The Exiled King

“A long, long time ago, the gods created Dargon and Heresh and the other worlds. Haert, the father of chaos and creation, was first born in a world with nothing. Then he created Naila, his first daughter and she bore three children—Pelos, Gialan and Aeliyas,” Lirya said.

She was seated comfortably on a gold-threaded couch in the palace and Naghren sat beside her, engrossed in her tale. She’d told him of her escape from Throeyns castle and her journey until now, and had just begun on a new tale—of the creation of Dargon.

“Here, we worship the Lord of Death, Ziocrat and our Lady of Two Faces, Aeliyas. Please continue—I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Naghren said with a small wave of his hand and a loose smile.

Lirya continued, “Aeliyas was born first, and within her lay the powers of balance—light and darkness. Pelos was born next—with the powers of the soul. His was the ability to give and take life and within his mind was great calm and justice. Gialan was the youngest born son of Naila, and he was born with no godly power. Father Haert gifted his grandson the powers of time and Gialan, quiet by nature, swore to use his powers only for good. Alas, though, the concept of ‘good’ and ‘evil’ was so vague. The three siblings longed to create life, so they went to their father with their pleas. At first he refused, but then he finally agreed and from the void he shaped a sphere. Aeliyas created the landscape, Pelos breathed life into the people of Dargon and Gialan gave their creations knowledge.

“Thus, Dargon came to be born. Unsatisfied by the existence of one world, the siblings went behind Father Haert’s back and created four other worlds, Gialan mimicking their grandfather’s spherical world to the best of his ability. Though, neither he nor his siblings were well enough versed at using their powers to properly replicate Haert’s creation and the worlds they made appeared flat, with little shape. Following their creations of Dargon’s four parallel worlds, connected by magic, all was peaceful for a while. Gialan sired a son, Ziocrat—god of Death—and Aeliyas birthed a daughter, Iside—the winter goddess. However, father Haert discovered the worlds that the siblings had created and the chaos within him compelled him to destroy them. How we are still alive today, no lore or legend has ever come to a true conclusion,” Lirya finished narrating with a sigh and a light cough.

She massaged her parched throat and asked softly for some water.

Naghren got up and stretched out his hands, his wings materialising, and muttered a few unintelligible words of magic.

A beautiful glass appeared in his outstretched hand, filled to the brim with clear water. He handed it to her and immediately hid his wings.

“Thank you for your story,” He said, “Now tell me… are you afraid? Afraid of me? Of my kingdom? Of… death?”

She shook her head firmly and elaborated, “I’m not scared of you or death—I mean, I’m already dead—or this place. I meant it when I said this place was beautiful…”

She thought, I wonder why I feel this way…

“Your kingdom calls to me,” Lirya uttered softly, “It’s barren and lonely, but I still find it beautiful.”

<--<< >>-->

Naghren’s gaze snapped up to meet hers, his face slack with surprise.

How can she say that? He wondered, When even I loathe the bleak, lightless, hopeless, eternally green landscape that stretches as far I can see? I, who was born here, lived here and will die here…

Is she etherborn? That is the only thing I can think of—because everything from her strange arrival to this declaration points to that. Still, it must be tested…

Aloud, he asked Lirya if she fancied a bite to eat, and when she nodded, he snapped his fingers. Instantly, a small cluster of ghosts surrounded them, making Lirya jump.

Naghren ordered them to bring the finest food that Heresh had to offer and they dispersed, returning with a magnificent fare. Exotic fruits and elusive meats were present as well as many others that Lirya did not recognise.

Naghren dismissed the ghosts and pointed to a fruit, “Try it—it’s a native Ikana fruit, grown in our orchards.”

Lirya grabbed it and peered curiously at the strange fruit. Shaped like an egg, it had a bumpy outer shell and a twig-like stem. Naghren took it from her hands, split the fruit with a sharp word, then returned the two halves. The inside had a layer of soft down coating the layer between the shell and the fruit. The edible part of the fruit was surprisingly small, but soft and chewy, with a nutty flavour.

Naghren’s eyes were glued to her face, his gaze searching for any sign of change. He waited a few moments, but then realised nothing was happening.

Had she been a normal spirit, he would immediately have felt the transfer of her soul under his command. Those who ate the food of Heresh were forever bound to his service. The exception, of course, were guardians—beings blessed by archangels. The first time their spirit left their body—that is to say, entering either of the realms of the dead, Heresh or the Ether—they became ‘Etherborn’. Being etherborn was a strange state that allowed them to travel freely among the realms of the dead without having died.

His eyes dimmed as the realisation dawned on him—she was not going to stay…

“Please stay here a little longer,” He whispered.

Lirya smiled, “Of course. I don’t expect you to be able to send me back right away. But I am awfully tired—I don’t suppose you might have a bed or something I can use to catch up on some sleep?”

Naghren stood up and led her to one of the many rooms in the palace. This one was furnished with a large four poster bed and chest of drawers beside it, as well as some gloomy grey curtains and equally dismal paintings of the landscape of Heresh. The most impressive painting was a detailed piece on the palace—one of the only structures in Heresh. It was done in dark magenta and green hues but still exuded a certain magnificence and captured the essence of the palace’s aura. It was Naghren’s favourite piece, created by a frequent visitor and friend—those of which could be numbered with one hand.

Lirya took a flying leap on the bed and sank down on the soft down mattress. Naghren left her to her own devices, pointing to a bell that would summon ghost helpers and told her to tell them if she wanted anything.

“I’ll come by tomorrow. Please rest now,” Naghren said, then exited and headed to his own room. His friend was not due to arrive until the day after the next.

Maybe I’ll introduce them…? He mused.

Night fell in Heresh, changing little of the view. Darkness descended quickly, coating Heresh in a cloak of inky darkness. Naghren lay on his own bed, staring at the ceiling. Eventually, he drifted off into uneasy sleep and found himself in a nightmare.

A loud wail announced the birth of Heresh’s next ruler. And, as all things ran its course, the king and queen of Heresh passed away that same night after naming the child Naghren. They named him ‘starborn’ in the old language—‘Naag’ meant ‘star’—in homage to his origins. When Naghren was born, Heresh trembled. The child’s clenched fist unleashed magic so potent that many ghosts vanished that day.

Naghren grew up, relying on the knowledge of his parents passed down through the generations stored in the library.

His dream of his childhood twisted and he was brought to the day that he came. It had been an unexpectedly cold day in Heresh—It must have been winter on Dargon—and Naghren peered through the window of his room, as he often did.

All of a sudden, a spirit landed on him, knocking him flat. Spirits could go through surfaces, but not him, because he was born in Heresh. Naghren stood up, dusting off his clothes and muttering a string of curses. He felt a hand grab his ankle and looked down to see the spirit sinking through the floor with a sheepish grin on his face.

“Gimme a hand, please?” The spirit asked, smiling cheekily.

Naghren sighed, but used a flicker of his magic to whisk the spirit out of the floor and keep him floating.

While the spirit’s true form was faint, Naghren made out startlingly bright blonde hair that came to the spirit’s shoulders and green-flecked blue eyes. The spirit appeared to be youth of indeterminable age—his eyes held a wisdom beyond his years in a way Naghren had only seen with few creatures.

Naghren reached out with his senses, trying to determine how this spirit had escaped his knowledge and found, to his surprise, that the spirit was not under his control.

“Who are you and how did you get in here?” Naghren demanded, stepping away from the spirit with a glare.

“Wow… so hostile! I’m Reyneld… and I, umm… died? I think,” He said awkwardly, then flashed a bright smile, “Someone told me that I can die and come back… so I tried. Care to point me in the direction of Dargon?”

Naghren looked at Reyneld incredulously for a moment, waiting to see if he’d laugh and proclaim that it was all a joke, but when the spirit did nothing of the sort, Naghren pointed silently upwards.

“Ah.” Reyneld muttered, “So… where am I?”

Naghren turned away from the window and took a couple of large strides over to his bed and sat down, crossing his legs and getting comfortable. Then he proceeded to fill the spirit in on the details of Heresh and began to pester Reyneld, in turn, with his own questions.

Reyneld explained that he’d been told by his predecessor that he was etherborn, and as such he had decided to test the theory and ended up in Heresh. It was the first time that Naghren had heard of the term ‘etherborn’ and he learned much that evening.

Reyneld was as bright as his hair and his eyes would sparkle with glee as often as he laughed. His laughter brightened the gloom of Heresh and Naghren welcomed the presence of a new friend.

Unfortunately, Reyneld did not stay. He left Heresh as soon as he was able, promising to return, but he never heeded that promise.

As he watched Reyneld’s fading back draw further from him, Naghren’s dream faded away.

“No… please don’t go!” Naghren cried, reaching out as if to grasp the fading image of his friend, “You’ll never come back! Please… stay with me…”

<--<< >>-->

Lirya woke with a start when the palace shuddered. She jolted up just as another tremor shook the palace. Quickly getting out of the bed, she ran to the bell and tugged it, her heart pounding. In an unfamiliar place and with something strange happening—she was scared out of her wits.

A few moments passed and a ghost showed up, walking through her wall. It was a boy who looked no older than ten and was dressed in a plain grey tunic and leather boots. He had short, mouse-brown hair that hung around his ears, covering them.

“You called, my lady?” The ghost boy said, bowing.

Just then, another tremor rocked the palace, but did little to surprise the ghost.

Lirya asked, “What’s going on??!! Why is the palace shaking?!”

The ghost shrugged, “It’s Master. He gets nightmares frequently and loses control of his powers… it will stop when he wakes up,” He said, then continued, “Also, Master rarely sleeps so these tremors happen less often than you’d think.”

Nightmares… so even the master of Heresh, lord of the undead, can have nightmares… She thought.

“Take me to him,” She said firmly.

As the ghost led her to Naghren, she learned more about him.

“My name’s Jemery,” He said brightly, “Been dead nearly fifty years, I think… you lose track as the years drag on…”

“Fifty?!” Lirya exclaimed, mentally counting down the years in her head, “That was during the Demon War?”

Jemery nodded solemnly, “Yeah… But it happened before the full war began.”

His eyes fell, “It was my tenth birthday… the day I died. I was foolish…”

More quietly he whispered, “I miss my parents…”

He’s just a kid, She thought, The Demon War took many lives. There are probably many more who suffered like him… That’s another reason why we have to make sure that the peace remains. I hope that the soldiers back at the inn were only jesting, because another war could be devastating.

She looked at Jemery and thought, If Richard had been born earlier, he might have grown to look a bit like Jemery… maybe we would even have gotten along well…

A torrent of unwanted regret washed over her and she shuddered. Looking at Jemery, so small and yet so mature for his age, Lirya felt a surge of emotions and she tried to hug him.

Lirya reached for him, but her arms flew through him and she awkwardly grinned, “Sorry… I forgot I can’t even touch you now. I just… wanted to make you feel better.”

Jemery’s lips curved into a small smile and he muttered a quiet ‘thanks’.

Jemery led them through a wall, which bathed Lirya in an ice-cold feeling and another tremor shook the palace. Finally, Jemery stopped at a plain and unadorned door and said, “This is Master's room,” He hesitated before leaving and finally muttered softly, “Uhh… be careful…”

Before she could say anything, he ran off.

Be careful? She wondered, He didn’t seem like a violent person…? Although, the tremors might tell a different story…

She took a deep breath and knocked loudly on the door, before waiting a few moments. When no movement was heard from within, she tried the doorknob and found the door unlocked. She opened it carefully and stepped inside.

The interior of Naghren’s rooms were pretty identical to the set of rooms Lirya had been using—although one clear difference was the long, thin cracks that exuded a soft purple glow, spreading through the room from the bed. And in the centre of the bed lay Naghren, his inky hair spread over the creamy white pillow like an oil spill. Around his body, the sheets had begun to burn away slowly, with unnatural magenta flames licking at his arms and legs and wings. He tossed and turned fitfully, his face contorted.

Lirya’s feet moved, bringing her to his bedside, and she stood uncertainly by the bed, her hand hovering above him and her heart hammering. All of a sudden, he turned around, his face facing hers, and he muttered in his sleep, a stray tear running down his gaunt cheek.

“No… please don’t go!” His hand spasmed and clenched, as if reaching for something, “You’ll never come back! Please… stay with me… don’t leave me alone in this darkness!”

He’s suffering, she thought.

Lirya grabbed his shoulder and shook him gently, saying, “Naghren, wake up! You’re having a nightmare!”

His eyes flashed open, his eyes flashing red.

Red? His eyes were green…

A deep purple haze built up around him, and his hand shot out, grabbing her neck.

Though she was a spirit, his hand cutting off her air supply was very real. She choked and gasped, her hands clawing at his arm.

“Nag… hren…” She sputtered.