Death's Angel - Chapter One

Chapter One

It was the water that woke her. Cool and refreshing, it touched against her dry lips, a saving grace. Immediately, she opened her mouth and swallowed, the liquid slithering down her throat in soothing tendrils. She drank until it was gone, and as soon as the thought crossed her mind to ask for more, there was again water at her lips. Once more, she drank until it was gone, and when she was finished, a sigh fell from her lips, and she slipped into darkness.

When she roused, her eyes snapped open and a serious unease fell over her, her stomach twisting into knots as she sat up, surveying her surroundings with a careful eye. She was laying on a pallet, and seemed to be in a type of clay hut, the room bare except for a wash basin and a tray that consisted of an empty cup. There was a window to her left, a door to her right, and as she looked at it, the cloth covering was pushed aside and a man entered.

He was not overly tall, nor was he muscular, but there was an air about him, something in his demeanor that demanded attention. He wore a tan tunic and breeches, brown leather boots on his feet. His hair was dark, tar black against his skin, but his eyes were a piercing blue, bright and unyielding in the fading sunlight. She watched him walk toward her, and he said nothing until he was crouching before her.

"Isk robein fa?" She nodded, and then, with a bit of difficulty, answered him, the Old Tongue coming easily to mind but not falling as easily from her lips.

"Fa robein." He nodded, and then offered her a cup, which she took gratefully, sipping and delighting in the soothing heat that slipped down her damaged throat. "Thank you." He nodded once, and then, after she had finished with her drink, took the cup from her and sat it to the side before fixing those eyes on her, their color swirling with silver and flecks of gold, the white dot in the center of his pupil marking him as Talented.

"What is your name?" Her mind processed the question quickly, but the answer didn't come to her. What was her name? After a moment, she shook her head, and the question in his eyes prompted her to explain.

"I - I don't remember." He nodded again.

"I found you on the side of the road, on my way to Gemaelin. Are you familiar with the name?" For a moment, she thought, racked her brain, but there was no inkling, no recollection. She shook her head. "I knew you for Talented because there was a glyph written on the palm of your left hand."

She looked at her hand, the outline of what looked to be a complicated glyph in the center of her palm, a swirling, severe pattern etched into her skin. She inspected it for a moment, then, slowly, she looked back up. "It's Death." Her companion nodded.

"Why is it inscribed onto your skin?" She shook her head.

"I don't know."  For a moment, they were silent, and then he made a noise in his throat.

"What am I to call you?"

"Ave." The name came immediately to mind, but it wasn't hers, per say; it was just a word, something for her rescuer to call her until she remembered her own name.

"Ave, well met. I am Zane." She nodded and placed her hand in his own, feeling a brief flare of his Talent against her skin before he gave her a ghost of a smile and stood, leaving the room and taking the cup with him. After a moment, she managed to stand and follow after him, her legs feeling shaky and unreal.

She emerged into a larger room, a table in the middle and a cook stove off to one side. There were two small stools around at the table, and Zane stood at a wash basin, his head bent as he cleaned the cup she had used. She didn't venture any further into the room, but rather stood in the doorway, trying to figure out where she was and how she had gotten there.

"Are you hungry?"

"How long have I been here?"

"Six weeks. I have veal and boar. Which would you prefer?"

"I was asleep the entire time?"

"Yes. There is more boar than veal. Would you prefer mead or water?"

"Where are we? What year is it?"

"We're thirty miles east of Rema, and sixteen miles south of Harcourt. It is three years into the reign of the Farscian Family."

"The Farscian Family has been wiped out." She was a little shocked at the words, but she knew without a doubt that she was right.

"Their daughter was not found amongst the bodies. Have a seat."

Mechanically, she moved, ignoring the tugging in the pit of her belly. Zane was silent for a moment. "You look like her." Ave nodded, but it took her a moment to process the statement, and even then, she found that she had nothing to say. "I think water would be best for you," Zane continued, his tone conversational. Ave nodded again, even though his back was to her and she knew he couldn't see her. They were silent for a while, the only sound that of cooking meat.

"I don't understand how I got here," Ave murmured, her fingers fiddling on the tabletop. She frowned down at her hands, flipping them over and gazing at the glyph etched into her palm. She traced it with her index finger, noting that the skin was cold, almost as if it were dead itself. Zane glanced over at her, his eyes serious.

"I found you, as I said, on my way to Gemaelin. You were on the side of the road, your dress in shreds. You had no injuries, and there was no blood on you, but after seeing the glyph on your palm, I decided to postpone my trip in favor of treating you back to health." He stopped, and Ave realized that there was nothing more he could say. She nodded, looking back down at her palm, her mind a whirlwind of confused thoughts.

Death's glyph was intricate, almost delicate, and she wondered why the Reaper had left his mark on her. Had she cheated him? Did she owe him a debt, perhaps? Oh had she given herself to him, opened her soul to him and become one of his pawns?

The last thought sent a violent shiver up her spine, an answering tremor in her stomach showing her fear.

"I - I don't feel so well." The words tumbled from her lips before she could really think about the statement, but the mysterious tugging in her belly intensified as soon as the last syllable left her mouth, and she hunched over the table, pressing her forehead against the cool wood. An instant later, she felt a hand against her back, and cool relief flooded into her system, the magic from Zane's Talent like a gentle breeze.

Eventually, the pulling in her belly ceased, and she let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding before lifting her head from the table. Zane now stood at the stove again, his back to her. Folding her hands into her lap and refusing to look at the evidence of whatever was done to her, she stared at him, suddenly noticing the pointed tips of his ears as he turned his head to the side.

"You're Avarin." He paused in his movements, but then nodded, saying nothing. "But - but I thought that Avarin couldn't have a Talent."

"I was born with mine," he answered. Something in his tone hinted at bitter memories, and Ave swallowed her questions, saying nothing until Zane set a plate of food down in front of her. She'd barely gotten out her 'thank you' before her hunger suddenly made itself known; she was ravenous, and didn't speak again until she'd swallowed the last bite of meat.

"Thank you."

He nodded. "You're welcome." She sat for a moment, unsure of what to do, and opened her mouth to ask when Zane spoke from his spot in front of the wash basin. "You should go rest. Your threads are still a little frazzled, and you need sleep to mend them." Ave nodded, feeling the threads of her Talent brush against her senses, the ends of the loose thread frayed and untamed. She would never be able to weave a glyph like this, not even a simple one.

She stood and walked back into the room she had woken up in, laying down and realizing that she still wore the tattered dress Zane must have found her in. she inspected the heavy cloth, ignoring the burns, the cuts, the rips, and feeling the thick weight of the soft cotton in her fingers. There was something familiar about it, and the deep purple signified royalty, she knew, but she couldn't explain why she wore the color. Could she?

Suddenly, a wave of despair swept over her, knocking her breath from her lungs and making her eyes water. Her hand throbbed, and she knew that Death himself was kneeling right beside her, the air so cold that it stung her lungs. "I've use for you yet, my angel," he murmured, his voice hollow but filled with so much power that it made her very soul tremble. "You are mine. Don't forget that, amehl."

The Old Tongue title made her mind reel, and the Reaper placed one cold hand on her shoulder to steady her as she swayed. His mouth pressed against the skin just behind her ear, his empty voice echoing in her mind. "Mine."

In the next few seconds, she realized two things. One, that the Reaper had called her his angel, and two, that she was going to pass out. She did the second without thinking too much on the first.

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Author's Note:
So there's the first chapter...I hope you enjoyed, and constuctive criticism is always appreciated. Thanks for reading!