Her hair floated about her like living flame, like it was caught under the ocean, and not given to gravity’s powerful sway. She was there, and not, with flesh like the moonlight. If there ever was a candle that shone in the darkness; it was her. Soft of voice, with features that spoke of kindness, hers was the way of love and single-minded devotion. Mother of peace and ever hopeful. Cast into a realm of ever shifting shadows, surrounded by the dead in painful, harrowing grayscale, she stood at one of the rare windows that gave one a glimpse into the world above. It was little more than a patch of grass, but the blades were sharp and green, there was a tiny tree that bore fresh fruit. All around the oasis of normalcy spread the bleak imitation of life.
She was not sure for how long she had been there, because it was difficult, in the place of shadows, to determine the passage of time. Days or weeks. A year. The memories of her death were in the past, and the time inside the Fade had touched her mind in some ways. Left thoughts scattered where once they had been collected. There were fragments of her past that fit together with jagged edges, like a poorly made puzzle. It was a single slice of an eternity that had been compressed.
Azraeth
The name was a whisper on a raging sea, and had she not been filled with the stillness of the dark places, she would have not heard it. It was a name she had not heard in a long time. Not just the name she had been born to, but the exact pronunciation. Most people had called her ‘Wraith’, because as a man, she had generally introduced herself as Az-rayth. And that was technically true. It was her name and she had the power to do with it what she pleased, but her mother had been very specific when Superbia had been a young child.
Azra-yeth. In a soft spoken tone, when the young boy the Dragomir had once been was being put to sleep. And then again when he was being roused from that same slumber. Spoken more quickly and harshly when he did something wrong. Though that was rare. Azariel had always had a penchant for getting into trouble that his twin had not picked up until middle school or later.
Azra-yeth, spoken in anger and dismissal when he had become a disappointment. When his mother had found the pot in his room. Or when she’d discovered his tastes. Even before then, he hadn’t been the golden child. He didn’t have the athleticism that Azariel had possessed a natural talent for. He didn’t have his brother’s natural confidence or his easy charisma. Even before his mother had been disgusted with Azraeth, she had stopped loving him, because he wasn’t what she had expected. Not what she had wanted.
Azraeth
That lone word cut to the very center of the woman standing in the Shadow Realm, like a knife jabbed through the ribs. Her form wavered for a second. And then shattered. Standing where Superbia had been, was the young man Azraeth had been when he had been turned three years before. He had blue eyes that were like fresh pools of vibrant water, and his hair was a shock of gold that caught light in such a way that it made him almost appear to have a halo (You could tell he and Azariel apart because his twin’s hair tended to be a shade or two darker). His mother had called him her little angel all through his childhood. They were named for angels. The twins.
“Mama?” He called out. His voice, no longer pitched high in femininity, was still soft spoken and like silk. Not deep, but a gentle tenor.
Azraeth, my love, my child, what has become of you?
He couldn’t answer that. He didn’t know how to address the spectre he thought stood with him. His fingers appeared to ball into fists at his side as tension mounted between his shoulder blades. Could wraiths weep? He was darkness incarnate. He was a shadow, that had been wrapped in an illusion of his own mind. “I don’t know.” It was the only honest thing he could have said in that moment. Becoming a vampire had been like one great extended dream. This surreal joyride that had seen him through so many adventures, so many faces.
There were times when he and Azariel had hated each other, times when they had been close. They had come from the same womb, had the same heart and eyes and electric soul. Becoming undead had tested them and their blood. Az had seen the return of ancient beings of great power. He had seen the death of monsters, like Cobb. He had seen the birth of a new age, of the Council and the time of bloodlines. He had watched as those same families had fallen apart, and factions had risen in their place. He’d been there when Broussard had been toppled.
But it was like the dense forest. He could look down, but he would see no path under his feet. He could not see ahead of himself. He couldn’t see the continuing road, just recount for you what had already been.
Chaos. That was what he had lived after he had died.
Chaos.
Azraeth, my little angel, do you know who you are? In the same tone as if she were about to tell him a story.
“I don’t know.” Another truth. Az had been many things. He’d had one of the highest bounties in the early days of the vampiric culture in Harper Rock. He had fought for the Masquerade, just the same. He’d been a killer, and pacifist. He had been man, and woman. He’d been leader, follower. Mother, sire, childe. He had been weak and strong, loved and hated. He had given himself over to the darkness, and been to the Shadow Realm more than he cared to recount. He had disappointed so many in his time. There was a weight to that, a weight that hung around his neck as a burden that had made him want to flee everything and everyone.
He wasn’t as strong as he pretended to people.
He knew how to love, and he knew how to forgive. He knew how to hope, and to give every part of himself to those he cared about.
Those were his only strengths, and he had not played to them. Not really.
I know who you are.
There was a silence that stretched on forever.
You are a dragon.
And with those words, he was reborn.
She was not sure for how long she had been there, because it was difficult, in the place of shadows, to determine the passage of time. Days or weeks. A year. The memories of her death were in the past, and the time inside the Fade had touched her mind in some ways. Left thoughts scattered where once they had been collected. There were fragments of her past that fit together with jagged edges, like a poorly made puzzle. It was a single slice of an eternity that had been compressed.
Azraeth
The name was a whisper on a raging sea, and had she not been filled with the stillness of the dark places, she would have not heard it. It was a name she had not heard in a long time. Not just the name she had been born to, but the exact pronunciation. Most people had called her ‘Wraith’, because as a man, she had generally introduced herself as Az-rayth. And that was technically true. It was her name and she had the power to do with it what she pleased, but her mother had been very specific when Superbia had been a young child.
Azra-yeth. In a soft spoken tone, when the young boy the Dragomir had once been was being put to sleep. And then again when he was being roused from that same slumber. Spoken more quickly and harshly when he did something wrong. Though that was rare. Azariel had always had a penchant for getting into trouble that his twin had not picked up until middle school or later.
Azra-yeth, spoken in anger and dismissal when he had become a disappointment. When his mother had found the pot in his room. Or when she’d discovered his tastes. Even before then, he hadn’t been the golden child. He didn’t have the athleticism that Azariel had possessed a natural talent for. He didn’t have his brother’s natural confidence or his easy charisma. Even before his mother had been disgusted with Azraeth, she had stopped loving him, because he wasn’t what she had expected. Not what she had wanted.
Azraeth
That lone word cut to the very center of the woman standing in the Shadow Realm, like a knife jabbed through the ribs. Her form wavered for a second. And then shattered. Standing where Superbia had been, was the young man Azraeth had been when he had been turned three years before. He had blue eyes that were like fresh pools of vibrant water, and his hair was a shock of gold that caught light in such a way that it made him almost appear to have a halo (You could tell he and Azariel apart because his twin’s hair tended to be a shade or two darker). His mother had called him her little angel all through his childhood. They were named for angels. The twins.
“Mama?” He called out. His voice, no longer pitched high in femininity, was still soft spoken and like silk. Not deep, but a gentle tenor.
Azraeth, my love, my child, what has become of you?
He couldn’t answer that. He didn’t know how to address the spectre he thought stood with him. His fingers appeared to ball into fists at his side as tension mounted between his shoulder blades. Could wraiths weep? He was darkness incarnate. He was a shadow, that had been wrapped in an illusion of his own mind. “I don’t know.” It was the only honest thing he could have said in that moment. Becoming a vampire had been like one great extended dream. This surreal joyride that had seen him through so many adventures, so many faces.
There were times when he and Azariel had hated each other, times when they had been close. They had come from the same womb, had the same heart and eyes and electric soul. Becoming undead had tested them and their blood. Az had seen the return of ancient beings of great power. He had seen the death of monsters, like Cobb. He had seen the birth of a new age, of the Council and the time of bloodlines. He had watched as those same families had fallen apart, and factions had risen in their place. He’d been there when Broussard had been toppled.
But it was like the dense forest. He could look down, but he would see no path under his feet. He could not see ahead of himself. He couldn’t see the continuing road, just recount for you what had already been.
Chaos. That was what he had lived after he had died.
Chaos.
Azraeth, my little angel, do you know who you are? In the same tone as if she were about to tell him a story.
“I don’t know.” Another truth. Az had been many things. He’d had one of the highest bounties in the early days of the vampiric culture in Harper Rock. He had fought for the Masquerade, just the same. He’d been a killer, and pacifist. He had been man, and woman. He’d been leader, follower. Mother, sire, childe. He had been weak and strong, loved and hated. He had given himself over to the darkness, and been to the Shadow Realm more than he cared to recount. He had disappointed so many in his time. There was a weight to that, a weight that hung around his neck as a burden that had made him want to flee everything and everyone.
He wasn’t as strong as he pretended to people.
He knew how to love, and he knew how to forgive. He knew how to hope, and to give every part of himself to those he cared about.
Those were his only strengths, and he had not played to them. Not really.
I know who you are.
There was a silence that stretched on forever.
You are a dragon.
And with those words, he was reborn.
