Sanctum Est

Prologue

Shaw had been alive for a very long time. He'd seen many things; he'd seen the worst of the worst. He had witnessed death, chaos, and strife. Shaw had witnessed the nuclear war that radiated the earth.

A man sat surrounded by young eager faces, but his was stony and serious. He began to speak, "He is older then the trees that surround us. "

He witnessed the shuttles being sent to space with survivors. He watched them fall. He witnessed the birth of a new age, a new social race. He'd even been apart of one, until the commander had realized he didn't age; that his senses, strength, and speed were unearthly.

"He is faster then any animal or person and stronger then all the reapers together. He can hear, see, and smell like no other. He could kill you before you even thought of drawing your weapon. He is a monster among men, a beast. He can not die, he does not bleed. his eyes are frigid and cold. His teeth sharp enough to destroy stone. "

She gave him a new name that day, after trying to kill him unsuccessfully.

"If you are to survive an encounter with him, you must be strong, you must be smart, and you must be willing to sacrifice your dignity and run. We train you this young because age is not an excuse that will stop him. He feeds on the life force running through you, the blood in your veins." One child scrounged up enough courage to ask, "Who is he?"

She dubbed him the Sanctum Est.

"He is the Sanctum Est."

The Unholy One. After she died he became a legend. A scary bedtime story. But he was feared, whether the savages believed he existed or not, they were careful to heed their elders.

  Shaw made a home for himself and had minimal interactions with the savages. They had more or less coexisted peacfully. There were a few deaths of course. Young foolish warriors, thinking they could take his head, and paying the price for it.

He was feared by more then just the savages, the survivors at Mt. Weather were terrified of him. They too had attempted his life once. He rectified their mistake immediately, killing almost 20 people before they realized their weapons were useless and their best chance of survival would be to leave him the hell alone.

It had been almost 10 years that he had been undisturbed. Neither savages nor mountain men had intruded on him. And then they fell. One hundred teenagers and one adult had fallen from space. As far as Shaw could tell, it was intentional, though where they landed was not.

He watched them, the one hundred plus one. They were so close to his bunker, he needed to make sure they kept away. They were all criminals. Expendable to their people. He watched the way they interacted, whom they looked up to, and who they looked down upon. One in particular caught his eye.

He was a nasty little thing, full of anger, hate, and envy. He was cruel and arrogant, but that's probably what drew Shaw in. He could see under that rough exterior, he could see his pain, and his fear. He could see the way he forced himself to be hateful, scared of letting someone in. Shaw knew it would probably come back and bite the boy in the ass one day.

But the boy was intriguing so he continued to watch. He observed the children in their little camp. He watched as the blond leader, Clarke, and the brown haired "spacewalker" grew closer, he watched as the freckled man, Bellamy, grew more reckless and fearful. They'd only been on Earth for two days, and already more then three were injured.

They were not fit for Earth, not yet anyways. The savages had seemed to take a disliking towards them, but that wasn't surprising considering they're basically, well, savages. He can see the gleam some have in their eyes, and he knows they've taken lives, and he can see the fear and innocence in those who were locked up for petty crimes.

He didn't know how he got so attached in such a short time span, but the cruel boy he'd seen had somehow wormed his way into his cold, dead heart. So when he watched the little girl named Charlotte, no older then 13, shove a knife into another throat, he knew things were going down hill. Especially when he noticed the initials carved into the handle of the make shift knife.

J.M.

John Murphy.

Well shit.