The Symphony of Shadow

9: 'Moonchild'

Possible triggers in bold: Detailed descriptions of  Azriel's domestic abuse + scars, past thoughts of depression and past suicidal thoughts.

A Z R I E L

Azriel woke from the dream with a start, breathing hard. He was too hot, yet something cold and foreign still lingered within the darkness of his too-large bed.

He could feel the sweat covering his naked body, could feel the sleep pulling his eyes closed, could feel the nausea settling over him.

He began the struggle of opening his eyes, a sign he'd been trapped in a deep slumber - strange for him. As he squinted, he couldn't make out much of his room, only that his shadows were dark - very dark - usually a sign the were feeling strong emotion, but now they behaved in a way in which Azriel had never once witnessed. They were trying to escape him.

They were panicked, trying to pull away from him, trying to go to someone else - to protect that someone else... And a deep urge within Azriel wanted to do the same thing, yet he had no idea why.

The heat of his body now becoming an uncomfortable burden, Azriel cast aside the simple duvet which he'd managed to scrunch around his body as he'd slept. Running a hand through his mess of hair, he willed himself to resume slumber, but nothing came. He felt sick, he was too hot, his mouth was dry, not to mention that pit of foreign emotion twisting in his gut - discomfort was an understatement.

What had he dreamt about? It almost seemed an eternity ago now, but like dreams often did, it had slipped away in a matter of seconds. Azriel had often experienced nightmares, but this one seemed different... more connected in a way he couldn't explain, in a way which made his heart hurt a little...

He sighed and lifted himself from the bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he willed his shadows to stop their tugging-away from him. Pulling on a pair of black undershorts, he made his way across to the bathroom, then continued to run some cold water into the basin, waiting until it was ice cold so he could wake himself the fuck up - there was no point in going back to sleep now.

He ran his fingers quickly through the water, intending to check its temperature, but was met with the sight of his hands - his scars. Not like the scars made by a blade - they were scars made from fire. Fire that had removed layers of skin and left raw flesh which had healed in a tattered, rough, red mess. His hands were wrecked, and he couldn't even look at them without wanting to go back and kill his so called half-brothers for giving him this burden.

Azriel tightened his jaw, breathing heavily, almost glaring down at his hands - the reminder of his past, of what had happened to him, of what had happened to his mother...

His scars were ugly, no one could deny that. But nevertheless, that wasn't the reason Azriel hated them, not the main reason anyway. His scars were a reminder of what had happened - a story he didn't like to remember when it meant thinking of how helpless of a child he'd been, of everything had happened to him. The darkness. The burning. The pain.

He'd never told anyone the exact details of what he'd been through to anyone, not even his brothers. How he'd been starved for days. How he'd been forced to piss on himself when no one would let him out of his cell. How he'd wanted to die with the pain... a feeling that had lingered long afterwards, and occasionally resurfaced even now during some of his lower moments.

Years after he'd been freed, the depression and feelings of loneliness never escaped him. He wouldn't talk to anyone, wouldn't let anyone in. He would just fight.

His scars were a reminder of those years, and every time somebody looked at them, and undoubtfully wondered where they had come from... Azriel was forced to relive the experience in his head. And thus the reason he hated them: they served as a reminder. A hideous one at that.