Azrael's POV
*****
England, 1105 AD.
Europe in those days smelled of smoke and damp earth.
Villages huddled together like frightened animals, their wooden homes bowing beneath thatched roofs.
And fear? It was abundant.
People feared the forest, feared illness, feared anything they could not name. And they feared God almost as much as they feared the dark.
One fateful night, Azrael knew that fear. Embraced it. Felt it in a way he would no longer feel for centuries.
"Argh." He groaned into the night, clutching his chest where a dagger was buried. His head raised slowly, meeting the cruel eyes of his assaulter.
Standing in front of him was a random crook who ambushed him on one of his night travels. There had been a brief struggle before the man plunged a dagger into Azrael's chest.
Suddenly, the man pushed him down with a kick, watching with scorn when Azrael fell to the muddy earth. "You should've complied, lad. Now you're going to hell for your stubbornness."
