End Your Sorrow: Prologue

Immensely old it was, as old as the Island itself. Rundown was another word for it, but the children who lived there didn’t look at it that way, they didn’t see the scum and dirt, the blood and anger, the violence and hardship. They couldn’t see the very roof above their heads rotting, that it probably wouldn’t last another winter, that in the spring, rain would be falling upon them while they slept. Nor did they notice the rats and lice and other vermin that crept in through glassless windows and open doorways with nothing but a cloth hanging for privacy. They didn’t see this because they had never seen the rest of the Island. That was forbidden. If they had, they would see not everyone lived in these conditions. So many were better off.

“Where’s Mama?” the light voice of a young boy drifted through the room with the lilt of utter hopelessness in it, his eyes upon his brother standing near the window the soft glow of the sunset on his face.

The older boy turned around and walked towards his younger brother slowly as if he were tired or defeated, “They’re still not here yet, Shateiel...” his voice drifted off as it always did. Being older he recognized the situation more clearly. Their mother and father had been gone for three days and the meager food they had was already dwindling. The soft moans of his baby sister weeping again filled the still air of the house and Rapheal collapsed next to his brother watching the dust in the air float by still visible by the setting sun as his brother dirtied his fingernails more scratching designs into the dirt floor.

Shateiel’s fingers stopped, “What’s that?” his voice was barely a whisper.

“Hmm...” Rapheal’s mind had drifted off, he cocked his head to the side listening, and could hear it... the faint clapping of horses’ hooves. A feeling of fear crept into him, he who was usually so brave and a shudder ran down his back. It was never a good sign when the King’s men entered the village. He took Shateiel’s wrist and pulled him up running a bare foot over Shateiel’s drawings wiping them away back into dirt and stepped silent footed over to the pallet with his sister in the shadows. “Keep quiet.” his voice sounded in a low whisper in Shateiel’s ear.



Metatron dismounted his horse and looked over the village. Falling apart it was, trash lined the streets and a distastefull smell filled the air. There was not one single thing of beauty in it, not one ray of hope in the entire village only ugliness and dirt. His eyes though, looked to the ground a faint pulling at his heart....

“Sir? The orders, sir?”

His mind pulled away from thoughts and regret, Metatron looked up at one of his men, still mounted on horseback. He looked up into the man’s eyes with his own golden yellow ones and said clearly without stutter or flinching, “Burn it, all of it. King’s orders. To the ground.”

Another man spat upon the ground, “Deserves to be y’know. Disgusting.” he held his gnarled stick down to a small controlled fire in the street and watched the flame catch to the wood the blue in it looking half menacing. “Sooner this gets done, sooner I can return home and enjoy a night with my sweet heart.” The soldiers laughed as he put his torch to the straw, much mended roof of a house it instantly catching and bursting into flames.

The soldiers followed the lead and within minutes the village was in flames. The red, orange, and blue of the fires making a violent clash with the setting sun turning the sky a blood red and smoke rolled in like fog. In seconds, voices rose in the air, high wailings, soft crying and wild screaming as the occupants of the village were burnt with their homes adding to the cacophony of the whole violent scene.

Yellow eyes looked to the ground, and a heavy sigh came from a throat, Metatron still stood as he had his men following his orders. A hand rested on his horse stroking it gently and pain was in his eyes. He was a general, he was to follow the King’s orders, he had. It was his duty. He had never flinched from or regretted what he had done in the past. Yet, he had never been ordered to murder the innocent, never ordered to burn homes... Burn hope. He shook his head fiercely his face set stern hand clamped around his own torch, he lit it, he should have no soft side. None. He stepped to the single house not in flames and raised his torch up towards it and.... The high light wail of a child rose up from the house and Metatron’s steady hand trembled and the torch dropped to the ground and was extinguished. He couldn’t do it he could not burn this house. He had slain a hundred men yet he could not burn this house. He stood still as the fires spread, and spread to the house he had not burned as the voice of the child rose higher in fear. No. No... He couldn’t let this happen. His fingers clenched into hands, nails biting his palms and stepped into the house brushing aside the ragged bit of cloth these people called a door. And through the smoke in the orange light of fire he saw three children. Three wide light eyes stared up at him, three eyes filled with fear and tears marking clean lines upon their dirty faces. And Metatron was struck still looking at these children, the same feeling pulling at his heart stronger. These children... They would not die. They were important, they were important for something... He knew it.

A faint strangled cough broke the roar of the fire in Metatron’s ears and he looked at the child in the middle. A small boy, barely out of infancy, covered in dirt and unclean much ripped and repaired clothes, straight black hair and mid blue eyes with light brown skin. Absolutely nothing remarkable, the common Low Angel child, yet, his eyes softened and his hands went out and picked up boy as the child shrunk back from him.

He looked to the older boy holding his small sister, and spoke three words to the three children, three words which would change their lives forever, “Come with me.”