Fear the Reaper [malexmale]

Prologue

Prologue

Paradise was lonely.

Even with the insects that buzzed and chirped, an owl's occasional call echoing through the woods, there was a deep realization of being completely and utterly alone. He felt it right down into his bones, as the rain fell in a soft mist across his cheeks, settled onto his cloak that he kept tightly wrapped about himself.

Before him, the fire crackled and popped, the sizzling embers winking at him through the hot orange flames that rose up off the logs that lay atop one another. The glow cast shadows across the trees that no longer bore leaves, but rather, bare black branches that shuddered in the occasional wind. The air was bitter and cold, nipped at his nose, his cheeks. No better was his damp blonde hair that stuck to the sides of his face, fell down on either side of his nose.

He sniffled helplessly, then lifted black eyes until the forest canopy. Or rather, what once was a forest canopy and now was nothing more than charred fingers grasping for warmth that would never come. Above, the moon gleamed in the sky, a sliver of light, a silver teardrop waiting to fall. The stars that gleamed overhead were nothing more than leftover tears from the years that came to pass.

Years spent in bloody battles. Even now, he could still smell the blood soaked earth. He could still smell the pungent odor of festering wounds, the acrid stench of blood. Even in the soft comforts of the forest, he swore he could still hear screams and battle cries. Still see his family, his friends, falling to their knees and sinking into a pool of blood.

The last thing they'd seen before he'd taken their souls and breathed it back into the Source, was the sight of their own blood pooling about them. The sight of a dagger coming at their faces, their hearts. Flames engulfing them, peeling away at their fragile flesh, curling it up off bones that blackened.

He slammed his eyes shut, gasping at the imagery that assaulted him. He gathered his thick cloak about him tightly, trembling not from the cold, but rather, the vivid scarring memories that he knew he would carry with him for the rest of eternity, that would haunt his dreams. He drew his sleeve up to his nose to wipe away sweat, only to go still as he brushed the soft material against his skin.

He blinked his eyes open slowly, staring down at the cloak. Its material was unlike any other. No other cloak was like this one. This one was special. And he remembered it, remembered the day his fault gifted him this cloak, settled it upon his shoulders and lifted him into this word, with a promise, with the glow of unconditional love.

Or so he thought.

Fury suddenly lashed through him. So potent, so powerful. He snarled and shot to his feet, whipping the cloak from his shoulders and balling it up, throwing it into the fire. The flames shrieked and shot up toward the sky, licking and grabbing for something, anything. For its power was no match for the cloak as it sat unharmed in the center of the flames.

He stared in at the cloak, breathing hard, shoulders rising and falling, hands clenching into fists as he fought the urge to dive in after it. An urge that seized him hard and before he knew it, he was dropping to his knees and reaching through the flames, frantically snatching the cloak back out. He hissed as the flames latched onto the loose sleeves of his shirt, threatened to sear his skin open. He batted hard at the flames, choking them out as he hauled the cloak back against his chest. He scooted back hard until he was against a thick charred tree, his cloak clutched to his chest. He gathered the thing about himself, wrapping himself in its warmth.

For warmth, he reminded himself.

He didn't want this cloak. This damned cursed piece of garbage given unto him by a liar, a thief, a murderer. He hadn't rescued it from the fire with some deep set hope of ever seeing his father returned, his father healed. Because he knew very well his father was gone. Dead inside, dead in a way that not even he as Death could touch.

He stared into the flames, bundled under the thick cloak, the flames dancing, reflected in his black eyes. He watched the flames quiver and churn, devouring the logs he'd gathered together.

He swallowed hard, startled for a moment when the loud cry of an owl erupted from above. He jerked his head up at the sound of powerful wings batting the air. Fear licked up his spine as he watched the owl, white as fresh snow, speckled with silver, land on the branch above his head. Its wings brought back grim memories of his father's wings. His father's were not feathered, were not glorious such as this creature's.

Nay, his father's wings were black as coal. Leathery and sleek, like those of a bat's. Sharp and agile. They were made for power, made for striking fear into the hearts of its enemies. This creature's wings were soft and feathery, delicate and fragile. Nothing like his father's.

The owl seemed to purr for a moment, then cocked its head and fluttered its wings. It took off to the other side of the clearing and settling under a larger branch to seek protection from the misty rain. It hummed, turned its head about, until its shiny black eyes locked on his.

He stared back at the creature.

"Hello," he murmured. The creature fluttered its wings. He watched as the creature settled. It became eerily silent. Those shiny black eyes were watching something in the grass. He spoke naught as the owl lay patiently in wait. A moment later, those large white wings flew open and the creature shot from its perch, diving down at the ground with razor sharp talons. It sailed up into the air and landed on the branch overhead. His head tilted back slowly until it was against the tree, and he watched as that majestic white creature dipped its head down and began to furiously rip its prey open.

A drop of blood sailed down through the tree and landed on his cheek. He blinked, then reached up and touched the droplet on his cheek. He smeared it across his cheek, drawing it toward his lips, brushing it across his bottom lip. He drew his finger back, studying the red gleaming in the light. He looked back up as the owl dismembered its meal, eating it piece by piece.

He could hear the tiny shrew squeal for a moment. Followed by silence. It was still alive, but dying. Its voice was silenced.

He closed his eyes and drew the blood back to his lips, kissing his fingertip, kissing the blood there. He felt the magic course through him, sear through his veins, rising up and infiltrating the brain of the shrew. He opened the gates of the tiny creature's mind, spilling endorphins that numbed the creature of its pain and allowed it to slip away quickly.

Overhead, something growled and he opened his eyes, staring up at the sky. Suddenly, the stars and the moon were gone. Intense darkness cloaked the forest, closed in on the fire that had dimmed over time. Thick storm clouds rolled in, bringing with them the grumble of thunder, the rain picking up.

The owl finished its meal, picked at any remaining pieces, then took off into the night, vanishing. He watched the creature fly off, then turned back to stare at the fire. He watched the flames flutter, desperate to remain alive as the rain choked off its remaining breathes. The logs hissed and sizzled as the rain spilled down.

He lifted the cloak over his head, protecting himself from the rain that simply struck and slid off. It was clearly as waterproof as it was fireproof. So there he remained.

Alone.

In the darkness.

For he was Death. And he was always alone.