azrael
Azrael could not know how alike their stories were – for he too had known the grief of losing his home and sense of identity. On that fateful day, when fire had rained from the heavens, he had known that stubbornness would be the downfall of the proud. In dreams, he could see them still in his mind’s eye, haughtily throwing their faces to the stars in defiance of the gods, unbelieving even as the world around them burned. He could hear their cries – could smell the acrid scent of fire as it licked across their skin. While time had begun to heal his own guilt, it could not erase the dreams. Nothing would, not even the promise in Caligo’s stars – a promise that she would not lead them to destruction again.
It didn’t lessen the sting that the temple keepers had foretold this destruction. Instead, it only cemented his bitterness at the entire ordeal – for too many of the People were lost that day. Brothers, sisters, mothers, fathers. Perhaps even his own, though Azrael would never know. He knew only the caravan now – those who had turned from the burning cinders of their once home and traveled to Caligo’s promised land. For weeks, they had marched across the mountains until finding their way to Denocte and scattering to the winds. Now, little was left of the People except for memories, bittersweet and raw.
On days like this, the memories are more raw – for it had been a year since Azrael had come to this place. It had been another day where the leaves were gold and red, where the breeze had tossed them playfully across the ground – a day which had almost suggested that nothing had happened at all. In that day, Azrael had swallowed the reality of just how expendable they all were – mere pawns in a god’s game. He was more grateful than ever for Caligo’s guidance, praying fervently to her stars for direction and wisdom… and since that day, she had not led him astray.
Still, a part of him would always wonder – what if they had listened then?
He walks through the tall grasses, blinking in the sunlight as his stardust glow hovers dimly against him. In the night, the star-shed is a spectacle to be seen – but in Solis’ day, he wears only an iridescence hue – one which might be missed if you didn’t look from a precise angle. Wind tossed in his curls and a sheathed staff drummed softly against his side, more ornamental than truly a weapon in nature. His turquoise eyes are clouded with thought, his lips set in a grim line of contemplation, his stride long and purposeful. At first glance, it would seem the stallion a creature on a mission… but this could not be further from the truth.
Instead, Azrael walks to clear his mind – to shake away his ghosts even as he finds the girl in the grass, fighting her own.
He can almost feel the anguish she projects, his own eyes clouded with care as he approaches, standing over her with an imposing shadow which battled his cyan glow. “Why do you grieve?” There is concern in the magician’s voice, gentle and low. He does not judge, for she wears a look he understands too well. In the darkness, he had lay many nights, cursing the very stars that led him to this place, begging Caligo for the mercy which had never been given to his home. Too many times, he’d demanded to know why, searching for answers which would never come. And while Azrael hadn’t given up hope entirely, with time he had come to accept the fate of the People, however raw.
Denocte had offered him a sanctuary from his own grief, with its starstrewn skies and infinite sky. Perhaps it would be a comfort, if nothing else, for the girl who grieves a lifetime reduced to ash.
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