Chapter III

The next morning’s sun yawns, squeezing a few of its rays through the dark cloud-filled skies. The many clouds rumble but not with anger or hatred. Instead, it is of defeated mourning and solemn remorse. The winds sway with sighs of hardening truths, cussing aloud for all ears to perceive.

 “You have done well, my friend,” the Crown of the Angellius demesne expresses to his most trusted friend with glee, completely absorbed into the scripted papers in front of him. He sits up in his majestic chair as he continues to read. His thin lips move ever so slightly, emphasizing each syllable of the written words. “Every person that I requested, you have accomplished in seeing them here for the funeral.”

After a few minutes, Crown Quince puts down the paper and lifts his satisfied eyes to the one who patiently stands a few feet away from him. This patient person in particular hears the rumbling above all else. His hands rest steadily, palm atop of palm, behind his back as he stares out of a single oversized window and into the irate winds and grieving clouds.

“Have you noticed the skies this morning, Quince?” Roen asks, glaring beyond the dreadful clouds, almost meditative and ignoring his Crown’s jubilance.

“I have not,” Crown Quince blinks, removing himself from his moment of happiness and placing questioning eyes over his removed Rune. “But why are you so monotone? You seemed so lively when you were with your students yesterday, and now, you sound so… unattached.”

The immense room falls quiet between the two.

The cool breeze that circulates the room hisses with nervousness. The mood darkens and feelings of hidden truth seem to be the casting of the sudden obscurity.

“I have never witnessed the skies react like this before,” Roen informs, ignoring his Crown’s observation and remaining fixed in his uncommitted tone.

“Roen, the skies are precisely like this every year around this time,” Quince attempts to convince. Even through his drawn out truthful lie, the world can be heard giving its own annoyed interpretation. An exaggerated thunderous grumble from the near-sighted blackening clouds accentuates Roen’s sentiment and gives off a frustrated plea to the oddly naïve remark from Crown Quince.

Roen holds the fuming silence a few seconds longer before replying. “I have seen these skies only once before… from a recent dream of mine.”

“A dream?” Crown Quince yelps, failing greatly at holding back his amusement. “You are in this somber mood because of a dream? Now I am for certain in need of an explanation.”

“Then listen attentively with both ears, Quince,” Roen demands from his old friend while keeping his eyes slated past the single window and deep into the telling weather. “Because this dream was no mere dream.”

Crown Quince’s robust chair creak wildly from underneath as he sinks heavily into the solemn state in which Roen stresses of him. His attentiveness falls on his friend in a way that he never believed he would ever do. Tension swell within his lungs, nervous of what he may learn from Roen’s dream. Therefore, he exhales a forceful exhale, calming his entire essence and everything around them both. All forms of volume immediately collapses and the only sound permitted to be expressive, is the one who has required it.

It is in this eloquent consideration that Roen shares his insightful dream…

 

It began, with the darkness.

This was a darkness, which ensured that my essence possessed no meaning, I had no form of attachment to life, and my truths were without explanation. I was soon surrounded by a sense of something most whole. This sense was defined to be something that even the darkness around me envied… emptiness.

Then, I heard a female speak. “See what I see, hear what I hear… and realize what I realize.”

This female held the most matured and eloquent voice I have ever heard. At first, I believed the voice to be projecting through the darkness from a woman I could not see. Soon though, as I focused more on the gravity in which she spoke, the passion behind each syllable from her every word, I quickly came to understand my error. This voice that was beyond all known descriptions, stemmed from the emptiness behind the darkness.

The moment I was able to contain my awe of her sheer and absolute tone, the Darkness around me gave way to light, and I saw it, Quince… I saw the dark cloud-filled skies, the cussing winds, and pleading lightning. It was through this climate where I saw things I had never seen before. Seals bound tightly around the people, the towers, the castles, and demesnes alike. I witnessed barriers strangling the tongues of the many, and heard deceit ringing jubilantly with conviction from all those who I believed most genuine. I was in disbelief of what I was witnessing, so much to the point that my eyes could not bare to watch any longer.

My eyes bowed.  

So too did my undefined self and I dared to be helplessly submerged in her.

I begged for the emptiness to define my being, give me her truth to see beyond the darkness, and permit me the ability to be rid of all the blasphemy I was witnessing.

And you know what happened, Quince? She did just that.

Suddenly, with eyes gripped shut, I felt a shrilling but oddly soothing coldness take hold of me and then… I was made to understand what she understood… to see what she sees.

I opened my revised eyes and stared at all that surrounded me with an existence, which was beyond all told lies. The dark clouded skies began to descend, shattering the barriers over everything. Chaos followed as truth broke through all the deceit of the world. Eventually, there were no more buildings, nor people, and the demesnes were relinquished to ruin.

As I learned from her, it became more and more clear that she was not emptiness at all. She was no single definition, but was what all definitions feared.

The darkness returned over my eyes, yet I was still able to sense and feel the revealing weather.

Then, everything fell silent, and I woke up…

 

The two friends, Crown and former Rune, stare at one another and permit confronting tension swell. No words are muttered, all sounds become mute, and the evocative dark clouds force deepened shadows to fall heavily inside the room.

“That is a very peculiar dream you had,” Crown Quince tells, as he stands. His soft blue eyes seem to darken and narrow as they take in Roen’s words. His broad frame expands while taking grasp of his surrounding warnings, acknowledging the current. He carefully looks around and realizes that he must have voice within reason. Then, through a resounding exhale Quince dejectedly accepts the remorseful telling of all that has come to light from his dearest friend.

“Peculiar is not the word that I would describe it, Quince,” Roen replies, taking an opposing step forward. The cautioning breeze lifts away from him with fright and the illuminations throughout the room are quick to dim, conceding.

“Then tell me, Roen,” Crown Quince insists, taking three imposing strides in Roen’s direction. “What word would you describe your dream?”

There is a dangerous pause between the two. Daring to move in this instance would assuredly be disastrous. Therefore, they remain motionless and words are without voice. Only eyes of blinking time, brings them back into the current and Roen is inclined to answer Quince’s question.

“Factual,” Roen promises. His tone clear, precise, and holds no form of hesitation.

Tears immediately fall down both of Quince’s cheeks. This entire interaction is heartbreaking to him and he is at a loss for words. He knows that the unprecedented bond the pair share is now sorrowfully shattered. These two are no longer Crown and Rune, dearest friends, nor most trusted amongst two souls. They have regretfully become the simplest definition of their own single word… enemies.

“No,” Quince yelps through collapsed lungs and withered tongue.

            “And yet, truth rings clear,” Roen spits out in pure anguish. “Tell me Quince, after all these countless years, can any of your words fill me with such assurance?”

            “Roen,” Quince petitions, barely able to speak. His throat fills with despair and his voice trembles with penitence.

“It is unfortunate that our current time together has come to an end,” Roen hurries to say, ignoring Quince’s plea to his name. “They knock on your door.”

Quince’s demeanor becomes one of perplexity. “Who knocks? I do not underst �" ”

Knock, Knock, knock.

“They have returned from their investigation, but we both know what they will report to you,” Roen clarifies, not budging from his brewing essence. “The tragic scars left from the wrathful stench of familiar blood are splattered throughout the entirety of the Glass Sanctuary. They will say that she was murdered with her own weapon and that her particular weapon… is absent. Then, once your mind has come to terms with who might that murderer be, they will assure you that he who killed Sera the Glass Being seems to behold a dreadful resolve that is unmatched to even the connotation. Now go ahead, Quince, permit them to enter.”

Knock, Knock, Knock!

The fourth, fifth, and sixth knocks give no significance to the ears of Quince and Roen. These two are fully wrapped into the revealing present and it is Quince who is particularly beside himself. He gazes over the man who stands before him and tears fall faster down his cheeks. He senses the radiating loathing and the sensation prompts the tiny hairs, which cover his body, to stand frighteningly on end. Breathing has become unknowing to the Crown as if tormenting his own soul.

Quince desires nothing more than to apologize to his dearest friend and express the wholehearted truth to him. Instead, the waited seconds catches up to the fated present and only one word jumps from his lips. “Enter!”

            As the wooden entrance door opens, the stressed atmosphere exits and the room is returned to a sense of normalcy. Nothing of Roen’s posture however, gives any hint toward relaxing. His eyes remain fixated upon Quince’s entire being with a ferocity that would make the stillest of water, shiver.

            “Farewell,” Roen mutters through tightly clamped lips.

            Quince opens his mouth, partly. His mind finds all the words he wishes to construct toward his imploring case. All that is needed is for him to merely spew out what his mind already has written for him to say. But upon staring, ever so long, at the antagonizing and betrayed-filled eyes of Roen, he quickly comes to realize that anything that flows freely from his lips at this point would cause only the hastening of the inevitable. He closes his eyes ever so tightly in complete disbelief. He is desperate for hope that he is merely in a nightmare, but hope refuses to be comforting. Only the unfortunate reality is able to seep in.

            Quince inhales, refocusing.

Then exhales, returning to a state of calm.

Upon slowly opening his eyes, he realizes that his dearest friend, the one he loves like a most loving brother… is gone.

            “Father, are you okay?” Prince Quintence asks, placing a concerned hand on the shoulder of Crown Quince. Although possessing the same shapely hazel eyes of his mother, Quintence is an exact replica of his father; tall, firm in weight, and a handsomely angled face. His presence commands strength and his remarkable smile coerces great influence. In this moment though, his essence reeks of worry and his noteworthy smile is nowhere to be found.  “Why are you with tears? What has happened?”

            “Everything has happened, my son,” Crown Quince replies to himself, wishing to say aloud to his son but is too aware of the consequence for stating such things. “The unfortunate, in its most unforgiving of ways, has come. Because of this, my mind is lost with what shall happen next, my body shakes violently with drastic insecurity, and my soul is shattered by my betrayal to the one who was most faithful to all of who I am.”

            Crown Quince removes himself from saddened thoughts and expression and greets his son with a grave tone. “I just need to know one thing. Was Sera’s weapon anywhere to be found within the Glass Sanctuary?”

            Before Quintence can answer his father, two others enter the room, Nil and Dilith.

            “No, my Crown,” Nil confirms in a deep sigh. His noticeably aged but stifling body is tense and uneasy while answering Quince. He shifts intimately close so that only those nearest him can hear. The way his immense black eyes shift from left to right, until finally settling to dwell deep into the Crown’s eyes, only heightens his significance. “Sadly, Sera’s weapon was not there. It would seem that the weapon… was taken.”

            Crown Quince’s eyes dart over to the third person in the room. “Dilith, you believe this to be true as well?”

            Dilith’s light green eyes fix on the Crown’s as well. The many freckles perfectly aligned throughout his face seem to not be there normal vibrant self against his olive skin, and is instead dim with distress and disastrous revelations. “I believe it true, my Crown.”

            Crown Quince only nods in response and walks over to the opened entrance door of his quarters. Quintence, Nil, and Dilith say nothing. They merely watch their Crown as he grips the door nob and carefully begins to close it.

            “So I am left with no other choice,” Crown Quince tells as tears fall down both cheeks once more. “You three… we have much to discuss.”

The door closes….

 

On the third floor of the Eldest Castle, and deeply buried far into the furthest corner, is a single living quarter. This particular living quarter is the most unique portion of the entire castle, as it is crafted not from the red brick of the Angellius demesne but the renowned amber stones that make up all structures on the Orihine demesne. The massive amber-stone entrance door gives a bit more of uniqueness in that it possesses cursive scripting of a passage that reads:

 

Through One Seldom Hymn, we shall harvest enlightenment bringing peace to a world of uncertainty and continuous strain. We shall become all things as well as nothing to all. We shall forever garner the knowledge of those things, everything in between, and each that is out of reach.

 

            Dwelling within this Orihine enveloped living quarters is someone who claims the Orihine demesne his origin home, Lius Zathos. Inside of his living quarters, and wearing nothing but extremely loose fit black pants, he sits in the center of the main room with his legs crossed. Each wall of the room is made up of the Orihine’s amber-stone except one. The wall directly in front of him is created by glass with magical runes of various colors and shapes swimming inside it. This specific morning though, while Lius sits, the magical runes dull their colors and move at it’s absolute slowest to ensure not to disturb. With his upper body completely bare, Lius crosses his arms to make them parallel with his legs. His well-built frame reflects a tremendous dedication to training and self-consciousness. He surprisingly retains minimum scarring to be a warrior but then again, Lius is not most warriors. He is a rarity in that his renown supersedes imagination of potency.

And in this knowing, Lius meditates.

            His extravagant long-sword is suspended in the air in front of him as it is held in place and slowly being twirled by, whispering runes. The runes are desperate to react in the manner in which it is meant to. It wishes to engulf the surrounding furniture, ignite against the Orihine stones, and desecrate the makings of Lius’s sword. However, Lius has learned control through the whispering runes chaotic nature. He has grown to make the needs of desolation elicit his will. Most of all, he has learned something only a few are known to have learned, to entice the whispering pandemonium and create his own fortitude within this heavenly wrathful form of magical scribes.

            In this state of indescribable concentration, Lius opens his eyes and stares at his hovering weapon. For the first time, the sword shows him its truest form as it is of his purest energy. Although the blade exemplifies death and destruction, it only speaks to Lius with unconditional love, for darkness… emptiness… the Written Emptiness. It tells of its affection in the most intimate of ways toward the definition of truth and devotion for unruly darkness.

The blade first shows him his wife, Kraiya Zathos. She sits in the same posture as he and wears the same extremely loose black pants with no upper garment. Kraiya’s long and curly black hair sits over her shoulders, covering the most intimate part of her breast. Her huge vibrant red eyes gaze into Lius’s as if she can actually see him in this meditative state. He watches his wife and takes in her presence. The way her reddish-black aura circle around her, reflecting humbled patience and a unique level of wisdom.

To see his wife, doing as he does, his love and desire to return to her is something that most will never in their lifetime feel.

Then, the blade removes the sight of Kraiya and reveals to Lius his seven-year-old boy, Nil Zathos. With hair as dark as the midnight’s sky and eyes like his own, Nil stands in the center of his favorite place, a large wheat field. The stems of the wheat are as tall as Nil, yet he is not intimidated by the height of his surroundings. Lius’s child stands in his own solemn world and with an extremely long-thick stick in his right hand, Nil maneuvers through the wheat field. If most were to witness the unorthodox way Nil sways his body and swings the lengthy stick, they would consider him unquestionably amateur. However, his father knows him well. Lius recognizes the cognate movements and thorough thought processing. He sees his child for he truly is, for he is a child who could in front of all men and command loyalty and rival any strength. Nil’s translucent aura of a never-known blue radiates tightly against his body profusely protective.

The sight of his family during his meditative state brings a feeling of appreciative warmth to Lius and he feels satisfied to remove himself from his stance. He grabs his suspended weapon and, with both hands, carefully places it down in front of him.

“I long to return to you both,” he ensures with meaningful purpose, while gliding his fingers across the blade.

Lius then stands and takes his time to prepare himself for the grand funeral ceremony….

           

            The morning’s peek has finally given way to a more, submissive spectacle. Thickened clouds have gained permission to mark the skies, delicate rumbles of thunder bring slight attention to the most attentive of ears, and lifting debris from the surroundings seem to suggest… nervousness. Even in these subtleties, there is one whom appears to notice all of it.

            The only Archaic being that is part of the Ascended, other than Rune Roen, is Liisor Orifiel, who leans against the rail of his living quarter’s balcony… gazing up at the cautionary spectacle above.

            Liisor, in his adolescent state, has one fully developed black-wing, a second wing barely half the size of the other, and both wings are anxiously upright. His single gold-halo gleam dim black writings, which tells him in detail about the concerning atmosphere.

            Although the warnings are so blatant, Liisor closes his eyes and is more concentrated on one particular image. It is the vision of a beautiful woman that possesses a smile filled with uncanny glee. This woman, is a few years older than he, but shares the same caring and youthful appearance as him. His vision shows this woman staring at him with the most loving green eyes, her cooling hands cupping his warm cheeks, and her voice soothing all his troubles away. This woman is the one Liisor holds dearest to his soul. She is his one and only sister, named…

            “Delilah Orifiel,” A female voice traveling from the direction of Liisor’s entrance door tells. “You are thinking of your sister again, aren’t you?”

            Liisor nods, recognizing the voice immediately. “Jhene, how did you know?”

            “I always know what you’re thinking, Sor,” Jhene assures, gliding over to the balcony and leaning over the rail, closely next to Liisor.

            Liisor giggles at her use of his name. “Is that so?”

            This time it is Jhene who nods with a smile.

The winds carry her thick jet-black hair away from behind her ears to sway preciously across her round young face. Her profoundly angled eyes flash over at Liisor, bashfully. “I make it a point to know what you’re thinking. Besides, I know how much your sister means to you. But right now, in this instant, you are not thinking of your sister.”

            Liisor lowers his head just enough to hide his suddenly blushing cheeks. Before returning his attention back to her, Liisor clears his throat and then brings his red inviting eyes to meet hers.

            He leans in Jhene’s direction. “Are you sure?”

            Jhene’s naturally narrow black eyes widen, noticing his shifted posture, she rewards him with a welcoming smile that reveals a shallow dimple in her right cheek. “I am.”

“Then tell me,” Liisor starts showing off his own charming smile. “What am I thinking right now exactly?”

            Jhene flips her somewhat shorthair behind both ears before replying. “I can’t reveal that.”

            Her response is one that Liisor knew would pass from her lips. His curiosity gets the better of him and he is left with no choice except to ask the single obvious question. “Why not?”

            “Because I would then be revealing quite a bit of my own thoughts,” Jhene tells, her tone softening, becoming more alluring. “And well, that’s just not part of the rules.”

            Liisor stares at her for a second, taking in each of her words. Normally she is guarded of her emotions, absorbed on nothing except her responsibilities as a Seat member, and is very cautious of her words. This side of Jhene is a rarity, exposing vulnerability to her feelings, attentive to another, and very free with what escapes her lips.  “Then I guess I need to be more adept to your thoughts as you are mines.”

            “You know, Sor, you can be pretty smart sometimes,” Jhene whispers, fully engulfed by the moment.

            “I try,” Liisor replies, matching Jhene’s willingness to the heightened current. The two fall silent and stare at one another with eyes of passionate interest. “Will you stay with me a while longer?”

            “I may have a little bit of time,” she teases within a fascinated snicker. “So how about you start by telling me why this horrific weather makes you miss your sister so much?”

            Seconds turn to minutes, minutes become hours, and this moment between Liisor and Jhene lasts for what seems to be two lifetimes….

           

            Inside Princess Florsza’s living quarters, she and Prince Kale lay nude together in her bed. The Princess’s head nest comfortably on Prince Kale’s bare chest, attentively listening to his soothing heartbeat and tracing her nails across the outline of his deep solid abs.

            “Florsza,” Prince Kale whispers, while combing his fingers through the Princess’s lingering soft curly hair. “There is something I need to ask you.”

            Florsza pulls the bed sheets to cover her further as a cool draft glides across her vigorous skin, raising goosebumps.  “What is it my love?”

            “From the first moment I laid my eyes on you, everything that is me had become yours,” Prince Kale tells, lovingly. The entrancing voice of Kale forces Florsza to meet his tender gaze. Without caring for the silk sheets being wrapped around her, she slides herself up so that she may bring her lips intimately close to his. She smiles an adoring smile as she waits to hear what her prince has further to say. “My mind desires solely to remind me of your image, my body yearns to hold your touch a second longer, and my soul refuses to be complete if you are not attached to it. You are my current life as well as my next life and the life that follows the second. I love you beyond all measurements… not even death can take you away from me. You are my life, my death, my destiny, and I am completely and utterly yours.”

            Princess Florsza brings her lips to Prince Kale and kisses him; slowly at first and cautious, yet she makes sure to not allow her lips to part from his. She deepens the kiss after each inhale and pulls Kale closer to her with every exhale. As the moment becomes increasingly climactic and their shared panting intensifies, Princess Florsza removes her lips and stares deeply into her lover’s eyes.

            “Earlier, you told me you had something to ask me,” Princess Florsza reminds. “Yet nothing you permitted to trickle from your lips, thus far, suggested to be a question.”

            Prince Kale can do nothing but smile with satisfaction after hearing Florsza’s observations. He turns away from the princess for a mere second before returning back to her.

            “I have but one question,” Prince Kale assures, lifting a beautifully elegant emerald ring to his princess’s line of sight. “I ask with my mind, body, and soul… Florsza, will you forever be my wife?”