"Death´s Tears Prologue" by Leigh *Shwin* Erickson

The perfect arc of the horizon was broken. The slender shadow seemed to be pulled from its smooth surface, casting a thin black line in the pale moon light. From the city, it was barely visible, something passing unnoticed. But the earth... it felt the unwelcome presence and sent a great wind to try to deter it. But the earth soon knew it was in vain and ceased its feeble protests. Nothing could stop a being such as this.

It paused at a distance just visible to a watchman on the city’s walls, a mere shadow on the brown of the earth. It observed its surroundings carefully, and looked forward once more. It sensed it neared the one it sought and would not be turned away.

Onward the figure moved, like liquid darkness; its presence unnoticed by mortal and immortal eye. It glided along the bare earth, more fluid than water, smoother than glass, soft as the wind’s caress. It sped along the moonlit earth towards the city, some unseen force drawing it toward the white walls.

Soon, much faster than one would have imagined possible given the distance between the naked horizon and the city gates, it was at the entrance. Closer now, the very ghost of a form could be seen within the black garments, tall and lithe. The hooded head, face still in shadows, seemed to look upward at the perfectly straight walls and its posture suggested indifference and a near humour at this situation.

Quickly the tangible form was lost again into the shadow of the cloak. The figure melted into the dark of the doorway only to be birthed once again from the shadows on the other side. It walked, as language would convey, but more accurately drifted along the streets towards the shining white house that dominated the place.

It came, without notice or resistance, to the gates of the house and passed through them as it had the city’s. Once in the vast courtyard, it stopped and carefully looked around. Satisfied with seeing nothing, the figure removed its cloak. With this motion, much of its viscosity was lost, and its form, masculine, became visible. He was tall and lithe as the shadows had shown him to be in the gateway, but what they had concealed was his skin. It was paler than the moonlight, closer to white than the colour of flesh; and his eyes... though hidden by his long, raven hair, they were still piercing and painful to the sight.

His garments were simple in form, but not in fabric- they were woven of and dyed in night’s very essence- loose pants, long sleeved shirt exceptionally well kept, and boots of soft leather. At his side he bore a whip and around his neck a chain, also ebon, which hung to his collar bone with a centered tip looking like a blade. Even with his pale skin the clothes made him barely visible, blending with their substance and hiding him from view.

As elegant and refined as his appearance was, it was his wings that set him apart. They rose in their black splendor from his back, neither feathered nor bat-like, but made from darkness itself. Wreaths of shadowed mist flowed from them with every movement and gathered like an unseen cloud at his feet. Though the earth deemed him incredibly powerful he seemed slightly ill at ease with his cloak removed and was quick to launch himself into the air. He flew swiftly with powerful wing beats towards a small window hidden in the white wall. The window itself was insignificant, just another opening in the smooth rock face, but the figure moved towards it with a great sense of urgency and purpose, knowing this contained what he sought.

He stopped just outside the opening and peered carefully into its well lit space, squinting as the light poured onto his skin. With an motion that took an obvious effort he repeated his action from the city gates, sans shadows, and entered the well lit room.

It was a large room and every corner of it coloured white, even the seamless floor. He saw this, but that was all, for his quick eyes rested on the cradle in the middle of the far wall. It was in that cradle that his promised quarry lay. It was a small boy, not more than a few hours old. The babe’s skin was almost as pale as his own, and his thin wisps of hair were nearly white. He walked silently to the cradle and looked at the infant carefully. Was this the child?

He reached out a half-gloved hand and placed it, ever so lightly, on the boy’s forehead. Yes, this was one, this was the one he sought. Losing no more time he placed both hands on the child’s head and began to speak very softly in an old tongue lost to memory. The child stirred beneath his hands and opened its eyes. They were a deep forest green, very innocent and curious. They looked on the figure with great interest and no alarm, but then closed quickly when they saw what the man was doing.

He had removed a glove, taken a blade from his side and had cut his hand. Blood fell from the wound onto the infant’s face, but rather than staining they were absorbed into its skin leaving a quickly fading but intricate design. Though it would be barely visible in a moment it would haunt the child for the remainder of his life. A mark of who he now was.

“It is finished” the man said wearily and replacing his glove, walked towards the window. As he prepared to leave he turned suddenly to the child. “Your time here will be a difficult one, you will be hated, rejected, exiled most likely. It will be a miracle if your fate is different from mine.” he looked hard at the fading pattern, and bowed his head. “Forgive me.” With those words the great wings opened and he again went with the shadows, leaving the child to stare at where a man once was with still dark, but fading, green eyes.

“I will wait, be it for eternity, I will wait for you. Remember...”