Prologue
September 11, 2001
The smoke was choking, raking at his already scorched throat. The shrieks were deafening as they made quick work in overwhelming his pre-adolescent senses. Frightened, the boy let out a wail, arms flailing in search of his mother. It ended in feeble, raspy coughs. And, while people fled in a panic all around him, no one familiar came to take him away with them.
Vision obscured by tears, dust, and other debris, eight year old Roxas Sorenson curled into himself, made a soft, mewling sound at the back of his throat, and began gently rocking himself in an effort to keep calm.
He heard rather than saw the first building fall in a deafening cacophony of sound. By then, the boy's eyes had been squeezed tightly shut, the only indication he was still aware of anything external hinted at by the soft tremors wracking his body, and the way he clung with desperation to his knees. He pressed them bruisingly against his chest more tightly every time someone bumped or brushed into him on their flight in the opposite direction. On the way to safety without him.
A subconscious part of himself knew he could die if he didn't get up and follow the crowd, but his more immediate concerns were muddled, confused by the lack of breathable air, and a raw, immobilizing panic.
Then, half conscious, he felt himself lifted, into strong, sure arms, pulled away from the horror and into something new, the absence of sound almost as deafening as the chaos he'd just been swept away from.
A soft, soothing voice met his ears, in accented, unfamiliar words. Its deep masculine undertones rumbled against his small body, and it took Roxas a moment to realize he was clinging so tightly to this person, his savior, that he was feeling the man's vocal vibrations as they traveled from his chest, then up and out of his throat.
A large hand with long slender fingers lightly stroked through his tangle of dust-caked hair. A softly smooth palm wiped still fresh tears away from his dirt-streaked face.
Roxas relaxed his grip marginally, tilted his head upward. This wasn't his mother. Not even close. But still, he wanted to look. He wanted to see who had taken notice of him and scooped him away from his nightmare when no one else had even noticed his distress.
It took effort to crack his eyes open even a sliver with the sticky crust of the day's horrors acting like adhesive against both sets of eyelids. Roxas unfurled one arm just enough to paw at his face with a small balled-up hand.
He looked up, squinted in the dimly lit confines of the shimmering, silvery space they were in. It was a stark contrast to the morning light he remembered enjoying with his mother on their way to the market before dust had risen up and engulfed everything in sight, had taken his mamma away from him.
What he saw …dazzled him.
Glittering purple diamonds. Hair as red as the toy fire engine his farfar had gotten him last Christmas. Green emerald eyes oddly flickering at the creases along both sides.
His vision swam before him, the man's features filtering in and out of focus. Roxas felt himself rocking again, this time from the man's gentle movements. He closed his eyes, exhausted from the trauma he'd experienced, still listening intently to the soft, soothing murmurs of the man above him.
"Pax, custos. Veniet tempus, veniet…"
He remembered nothing more.