doing?!"

"Teaching you how to talk to me."

"I will talk however I like to! Put me down! This is uncalled for! Brute!"

He let her berate him, but it felt better to have her in his arms. Finally, he settled her down on a rock far enough away from Luke that he could play with her without disturbing him. Around them were the few trees in these vast plains, the far edges of the last forest they would see for quite some time. He put both hands on either side of her hips to cage her in place, leaning over her, letting his breath tickle those rose petal lips.

She huffed, angry, but she trembled, and the biggest smirk placed itself on his face when he realized she liked this. Maybe, she even liked him.

She jabbed a finger into his chest, "you are a behaving like a brute and I told you to treat me like a lady!"

"I am."

"You're not!"

"Well, I'm certainly not treating you like a man, Little Rose."

"It's Saskia!"

"What?"

Her fire died, and she shyly repeated, "Saskia."

"Saskia," he breathed, closing his eyes. "My Saskia." He wasn't aware he had said it out loud. He wasn't aware that he put his hand to the back of her head, fisting her hair and tilting her head back. He certainly wasn't aware when he crashed his lips onto hers.

Something inside him was driving him. And he didn't come to his senses until his cheek stung with his second well-earned slap. His eyes opened, and he pulled back from her in shock, "I'm sorry, I don't know what I-" But scared, she had already slipped past him and started running back to camp.

And he let her, stunned.

For long moments he sat, wrestling with himself. He had never behaved like this in all his years. He never felt so out of control of himself. He stared down at his healing hand, the one that had grasped her, and he felt nothing but shame for forcing himself that way on her. He liked her. He wanted her. But not like that. Never like that.

He didn't know when he finally drifted off to sleep, dreaming of her. But when he finally awoke alone, surrounded by dense trees, cold, moonlit fingers stroking mockingly down his bare skin from head to toe, something feral had awoken. The chill excited him, and he wasn't really alone.