Prologue
“Wake up, my child,” were the first words she heard as she slowly opened her eyes. Everything was dark and cold. The soft sound of steady thumping echoed in her ears, and soon she felt water trickling down upon her skin. It was moments before she realized that she couldn’t breathe, and as she gasped for air she found a mouthful of dirt in its place. She struggled to move her limbs, but it was hard to even budge, and soon she realized that she was buried in earth.
She clawed and kicked at the ground above her, hoping to loosen the dirt that covered her. She felt her fist punch through the ground, and grasp for air on the other side. Her fingers moved freely as she searched blindly for leverage to pull herself out of the cold hard ground. Rain poured down onto her shallow grave, and she began to feel herself able to move without restriction. The earth had become muddy with her sloshing around in it until finally she was able to rise up and take her first breath.
Rain fell upon her face as she wiped the mud from her eyes. She gazed at the sight around her; she was surrounded by darkness except for the stars that twinkled in the sky above her, and the moon whose light shone down upon her.
She slowly rose up and out of her shallow grave, staggering around, and wondering where she was. It was as she neared the edge of a cliff and stared down that she realized that she was on top of a mountain, but she couldn’t remember how she had gotten there. In fact she couldn’t remember much of anything, except for a strong feeling that there was somewhere she needed to be and she knew exactly how to get there.
Wake up, my child.
“Wake up, my child,” were the first words she heard as she slowly opened her eyes. Everything was dark and cold. The soft sound of steady thumping echoed in her ears, and soon she felt water trickling down upon her skin. It was moments before she realized that she couldn’t breathe, and as she gasped for air she found a mouthful of dirt in its place. She struggled to move her limbs, but it was hard to even budge, and soon she realized that she was buried in earth.
She clawed and kicked at the ground above her, hoping to loosen the dirt that covered her. She felt her fist punch through the ground, and grasp for air on the other side. Her fingers moved freely as she searched blindly for leverage to pull herself out of the cold hard ground. Rain poured down onto her shallow grave, and she began to feel herself able to move without restriction. The earth had become muddy with her sloshing around in it until finally she was able to rise up and take her first breath.
Rain fell upon her face as she wiped the mud from her eyes. She gazed at the sight around her; she was surrounded by darkness except for the stars that twinkled in the sky above her, and the moon whose light shone down upon her.
She slowly rose up and out of her shallow grave, staggering around, and wondering where she was. It was as she neared the edge of a cliff and stared down that she realized that she was on top of a mountain, but she couldn’t remember how she had gotten there. In fact she couldn’t remember much of anything, except for a strong feeling that there was somewhere she needed to be and she knew exactly how to get there.
Wake up, my child.
Chapter 1
Winston suddenly shot up in bed in a commotion. It took him a moment to realize that he had only been dreaming, and when he did, he took a deep breath and then let out a saddening cry.
A year had gone by since the battle with the Brotherhood, a year since Sarain had died, and in this year, Winston’s anguish and loss had not dissipated. He missed her every day, and dreamt of her every time he closed his eyes to sleep. He longed to see her, smell her, and feel her again. Winston had kept the bag of her things that she had once traveled with: an old book, a few clothes that had long since lost her scent, and an old photograph of her and Orran. It was the only image that Winston had of her, but the girl’s beauty in the photo had yet to flourish as Sarain’s had in life. But even without a recent photo, Winston could not forget Sarain’s face. He remembered every line, every curve, and every color of her being.
It was early evening, and Winston’s night was just beginning. He was once a man who lived a lavish lifestyle full of excitement and people, but now Winston’s days were empty and spent alone. He often stayed in, merely reading or reflecting on the past. When he’d go out, he’d walk the empty streets avoiding people, and sometimes hunting for the beasts that ran off that day of the battle.
As he gazed around his poorly lit, and now poorly furnished house, he realized how much like a prison his home had become. He had destroyed much of his furniture and decorations during multiple fits of anger and loneliness, leaving only the bare essentials for him to live with. Even with the rooms looking so much different now, Winston still could recall the rooms as they were when Sarain was in them; he could still see her sitting on chairs, walking down the hallway, and almost kissing him in his bedroom.
That night Winston felt too full of memories, and knew that he would be unable to spend the next few hours alone in his house; he needed to get out. He left the place immediately, not even caring to lock the door, and began the long trek into town. Shaven had become a much more lifeless small town, with a lot of its supernatural life disappearing and relocating since the demise of Aion and the Brotherhood. Wormwood Alley, where Winston lived, had very few tenants now, and even the alleyway marketplace had shrunk, losing half its vendors.
Winston walked in the cool night air, with stars shining up above, and the moon lighting his path. He walked into town, keeping to the shadows, with his first stop being the local liquor shop. As he walked to his destination, he ignored passersby and vehicles, so much so that it was almost as though they were never there. All life seemed like a blur to Winston, and his world felt gray.
Winston walked into the bright, fluorescent lit liquor store, and shielded his sensitive eyes; it wasn’t so much because he was a vil sang that the light bothered him, but because he was so used to sitting around in the dark as of late. He immediately grabbed a bottle of vodka and quickly brought it up to the register to pay. He fidgeted impatiently while the middle-aged male cashier rang him up. The cashier stumbled through the transaction, nervously, as though he was new to the job, and midway through he glanced up at Winston and stated, “Man, you’re a pale one.” He ignored the comment, and when the register finally popped open, Winston tossed the money at the cashier and walked off without a word.
He wandered down the street, looking for a quiet deserted place to rest his feet. He came upon a park that looked abandoned; swing sets were broken, the slides were rusted, and everything else appeared to be tagged with graffiti. Winston sat down on the one decent bench left in the place. He popped open his bottle and immediately took a long swig; the vodka’s dry smoky flavor gushed down his throat, but didn’t quench his thirst. He gulped the bottle down, letting droplets of the strong drink escape the corners of his mouth. When the bottle was empty, he brought it down from his lips, but did not wipe his mouth. He sat there, staring out into space, while still clutching onto the empty vodka bottle.
Winston thought about Sarain’s lips, and how soft they felt that last night he saw her and kissed her. Her eyes flashed into his mind; her unique and beautiful violet eyes. A tear escaped Winston’s eye, and then he heard a crackle come from the sky. Within seconds rain began to pour down, drenching him from head to toe. Winston wasn’t sure what was rain and what were tears, but even still, he did not budge. He simply sat there, in a daze, and let the rain continue to pour down on him.
He thought of Sarain and how she would crack a half smile with the corner of her mouth when he would say something amusing. He thought of her crying, scared and lonely but glad to have him come to her rescue. He thought of her holding on to him, desperate to keep him by her side, and kissing him passionately one night so many years ago; images of him touching her, lying next to her, and making love to her, flashed into his head.
Thunder crackled again, but this time with lightening streaking across the sky above. It was in that moment that Winston felt something snap, and he wasn’t sure if it was him or the bottle in his hand. Glass dug into his palm, with black blood pouring out the wound. It was a nasty injury, but he didn’t feel any pain, instead he felt enraged. He suddenly jumped up and threw the bottle down, smashing it into several tiny shards. Winston cried out in agony, screaming as hard as his body would allow, but the thunder roared along with him, drowning out most of his cries of anguish. He didn’t cry over his hand, the wound was nothing to him, he cried for Sarain; losing her was a greater wound than his vil sang body could heal.
He quickly turned his attention to the bench he had been sitting on, and in a moment of torment, smashed his foot through it. He followed that with punching his fists through the old wood and steel, and finally lifting the remains by its base, and tearing the bench out of its cemented ground. Winston sent the bench smashing down and busting into pieces. He screamed again, but this time his voice broke. Winston began sobbing uncontrollably, and collapsed to his knees. He cradled his head in his hands, and cried over his loss. He missed Sarain so much, and knew that he couldn’t live without her. He had only spent a short time with Sarain in Shaven, but now everything reminded him of her, and he knew if he was going to have any kind of life again, he had to leave this place.
Winston dragged himself home, with the effects of the vodka already beginning to wear off; just another result of being a vil sang. He trekked through muddy ground and puddles of water. The raining hadn’t let up and only further added to Winston’s despair. He felt sluggish and tired, and wanted the night to be over. When Winston got home, he glanced around the nearly empty place, and wondered what there was that he really needed to grab to take along with him on his travels. He thought of Sarain’s things, but knew taking them with him would defeat the purpose of trying to leave the memories of her behind. Winston thought of his clothes, though so many of them had become torn and tattered from lack of care and hunting, that it was pointless to try and save them. Winston realized that he had nothing that was valuable to him anymore, and this was a depressing thought for him. He let his gaze fall to the ground, and his eyes settled on a stain that lied at his feet. It was the stain of his own blood, from when Kayne ran him through a year ago, his dark blood never fully coming up off the ground.
Winston thought of how he wished he had died that day; he wished that he could be swallowed up into nothingness and cease to be. Or perhaps maybe he could atone for his past sins and find his way to Sarain in heaven; yes, that was the dream, but Winston knew that even if there was a heaven, it would not be a place that would want him.
Winston began to wonder if it was even worth leaving town; could he truly ever forget Sarain? He couldn’t forget her before when she had abandoned him of her own free will so many years ago, how could he possibly forget her now? Winston stared down at the stain again, thinking, perhaps it would have been better if he died, and then he thought of how the sun should be coming up in the next couple of hours.
Winston placed his hand on the door handle, his thoughts racing, but with a deep breath, he settled his mind on what to do. He turned the handle, unlatching the door, and as he pulled it open, muddy water came sloshing in. Rain came down so strong and heavy that it was hard to see outside. Winston began to take a step out, but then stopped himself short. He stared out at a figure moving towards him in the rain, unable to tell who or what it was that was coming for him. He raised a hand up to his eyes to shield himself from the windy rain that was blowing up against his face. His eyes began to glow their vibrant blue, as he tried harder to see his visitor.
Winston took a few steps forward into the storm, realizing that he no longer had any fears, and finally he got a good look at what it was coming toward him. A woman stood naked and muddy before him, her hair drenched and matted to her body, dirt caked to her bare feet, and her hands dripping with blood. Her face held an expression of exhaustion, but her eyes looked bewildered. She stood there staring at Winston, with a lost look upon her.
He dropped to his knees, with the muddy ground beginning to give beneath him. Tears fell from Winston’s eyes once again that night as he stared up at the figure in front of him.
“You can’t be real,” Winston muttered, believing he was seeing a ghost. The woman staggered, and suddenly fell to her own knees. “Help me,” she cried out, and immediately Winston was on his feet again and moving toward her. He put his arms around the woman, and helped her get back on her tired feet. Her hair clung to her face, and with his hand, Winston pushed back her hair to make sure he had seen what he believed he had saw. A familiar face did indeed stare back at him, but her eyes were unrecognizable.
“Sarain?” Winston said in disbelief. She shivered, holding herself tight, and slowly stared up at him with confusion, and a pair of brown eyes.
Winston suddenly shot up in bed in a commotion. It took him a moment to realize that he had only been dreaming, and when he did, he took a deep breath and then let out a saddening cry.
A year had gone by since the battle with the Brotherhood, a year since Sarain had died, and in this year, Winston’s anguish and loss had not dissipated. He missed her every day, and dreamt of her every time he closed his eyes to sleep. He longed to see her, smell her, and feel her again. Winston had kept the bag of her things that she had once traveled with: an old book, a few clothes that had long since lost her scent, and an old photograph of her and Orran. It was the only image that Winston had of her, but the girl’s beauty in the photo had yet to flourish as Sarain’s had in life. But even without a recent photo, Winston could not forget Sarain’s face. He remembered every line, every curve, and every color of her being.
It was early evening, and Winston’s night was just beginning. He was once a man who lived a lavish lifestyle full of excitement and people, but now Winston’s days were empty and spent alone. He often stayed in, merely reading or reflecting on the past. When he’d go out, he’d walk the empty streets avoiding people, and sometimes hunting for the beasts that ran off that day of the battle.
As he gazed around his poorly lit, and now poorly furnished house, he realized how much like a prison his home had become. He had destroyed much of his furniture and decorations during multiple fits of anger and loneliness, leaving only the bare essentials for him to live with. Even with the rooms looking so much different now, Winston still could recall the rooms as they were when Sarain was in them; he could still see her sitting on chairs, walking down the hallway, and almost kissing him in his bedroom.
That night Winston felt too full of memories, and knew that he would be unable to spend the next few hours alone in his house; he needed to get out. He left the place immediately, not even caring to lock the door, and began the long trek into town. Shaven had become a much more lifeless small town, with a lot of its supernatural life disappearing and relocating since the demise of Aion and the Brotherhood. Wormwood Alley, where Winston lived, had very few tenants now, and even the alleyway marketplace had shrunk, losing half its vendors.
Winston walked in the cool night air, with stars shining up above, and the moon lighting his path. He walked into town, keeping to the shadows, with his first stop being the local liquor shop. As he walked to his destination, he ignored passersby and vehicles, so much so that it was almost as though they were never there. All life seemed like a blur to Winston, and his world felt gray.
Winston walked into the bright, fluorescent lit liquor store, and shielded his sensitive eyes; it wasn’t so much because he was a vil sang that the light bothered him, but because he was so used to sitting around in the dark as of late. He immediately grabbed a bottle of vodka and quickly brought it up to the register to pay. He fidgeted impatiently while the middle-aged male cashier rang him up. The cashier stumbled through the transaction, nervously, as though he was new to the job, and midway through he glanced up at Winston and stated, “Man, you’re a pale one.” He ignored the comment, and when the register finally popped open, Winston tossed the money at the cashier and walked off without a word.
He wandered down the street, looking for a quiet deserted place to rest his feet. He came upon a park that looked abandoned; swing sets were broken, the slides were rusted, and everything else appeared to be tagged with graffiti. Winston sat down on the one decent bench left in the place. He popped open his bottle and immediately took a long swig; the vodka’s dry smoky flavor gushed down his throat, but didn’t quench his thirst. He gulped the bottle down, letting droplets of the strong drink escape the corners of his mouth. When the bottle was empty, he brought it down from his lips, but did not wipe his mouth. He sat there, staring out into space, while still clutching onto the empty vodka bottle.
Winston thought about Sarain’s lips, and how soft they felt that last night he saw her and kissed her. Her eyes flashed into his mind; her unique and beautiful violet eyes. A tear escaped Winston’s eye, and then he heard a crackle come from the sky. Within seconds rain began to pour down, drenching him from head to toe. Winston wasn’t sure what was rain and what were tears, but even still, he did not budge. He simply sat there, in a daze, and let the rain continue to pour down on him.
He thought of Sarain and how she would crack a half smile with the corner of her mouth when he would say something amusing. He thought of her crying, scared and lonely but glad to have him come to her rescue. He thought of her holding on to him, desperate to keep him by her side, and kissing him passionately one night so many years ago; images of him touching her, lying next to her, and making love to her, flashed into his head.
Thunder crackled again, but this time with lightening streaking across the sky above. It was in that moment that Winston felt something snap, and he wasn’t sure if it was him or the bottle in his hand. Glass dug into his palm, with black blood pouring out the wound. It was a nasty injury, but he didn’t feel any pain, instead he felt enraged. He suddenly jumped up and threw the bottle down, smashing it into several tiny shards. Winston cried out in agony, screaming as hard as his body would allow, but the thunder roared along with him, drowning out most of his cries of anguish. He didn’t cry over his hand, the wound was nothing to him, he cried for Sarain; losing her was a greater wound than his vil sang body could heal.
He quickly turned his attention to the bench he had been sitting on, and in a moment of torment, smashed his foot through it. He followed that with punching his fists through the old wood and steel, and finally lifting the remains by its base, and tearing the bench out of its cemented ground. Winston sent the bench smashing down and busting into pieces. He screamed again, but this time his voice broke. Winston began sobbing uncontrollably, and collapsed to his knees. He cradled his head in his hands, and cried over his loss. He missed Sarain so much, and knew that he couldn’t live without her. He had only spent a short time with Sarain in Shaven, but now everything reminded him of her, and he knew if he was going to have any kind of life again, he had to leave this place.
Winston dragged himself home, with the effects of the vodka already beginning to wear off; just another result of being a vil sang. He trekked through muddy ground and puddles of water. The raining hadn’t let up and only further added to Winston’s despair. He felt sluggish and tired, and wanted the night to be over. When Winston got home, he glanced around the nearly empty place, and wondered what there was that he really needed to grab to take along with him on his travels. He thought of Sarain’s things, but knew taking them with him would defeat the purpose of trying to leave the memories of her behind. Winston thought of his clothes, though so many of them had become torn and tattered from lack of care and hunting, that it was pointless to try and save them. Winston realized that he had nothing that was valuable to him anymore, and this was a depressing thought for him. He let his gaze fall to the ground, and his eyes settled on a stain that lied at his feet. It was the stain of his own blood, from when Kayne ran him through a year ago, his dark blood never fully coming up off the ground.
Winston thought of how he wished he had died that day; he wished that he could be swallowed up into nothingness and cease to be. Or perhaps maybe he could atone for his past sins and find his way to Sarain in heaven; yes, that was the dream, but Winston knew that even if there was a heaven, it would not be a place that would want him.
Winston began to wonder if it was even worth leaving town; could he truly ever forget Sarain? He couldn’t forget her before when she had abandoned him of her own free will so many years ago, how could he possibly forget her now? Winston stared down at the stain again, thinking, perhaps it would have been better if he died, and then he thought of how the sun should be coming up in the next couple of hours.
Winston placed his hand on the door handle, his thoughts racing, but with a deep breath, he settled his mind on what to do. He turned the handle, unlatching the door, and as he pulled it open, muddy water came sloshing in. Rain came down so strong and heavy that it was hard to see outside. Winston began to take a step out, but then stopped himself short. He stared out at a figure moving towards him in the rain, unable to tell who or what it was that was coming for him. He raised a hand up to his eyes to shield himself from the windy rain that was blowing up against his face. His eyes began to glow their vibrant blue, as he tried harder to see his visitor.
Winston took a few steps forward into the storm, realizing that he no longer had any fears, and finally he got a good look at what it was coming toward him. A woman stood naked and muddy before him, her hair drenched and matted to her body, dirt caked to her bare feet, and her hands dripping with blood. Her face held an expression of exhaustion, but her eyes looked bewildered. She stood there staring at Winston, with a lost look upon her.
He dropped to his knees, with the muddy ground beginning to give beneath him. Tears fell from Winston’s eyes once again that night as he stared up at the figure in front of him.
“You can’t be real,” Winston muttered, believing he was seeing a ghost. The woman staggered, and suddenly fell to her own knees. “Help me,” she cried out, and immediately Winston was on his feet again and moving toward her. He put his arms around the woman, and helped her get back on her tired feet. Her hair clung to her face, and with his hand, Winston pushed back her hair to make sure he had seen what he believed he had saw. A familiar face did indeed stare back at him, but her eyes were unrecognizable.
“Sarain?” Winston said in disbelief. She shivered, holding herself tight, and slowly stared up at him with confusion, and a pair of brown eyes.
Chapter 2
“Sarain, is that you?” Winston asked more clearly, but still she looked at him with uncertainty before finally replying, “I don’t know what you’re asking me.” Winston stared down into her eyes with puzzlement; she looked like Sarain, but her eyes were different. Sarain’s eyes were violet, and this woman’s were brown. She shivered as though she was cold, staggered like she was fragile, and more importantly, her smell was different; it was not as he remembered her scent being, not like the scent left on her clothes that had slowly faded away. This woman smelled more…..human.
Winston took a step back, and asked the woman a question that was already swimming in his mind, “Do you know who I am?” She stared at him blankly for a long moment, and then answered, “No.” Winston felt himself wince, and another tear left his eye. He wasn’t sure who this woman was, but she looked a lot like Sarain.
“What are you doing here?” he asked with his voice beginning to get firm. She glanced around, seeming unsure of herself, and muttered, “I don’t know…. Something just told me to come here.” He continued to stare at her in disbelief, thinking of all the questions he had in his head, and then stated, “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
She shivered, holding herself even more tightly as she struggled to answer through chattering teeth, “I woke up on top of a mountain… I climbed down jagged, sharp rocks, and I’ve been walking for miles…to get here.” “But why, who are you?” Winston pleaded with her. “I don’t know,” the woman cried.
Finally, she staggered once more and then collapsed again. Winston quickly went over and swooped up the nude and muddy Sarain look-a-like. She had passed out from exhaustion, and he could feel that her skin was much colder than a human’s should be, but as he stared down at her, he saw the blueness in her lips and nails, and realized that she must have been suffering from hyperthermia. He quickly carried her into his house, and took her into the bedroom, where he placed her on the bed, and immediately wrapped her up in every blanket that he could find. His own body could do nothing to warm hers, so Winston prayed that the blankets would provide her with enough warmth.
He stared down at the unconscious woman, still in awe over how much she resembled Sarain; in fact, with her eyes closed he was almost certain it was his departed love, but knowing what hid beneath her eyelids, Winston knew that she couldn’t be Sarain. Besides, Sarain had died, and turned to ash, taking her father, Aion, along with her. Winston didn’t know of any way someone could ever come back from the dead, or even a vil sang becoming human again; both things were impossible, even in the wondrous hidden world he dwelled in.
But still, a little light of hope flickered in Winston as he thought, “If anyone could figure out how to come back from the dead, surely it would be the uniquely born half-breed spawn of an ancient.” But he wondered still, that if this was indeed Sarain, why did she not know him? Why did she have no memory at all?
Who was she?
She stood there, looking up at a door atop a short staircase. She stood before a brownstone home in a city. She wasn’t sure why, but something felt familiar about the place, and she felt herself wanting to go inside. She took each step carefully, and reached for the doorknob. She turned it slowly and pushed the door open with it groaning softly. She glanced at the doorframe, curiously, feeling as though there was something about it that she should know, but she didn’t.
She stepped inside the nicely furnished home, greeted by the smell of food baking in the oven. The sound of a television playing echoed from nearby, and she decided to follow the sound. She walked into a living room, where she saw the television on what looked to be an action movie; there was a man and a woman fighting with swords and they were fighting an army of people, but something looked off about the people. She tried to focus on the movie, but the screen appeared to get blurrier the more she tried to watch. Finally the television shut off, and she realized that she was not alone in the room.
She looked over to see a man sitting on the couch, holding the TV remote. He was a handsome man with tanned skin and closely cropped brown hair. He smiled at her lovingly, and patted the empty room on the couch next to him, motioning for her to join him. She cautiously approached the man, though a feeling inside her told her that he could be trusted. She sat down next to him, and he immediately took her by the hand, and it was in that instant that she realized that she was wearing a wedding ring, and that this man also wore a wedding band.
“Did you have a good day at work, Hun?” he asked her, but before she could answer, he added, “I got called in to patrol tonight, I’m filling in for a buddy’s shift, so I’ll be late.” She glanced and saw a police badge on the coffee table, and she turned and gazed up at the man. He stared down at her with his brown eyes, but before another word could be said, someone else walked into the room. “Mom!” a voice called out, and she immediately turned to see a boy standing in front of her. The boy appeared to be eleven or twelve, and also appeared to be referring to her, but he looked too dark to be their son, at least biologically.
“Mom, can I have some money to go to the arcade?” the boy asked. “Hey, what’s wrong with your games upstairs?” the man questioned. “Nothing, I just want to meet the guys,” the boy replied. She turned and glanced at the man with confusion and he said, “It’s up to you.” She turned back to the boy and softly answered, “Sure.” The boy smiled, and gave her a hug. The hug caught her off guard, but something felt oddly fulfilling about it. She wrapped her arms around the boy, and gently patted him on the back. Then she heard herself saying, “I missed you,” to him, as a tear fell from her eye.
After a moment, the boy pulled away with a smile, and went off to raid her purse, leaving her alone with her apparent husband, again. She looked up at him once more, and still he continued to gaze upon her lovingly. “Well, it looks like it’s going to be just the two of us for the next couple of hours, what did you want to do?” he said with a smile.
She felt herself blush, but before she could speak, he leaned in as though to kiss her, but then stopped short with his lips just inches away from hers, and he whispered, “I’ll always love you…… And I wish you could stay……. But this is not your life….. You have to go.”
She stared up at him with pleading eyes, but it was of no use; he was right, and she was needed elsewhere.
“Sarain, is that you?” Winston asked more clearly, but still she looked at him with uncertainty before finally replying, “I don’t know what you’re asking me.” Winston stared down into her eyes with puzzlement; she looked like Sarain, but her eyes were different. Sarain’s eyes were violet, and this woman’s were brown. She shivered as though she was cold, staggered like she was fragile, and more importantly, her smell was different; it was not as he remembered her scent being, not like the scent left on her clothes that had slowly faded away. This woman smelled more…..human.
Winston took a step back, and asked the woman a question that was already swimming in his mind, “Do you know who I am?” She stared at him blankly for a long moment, and then answered, “No.” Winston felt himself wince, and another tear left his eye. He wasn’t sure who this woman was, but she looked a lot like Sarain.
“What are you doing here?” he asked with his voice beginning to get firm. She glanced around, seeming unsure of herself, and muttered, “I don’t know…. Something just told me to come here.” He continued to stare at her in disbelief, thinking of all the questions he had in his head, and then stated, “Who are you? Where did you come from?”
She shivered, holding herself even more tightly as she struggled to answer through chattering teeth, “I woke up on top of a mountain… I climbed down jagged, sharp rocks, and I’ve been walking for miles…to get here.” “But why, who are you?” Winston pleaded with her. “I don’t know,” the woman cried.
Finally, she staggered once more and then collapsed again. Winston quickly went over and swooped up the nude and muddy Sarain look-a-like. She had passed out from exhaustion, and he could feel that her skin was much colder than a human’s should be, but as he stared down at her, he saw the blueness in her lips and nails, and realized that she must have been suffering from hyperthermia. He quickly carried her into his house, and took her into the bedroom, where he placed her on the bed, and immediately wrapped her up in every blanket that he could find. His own body could do nothing to warm hers, so Winston prayed that the blankets would provide her with enough warmth.
He stared down at the unconscious woman, still in awe over how much she resembled Sarain; in fact, with her eyes closed he was almost certain it was his departed love, but knowing what hid beneath her eyelids, Winston knew that she couldn’t be Sarain. Besides, Sarain had died, and turned to ash, taking her father, Aion, along with her. Winston didn’t know of any way someone could ever come back from the dead, or even a vil sang becoming human again; both things were impossible, even in the wondrous hidden world he dwelled in.
But still, a little light of hope flickered in Winston as he thought, “If anyone could figure out how to come back from the dead, surely it would be the uniquely born half-breed spawn of an ancient.” But he wondered still, that if this was indeed Sarain, why did she not know him? Why did she have no memory at all?
Who was she?
She stood there, looking up at a door atop a short staircase. She stood before a brownstone home in a city. She wasn’t sure why, but something felt familiar about the place, and she felt herself wanting to go inside. She took each step carefully, and reached for the doorknob. She turned it slowly and pushed the door open with it groaning softly. She glanced at the doorframe, curiously, feeling as though there was something about it that she should know, but she didn’t.
She stepped inside the nicely furnished home, greeted by the smell of food baking in the oven. The sound of a television playing echoed from nearby, and she decided to follow the sound. She walked into a living room, where she saw the television on what looked to be an action movie; there was a man and a woman fighting with swords and they were fighting an army of people, but something looked off about the people. She tried to focus on the movie, but the screen appeared to get blurrier the more she tried to watch. Finally the television shut off, and she realized that she was not alone in the room.
She looked over to see a man sitting on the couch, holding the TV remote. He was a handsome man with tanned skin and closely cropped brown hair. He smiled at her lovingly, and patted the empty room on the couch next to him, motioning for her to join him. She cautiously approached the man, though a feeling inside her told her that he could be trusted. She sat down next to him, and he immediately took her by the hand, and it was in that instant that she realized that she was wearing a wedding ring, and that this man also wore a wedding band.
“Did you have a good day at work, Hun?” he asked her, but before she could answer, he added, “I got called in to patrol tonight, I’m filling in for a buddy’s shift, so I’ll be late.” She glanced and saw a police badge on the coffee table, and she turned and gazed up at the man. He stared down at her with his brown eyes, but before another word could be said, someone else walked into the room. “Mom!” a voice called out, and she immediately turned to see a boy standing in front of her. The boy appeared to be eleven or twelve, and also appeared to be referring to her, but he looked too dark to be their son, at least biologically.
“Mom, can I have some money to go to the arcade?” the boy asked. “Hey, what’s wrong with your games upstairs?” the man questioned. “Nothing, I just want to meet the guys,” the boy replied. She turned and glanced at the man with confusion and he said, “It’s up to you.” She turned back to the boy and softly answered, “Sure.” The boy smiled, and gave her a hug. The hug caught her off guard, but something felt oddly fulfilling about it. She wrapped her arms around the boy, and gently patted him on the back. Then she heard herself saying, “I missed you,” to him, as a tear fell from her eye.
After a moment, the boy pulled away with a smile, and went off to raid her purse, leaving her alone with her apparent husband, again. She looked up at him once more, and still he continued to gaze upon her lovingly. “Well, it looks like it’s going to be just the two of us for the next couple of hours, what did you want to do?” he said with a smile.
She felt herself blush, but before she could speak, he leaned in as though to kiss her, but then stopped short with his lips just inches away from hers, and he whispered, “I’ll always love you…… And I wish you could stay……. But this is not your life….. You have to go.”
She stared up at him with pleading eyes, but it was of no use; he was right, and she was needed elsewhere.
Chapter 3
She opened her eyes, and the first thing she realized was that her hands and feet felt sore. She gazed down to see that her hands were bandaged up, and then she noticed that she was now wearing clothing. A blanket covered her as well, and she had been tucked into bed like a child. She appeared to be cleaned of the blood and dirt that had caked her body earlier, but she was alone in the bedroom that she laid in now.
She rolled onto her side, and waited quietly for a moment, contemplating whether or not to leave the bed. She wasn’t sure where she was, but she assumed that it had been the man she had met earlier that had taken care of her.
She gazed around the room to see that it was mostly bare of decorations; there was a dresser that appeared to have once held a mirror, but the glass was now missing, and the backing looked as though the mirror had been smashed out. Slowly, she slid out of bed, and crept to the door, not knowing what to expect on the other side of it. She tried to listen for sounds of movement, but her ears were not strong enough to hear very far. Finally she decided to take the risk, and opened the door. She peered out to see a small empty hallway, and while taking a deep breath, she stepped out and walked down the hallway and into the den.
There, the blond man she had met earlier laid on an old beat up looking couch. His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be sleeping. She glanced around the room, noticing that there were no windows or clocks that she could see, and she wondered what time it was. She crept to the door, and slowly cracked it open, hoping not to wake the sleeping man, and wanting to see what time of day it appeared to be.
Light came bursting in, gently warming her skin, and it looked to be mid morning. Suddenly she felt the door slip from her fingers and slam shut, causing her to turn around to see the blond man standing in front of her, a stern expression on his now reddish sunburned looking face. This startled her, and she noticed that smoke was coming off the man’s skin.
“The sunlight burned you,” she quickly commented with surprise, but after taking a moment to think things over, she realized that she wasn’t really scared by the occurrence, just a little shocked. But deep down, she felt as though she should have known better, and then she said, “I’m sorry.” He looked a little surprised by her apology, and even more so by the fact that she didn’t appear to be scared of him.
“It’s okay, you didn’t know,” he replied and moved back to the couch. She followed him, sitting down on the other end, and an awkward silence proceeded to fall upon them. She gazed down at the long large shirt she was wearing, and she heard him say, “I hope you don’t mind that I cleaned and dressed you. I’m sorry that I did this while you were unconscious, but the color had finally come back to your skin, and I didn’t want your wounds getting infected.”
“I have a feeling that that is okay with me,” she answered sounding a little confused. He gazed over at her, looking her in her eyes to the point that it made her feel a little uncomfortable, before finally asking, “You really don’t remember anything about yourself?” “No,” she replied. “Because you look a lot like someone I used to know,” he remarked, and then added, “Except for your eye color.” She thought this over, understanding now why he kept staring at her, and then she asked, “What happened to this friend of yours?” He hesitated for a second, before answering, “She died.” She closed her eyes to think, and asked, “What was her name?” “Sarain,” he replied. She opened her eyes, and said, “Then that’s what I want you to call me, at least until I remember who I am.”
He sighed, almost sadly, before agreeing, “Okay…. Sarain…. You can call me Winston.”
A few hours went by, all filled with quiet awkwardness. Sarain’s stomach at one point started growling so loudly that Winston noticed, and said that he would get her food once it grew dark out. Sarain spent the remainder of the time in the bedroom, until Winston left. There was something about him that made Sarain nervous, and because of this she didn’t know how to act around him.
She gazed down at the t-shirt she had been wearing, and realized that she felt exposed with most of her legs showing, and no undergarments on. She searched around the room for suitable clothing, but most of Winston’s clothes were too big for her. Then Sarain noticed a backpack with a dark sleeve hanging out of it. She unzipped the backpack and pulled out a black long sleeved shirt, and a pair of black pants; all the clothing inside appeared to be black, and all in her size. She took off the t-shirt she had been wearing, throwing it on the floor, and slipped into the form fitting, spandex like, black clothing. Something about the clothes felt freeing; they allowed her to move without restraint, but still covered the majority of her skin, and something about that gave her a strange sense of security.
Happy with her new attire, Sarain headed into the living room to wait for Winston to return, and as she headed for the sofa, she noticed a dark stain on the ground that she hadn’t given much attention to before. She stared at it curiously, wondering what it was, and she bent down and crouched to examine it closer. She lowered her hand to the ground, and let her fingers graze the surface of the floor where the stain lay. And for a second she envisioned the room filled with beasts, but the image only lasted briefly in her mind, and merely left her confused and wondering if she had just had some kind of strange nightmare.
Suddenly the door creaked open, and Sarain spun around to see Winston standing in the doorway with a couple bags of groceries in his arms. His first thought was; why was she staring at his bloodstain so strangely? And then he noticed what she was wearing; she had found “her” clothes. Seeing her wearing those clothes sent a tinge to his un-beating heart, making him feel both disturbed and overjoyed to see such a familiar looking site, but all the while a voice in the back of his head said that this woman may not be his love, Sarain.
Sarain gazed over at Winston, reading the expression on his face, and she remarked, “I hope you don’t mind me wearing this; it was the only thing I felt comfortable in.” He stared at her for a moment then nodded his head slowly, and replied, “It’s alright… It looks good on you.” Suddenly Sarain felt herself blush, and Winston immediately noticed, and a small smile spread across his own face. Then Sarain’s stomach growled and she remembered that she was hungry. Winston placed the groceries on his table, with Sarain soon by his side, quickly looking through the food. She pulled out a jar of pickles, placed her bandaged hand on the lid, and tried to open it. She grunted, and Winston noticed that she was straining to get the jar open, but failed to do so. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing; the Sarain he knew was powerful, and able to punch her fists through the stone-like hide of a demon, while this Sarain couldn’t open a simple jar. Given, her hands were bandaged, but the old Sarain had been able to do much more with much worse wounds.
Winston took the jar from her, and quickly unscrewed the cap, and handed the lidless jar back to her. She thanked him bashfully, and soon started eating the pickles inside. She made her way through the other groceries as well, sampling a little bit of everything. Sarain ate as though she had not eaten in ages, surprising Winston once again; his Sarain scarcely ate, but this one ate as though she had been starved.
When she was done, she accidentally let a little burp slip out, and her face turned red with embarrassment. She sighed looking at the door, and she turned to Winston and asked, “Do you mind if I go outside?” “You’re free to come and go as you please,” he stated, and then added, “As long as you don’t burn me with sunlight again.” Sarain blushed once more, and headed for the door, but as she took her first step out into the cool night air, she turned to Winston and said, “Will you come out with me? I don’t know what’s out there, and I have a feeling that I’m safer with you.”
Now it was Winston who felt himself blush. He stared back at this Sarain, seeing vulnerability in her eyes, and then he remembered the night that Sarain asked him not to leave so many years ago; the night that they had made love. And he realized that the look in this girl’s eyes was the same look Sarain had given him that night, a look of helplessness, and wanting him by her side.
Winston then understood that he wanted to protect this Sarain just as he did the one before, whether they were truly one in the same or not, and he stepped outside into the darkness behind her.
She opened her eyes, and the first thing she realized was that her hands and feet felt sore. She gazed down to see that her hands were bandaged up, and then she noticed that she was now wearing clothing. A blanket covered her as well, and she had been tucked into bed like a child. She appeared to be cleaned of the blood and dirt that had caked her body earlier, but she was alone in the bedroom that she laid in now.
She rolled onto her side, and waited quietly for a moment, contemplating whether or not to leave the bed. She wasn’t sure where she was, but she assumed that it had been the man she had met earlier that had taken care of her.
She gazed around the room to see that it was mostly bare of decorations; there was a dresser that appeared to have once held a mirror, but the glass was now missing, and the backing looked as though the mirror had been smashed out. Slowly, she slid out of bed, and crept to the door, not knowing what to expect on the other side of it. She tried to listen for sounds of movement, but her ears were not strong enough to hear very far. Finally she decided to take the risk, and opened the door. She peered out to see a small empty hallway, and while taking a deep breath, she stepped out and walked down the hallway and into the den.
There, the blond man she had met earlier laid on an old beat up looking couch. His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be sleeping. She glanced around the room, noticing that there were no windows or clocks that she could see, and she wondered what time it was. She crept to the door, and slowly cracked it open, hoping not to wake the sleeping man, and wanting to see what time of day it appeared to be.
Light came bursting in, gently warming her skin, and it looked to be mid morning. Suddenly she felt the door slip from her fingers and slam shut, causing her to turn around to see the blond man standing in front of her, a stern expression on his now reddish sunburned looking face. This startled her, and she noticed that smoke was coming off the man’s skin.
“The sunlight burned you,” she quickly commented with surprise, but after taking a moment to think things over, she realized that she wasn’t really scared by the occurrence, just a little shocked. But deep down, she felt as though she should have known better, and then she said, “I’m sorry.” He looked a little surprised by her apology, and even more so by the fact that she didn’t appear to be scared of him.
“It’s okay, you didn’t know,” he replied and moved back to the couch. She followed him, sitting down on the other end, and an awkward silence proceeded to fall upon them. She gazed down at the long large shirt she was wearing, and she heard him say, “I hope you don’t mind that I cleaned and dressed you. I’m sorry that I did this while you were unconscious, but the color had finally come back to your skin, and I didn’t want your wounds getting infected.”
“I have a feeling that that is okay with me,” she answered sounding a little confused. He gazed over at her, looking her in her eyes to the point that it made her feel a little uncomfortable, before finally asking, “You really don’t remember anything about yourself?” “No,” she replied. “Because you look a lot like someone I used to know,” he remarked, and then added, “Except for your eye color.” She thought this over, understanding now why he kept staring at her, and then she asked, “What happened to this friend of yours?” He hesitated for a second, before answering, “She died.” She closed her eyes to think, and asked, “What was her name?” “Sarain,” he replied. She opened her eyes, and said, “Then that’s what I want you to call me, at least until I remember who I am.”
He sighed, almost sadly, before agreeing, “Okay…. Sarain…. You can call me Winston.”
A few hours went by, all filled with quiet awkwardness. Sarain’s stomach at one point started growling so loudly that Winston noticed, and said that he would get her food once it grew dark out. Sarain spent the remainder of the time in the bedroom, until Winston left. There was something about him that made Sarain nervous, and because of this she didn’t know how to act around him.
She gazed down at the t-shirt she had been wearing, and realized that she felt exposed with most of her legs showing, and no undergarments on. She searched around the room for suitable clothing, but most of Winston’s clothes were too big for her. Then Sarain noticed a backpack with a dark sleeve hanging out of it. She unzipped the backpack and pulled out a black long sleeved shirt, and a pair of black pants; all the clothing inside appeared to be black, and all in her size. She took off the t-shirt she had been wearing, throwing it on the floor, and slipped into the form fitting, spandex like, black clothing. Something about the clothes felt freeing; they allowed her to move without restraint, but still covered the majority of her skin, and something about that gave her a strange sense of security.
Happy with her new attire, Sarain headed into the living room to wait for Winston to return, and as she headed for the sofa, she noticed a dark stain on the ground that she hadn’t given much attention to before. She stared at it curiously, wondering what it was, and she bent down and crouched to examine it closer. She lowered her hand to the ground, and let her fingers graze the surface of the floor where the stain lay. And for a second she envisioned the room filled with beasts, but the image only lasted briefly in her mind, and merely left her confused and wondering if she had just had some kind of strange nightmare.
Suddenly the door creaked open, and Sarain spun around to see Winston standing in the doorway with a couple bags of groceries in his arms. His first thought was; why was she staring at his bloodstain so strangely? And then he noticed what she was wearing; she had found “her” clothes. Seeing her wearing those clothes sent a tinge to his un-beating heart, making him feel both disturbed and overjoyed to see such a familiar looking site, but all the while a voice in the back of his head said that this woman may not be his love, Sarain.
Sarain gazed over at Winston, reading the expression on his face, and she remarked, “I hope you don’t mind me wearing this; it was the only thing I felt comfortable in.” He stared at her for a moment then nodded his head slowly, and replied, “It’s alright… It looks good on you.” Suddenly Sarain felt herself blush, and Winston immediately noticed, and a small smile spread across his own face. Then Sarain’s stomach growled and she remembered that she was hungry. Winston placed the groceries on his table, with Sarain soon by his side, quickly looking through the food. She pulled out a jar of pickles, placed her bandaged hand on the lid, and tried to open it. She grunted, and Winston noticed that she was straining to get the jar open, but failed to do so. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing; the Sarain he knew was powerful, and able to punch her fists through the stone-like hide of a demon, while this Sarain couldn’t open a simple jar. Given, her hands were bandaged, but the old Sarain had been able to do much more with much worse wounds.
Winston took the jar from her, and quickly unscrewed the cap, and handed the lidless jar back to her. She thanked him bashfully, and soon started eating the pickles inside. She made her way through the other groceries as well, sampling a little bit of everything. Sarain ate as though she had not eaten in ages, surprising Winston once again; his Sarain scarcely ate, but this one ate as though she had been starved.
When she was done, she accidentally let a little burp slip out, and her face turned red with embarrassment. She sighed looking at the door, and she turned to Winston and asked, “Do you mind if I go outside?” “You’re free to come and go as you please,” he stated, and then added, “As long as you don’t burn me with sunlight again.” Sarain blushed once more, and headed for the door, but as she took her first step out into the cool night air, she turned to Winston and said, “Will you come out with me? I don’t know what’s out there, and I have a feeling that I’m safer with you.”
Now it was Winston who felt himself blush. He stared back at this Sarain, seeing vulnerability in her eyes, and then he remembered the night that Sarain asked him not to leave so many years ago; the night that they had made love. And he realized that the look in this girl’s eyes was the same look Sarain had given him that night, a look of helplessness, and wanting him by her side.
Winston then understood that he wanted to protect this Sarain just as he did the one before, whether they were truly one in the same or not, and he stepped outside into the darkness behind her.
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