The sun, a glimmering jewel on the horizon, a pearl peeking up from beneath the murky waters of the sea, has begun to rise. The curtains have all been drawn and his guests put to bed, but he did not retire. He felt as if his nerves were on fire. He composed himself well and hid the anxiety he was feeling. Perched calmly in the chair, a brand snifter swirling lazily in one palm, his eyes were locked on the door. Where is she? The thought ran through his head over and over until he was nearly insane. His beloved was still not home. Pulling back a heavy curtain, he dared a glance outside, checking the sun's progress. Nay, it was still not risen to it's full glory, but it was close. With a morose sigh, he throws himself back into the chair, grinding ivories together in a wasteful practice. He prayed for her safety and then stopped himself, chastizing himself for his faith. Praying was a waste of time, for who heard a prayer? If God did exist, he saw no proof of it and he'd seen more than his fair share of the world. All he'd seen was the brillance of suffering and human resilance. And both had to be curses. Suffering, of course, a curse on man kind and resilance, a curse on evil.

A familiar sound sends chills up and down his spine, his ears straining for the next twinkling of laughter that had belonged to the child he'd sent away. He'd almost feared that she wouldn't understand, wouldn't conform, and would come back changed - no longer filled of laughter and love. Her eyes haunted him, so full of sadness had they been the day he'd handed her off, giving up his guardianship of her for the moment. Was she back? Could she really be home so soon? She was due back in three days time. Hope was not something he was unaccustomed to. He had always been a hopeful creature, even when he'd been mortal and shunned by his father - he'd hoped he could prove himself worthy. But the drink always called to him. He loved the way the liquor burned his throat as it went down and the way it started a fire once it reached the pit of his stomach. He loved the way it had inspired lust at anything that merely looked female. Yet it had ruined him, drug him into exile and then left him there. Anger was still wallowing in the depths of him. Anger that he'd been exiled from daylight. Perhaps one day he could find a ring he'd lost. Then the world would know what a power he was. More importantly, he hoped to find the ring. He hoped his sweet little Tabitha was outside, holding his Azrael's hand. He hoped they'd get inside before the sun rose. He hoped.

Was hope merely a branch of faith? Nay. Hope meant he had confidence in himself and in those he loved. Faith was what he could never understand. Someone had once told him, when he asked how they could have faith in a world where there was so much suffering, "Without suffering there would be no compassion." What good was compassion? Compassion did not bring back those dead. Compassion did not protect those about to die. Compassion did not solve problems. Compassion was worthless. Without suffering there would be no compassion - tell that to those who suffer. What did he know of suffering? True suffering? He witnessed it with a cool indifference. He'd seen it throughout the centuries. He'd grown accustomed to it. It was commonplace. Everyone had a painful past, a history they longed to forget. Everyone was plaqued by suffering. How could you have faith with that?