Henri
I’d been reliving that fateful day outside the mine for the past six months, both in my waking hours, and more often, in my nightmares.
My dreams usually began in the same way, with the last time I’d laid eyes on you as you were being hauled across the desert by a figure clad in black. Sometimes I was forced to watch your shrinking form while my body was swallowed by quicksand. I awoke from those nightmares choking, with the memory of grit in my throat. More often I pursued the black figure across a never-ending desert terrain, thinking I was gaining on him only to find us farther apart, waking breathless with the phantom sensation of your touch and a desperate longing to crush you to me, to know that you were safe.
Very rarely, I was able to chase down your kidnapper, but even when I caught up to him, you had disappeared. My opponent was faceless but his teeth were sharp. His nails were talons that stabbed my flesh and gouged my eyes. Those dreams always ended in violence, neither of us winning, just warring until I was torn from my slumber to find myself alone and the space beside me achingly absent of your body.
And so, when I found myself again in this familiar dreamscape, I was stunned to find the black figure empty-handed. And instead of running away, he was coming toward me.
“It’s Azrael,” said a voice. I turned to find Lucian at my side. He wore his bedclothes—amethyst silks with our golden crest of Medusa embroidered over his heart. His attire was not in keeping with our surroundings where fires burned in the distance, clouds of sand obscured the horizon, and beetle-bodied Imperium soldiers limped and collapsed like felled trees. Lucian nodded toward the approaching figure and said, “He’s come to negotiate.”
“How do you know that?” I was bereft of hope.
“I’ve been watching your dreams. This one’s different.”
What he said was true. I was unarmed and dressed not in the tattered, stained clothes I’d worn into the mine, but in loose drawstring pants, the kind I wore to bed when I bothered. The ambiance was different as well—the colors were muted, and the carnage kept at a distance as though Azrael were trying to soften my rage.
“You’ve been spying on my dreams?” I valued my privacy and my right to grieve away from his or anyone else’s prying eyes.
“Someone had to.” He raised an eyebrow. “No offense, Henri, but you’re not always rational in negotiations, especially when it comes to Vincent.”
“How do you know that’s what this is about?” The black form was only a few paces away, within range of interpreting our exchange.
“Why else would he visit?”
“To tell me he’s dead,” I said gravely.
“He’s not dead,” Lucian said with a certainty I wished I shared.
We fell silent as the man removed the black scarf that shielded his crown and most of his face. His features were slightly different from past appearances, but I recognized the Angel of Death by the intensity of his gaze and his dominating force that vexed me even in dreams.
“I’ve come to accept your trade,” Azrael said as his stoic gaze swept over us. “Vincere in exchange for my soldiers.”
“Why now?” Lucian asked. I also didn’t trust Azrael not to deceive us. Didn’t dare to hope.
“The bloodborn is of no more use to me,” he said ominously.
“One life for five dozen hardly seems like a fair trade,” Lucian said with seeming indifference.
“I could keep him and take back my soldiers by force,” Azrael said.
“You can’t enter our ancestral lands without our blessing,” Lucian argued, “and our brethren seem quite content to stay.”
“Then I’ll kill him. Permanently.” Azrael focused his burning gaze on me. His threat immobilized me. Helpless as a rabbit with its foot caught in a snare, I couldn’t even speak.
“How do we know you haven’t already?” Lucian asked.
“You don’t,” was the angel’s casual reply.
“We won’t make any arrangement without some proof he’s alive,” Lucian said.
“Would you like for me to send along an appendage?” Azrael asked with a cruel smirk.
“No,” I said harshly, finding my voice at last. “Bring him here in dreams.”
A hush fell over the dreamscape. The clouds of sand stilled so that every grain of sediment could be distinguished. The armored bodies froze in their macabre agony, and the fiery flames halted their dance. None of us moved or even simulated taking a breath. Then, as if a switch had been flicked, all motion resumed. Azrael stepped aside. Behind him stood a hunched, slender figure, blindfolded, with sharp-boned features and crow-black hair.
“Vincent?” I asked, fearful that this was only a convincing mirage.
