Knowledge of Part 9, "Ghost with the Most," Part 10, "Masters Disasters," and Part 15, "The Reckoning," are recommended but not required.

As always with my prologues, this is the only part of the story that isn't First Person, Present Tense. Also, this story has a whole was supposed to come later in the series, but I decided I didn't want to wait any longer. I'm pretty excited about it. :)

Where Angels Fear to Tread!

Prologue: 5,000 Years Ago

War, by its nature, ends in devastation. Clockwork knew that better than most, better than many to come. Pariah Dark had been sealed away and, while Clockwork could see a day when the tyrant would reawaken, that day would not be for several millennia. And, when that day came, he would be stopped before any major damage could take place.

The same could not be said about this particular time.

No matter what anyone told him, Clockwork blamed himself for the amount of destruction that took place. He had the title "Master of Time" for a reason. Yet, he had been so occupied with the present, with the battles going on around him, that he failed to foresee Pariah Dark charming his castle in a way that prevented Clockwork from seeing what would happen inside.

It was a mistake that Clockwork would not make again.

Clockwork wasn't worried about the Infinite Realms itself. It would take time, but the damage would be repaired and life would go on as it had before.

What did bother Clockwork was the damage that could not be repaired. At least, not yet.

Clockwork did not need his inherent abilities to replay the scene; it was forever burned into his mind. Pariah Dark had gathered all of his most powerful soldiers, and he joined them in backing Clockwork and the other Ancients into a corner. The attack would have destroyed the Ancients.

Except…it didn't.

Reaper was unique in that they were an Ancient and an angel. Angels are a sub-species of ghost who are exceedingly rare and powerful, with an inherent desire to protect.

Perhaps that was why Reaper threw themself in the way of the attack, spreading their brilliant wings to shield everyone.

While the others kept Pariah Dark and his soldiers busy, Clockwork and Santa got Reaper out of there as quickly and safely as they could.

Clockwork shuddered. He could still feel Reaper's ectoplasm coating his skin, weighing down his clothes, slipping through his fingers. He could still see the light of Reaper's core flickering and undulating in a dangerous way.

How ironic - or, perhaps, fitting - that the being known as "Master of Death" was so willing to forfeit their life so that so many others could live.

For Reaper's safety, they were transported to the Far Frozen, where the best doctors in the Realms would watch over them.

Nobody saw or heard from Reaper for the remainder of the war. Even the Gargoyles, Reaper's personal guards, were clueless, having been instructed to continue fighting.

The imprisonment of Pariah Dark was a hard-won victory.

Reaper's survival was a miracle. Alas, even miracles have costs.

Reaper did recover but not in full. Their core was permanently damaged, so while their form was, for the most part, stable, there were lasting issues. Their once blue-gray skin had been mangled into a criss-cross of pinkish red layers, like an Earth creature with its skin torn off, though odd patches of the original color remained. The changes weren't merely cosmetic, however. Reaper's power level, once the highest among the Ancients, had decreased significantly. They were still incredibly powerful, but as far as Ancients went, they were now the weakest. Their Healing Touch ability in particular, a power exclusive to angels and drew energy from the core itself, barely worked now. The shame on Reaper's face when they tried to heal one of the injured soldiers and started destabilizing almost instantly was as scary as it was core-breaking.

But, the worst was when Reaper tried to take flight.

Unlike the majority of ghosts, Reaper had never been able to fly on their own. Instead, like all angels, they had a magnificent pair of wings that could be pulled in and out of their body at will. Their wings were as long as their owner was tall, so roughly eight feet each, and covered in reddish orange feathers that were impossibly soft and incredibly lethal.

Reaper took pride in their wings, in all the angelic qualities they had unknowingly sacrificed.

When Reaper recovered enough to be discharged from the medical ward, naturally they had pulled out their wings to fly home, despite the Realms' fluctuating gravity allowing one to float between landforms. That plan was gone the moment they and everyone present, including Clockwork, saw the extent of the damage. Because Reaper's wings were an extension of their damaged core, those wings reflected that. They had shrunk in length and had lost their beautiful feathers. What remained was two long, spiny protrusions that better resembled tree branches painted like the red blood of the living.

That had been the final straw, and Reaper's grief-stricken scream haunted every ghost who heard it.

Or, Clockwork mused with a heavy core, perhaps the true worst was the sight he would see in exactly twenty-two seconds. Reaper's entire form, minus their unchanged blue-gray hands, would be covered by a light brown cloak that had been charmed so that their face was encased in shadow when the hood was up. Which it was when Reaper walked into the room.

The two Ancients faced each other - Reaper standing, Clockwork floating - in a silence that was only broken by the ticking of hundreds of clocks.

"This is not your doing," Reaper said after a spell.

Clockwork didn't need to ask what they meant. "I know. But, you understand if I don't feel that way."

Reaper sighed. "It is always difficult when one's powers fail them." The statement was heavy with grief. "But, even one such as you cannot predict everything."

Clockwork let the rhythmic ticking steady him. "You don't need to wear that, you know. Your appearance may have changed, but it isn't that bad."

If Reaper saw through the lie, they didn't mention it. "It is when your appearance frightens others." Reaper drew their hood back, revealing the ruined face beneath. Their large, featureless green eyes were dimmed by sorrow. "Being hideous, I can handle. But, what kind of angel am I if I cannot utilize the Healing Touch? And, my wings…" Reaper's voice broke. Clockwork gave them a moment to compose themself. "I am grateful for all that has been done, for the fact that I am here at all-"

"But," Clockwork finished for them, "you long for the strength and abilities you once had. No one would think less of you for that."

Reaper almost smiled then narrowed their eyes. "I must know, Clockwork. Will my core ever be fully restored? Or, at least enough so that my wings return? I long for true flight again," they added quietly.

Clockwork hoped they would not be disappointed by the answer. He flew upward slightly to speak to Reaper at eye level. "I have good news and bad news. The good news is that there is someone capable of restoring you to your former glory. And, they will be happy to do so."

Reaper considered this with a wary frown. "And, the bad news?"

"This person will not be born for around five thousand years. And, they will be born in the human realm."

Reaper lowered their gaze and muttered, "So, it will be even longer than that."

"Not too much longer, in the grand scheme of things." Only about fourteen-and-a-half years, Clockwork added silently. And, another two until you meet.

Reaper closed their eyes and pondered this information. When they opened their eyes again, they cocked their brow and said, "I presume you will not tell me more about this person."

Clockwork fought a smirk. "You know how I operate, Reaper. I say only what is necessary for the timeline."

In this case, it was to give Reaper hope. There were too many timelines where… Well, Clockwork didn't like to think about those.

"Then," Reaper said with an accepting nod, "I suppose there is nothing left to do but wait."