Samael: Red Rope

**Content Warning: Mild depictions of blood. Hints of violence, but nothing graphic.**

Setting: Samael is aged 15. This vignette takes place 18 years prior to him joining The Graverunners'.

\_\_\_

He couldn’t remember the first time he saw the red
rope in his dreams, but he could remember reaching for it only for it to dance
away from his fingertips.  When he told
his mother about the red rope, she said, “Pay it no mind, Samael.  It is only a dream.”

Still, the red rope always hung just out of reach
until, one day, he was tall enough to grab it.  He remembered that dream and that day because
that was the day he had held a whip in his hands.

“Mom, I don’t want to,” he said as he looked at the back
bared to him.

“He hurt you, didn’t he?”  Her cold, grey eyes flashed as she looked
down at him.

“Yes, but…”
Samael didn’t want to hurt anyone.
Sweat already flecked the back of the man before him, the man’s arms
pulled taut by ropes attached to poles dug into the ground.

“Then he deserves it, yes?”

He bit his lower lip and looked up at his
mother. “No."

That night, his back aching and throbbing as he lay on
his bed, he grabbed the red rope.

\_\_

*A*
*man stood before him, a rack upon his shoulders and his wrists locked within*
*the holes*.  *Red rope hung from both*
*wrists to drape to the ground, ending in Samael’s grasp*.  *He was an awesome man and Samael found*
*himself scared as he looked into the blood drenched face.*

*Then*
*the man smiled at him and turned to point towards a stone wall.*

*Samael*
*knew what the man wanted.*

\_\_

The trip took several weeks, traveling through
dangerous forests and past dying villages.
Samael begged and traded for every bit of coin and food he could get as
he traveled.  He had left home with only
the clothes on his back and the loaf of bread he grabbed as he fled his
home.  His mother was asleep at the time
and he was glad.  She would have tried to
stop him, but she didn’t understand.

She never would.

When he reached the abbey, he stared up
at the doors in awe.  His clothes hung
wet and heavy on his body yet still he stared.
He had made it, he had finally made it.
He tore his gaze away and reached out to knock on the doors.  It was late, but fires flickered from the
windows and he knew someone had to be awake.
Even if they weren’t, he would hunker down near the door and wait for
the abbey to open.

The man hadn’t told him to come here for no reason.

\_\_

It was beautiful.
She was beautiful as she tended to her flowers, kneeling down on the
damp, morning grass.  Though Samael had
only been there a week, he had heard of her and he had sought her out.  Everyone spoke highly of her and he could tell
why just by looking at her.  She looked
at peace.  No, she *radiated* peace.

Samael smiled to himself and approached her. “Sister
Amari?”

She looked up and he stiffened on reflex, but her eyes
weren’t the grey of his mother’s and there was no coldness there. “Yes?” she
asked.

He almost smiled and dismissed himself.  Instead he asked, “May I join you?”

“Of course.” Sister Amari smiled and moved over a
little to make room for him beside her.
She handed him a spade.

“Thank you.” Samael knelt down and he listened to her
as she told him what to do to help her.
It was peaceful work, so unlike where he had come from.  If she asked him a question, he answered.  Otherwise it was a silence filled only by the
sounds of shifting dirt or leaves rustling when touched.  He loved it, and he knew he loved her.  How could a person not love her?

The sun beat down on them and he pulled at his collar,
wincing as the rough clothing dragged only the scabs along his back.

“Are you hurt?” Sister Amari asked, glancing over at
him with worry.

“No…” Samael hesitated. “Yes, but it’s fine.”

“Do you want –”

“No.” He didn’t want to have the wounds healed.  The scars were a reminder of where he had
come from and of what he wanted to overcome.
He knew that already, and the man in his dreams would have told him to
leave them.

“Are you sure?”

Samael laughed softly. “Yes, thank you.” He carefully turned
over a clump of dirt as he debated his next question. “Sister Amari…”

“Yes?”  She had
looked back to her flowers.

“Can everyone be forgiven?”

“Yes.”