7th chapter, what? Sorry. I just didn't know I would write again so soon...but don't get your hopes up. Now I'm really going to have problems finding time to write... Anyway, I feel the need to apologize about the last chapter...I didn't like it all too much. I think I'll go back and rewrite some of the parts before moving any farther ahead... Wah. Now that that's out of the way, please enjoy!
Seishiki: I bet they don't remember who I am... -tear-
Cappie: Aww, I'm sure they will!
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Seishiki stared intently into the dark, thick liquid. The wide, deep basin that contained the liquid was perched precariously on the edge of an ornately carved table, swaying every now and then until Seishiki had to put out a hand to stop it from falling over and spilling its precious contents. Taking a deep breath, Seishiki plunged his hand into the bowl, rotating his wrist to make small ripples with his hand. The old village leader's breath came in short shallow gasps as he felt the sharp coldness of the liquid pierce his skin and crawl up his arm and towards his shoulder. Seishiki clutched at his chest as he felt the freezing cold reach his shoulder, slowly making its way towards the vital muscle that was pumping faster and faster, trying to stave off this new assault on his body. Bending his head forward, the old man grabbed with resisting fingers a small, stone knife. Seishiki wrenched his hand free of the liquid and made a deep, long slash up his wrist, watching in more fascination as the newly shed blood dripped into the bowl. Grunting in satisfaction as he saw the last droplets of blood fall from his withered wrist, the old man smiled to himself when he felt the coldness seep through his chest, quickly slowing the frantic struggles of his heart. All at once, Seishiki's vision blurred, then turned black as he fell to the ground, the bowl full of blood finally making its descent to the ground and spilling the rich, dark red liquid all over the now still body of the old man. One last breath escaped the lips of the beloved village leader before the coldness seized his heart, stopping its valiant pumping forever.
Seishiki walked through a long, dark tunnel, stopping every now and then to stare at the grotesque paintings that smattered the walls. It seemed that the King still hadn't changed his tastes in art… Smiling grimly to himself, the old man continued walking.
A few minutes later, Seishiki found himself in a large, rectangular room. Looking around himself, the old village leader saw that there were sharp edged tables pushed up against the walls of the room…if they could be called walls. Gazing up with half lidded eyes at the walls, Seishiki noticed that they were as he remembered them…bones protruding from a dark brown, uneven cement-like substance. Skulls were also sticking out from the walls, forever grinning and staring into this room. Inhaling deeply through his nose, Seishiki almost gagged when the smell of decay met his nostrils. He had forgotten about that… Continuing on through the room, the old man walked through the high archway that led to the King's chamber. At least it had, when he had been one among the dead. Walking timidly through the archway, Seishiki beheld the exact same chamber room that the King had inhabited. Glancing around for any sign of him, the old man sighed when he saw a high backed chair turned away from him. It was moving ever so slightly.
"My lord?" Seishiki asked timidly, walking forward to stand directly behind the chair. The old man almost ran out of the room when the chair suddenly snapped around, revealing the King of the Dead, who, at best, didn't looked pleased. The King of the Dead glared directly at Seishiki, his face only softening a little to reveal some surprise.
"Who are you?" the King asked bluntly, crossing his arms over his chest.
"My lord…it's me. Seishiki." The old man answered, lowering his eyes to the ground to escape the King's penetrating glare.
"Seishiki…? Ahh, yes. Now I remember you." The King sighed in remembrance, unfolding his arms and standing in front of the old village leader. "You, the 'wandering spirit', as some chose to call you. Seishiki, the father to all spirits. Seishiki, the ancient one. Seishiki, the one who was here before the creation of hell. Oh, the list goes on, my friend. But tell me, why have you come back? Last time I checked, I gave you a one way ticked out of this hellhole so that you could 'live amongst the living', or so you had so charmingly put it. Was life not what you expected? Are you disappointed with those who have bodies and are 'alive'? Or perhaps…perhaps it was that you found you couldn't stand to watch those around you die, with disease, during war, old age…perhaps you couldn't stand to watch those you had come to love drop like flies around you while you stayed the same." The King sneered into the old man's face.
Seishiki stood with his head lowered before replying. "Please, Polmos, don't speak as if you know everything."
The King clenched his fists in anger, then said through clenched teeth, "I thought I had made it painfully clear to never utter my name aloud. If you choose to say it again, I shall have to go through the trouble of…re-teaching my lesson to you." Ah, yes. Seishiki knew that King Polmos didn't want his name to be known by mortals, for if they were to get their hands on his name they could summon him at will…if they knew the correct procedures to take along with his name, of course. Seishiki sighed and nodded his head slowly, remembering all too vividly the tortures he had endured under the hands of his 'beloved' King.
"I've come to warn you…my lord." The old man said, slipping back into the proper way the King was to be addressed. Polmos snorted.
"Warn me? Whatever of?"
"There is a man who is intent on seeking you out. He wishes to kill you. I can tell by the way his eyes flash whenever your majesty's name is mentioned…your name being the King of the Dead, of course." Seishiki added, not wanting to make his ugly tempered King angry with him.
"Oh, that garbage? That…what was it…Airyglyph soldier? Ha! So he has decided to confront me. Good, good. This should prove to be of some interest. At least I will have something to look forward to…" the arrogant King trailed off, rubbing his chin with his left hand, deep in thought.
"But…my lord!" Seishiki protested, his eyes widening, "I believe he is stronger than the others you have fought with in the past. I believe this man might actually have a chance of defeating you!"
"Beat me? And how does he intend on doing that, hmm? I am the King of the Dead after all. King of the Dead! I'm already dead! You should feel foolish for trying to warn me about a human. There is no way a piece of decaying flesh could beat me." The King retorted, growing very angry with this troublesome spirit. "Very well, Seishiki, you've done a splendid job of 'warning' me. Now, please, be on your way." Polmos finished, waving his hand dismissively and turning back to his lavish chair. The old village leader stared at the King of the Dead as he sat back down in his chair, turning it back to the thick desk that was behind it.
"Very well, my foolish King." Seishiki said quietly, then turned and left, nothing but the soft swish of his garments betraying his swift exit from the room.
If Polmos wanted to play the fool, who was Seishiki to stop him? The King had once viewed the old spirit as an equal, but it seemed he did no longer. Seishiki had been in hell long before Polmos had, but hadn't risen up to take over the chaotic place. The old man had never wanted to rule here, no, not here.
It was during the revolt that Polmos led when the two dead spirits had met. Polmos had been newly dead, only fifty years, maybe, but had still tried to take over hell. Polmos had been failing miserably with his revolution, losing terribly to Letek, who was the King of the Dead at the time, when he had heard about 'the ancient one'. 'The ancient one' was very powerful. 'The ancient one' would ensure their victory. The only problem was, 'the ancient one' didn't enjoy warfare, especially in hell.
In hell, since everybody is already dead, the only way you can 'win' a war is by capturing all of your enemies. This is very challenging, since once you capture a spirit, what are you to do with it? Letek had thrown them into massive structures, not unlike dungeons, and had left some of his men to guard the doors. But for Polmos, that would have meant sacrificing some of his men to babysitting, and this he wouldn't allow. The conniving man thought up a way to 'disable' the spirits so that they wouldn't be able to move. He had made devices of which hell had never seen in order to 'suck the spirit's core' out of them, rendering them nothing but floating, thoughtless things. Once he had perfected his device, the war had started turning in his favor, but not enough to his liking. He wanted more 'death', more sorrow, more chaos. So naturally, when he heard of this 'ancient one', he automatically sought Seishiki out, wanting to enlist the aid of such a great spirit. Seishiki had been reluctant at first, sticking with his original beliefs about war, until Polmos had offered him something which he couldn't refuse. Polmos had declared rather boldly that he knew of a way to return to the world of the living. If only Seishiki would help him, Polmos would be willing to help him become alive again…
Seishiki sighed, nearing the end of his journey out of hell. Apparently, Seishiki had helped Polmos, but when the King of the Dead had said 'alive', he really meant he knew of a way back into the land of the living, allowing Seishiki to drift aimlessly through the hordes of breathing, eating and drinking people. It was Seishiki who had figured out on his own how to 'possess' a person, by merely spreading his spirit into their brain and taking over their bodies. It wasn't the same as being alive, however. Seishiki didn't need to eat, sleep, or drink. He only did these trivial things so that no one would become suspicious of him. To tell the truth, the old man couldn't taste, and he couldn't feel warmth or coldness. He wasn't able to do most of the things that normal people could.
Sighing as he stepped back through the gate that barred the way to hell, Seishiki found himself squinting into the brilliant light of day. Now that he had killed the last body he had possessed, he would need to find a new one. Taking a step in the direction of a nearby village he had heard of, Seishiki decided to forget all about his arrogant King of the Dead.
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Fayt awoke to a slight stirring in his hair. Opening his eyes and glancing up, the teenager found to his surprise that Albel's head had fallen to the side, making it so that whenever the swordsman exhaled, his breath would play with Fayt's hair. Smiling lazily, the blue haired boy started to fall back asleep…before he realized that he was sharing a bed with Albel. Snapping his bright green eyes back open, Fayt slowly eased himself away from the swordsman's warm body, making sure not to disturb the older man. Sitting on the foot of the bed, the teenager put his head in his hands. He must have accidentally fallen asleep from exhaustion yesterday evening…
Standing up, Fayt walked over to the pitcher of water, which was sitting on the edge of the bedside table as he had left it, the green eyed teenager cupped his hands and dipped them in the water. Pulling his hands back out slowly, so that he wouldn't spill the water that was cradled in his hands, Fayt splashed the water in his face, attempting to wake himself up. Fayt rubbed his wet hands through his vivid blue hair after he was done splashing his face, trying to smooth down the few strands that were sticking out at odd angles. Sighing, the teenager leaned up against the wall of the tavern and closed his eyes.
"I guess I should go and apologize to Nel…" Fayt thought, wondering what had ever become of the meeting they had promised they would attend. Looking back to Albel, the blue haired boy decided not to wake him, seeing as he was sick and needed his rest. Tiptoeing to the doorway, Fayt took one last look at the sleeping swordsman before he shut the door quietly behind him.
Fayt walked slowly down the street, enjoying the brisk morning air more than he ever had before. Inhaling deeply, the teenager felt his head clear as the clean, fresh air entered his lungs, and he sighed gratefully. He would need to be clear headed when confronting the Queen of Aquios, at the very least. The stern Queen demanded attention, and if she caught Fayt straying from the conversation, she would be sure to direct him back towards it. The blue haired boy smiled when he remembered the Queen of Aquios, her red eyes so assuring, so calm and peaceful, and yet the woman who wore the eyes was very strict and stern, though forgiving. Her eyes…so much like Albel's blood red eyes, and yet so different. Albel's eyes always seemed to carry in them a hatred that would never disappear, always something that lingered behind their glossy exterior. The cruel swordsman's eyes were very expressive, however, and Fayt had sometimes fancied himself seeing in them emotions other than hate, emotions such as pity, sadness, or joy. Very rarely did Fayt see these expressions in Albel's eyes, and he still doubted himself whenever he thought he had.
The green eyed teenager stopped abruptly when he realized that he had almost walked straight into the side of the castle. Pulling himself away from his daydreams, Fayt walked over to the nearest guard who was positioned at the gate and asked the half asleep man whether or not he would be allowed to see the Queen. The bearded guard mumbled something about how Lady Nel wanted to speak with him as soon as he arrived at the castle, so Fayt decided to visit the red haired warrior before trying to get an audience with the Queen.
Walking through the large, stone gateway, the teenager glanced around at the surrounding garden. Although Aquios was chilly during the evenings and early mornings, there were still flowers that fought the weather to show off their dazzling colors. There were purple, blue, and red flowers, almost any color and shape of flower that one could ever hope to see in their lifetime. These brightly colored plants intertwined and, over the years, had woven themselves together to form a sort of net that covered the lush, green grass. The fountains that were placed around the garden sparkled with clear, crystalline water that reflected the multi-colored paradise around it. The blue haired boy, upon realizing that he had slowed his pace, walked quickly inside of the castle, leaving the luscious garden behind him.
Fayt rounded the corner of the hallway that led to Nel Zelpher's room, noting the many brilliant paintings that hung on the white washed stone walls. Ancient faces stared out of gilded frames as he passed the paintings by, noticing with a slight start that almost all of these men and women had red eyes. Inspecting the painting nearest him more thoroughly, Fayt found to his amazement that not only did they have red eyes, most of them had the pale complexion and kind smile that the Queen of Aquios had. It wasn't just that, though…there was something more. It wasn't uncommon for castles to have paintings of the royal family and ancestors displayed for the public to view, and yet something seemed strange about these paintings…
"Ah, Fayt. I see you have finally decided to join us. I must say, your absence yesterday was quite unexpected." A strong, female voice met the blue haired teenager's ears, almost making him jump. He had been so deeply engrossed with the paintings that he hadn't heard Nel walk up to him.
"Oh, yeah. Listen, Nel, about that…I'm really sorry. Last night Albel fell ill from a wound that was on his arm. He apparently didn't tell us because of his stubbornness, but I'm afraid it almost cost him his life." Fayt said, bowing slightly.
"…I see." The young woman said, staring the blue haired boy up and down, "Well then, since Albel's sick, I suppose the Queen will just have to wait until he gets well enough to meet with her. She so desperately wants to see the both of you at the same time… I shall go inform this of her right away. You might have to stay here longer than expected, so please enjoy your stay in Aquios." The warrior finished with a slight nod of her head, before she turned and headed up the stairs that led to the second floor of the castle. Fayt sighed as he watcher her leave, wondering what he should do with his free day off.
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"…maggots…" Albel mumbled, looking disgustedly at the food he had received from a young serving girl. The swordsman used the term 'food' lightly, however, because what sat on a plate in front of him in no way resembled what Albel would even consider choking down his throat. Sneering as he pushed the plate heaped high with what seemed to be carrion, the swordsman glared at the door the serving girl had so recently exited, wishing that he had thrown the rancid meat back into her face and demanded some proper food. Albel wasn't one to shout, however, and wasn't really all that hungry, so he let the matter drop. Turning his gaze to the small window that lead outside, the swordsman stared out into the brightening day. The townspeople were starting to wake and market stands were being brought out in hopes that a rich visitor would buy some rug or gem that would no doubt cost the poor fool who bought it the rest of their life's savings. Albel wanted to leave this damned inn, but something had told him to stay. Maybe he wasn't quite recovered from his illness, because the swordsman was starting to feel dizzy again. Trying to focus on something other than the spinning table that carried upon it the disgusting plate full of food, Albel looked back towards the door, thinking he heard someone trying to open it.
"Go away, worm." The swordsman jeered, thinking it to be the daft serving girl with another plate brimming with more nauseating food. When the door opened, however, Albel was surprised to see an old, crouched figure coming in through the door.
"Still as hospitable as always, I see…" an old voice, cracking with age, chuckled. The old man stood up, revealing that he wasn't bent with age as he had seemed to be when he was coming in through the door, but was actually in good shape. His chest was still broad and his hands were steady as he reached to pull his cloak hood back.
"What are you doing here, old man?" Albel sighed, not wanting his father figure to see him in his weakened state. "Have you come to pester me with more tales of times long ago, as you so often did in the past? I assure you, I am too old to want to hear such nonsense." The swordsman finished, his voice hissing as though his throat was too dry to talk.
"No, boy, I have not come to entertain you with my old war talk. I come on a very serious matter that I did not think should be left alone any longer, whether you are sick or not." Woltar said evenly, staring directly into the younger man's face. Albel shrugged and crossed his arms, apparently waiting for the old man to continue. "I have been having dreams of…the most disturbing nature. Your parents are in them, Albel. They are scared for you and are trying to warn me of something that is to come, but I can't quite grasp their meaning…" Woltar trailed off, watching as the swordsman snapped his cold glare over the old man at the mention of his parents.
"What did you say, old man? How long have you been having these dreams?" the younger man asked, his brow furrowing.
"For five straight weeks I have been having these dreams. For five weeks I have been trying to understand them. Please, just listen to what I have to say without interruption. It will be easier that way." The old man pleaded, and, seeing Albel nod his head slowly, continued on, "Yes, your parents are so vivid in my mind that I fear they are alive sometimes as I wake up from my dreams. No, no not dreams. They are nightmares. Your parents, Albel, are always decaying in my nightmares, as if they have been dug up from their graves. I know they are dead, and yet this doesn't disturb me as it should. When I wake up, I know that they cannot be alive and that both of them are dead, but I am convinced in my nightmares that they are living corpses, the animated dead. Call them whatever you want, but one fact remains the same: they are certain that you are in danger. They torment me with questions of which I have no answers to. They ask me what you are doing, why you are doing it. They express great sorrow and terror at the same time as they whisper their strangled thoughts into my mind. Please, Albel, confide in me. What are you doing that would cause your parents to come back from their graves to haunt me like this? Or, if not, what are you doing that would cause me to dream such terrible nightmares?" Woltar finished, his eyes narrowing when he saw the look on the younger man's face. Albel stared at the bed he was sitting on for a while, his face entirely placid, as if no emotions were running through him. Slowly, the swordsman raised his head to look back at Woltar before answering.
"Get out." Albel said quietly, all traces of contempt or malice erased from his voice.
"No. Not until you answer my questions, boy, for I will not lose another night of sleep over your problems." Woltar said coldly, though he wasn't really angry with Albel. In the past, the old man had found that the easiest way to get through to the stubborn boy was to be just as stubborn as he was.
"Get out, old man." The swordsman said, his voice soon becoming louder.
"You must tell me, boy, for if you don't your poor parents will never go back to their eternal rest. They will forever be wandering without a purpose." Woltar fired back, his voice staying as steady as it was when he had first got here.
"I'm not going to tell you three times, old man. If you're not out of here by the time I draw my sword from its scabbard, I'll make sure the maids will have a hell of a time cleaning up the mess I will make of you." Albel growled deeply in his throat, reaching over to the side of his bed and bringing the sword closer to him. Woltar frowned. He did not doubt the younger man, especially when he was in a foul mood such as he was. Standing up from his seat by the fireplace, the old man pulled the cloak's hood back up around his face.
"Very well, boy. I shall leave you now, seeing as you are sick and obviously not feeling well. However, I beg of you, stop whatever madness it is that you are experimenting with. Do not tempt fate." The old man said, turning to leave.
Albel watched Woltar leave, his shoulders relaxing as he set the Crimson Scourge back down to the ground. Pulling his feet back up onto the bed, the swordsman turned to lay on his side, his back facing the door. Albel reached down to the edge of his bed and grabbed the thin blanket that lay there, wrapping it around himself.
"…rotten old man…" was all the young swordsman thought before falling back into a fitful sleep, spattered with images from his childhood.
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