The Son of Salazar

Chapter Six

Love ya!

-James

***1047***

Four years, one month and twenty-one days. That's how long Sammael had been here. It was the thirty and first day of Quintilis in the year 1098. He was happy, so very, very happy, for the most part. He'd known for years now, the truth of what had happened. Sammael smiled ruefully; that had been the weirdest conversation of his life. Uncle God had apparently been the only one not in the know, and if it hadn't been for Papa's insistence and Auntie Helga's tears, he mightn't have believed Aunt Rowena.

Sammael relaxed underneath his favourite Weeping Willow that stood slouching, yet proud, by a bend in a brook in the midst of the Dark Forest. It was his favourite spot. Certainly, there were many dangerous creatures here: werewolf packs roamed, centaurs made camps, giant spiders, venomous snakes and evil sentient plants. But it wasn't dangerous to him. The werewolves weren't as wild or vicious with him, for some unknown reason that made Godric insanely jealous. The centaurs and he had made an understanding when he was young, they respected him for his power and his innocent look on the world, and in turn he respected their wisdom. The snakes were his to command and they kept the spiders in check. And thanks to his many lessons, courtesy of his family, he knew how to deal with the many plants that would be out for his blood.

The sun shone through the gaps in the web of tree limbs that spread his above him. The grass was thick and luscious and tiny blossoms bloomed in the grass. The sound of gently running water was soothing, it helped him think. Today was his birthday, his tenth birthday. But, for some reason, it wasn't as happy an occasion as his birthdays usually were. And it was all Sammael's fault.

The night before, he's had a dream. It was a strange dream of a man like a giant riding something that Sammael vaguely remembered was called a motorcycle. It was loud, deafening. At first, it had been a grand dream, but then the roaring of the motorcycle faded to sadistic laughter. Someone was laughing at him, mocking him. It was far off, he head a shout—it was a man—and then there was an evil flash of green. Then the ominous creaking of steps; someone was walking up the stairs. Somebody was crying, they were holding Sammael tight to themselves as tears splattered his cheeks. It was a woman with vivid green eyes and hair like fire. The rest of her was blurry, impossible to make out. She was chanting something, her voice rising and falling, like she was singing without notes. Then a crash, and the door fell to the ground. Sammael was placed down on a soft bed, lips were pressed to his face. Then the woman turned to face the man—the monster—that had intruded.

"Please," the woman begged, her voice breaking. "Not Harry, kill me! Please, not my Harry. I'll do anything, I swear! I'd fight for you, I'd die instead. Just please: spare my Harry!"

"Move aside, stupid girl," said the monster. "I've no desire to spill your blood."

"No, no, no," the woman sobbed, she spread her arms out wide, as if blocking the man from reaching Sammael. "Kill me, take me instead!"

"If you insist," came the dry reply. Green, lots of green and the woman was no longer standing there. "Now, let's see what all the fuss is about," mused the monster as he drew near. Sammael looked up into his face. Red eyes, blood red eyes, looked down at him. But there was something strange…they weren't focused. In his dream, Sammael reached a tiny hand up, shaking a fist at the monster. The monster laughed, his eyes shifting, becoming clearer. "Lively little thing, aren't you? It's a pity, really…" then the dazed look slid back into his eyes.