Prologue

[soncnica]

This is a road to restoration,

But we're starting at the end.

- PROLOGUE PART 1 -

For centuries they'd lived here, on this land of lush forests, gray mountains with peaks covered in constant snow, plains half made of hot, brown sand and the other half just rocks and bushes with thorns that made one bleed just by looking at them.

For centuries, since the oldest of them could remember seeing bright, white light of the sun shine down on the sandy ground in front of their dwelling.
They'd lived here for centuries; living in safety, happiness ... love and generosity in spades.

For centuries …

…until darkness came to the far edges of their land and burned the life they knew into ashes. They put up a line, a border, build it with fire and wind, water and earth, wrapped it all around their land to protect the creatures living in the scattered villages around the high, snow-peaked mountains.

The darkness was filled with disease, illness, fear and pain. Gruesome, vile killer it was and it sneaked through the borders like smoke; sneaked right into the villages and hurt. Maimed. And killed. Caused suffering so great, they wept tears big enough to fill a crater the size of the Great Lakes.

After a while, they couldn't take it anymore. Couldn't take the fear that was beginning to stretch across their land like a foul fog. Couldn't take watching the creatures they'd sworn to protect twist and scream in pain when disease found them. Couldn't stand death anymore in a land where usually Death sharpened his scythe only when age became right to leave. Couldn't live in fear for their own safety.

"And so a witch, a hunter, and a scholar were born." The voice was deep and booming, causing a tremble that made small rocks fall off the mountain's slope.

A child's voice shouted: "An Inquisitor, not a scholar." and then the child scoffed.

A thick, long, sharp brown claw drew a line in a sun warmed sand.

"A road out of ruins sometimes scrapes your hands bloody, my child."

- PROLOGUE PART 2 -

It was raining.

It started with a light drizzle sometime in late afternoon; tiny, soft and cool rain drops that curled the hair at the back of his neck and made his thin cotton shirt stick to his chest and back.

Then the real rain clouds came - just like that, on the cold northern wind that blew sudden and strong through the valley. The mountains all around him were still covered with white, sparkling snow that wouldn't disappear until late autumn, and then new snow would come chilling the wind all over again. The clouds were dark, huge and hanging low to the ground, covering up everything of light; the blue sky was gone, the sun hid, the white puffy clouds of before swallowed up by the blackness. It rained hard, sheets of heavy drops that made women and children go and hide into the houses and men abandon the fields to seek shelter in barns.

He weathered out the storm with Miss Daisy in her one room cottage. It smelled of food and fire, comfortable feeling that wrapped around his chilled and wet skin as he sat down at the tiny table, eating porridge and drinking apple cider. Miss Daisy's apple cider was sweet and so good, he and his brother sometimes visited the old woman just to fill up their bellies with something other than water.

She gave him some new shirts for him and his brother; they belonged to her three boys who had died … recently. She still carried tears in her eyes, wiping her trembling, exhausted hands in her apron as she stirred the porridge. He'd given her his family's 'I'm sorry's' and her chapped lips twisted into a sad smile when she said 'thank you, sweetheart'.

No amount of sorry's in the world would ever bring her boys back, he knew that, and he wished so hard that he could've spared her the pain of loss, but he was only seven, mourning himself still. His momma … he hadn't known her, not really, he'd been only six months old when she'd died, but the way Daddy and his brother carried the weight of loss, it hurt him too.

But death was all over the Land these days, hiding in the shadows of every corner, waiting to attack. It was a way of life, but there were people who were doing their very best to stop it. Prevent it. Discover it fast enough and contain it. He admired them, admired his mom for doing her best too – or so he'd been told by his Daddy.

But even as comfortable and warm as he was sitting by the fireplace with Miss Daisy, the storm came and the storm passed and he needed to go home; the chickens needed to be chased back into their coop, the pigs fed and cows milked and then finally he'd be able to feed himself, because he knew that by the time he'd come home and do all of his chores, he'd be hungry as hell. And tired. His muscles were already feeling weak and his legs were beginning to go all wobbly and he wished his brother could come and keep him company on the way back home. Or at least make sure he wouldn't face plant somewhere along the way. His big brother was great like that; the jerk always knew when his little brother's body was going to rebel all the physical work and go down like a stack of potatoes.

But no big brother today; he had his own chores to attend to, helping Daddy with his work.

The night had fallen quickly and the silver moonlight followed fast, making sure that he saw his way down the path that led through the wheat field and onto the main street that ran straight through the village, splitting it in two.

The houses lining the wide, cobbled road were thick as thieves, touching brick wall to brick wall, doors like soldiers straight and narrow, same width apart. Windows at the same height, some small some big, but all in the same line, looking down on the street. They were all black now, people gone to sleep or the houses simply empty, uninhabited. Maybe the people had died, maybe they'd moved away, perhaps they just couldn't afford to pay for electricity so they lived in the dark or by candlelight.

Sometimes drifters or those who couldn't afford their own homes settled in, squatted in dirty, old rooms. Lived with the rats and the mice and stray cats. It was a roof over their heads, keeping them dry and not chilled to the bone, he understood that, but disease spread faster like that. It was unsafe.

He sighed and gripped the paper-wrapped shirts tighter to his chest. At least he and Daddy and his big brother had a cottage to live in, water in the well, electricity and fire wood and some animals for food if things would get too rough. He knew they wouldn't, not really, because his mommy had been a woman of status and so was Daddy.

But some people lived in empty and cold brick houses or on the outskirts of the village in cottages and cabins, minding their fields and meadows and living their lives as simple people; peasants or factory workers, people with a title and people without it.

The valley belonged to them all.

And it belonged to the sickness too.

Thick, gray fog began spreading like molasses throughout a narrow street that he turned into; a shortcut to home his brother had showed him when he turned five and was allowed to go to the village to play with other kids. That had been a great day; a hot summer day, with the sun making him sweat at ten in the morning already and his big brother gripped his hand tight, took him to the village square, kneeled down before him and told him to be good and play for as long as he wanted. And he did, played through the whole day and then his brother took him to the narrow street and told him 'here, squirt, three minutes down here, left across the lawn and you'll be home in no time.'

The fog was licking the wet, mossy walls of the houses, curling around his feet like an overexcited puppy's tail. He'd always wanted a puppy, but his Daddy said no. And no it had been but it was okay. He had other animals to attend to, other creatures to snuggle with and he'd be home soon, just a couple more minutes on this street and then a run through a tiny square and a lawn and then he'd be able to cuddle up with Sloppy. His brother had given him the black, long-furred rabbit for his birthday last year and the rabbit chose to be named Sloppy. He had laughed at it, but the rabbit was adamant and gave him a glare and a snort when he tried to convince it to choose another name for itself. But no, the rabbit shook its head, its long ears lopping all around its head and told him Sloppy. It was its name and it loved it. Minus the weird name, Sloppy was a cuddle bug, just like he and they shared the bed, the warmth and the need for comfort and safety.

A sound of fabric flapping in the wind made his heart stutter, but as he looked around himself there was nothing and no one anywhere. Just the fog and the houses, but when he looked up above his head, he could see some clothes handing from a clothes line that ran from one end of a windowsill to the next. Just clothes. Shirts and underwear, moving in the wind, making sounds like pigeons taking flight, but to him it sounded like something else entirely.

He ran a shaky hand down his face, collecting moisture he didn't know where it'd come from – maybe from the fog or from the slight drizzle that begun falling again when he wasn't paying attention.

He didn't care all that much what it was that was sliding down his face, as his tiny, bare feet tapped on the wet cobblestone; slick and shiny in the silver moonlight. He just wanted to get home, get warm and dry, eat something and then go to sleep with Sloppy next to him. Maybe he'd be able to make his big brother read to them all before bedtime. They still had three more chapters of 'Adventures of Fox the Faery and the dawn of the trees' to read through and they were just at the most exciting part. He wanted to find out how the trees would escape from the river.

He quickened his steps, the desire to find out propelling him faster towards the end of the street.

Until he heard it. Booming laughter, loud voices, shouting and fiddles and harmonica ... the drinking house.

The men inside were all probably drunk enough already to whip him skinless or beat him dead. Ale did strange things to men in these parts of the Land, probably in all parts of the Land. His brother had explained to him that some men were down on their luck, had lost their wives and children to the illness, lost their whole homes. Had been brought into the Questioning themselves and barely survived. Ale made them forget about the pain and the loss, made them forget that the Land was dying, smothered in disease.

He understood that, because his Daddy often reached for the bottle himself, but only to take a few sips, just to warm up his insides. His Daddy would never whip him or beat him; his hand, calloused as it was, was still very gentle and soft.

But these men were jaded, hard around the edges, sculptured like that by the hard life. Death and disease and the Questioning.

It was why he needed to avoid the drinking house, needed to avoid beefy arms and exploring fingers. He wasn't a fan of the whip and he liked his skin where it was, thank you very much.

But drizzle changed into heavy rain again, just like that, like snapping his fingers or blinking his eyes. Water started pouring down from the sky in heavy, beating sheets; cold and unrelenting, thunder and lightning making him shiver at the loud noise and bright light. His clothes started to get heavy, sticking to his skin, his hair falling into his hazel eyes and made seeing anything but darkness impossible.

He fastened his steps, his wet soles slippery on the polished cobblestone and he wished so badly for the street lanterns to work, to bright up his way, to give him some light to see where he was and where he was going, but no. Everything remained in stubborn darkness and cool rain and the now muted voices from the drinking house.

He prayed a silent request to the Gods above to stop the rain and bring out the moon again, show him where to turn left and where to turn right to avoid hitting anything that shouldn't be on the street. Sometimes the drinking house left empty barrels outside to be picked up later and refilled and he certainly didn't want to trip on that.

His lungs were burning, but he couldn't stop not even for a second. He needed to go home, to Daddy and Sloppy and his brother, before his big brother would eat all his dinner. That would suck, because he knew his brother cooked potatoes for dinner and he liked those. Add some cheese on top of them and it was the best meal ever. Just the thought alone was enough to make him salivate and he licked his wet lips, pulling his tongue back into his mouth just as a strong, hard arm wrapped itself around his slim waist. Another arm joined the first and his whole body was lifted straight up from the ground, up to the sky, his heels hitting whoever was holding him in the knees.

He flailed, tried to kick and punch, but his feet kicked nothing but air and his fists had no real strength in them yet. His Daddy taught him how to fight and hit, but he was still too weak and scrawny to do any damage really. His brother told him that soon, soon he'd be strong enough to take any man down, but before that would happen, he'd need to see many more summers and eat much more potatoes.

"'m sorry kiddo, but you're ours now."

The voice was male, and his heart started to beat double time, while his breath got caught in his throat. This was it. The man would drag him into a back alley somewhere, or into one of the empty rooms, beat him to a bloody pulp or take him back to the man's place and ...

"You're gonna do just fine, kid. Gonna be just fine."

He wanted to scream, he really, really did, but all he could do was open his mouth wide and choke on the rain that started flowing directly into his throat.

"Shhh, shhh, settle Sam. You're gonna be just fine."

The fact that the person knew his name didn't faze him. Everyone knew his name, everyone in the village knew his Daddy and Dean. Everyone knew of the Winchesters. He thought his family's name would keep him safe, as everyone in the village knew what his Daddy was capable of, knew who his mom had been, but apparently not.

"You've got no idea how important you are, Sam. No idea just how much Dean'll need ya in due time."

There was no stench of alcohol in the man's breath, no drunken stuttering and staggering of feet. There was just a sure, deep rumble of a voice and a stone hard chest at his back.

The rain was still falling as if a cloud had torn apart, his mouth still open wide catching raindrops and the man was still holding him tight.

He wanted to beg for his life, wanted to scream for Dean and Daddy, wanted to cry and fight, but he couldn't do any of that.

The man wrapped him up in a long, velvet cloak; the fabric was warm and thick heating his cold and wet body up instantly.

He was seven years old when he was taken on that wet and dark street, seven when no one heard his silent screams.

And he was twenty-five when he finally understood what the man had meant when he'd said that Dean would need him in due time.

PART I