Branches of trees snagged his skin and tore what remained of his clothes from his body as he ran, his pack slamming painfully against his back. His bare feet were cut, bruised and bloodied from the stones on the rough ground. Above him, the sky was dark, sprinkled with the flickering light of the stars.

He pushed his sweaty bangs from his eyes and tried to keep himself focused despite the throbbing pain in his skull. He knew what was going to happen if he kept running, if they kept chasing him. He did not want to hurt them, they were only following instinct, it was not their fault.

He stumbled when his foot caught on the root of a tree and he was forced to lean against the trunk as he felt the bone snapped. The throbbing grew in intensity, pounding through his skull, twisting his mind. Was he far enough away? He could only hope as he collapsed to the ground on his hands and knees, gasping, forcing hot air into his stinging lungs.

He heard their feet pounding the earth behind him, could see the faint hue of the torches light the scene around him. He shook his head, trying to clamp down on the pain, force it away. He could not kill them, they were innocent.

The pain in his head suddenly shot threw his entire body and he arched back, screaming in agony. He felt the skin on his back tear under the sheer force of his power, felt the weight fill his hands against his will. Tears streaked his face as he screamed again, blood pouring from the corners of his mouth, running down his chin and falling onto his chest as his back arched again at an unnatural angle.

Screaming one last time, he felt the wings free themselves from his body, stretching out behind him, glowing black like polished leather. His violet eyes stared, wide at the deep blue sky as the blackness began to creep across them, hiding their true colours. The darkness filled his eyes and his soul as he screamed, his vision becoming red, painting all with blood. The weight of the Lightening Scythe felt comfortable in his grip as he lent forwards on his hands again, panting for breath.

The bright, flickering light of the torches illuminated the forest around him and the yelling of the angry mob ended abruptly, leaving shivering silence in it’s wake. Frightened eyes took in the terrible visage of the wings creature before them on the ground, the blade of the scythe flickering as though it was not really there.

He felt the anger creep into his mind and tried to force it back, tried to make it leave but it was no use, he knew it was no use. They were going to die.

He looked at the scene around him with large violet eyes, silent tears of regret dropping onto the Earth beneath him. Bodies littered the ground, some without limbs, some without heads, some still alive, bleeding to death as he watched, crying.

His body shook as the black leather wings drooped behind him, falling onto the dirt. Blood painted the foliage like an obscene piece of art, splattered across the leaves and earth, mixing with his tears.

He carefully stood, leaning against the trunk of a tree, testing his ankle. It had healed as he knew it would, healed by the suffering of others. He blinked the sweat and tears from his eyes and steeled himself for his new task.

One by one, he buried the bodies.

Heero eyed the scene before him with impassive distaste. There were no visible bodies but he knew they were there somewhere, buried, just like all the others. Blood coated the scene, filling the air with it’s tangy, metallic scent.

Behind him, he could hear Quatre retching.

He turned to Wufei who was kneeling at the edge of the violent scene, examining the ground carefully. Wufei was an expert tracker, the best there was and Heero only settled for the best on his team. He glanced back at Quatre and sighed, well, almost. Quatre had joined Heero’s team a few weeks ago as a Cadet placement.

"Anything?"

"No tracks. It’s good." Wufei stood, his nimble fingers examining the tree by which he stood, looking up at the canopy in the light of day. "It looks like it took flight again." Heero cursed, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

"It can only be in flight until dawn." Trowa pointed out from somewhere above them. "Most likely it’s holed up somewhere, resting."

Heero cast another glance at Quatre who had stopped vomiting and was now leaning against a tree, unaware of the large splash of blood which was now coating his uniform. The Captain shook his head and turned back to Wufei.

"We need to do something about him." He said in a quiet voice. "He’s not up to this." Wufei eyed Quatre with quiet indifference.

"They thought he was up to it. They put him with us for a reason." Heero scowled at Quatre’s back as the young cadet examined the crimson stain on his jacket.

"Trowa." There was a slight rustle from the tree tops and a face appeared exactly level with Heero’s and upside down. The face belonged to Trowa Barton, expert fighter and archer, who was hanging from a branch. He gazed at Heero impassively from his perch. "He’s your responsibility. Deal with him." Trowa dropped from the tree and stalked over to where Quatre stood.

Heero blocked out all background noise, including Trowa’s yelling at Quatre and tried to formulate a plan. They had been tracking the beast for four months now and had yet to catch so much as a glimpse. Quatre had been assigned to them because of his innate ability to sense magical creatures near by and for his medical skills.

He glanced up when he heard Trowa yell ‘Maggot’ at Quatre and turned to view the pair with an eye brow raised. Quatre stood to attention, trying to ignore the trail of blood beginning to coat his hand and stared at a point just above Trowa’s head.

Heero rolled his eyes and looked back at Wufei. The Chinese tracker was still gazing above him, trying to ascertain the beasts direction from the array of broken twigs above them.

"I want you and the boy to find the bodies. Get him to examine them for any residual magic. We’ll see if we can’t toughen him up a bit." Wufei nodded and walked past Heero to collect the boy.

This hunt had been the longest yet. If Heero did not know any better, he would have said he was chasing a man.

Duo stared up at the bright blue sky, stopping his movement for a moment. He was knelt on the bank of a river, stripped down to his underclothes, washing the blood from the remnants his garments. A few clouds danced in the breeze above him, going wherever the wind may take them. Just like him.

Returning his mind to the present he pulled his clothes from the river and began to lay them out on the grass to dry in the sun. Dropping onto his back beside them, he stared back up at the sky, his long chestnut braid snaking out beside him on the ground like a coil of rope, braided for extra strength. His violet eyes started dispassionately at the blue ceiling above him, dry despite his pain.

His wings were gone now, as they were every morning. As soon as the first rays of light began to creep over the horizon, the huge black monstrosities faded into wisps of black smoke and he returned to normal. No one could tell what he really was during the day and normally it was the same at night, unless something happened to threaten his life. At the first sign of trouble something within him began to stir, something he wanted very much to destroy, something which craved death and vengeance for an age old grievance he had no conscious knowledge of.

First the pain came, thrumming in the back of his skull and growing quickly in intensity. He had learnt from experience that then was the time to run. The pain grew and grew inside him until he could feel the anger joining it, then the pain would spread from his skull to consume him, to force his Shadow Wings from his body and to break down his will. He knew, that as soon as his vision coloured red, it was all over for his attackers. No one had ever survived his wrath.

The Scythe on the other hand was a total mystery to the braided boy. He had no idea what it was or where it came from, all he knew was that it came to him when he was in danger. It came to protect him.

At first glance it was a perfectly ordinary farm implement. The handle was a six foot long piece of dark brown wood which fit neatly into his hands. The blade however, seemed to be made of lightening and could cut through anything and anyone.

He shuddered at that last thought and rolled onto his side, curling into a ball. He was the Carrier of Grief, the Harbinger of pain. He was the Envoy of death. He was Shinigami.