• The Keeper
    Prologue: The King


    He lay bleeding profusely from so many different wounds, pin-pricked like a great roasted pig, bloated and in pain. A great blinding light had come over him as he laid there, eyes unseeing to anything other than that searing light. “Live. Live for your kingdom,” Someone shouted into his ears, though it was no more than a whisper in the mortal realms of man where his body dwelled. His spirit was on the outer realms though floating about in its transcendence.

    “Live damnit all!” Another shout into his ear, causing for his head to tilt and for him to groan as his body shifted closer towards the mortal realm back into his blood soaked body. Shouting all around, shouting and screaming, crying and sobbing that sounded around his aching mind and body. He cried himself, tears of purgatorial pain rolling down his stained cheek “Sleep, my dear. Sleep.”

    A voice whispered; no shouting, no sobbing, no cheering or jeering or anything that was humanly sounding in his mind for such was the calamity of mortal souls. The voice sounded as sweet as a crooning lullaby. “Sleep and be well.”

    The voice soothed his pains as he let out a whimper, so ungainly and sounding so apolitical unlike a king should have sounded. A profound sense of tranquility warmed his insides and his body seemed to float over a river of white lava, burning hot as the sun, burning through his bones and skin searing him, melting his body into oblivion of nihility.

    His bones turned into mush until they flowed in his skin like the fresh flowing blood that poured forth onto him. His skin seemed to burn afresh and all that was left was the keening bounds of his soul. Nothing existed except the great warmth and profound sense of nothingness that poured and swam around him, through him, became him until he was just a soul. Neither male nor female, just a cascading spirit that was profound and unadorned in a trice.

    “Nehemal, Nehemal, Agrona, Agrona, Seshema, Seshema: I call twice of the thrice, thrice twice of the great gods and goddesses. Come forth into this mortal body and seer forth the evil that stains it. Seer forth all darkness and pain, bring back forth the mortal gods spark with which you born unto this man as he lay in his mother’s womb. Bring back this corporeal man who is blessed in your eyes. See him in your eyes and save his soul from the demons which would steal him from us so soon” The voice crooned into the nothingness, breathing into the empty husk, “See his gods spark and bring him back to us all.”

    Outside of its ethereal world into the corporeal world the Keeper was glowing, a light blue that was beneath the skin like a fireflies bulb. He was murmuring beneath his breath a slew of words that was otherwise unrecognizable to any human speech. A man sat beside the Keeper, wringing his hands uneasily, dark brown hair dampened by either sweat or rains making him look rather helpless, though far from helpless this man truly was. He was the second general in the king’s army, an astute man who was well versed in fighting and blood, yet with the sight of his liege covered in blood he flew out like a banshee and cried like a babe at arms.

    Back in its ethereal world once more it was slashed open and an acute throbbing stabbed into his temples, he groaned unceremoniously, “Egad! You’ve done it!” They cried and clapped, “The Keeper has brought back our king!” His essence flowed back into its mortal body, hot lava still burning in his bones and blood, swelteringly through him until he cooled to a moderately warm temperature that eased him into a state of comfort.

    “Ah. Gentle king, welcome back to the living.” An elderly man spoke; his hair was frosted white like that of the snowy mountains, not a loss of hair from his head. His tips were lightly touched with gold as though a great painter had decided to gild the man. He still was still aglow with his faint icy blue, just like the color of his eyes. His skin was a map of wrinkles, making him look much older than he actually was.

    “Hush.” A man whispered beside him, turning his heavy head to see his second-in-command with tears on his face, smiling in great earnest. “Keeper.” He whispered bowing his head to a greater power than his own was he knelt beside his newly healed king. Sefrin lay still in his weary body; newly healed he was still weak beyond words. As though the tasking of his body had drained him of all sense as he lay there still and silent, voice lost to the great wonders he had felt and still remembered from his numinous journey.

    He coughed, feeling his chest breathe in the great gasps of air for the first time as if he’d been holding his breath, which in this case was true for the king had opened his eyes but his body had yet to return fully even as men spoke to him as if he lived properly like them. He coughed again, no blood spurting forth from his lungs, no pain stabbing into him as he blinked in pure wonder.

    “Keeper.” He whispered, reaching out a hand for the gilded man, “Keeper, Thank you.” He moaned before shutting his eyes and falling into a deep sleep. His second-in-command let out a cry that seemed to echo in the monastery, “Hush, little man. Your king sleeps. He is weak. He will live.” The frosted man spoke to him in soft tones of clear tranquility.

    “Allow him time. He will need it to fully heal. I have taken away his mortal wounds but his pain is deeper than that. I could not take away all his corporeal pains, so he must take the time allotted to him as king to heal.” He smiled then, his white teeth showing as he rested a hand on the high kings forehead and then closed his eyes as if in pursuit of other things that were yet untold of within the great kings mind.