Alamort

“Run, run, don't stop, promise me.”

“I promise.”

He runs, stumbles over random rocks, but he keeps going. Blood seeps from his knee, trickles down all over his calf, and stains his sock, but his legs continue to move. Truth be told, he cannot feel his legs anymore, they are like a foreign part of his body made of cotton wool. Yet he runs on. Because he promised.

His lungs are on fire, he can't breathe, and the frowzy dust spreading around doesn't make this task any easier. It's suffocating, he no longer even distinguishes when he inhales and when he exhales. He places his trembling hand to his chest and can't sense the heartbeat. Maybe he's already dead? Maybe he's already in Hell? Judging by how hot his body is, this theory would be possible. His vision is almost black, his eyelids plead to be lowered, but he refuses; instead, tears well up in his eyes, streaming down his heated cheeks, attempting to cool him down.

He whimpers like a wounded animal, a pitiful sound that brings no relief in any way. He collapses again, the bleeding wound is covered in a dirty sand now, with great chances of becoming infected. Regardless, he sluggishly gets up and runs on, looks like a wreckage of a man, he knows it, yet keeping a promise is a holy to him. He clutches the heart-shaped locket in his hand, so tightly that his palm hurts and probably has marks. The locket is all he has left, it’s the only hope; also the reason for which he now is slowly killing himself, running like a madman blindly.

There is a row of dilapidated buildings in front of him, they look like they’re about to collapse, and he laughs humorlessly to himself because he could compare himself to them. His breath is wheezing, the inside of his mouth is dry as bone; sweat pours from his forehead and mingles with tears. He’s running on the stones now, they are rattling under his shoes, but the sound is getting weaker, and he realizes that he's unconsciously slowing down. His body gives up, it begs to stop, but his stubborn brain still fights, keeps telling him to run.

He falls. Rocks dig cruelly into the wound on his knee, but he lacks the strength to howl in pain. He lies motionless on his side, his hand opening like a blooming flower and revealing the heart-shaped locket that slides and falls to the ground. The silver surface is covered with crimson liquid, and he realizes that he must have squeezed it so hard that it has pierced the skin. He tries to pick it up, but he's paralyzed, he can't feel any bone, no muscle, he can't breathe, his lungs don't seem to be pumping oxygen anymore. He’s almost certain that he’s dead, and the last helpless tear is running slowly down his cheek—only because he’s aware that he has broken his promise.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers to himself—these will be his last words in this world, he has no potency to utter more.

Where are the angels? Where's the gate to heaven? Was he really such a bad man? He just wanted to be free, so that his mother would be proud of him, or his little brother would have somebody to look up to. He wanted to change this ugly world, yet his overconfidence has tricked him. He was too passionate, he wanted too much, knew too much, felt too much. The hatred of helplessness lost him and that's how he let everyone down; he fell when he should run, he’s dying on some rocky road with buildings around which soon could serve as rubble to bury him. This is where his grave will be located and no one will even know about it. He'd always secretly wished to be remembered as someone great after his death, but instead he'd be remembered as a weakling who wasn’t even able to deliver the damn locket.

Footsteps are heard from afar, and he’s sure it’s an angel or a devil who’s marching to take him. He tries to open his eyes, but fails miserably; his eyelids are way too heavy. Why is he still conscious? Everything hurts him so terribly that he dreams of drifting away, that someone would put a handkerchief with chloroform in his mouth.

Suddenly he’s lifted into the air. A little whine of pain comes out of his mouth, his body is completely limp. He feels like a puppet that someone can do anything with. A broken puppet.

His eyes are still unable to open, though he so much desires to identify his savior, still hoping that it’s the angel who’s carrying him bridal style.

It turns out to be true that when we die, before our eyes, our life flashes by. He sees all the most significant moments accurately and his heart, which probably no longer beats, breaks into a million pieces. Everything was supposed to be so beautiful, the world was supposed to be colorful anew, happiness was to fill his entire remaining existence, and yet he dies in the arms of an unknown entity.

“Hey, hey, are you with me?” A soft male voice is heard, then a warm hand gently pats his cheek.

Does this creature want to wake him up? Why? It’s enough for it to take him to the afterlife. No words needed.

“Hey, kid, wake up,” the voice rings again, there’s a hint of concern in it, then the hand is on his wet cheek again, patting it rougher now.

Let me die, he wants to say, but his dry lips seem to be sewn together.

Blissful quietness. The creature seems to have given up, but suddenly cold water is poured onto his face.

Somehow it restores some of his senses, he licks his lips, desperately trying to catch the droplets with his tongue. Wait, is he just fighting for his life? Is he alive? He inhales sharply, his throat aches, and he can’t help but cough hysterically, which causes a sudden gag reflex and then a portion of fresh tears gathering in his tired eyes. It seems to bring him back to life, his brain suddenly more alert, as if the water was healing.

I am breathing.

I am living.

Is this a miracle?

“Open your mouth,” the creature says in a commanding tone.

He obediently parts his lips, the inside of it is flooded with water after a second. He chokes as he tries to eagerly swallow the liquid, and it forces him to finally open his eyes.

He’s shocked to see a pair of dark brown eyes staring back at him. This person definitely doesn't look like an angel, but neither does he look like the devil. He's unmistakably a human, a young looking man with thick eyebrows and a small crease between them. Dark hair falls over his forehead and a black scarf with white, tiny crosses is tied around his neck.

“You finally woke up. What’s your name?” The man asks, he seems concerned and perplexed at the same time

“...Raven,” the boy mutters, surprised he remembers his own name. Then, an unstoppable wave of disappointment washes over him; the last piece of pathetic hope that he is in the angel's arms is gone.

“I’m Lun. You’re lucky I was scouting and spotted you.”

Raven catches the words slowly, blinking all the time, as though it will help him better understand what he just heard. His mind is still hazy, his chest rises lazily in shallow breathing.

Then it hits him. Scouting? This man… Lun is a scout? That means…

“I need to-” Raven starts but loses his breath, he coughs, then swallows thickly. “I need to go, I need to run,” he sounds desperate, writhes in Lun's arms and realizes how strong this man must be, because earlier, while feeding him with water, he had to hold him with one arm.

“Calm down, kid,” Lun says, and there’s a note of mock in his voice. “You can't even stand how you wanna run? I'm taking you to our hideout, we need to get you back to normal.”

“We?” Raven mumbles as Lun starts to walk ahead.

“Other scouts. Do you even know where you are?”

So Lun is certainly a scout.

He’s a scout that is now carrying Raven towards the target.

Raven’s target.

Oh God, my target.

Raven squirms again, harder this time, eyes wide. Lun stares down at him, his eyebrows furrowed.

“L-Let me go,” Raven stammers, out of breath. “The locket, I need to... I have to deliver it.”

Lun’s expression softens, he keeps walking as he says, “That silver pendant? It's in my pocket, no worries.”

Raven tenses all over. “Give it to me.”

Lun sighs in exasperation. “Christ, can you stay calm? It’s safe with me and as soon as your physical condition is better, you will get it.”

“You don’t understand…” Raven presses, “It’s important, I need to deliver it fast, I need to-”

“Raven,” Lun says firmly, his walk coming to a stop. “I understand everything better than you think. The locket will be delivered in time, trust me. You're bloody quick-tempered, you almost died because of your stupidity,” Lun scoffs, “Jesus, only fools run through the ruins.”

“I had to,” Raven says in a small voice.

“Yeah, sure,” Lun begins to walk again. “I can't wait for you to tell me where you come from. But first we have to make you not look like a mess anymore.”

“I’m from Omicron…” Raven finds himself whispering, his eyes glued to the dull gray sky above him.

“Oh, that explains things. You’re in the Upsilon now, but you probably aimed for Lambda.”

Raven frowns slightly. “How can you know where I aimed?”

“Told ya, I know more than you think,” Lun’s lips twitch up in the slightest of smiles

Raven falls silent for a few moments. Lun has an odd aura about him; he appears trustworthy while still seeming threatening. His jawline is razor-sharp, and his soulless features are almost frightening. Raven, on the other hand, came close to death; what worse could happen to him? If Lun is indeed a scout, Raven will be safe. The scouts were good people, his mother always repeated that.

Apart from the pricks, he senses relief in his lungs. After all, his promise still has a chance to be kept. The heart-shaped locket can still be delivered; everything can still be fixed.

“What do you know… about the locket?” Raven asks out of pure curiosity.

“Well...” Lun pauses, his thin lips curl up into a smirk. “...I created it.”

Raven breath hitches, mouth falls agape. There’s no way. He must be joking. And his sense of humor is horrible.

“Liar.”

A sardonic laugh is coming from Lun. “Didn’t they teach you the names of the Creators in that miserable place you live in?”

“N-no.” It’s true. Raven only knows that most Creators are pure evil. It was they who brought this world to a disastrous state.

“What a shame,” Lun sighs. “Let me enlighten you. My full name is Luneirun, the 11th Creator. It's nice of you that you brought my missing locket right under my hands,” the malicious irony in that statement doesn’t go unnoticed.

Raven is frozen. He can’t move. Can’t breathe. Maybe worse things than dying can actually happen to him. Perhaps the devil himself is carrying him after all.