Alright, let me start off by stating that bunnies are NOT cute. Specially plot bunnies.
Oh, "why?" you ask?
Let me tell you: You see THIS? THIS was supposed to be Lostlight chapter 8.
But it's not. Nope.
Cause a freakin plot bunny hopped its way into my head, the little furry bastard, and would not leave until this happened: A whole new story line. (yay!) running parallel to the other unfinished one. (sigh)
I will try to keep up with both, but I make no promises. Contrary to Lostlight, this story is nowhere near drafted in full. I intend for it to be more episodical with (hopefully) shorter chapters in a more loose format than the single storyline of Lostlight. And while this prologue might not have any comedy in it, it's my intention that the subsequent chapters will be more light hearted.

YAOI in later chapters. Ye have been warned! Will keep it T for now but we'll 'M it up' later ;)
Also, as this is not fully mapped out, I may even take reader suggestions on future chapters if they fit into the overall plot :P

For now, I hope you will enjoy this entirely new offering from me.
(And yes, I did just blame a proverbial rabbit for my failure to deliver a chapter. What? )

Son of Man - Prologue

Birdsong seemed to ring from all around the luscious valley. Trees and shrubs of the deepest emerald green, ocean blue and even deep violet, swayed in the cold gentle breeze. Small glowing insects darted every which way, the trails of their fairy like luminescence adding to the magical atmosphere of early dawn in this particular region of the Maker's Realm.

The thick, almost impenetrable vegetation here was a symptom of the strong Life Force pervading this valley. Life Force that the Maker Shamans harnessed, imbuing its power into spells and creations. The primary reason why the Shaman Muria had decided to set up her private residence and workshop here.

Unlike most of her kin that bent the living rock to their will in the art of crafting the very foundations of entire worlds, Muria's craft manipulated the very essence of Life itself. It was the crafting of living beings, flora and fauna, that might populate those countless worlds her brethren forged.

The sun had not yet peeked it's rays over the tops of the surrounding rocky hills that housed the valley but already Muria was awake. Had in fact been awake and laboring all through the night on a most urgent task. She stood now on a secluded stone pavilion nestled deep in the lush valley, waiting for her guests, one angel and one nephilim, to make their way up the stone steps to meet her. She could not help but smile wryly at how starkly the tranquil atmosphere of her beloved valley contrasted with the somber mood of the three beings now gathering around the solid stone table at the center of the pavilion.

Blue silk covered the white haired shaman's eyes as always, her mundane sight 'traded' eons ago in exchange for a deeper communion with the spirits of nature. But then, she did not need to see with her mundane eyes to feel the exhaustion in the auras of both her companions.

"Good morning Archangel, Horseman" She greeted them. "Although I dare say neither of you have slept..."

Indeed they had not. Though they had been offered lodge in the shaman's own home while she completed her task, Azrael had chosen to spend every available minute in meditation at the Tree of Life and the gates of the Well of Souls there. The intricate wards he set in place on the Well would be the last he would place in a very long time. So he had reasoned, to a concerned Death, the more the better.

And Death, for lack of a better way to occupy his time, stood watch. Or rather paced uneasily some distance away as he strained eyes, ears and magical perception to make sure that they were not discovered. The Rider had counseled against being out in the open for so long: if they were so much as seen together all their plans could be for naught. But as Death had long ago discovered, Azrael had a tendency to ignore advice and do 'whatever the hell he damn well pleased' if he deemed it necessary. Last night had not been the exception but although irritated, Death had ultimately decided to let the angel be. It would be the last he would commune with his sacred charge and duty.

Besides, more wards could only help.

It would just be up to him, as always, to prevent possible disaster. The Charred Council must not learn that he was aiding their most wanted fugitive: the archangel he had been sent to kill.

This, not even his brothers could know. Even if the other Riders also suspected the Charred Council of treachery. Even if it earned Death his brother's anger and hatred for a time. Not until the time was right.

First, the key element must be removed from the playing field.

All must believe, wholeheartedly, that the Gatekeeper had died here this day. Had been judged and punished for the crime of unleashing the Apocalypse. Had perished by the Executioner's blade. None could know the Gatekeeper would endure, would return to guard the Well once the immediate threat of the Council was dealt with. Their heinous ploy to take over the Well of Souls exposed to all Creation.

The cleansing and siphoning of souls in a never ending cycle is the pillar of all life in Creation. No one entity could be allowed custody of a power so absolute. The Well of Souls must remain guarded by the only being who could be trusted to do just that. Guard it. Not use its power to subjugate every soul in existence.

Ensuring the Archangel's survival is what brought them here to the Maker's realm. To seek the aid of the life-binding Shaman with their desperate endeavor. Although Death had more than one reason to hope they could pull it off.

"Good morning, Elder Muria" Azrael offered a tired smile.

"Just Muria, Lord Azrael" the Shaman dismissed the courtesy. Being addressed by that title only saddened her at recalling the demise of the well loved Eidard.

She leaned on her gnarled staff to walk over to present the result of her work laying on the stone table. Maker, angel and nephilim stood staring down at the body of a child, appearing no older than five years of age.

"Your essence was invaluable for this" Muria explained, casually pointing to Azrael's forearm, where a long scar marked where blood had been drawn. "I crafted the body to resemble yours as much as possible. It is in every respect a clone. Within human parameters, of course"

"Of course"

Death stared down at the child's vacant open eyes. If the unforgiving winds and biting cold of the Icy Veil could manifest themselves in visible form, they would be this color. Lightest grey and specs of blue that strayed only far enough from pure white that one might not mistakenly claim they were an angel's eyes. Short delicate hair that was more a creamy blonde, again, only so as to be differentiated from the traditional angel white. Only the boy's skin retained Azrael's tanned olive shade. The young rosy cheeks seemed so full of life even as the human lay there motionless. Devoid of a soul.

It was unnerving.

"So... small..." Death mused, unable to take his eyes from the child's.

Shaman and Archangel both turned to the first words the Horseman had uttered in what may have been hours if not days.

Not that Death even acknowledged them, lost to his thoughts. -the whole of Creation was in turmoil. The White City had wasted no time declaring open war with The Pit, the conflict stretching over countless realms and more where engulfed in warfare by the day. The Council struggled to regain control, flailing in the effort, sending out its Riders to issue out 'justice' while the Council's most trusted agents moved beneath anyone's notice, trying to procure a way to commandeer the Well of Souls. The answer they all came up with was the one everyone already knew: eliminate the Gatekeeper.

And this -child- is the best plan we have... Death thought, frustration and apprehension building inside.

"Do you have the vessel and the ring I gave you?" Muria turned back to the Archangel when it became apparent that Death had no intention of adding anything further.

Azrael nodded solemnly, producing a simple silver ring and a small crystal shard of translucent turquoise. When he had first been given the crystal, it had been inert and colorless. Now it glowed, pulsating faintly in his palm. Muria outstretched her large hand in his general direction and the items simply drifted over to her, as if fallen leaves caught on a sudden updraft.

"Then everything is ready. Archangel, Horseman." Muria nodded curtly to each in turn. "I will retire so that you may do this in your own time. But please, do not take too long."

"We won't" Azrael assured her, bowing slightly. "Thank you for all of your aid in this, Muria"

"Thank me when you have succeeded" She dismissed him again, placing the crystal shard -the vessel, and the silver ring beside the human boy's head. Then thinking better of her curt demeanor, paused to turn back to the pair and added much more warmly, "I wish you luck. Both of you." and turned to descend the steps of the pavilion to await below when her skills would be needed again.

Finding themselves alone again, Azrael moved away from the table so that they may have more room.

"For the Council to believe you carried out your mission, it must be your blade that does this..." Azrael reminded Death, when the Horseman remained motionless.

"Curse the day I ever proposed this plan" Death rasped out, even his voice managed to sound worn and apprehensive.

"It is a good plan."

"I guess I did not expect the little thing to be so tiny and frail" Death said lifting the boy's hand with a single bony finger of his large hand.

"Well, he is human..."

"Yes..." Death sighed, delicately setting the hand down again, as if afraid it would somehow break. "I spoke out of practicality. Carrying out the plan..." He looked hesitantly at the small boy "is another matter entirely."

"I will admit that this 'hiding until the worst is over' does not sit well with me" Azrael frowned thoughtful "But I understand the necessity."

Unclipping both halves of Harvester from his hips and fluidly forming a single massive edged scythe, Death groaned out loud. A weary, resigned sound that Azrael was not at all used to hearing from the impassive Horseman.

"It's just the initial, uhm... unpleasantness." Azrael smiled warmly, trying to make light of the situation, as much for Death as for himself. "You can get over that, if anyone can..."

"Do you think me a heartless bastard?!" Death growled.

"No. Forgive me." Azrael shook his head, his customary sullenness returning to his features "I meant that you are the strongest of us". After a pause he added "Death, the plan is sound. We must take heart in that. It will work."

"Were it that I had your confidence."

"You must. It all hinges on you." Azrael risked placing a reassuring palm on the muscular shoulder. The touch both soft and warm on the cool grey skin. "I trust you." he said softly, looking deep into burning amber eyes that gazed back at him surprised.

Something might have passed between them then. It might not have. It was not the first time Death had felt this with the angel, but now he only looked away, choosing to ignore it. No sense in delving into this particular can of worms. Not now.

"I'm ready" Azrael finally declared when the sudden silence between them began to stretch uncomfortably.

I'm not...

"Turn around" Death's voice was flat and emotionless but his stomach twisted in all sorts of knots.

"I can face this squarely" Azrael smiled wryly.

"But I can't face you!" Death growled, and the angel jumped at the outburst.

Death. The eldest Horseman and last surviving Firstborn of the Nephilim, had never been so reluctant to take a life. He would do so. Oh, he knew he would do so. But never before had it hurt so damn much.

"I'm sorry" Azrael muttered downcast, though he sounded like he didn't know what he was apologizing for, only that he had somehow angered his friend. The angel searched for something else to say, but there was really, nothing left to say.

And so the Archangel did as he was bid and turned his back on Death. This was it. It felt like goodbye even if both of them refused to acknowledge it with a "farewell".

No! One last thing remained: silence was cowardice! He had to tell Azrael how he felt. This was his last chance. Of course the angel would not correspond, he had always known that. He'd be shunned either by his demonic blood or by his necromantic nature. He knew that. But the alternative was living forever more with the fact that he could not summon up the courage to let the angel know.

"Azrael... I..." Harvester's haft creaked in the Horseman's grip. Death was not known for ever doubting himself, yet now he felt his mouth go dry as ashes. The fear of actually loosing Azrael was suddenly all too real and his throat closed up of its own accord. If he continued, he knew the angel would hear his voice crack. "-uhm..."

"We will meet again, Death" Azrael half turned to look behind him, if only for Death to see that he smiled a reassuring, understanding smile "You can tell me then."

Something in the deep breathy voice lifted Death's spirits. Something he was sure the angel intended him to sense, not hear. What felt like a warm invitation filled him with resolve again. Yes, their scheme would work. It had to. If not for the fate of Creation then only so that he may vow to bear his heart when they finally met.

And then maybe, just maybe...

"I will. I swear it"

Azrael turned back to face away and took a deep breath, pushing away all doubt, centering his mind. He lowered both his wings to where they drooped on the stone floor, clearing them out of the way of his neck, offering an unobstructed target. Then stood perfectly still.

Death willed his hands not to shake as he took a firm grip on Harvester's snath. He would take no chance that a shaky grip might make the strike less clean and pain-free. He circled the scythe high from right to left, preparing to slash the blade horizontally with a backhand swing.

I swear it!

Harvester sung.

Azrael never felt a thing.