A Laughter in the Distance - Chps. 1-2

* One *

         The rushing of the air and wind across his face seemed almost like needles in the dark. He scurried through the tall grass of the meadow and the burrs from the ground stuck to his clothes. His staff thumped harshly on the dirt as the man ran faster through the stalks. His quickened breath hinted at his terror as he sped through the rain. His heart skipped a beat as the lightening struck and the thunder cackled through the night sky. He could hear the sound upon the harsh breeze.
         “Pipes of Pan!” He yelled with an old voice full of wisdom as he raised his staff to the people as he exited the grass. The old houses and carts swayed in the gusts. Startled murmuring escaped from the crowd as he rushed toward them. “The Pipes of Pan!”
         A scream erupted from the meadow behind him and then, the crowd split like a wave in the sea. The man rushed through the streets toward a lonely house out past the town circle.
         “Son of Loch!” He yelled as he drew closer to the building. He cried out as he banged ruthlessly on the door. He burst through the old door as the rain dripped from his long black trench. “Nacre!”
         “Seymour,” the boy stood from his chair and approached the old man, “you look a fright.” Nacre took Seymour’s staff and placed it on the ground. Suddenly, the sound of panpipes echoed through the house. “What’s happening?”
         Seymour grasped Nacre’s shoulders and stared into his eyes. Nacre could see visions in his mind.
         “They are coming.”

***

***

         A green valley stretched across the ground and butterflies danced on the red petals of the many pinder-flowers of the green. An almost type of whistling seemed to float on the gentle breeze as it soared across the valley. A white stallion mother and colt raced through the grass. In the center of the green sat a city of technology.
         “My fellow Lorghes,” A man stood on a high balcony overlooking the city, “for years, we’ve mastered the arts and the technology more advanced than Civil. We dare to dream!” A loud clapping erupted from the crowd gathered in the town circle. “This is a time for celebration! It is Lorghian New Year as we enter 1539!”
         “Praise you, Seymour!” A voice spoke from behind him and he turned to face the Lorghe. “We all praise the day you became our Loré.”
         “Grace be to you, Loch.” Seymour approached him and waved his staff twice. “Pleased you decided to attend the festivities. I was afraid you might not arrive.”
         Loch grinned as he stared down at Seymour. His eyes beheld a look not seen amongst the Lorghes before. “I would not dare miss it, m’ lord. It is the year of change.”
         Seymour stared strangely back at Loch. “Sounds like something Crenta would say.” He paused as he stared at Loch’s palm-up hand. “Are you ill?”
         “Not at all, my lord. Quite well, actually.”
         Seymour placed a hand on Loch’s back and they both walked into a nearby room. “Tell me of your travels, Loch. There must be much to tell.”
         “Oh, there is, Seymour. There is.”
         The room was lit dimly by a few white taper candles that were scattered about the desks and chairs. Seymour gently sat in a nearby chair and stared up at Loch who gazed curiously about the room.
         “Is everything all right?” Seymour laid his staff across his lap.
         “You have all this technicra around you and, yet, you still fail to use it.” Loch turned toward Seymour. “Why is it you stay in the past?”
         “One day, our desire to be ahead of the rest of Synth will get the best of us.”
         “But, Seymour, we grew great because of our technicra. If it hadn’t been for our development, we’d still be wandering like the day we left Xornon.”
         “We worked hard back then.”
         “Do you remember Aelthanor?”
         Seymour rose his head higher. “Our finest Loré. She was a great leader.”
         “Well, Aelthanor is the one who started our advancement. She is who caused us to become great. Without her guidance and technicra, we would be as lost as the Golleths are to Civil!”
         “Enough, Loch!” Seymour rose his staff angrily but lowered it soon afterward. “Now, tell me of your travels.”
         “I have no travels worthy of a Loré.” Loch bowed to Seymour and exited the room.
         Seymour sighed and bowed his head. “I remember when he was a boy.” A figure emerged from a shadow behind him. “Do you remember, Marius?” Seymour turned to face the Lorghe.
         “Of course I do, sir.” Marius placed a hand on Seymour’s shoulder. “He was much weaker back then.”
         “Yes, he seemed to be one of the ones who would grow into a fine leader.”
         “But he is our finest traveler,” Marius knelt beside him, “and best warrior. Even if not a Loré, Loch will be history in some way.”
         “I suppose you’re right. That temper of his may cause problems, though.”
         “We can see past that, my lord. It is the Kingdom of Civil and the Cour de Faé that we may have problems with.”
         Seymour grinned and stared toward Marius. “Do you suppose Nacre will be like his father?”
         “In some ways, I hope so.” Marius sighed. “But there are qualities I wish not to see in young Nacre.”
         “Perhaps we will all be surprised.” Seymour slowly stood and leaned against his staff. “I don’t believe Nacre will be much like Loch.”
         “How do you suppose he will be then, Loré?” Marius pulled back the beads from the doorway as Seymour walked toward it. “If not like his father, then who?”
         “That is not a question for me, Marius. Perhaps you should ask Crenta Vanderchauff.”
         “The Prophet?”
         “Of course, Order.” Seymour exited the room. “Of course.”
         Seymour slowly walked down the stone stairwell toward a fountain in the center of the town circle. A gentle breeze flew through the city as he walked toward the man leaning against the marble fountain.
         “Loch!” Seymour yelled as he drew closer to him. The water of the fountain splashed as he stopped next to Loch who threw a pebble into the water. “I’m sorry, Loch. I meant no offense to you or Aelthanor.”
         “None taken.” Loch stared at Seymour. “I was just surprised to hear a Loré shunning his tradition and heritage. It’s just not like you to talk that way about the technicra.” Loch gazed down at his reflection in the water. “You’ve changed since my last visit.”
         Seymour sighed. “I mean not to but many years have weilded different views upon my mind. Also, Crenta has been spreading news about a Prophecy.”
         “Crenta? Prophecy?” Loch stared at Seymour. “You don’t believe her stories, do you, Loré?”
         “This time, I’m not sure.” Seymour’s expression turned solemn. “These past years, Crenta’s teachings have been very accurate. What she is foretelling is somewhat disturbing.”
         “I’m surprised at you, Seymour. A Loré believing babble from Crenta sounds very unbecoming, even more, turning away from his heritage because of her babble.”
         “Loch,” Seymour grasped his staff with both hands and placed it across his chest, “if I said to you that I am a tree shaken by the North Wind…”
         “Then, I would reply,” Loch continued, “I am your seed carrying your techings to the world.”
         “Then you must also carry my trust.”
         “How can I trust someone whose mind has been blinded by Crenta Vanderchauff?” Loch sighed deeply and walked toward his lonely house out past the town circle and fountain.
         Everything in Seymour’s heart told him that something was coming although he did not know what it could be. There seemed to be an ancient type of calling coming from somewhere in the distance. He ignored the flutes and walked toward Crenta’s house behind the fountain. The wind seemed to grow as he approached the darkened building and stared up at the solitary window at the top. An odd green light emitted from behind the clouded glass.
         Seymour gently turned the handle on the door and stepped into the darkened house. The only source of light was the sunlight barely cascading through the clouded windows. The clanking of his staff on the floor echoed through the rooms and halls. Cautiously, he ascended the narrow stairway to the top floor and stopped just outside the door of the room with the greenish light.
         “You may enter, Loré Seymour.” A soft, mystical voice flowed from inside. Seymour slowly pushed open a rickety door and entered the almost empty room. “I was expecting your visit.”
         Seymour approached the woman sitting at the small, round wooden table with a crystal ball glowing green in its center. An almost type of singing could be heard from the rock as he drew closer to the table. The woman stared up at him as he stopped in front of a small wooden chair.
         “I guessed you would be at home.” Seymour spoke softly as he gently sat in the chair and placed a hand on the table. “I really need your advice.”
         “What is it you come to me for now?” She picked up a black cloth and covered the glowing rock. “You’ve come many days lately.”
         “A type of protest stirs in the North and South today. The Faeries and Civil wish to declare a battle to rid us of our technicra.” He paused and sighed. “And Loch feels…”
         “Hush.” Crenta interrupted him before he could speak more. “Do not speak of the Great Warrior.” She stared wide-eyed down at the covered ball. “A Seeing-Stone is a dangerous tool. Many have been scattered to the winds. We do not know who may be watching or listening. The Seeing-Stones are knowledgeable but deadly.” They both stared oddly down at the black cloth covering the stone. Crenta gazed up at Seymour. “Do you know the story of the Garrome – ancient guardians of the Seeing-Stones?”
         “‘Send them to the farthest corners,’” Seymour recited as he gazed back at her, “‘and bury them in the sand. No more lives given to those who abuse the Kerand – stones of eyes.’”
         Crenta grinned. “You know your history
         Seymour scoffed. “But Loch suggests that I have forgotten my heritage.” Seymour reached toward the cloth and uncovered the glowing green Kerand. “What is it you see?”
         Crenta sighed and gazed down at the green Kerand. “I see Loch. An army is being led and battle reigns on Lorghian soil.” She stared deeper into the glow. “Dark clouds cover the land and the technicra has fallen.” There was a pause and Seymour could see a cloud inside the Kerand writhe with life. “A large figure comes now and the fires spread.” The Kerand went black. “All is lost.”
         Seymour gazed into Crenta’s eyes. “What does it mean?” Seymour slowly stood and leaned against his staff. “How much Lorghian blood did you see spilt on our green?”
         “There was much blood spilt.” Crenta stared deeper into his eyes. “Something big is coming.”
         “How much of the blood was Lorghian?”
         “You know that I cannot tell you that, Loré Seymour. Much evil would come from that type of revelation.”
         Seymour shook his head slightly. “Is there to be a war?”
         Crenta grinned that grin of hers and ushered Seymour out of the door with her purple eyes watching the whole way.

***

         An electric light hung from the ceiling and cast an eerie glow upon the house as Loch rustled about the living room.
         “How can he do this?” Loch yelled and plopped into the chair made of soft skin. “Does he even wonder what Aelthanor would think of him?”
         A boy gazed around a corner and stared at Loch. “Father?” He walked into the room and toward Loch. “What’s happening?”
         Loch stared solemnly down at the boy. “Come here, Nacre.” He picked up the boy and placed him on his knee. “Now, listen to me, Nacre.” He stared into the boy’s eyes whose green hue twinkled in the electric light. “Never try to be like Loré Seymour Nauttis, do you understand me?”
         “But, why, Father?” Nacre asked as he narrowed his eyes.
         “Just you listen.” Loch snapped. “You better not forget your heritage nor who gave you everything here –Aelthanor Zenorcha. Never turn away from the technicra, Nacre. No matter what happens, never destroy or give up the technicra.”
         “But why must I shun Loré Nauttis?”
         “Don’t dare speak of him that way! He deserves not to be respected as a Loré or Lorghe!” Loch sighed. “He’s turning away the technicra and forcing our whole heritage beneath the grass. He wishes to become like Civil.”
         “Civil?”
         “Yes, son. You are too young a Lorghe to understand what I’m telling you but you must remember.” Loch hugged Nacre tight. “Please, Nacre Couraen – Son of Loch, never forget who you are and never forget Aelthanor.”
         “Yes, Father.” Loch stood and walked down the hall to Nacre’s room. “I will remember Aelthanor.”
         “Good.” He placed Nacre into his bed and Nacre closed his eyes. “Good night, my son, and good-bye.”
         Loch gently shut the door as Nacre slowly drifted into a gentle slumber.

***

         “Father?” Nacre yelled in his dream. A void of distorted grass and dark trees glowed in his mind. “Where are you, Father?”
         The tress split to the Flottantville valley and he rushed into the grass. A type of echoed laughing sounded across the green.
         “I’m coming.” A familiar voice seemed to beckon to him. “You grace my feet but now I turn.”
         Rumbling sounded from the ground and the trees behind him as Nacre ran faster. “Loch!” A playing of high-pitched pipes began. “Great Warrior of Lorghes, I need you!”
         “I’m coming.” The familiar voice spoke again. “You defile what is yours and destroy our world but I will mend thee with swords and stones.”
         Nacre entered the wheat field with the rumbling still behind him. “Run!” He hollered toward the city before him. “Devastation comes to us.”
         “You cannot hide.” Screams erupted behind him. “You reek of denial and betrayal,” Nacre entered Flottantville, “to the ones who gave you wondrous objects of power and you shall be rewarded with death!”
         Nacre stumbled and feel to the concrete road. The rumbling stopped and Nacre hesitantly turned to stare at who had been following him. “No!”
         “I’m here.”
         Nacre screamed as the figure reached a hand toward him.

***

         Nacre bolted upright in his bed just to find Seymour sitting beside him in a wooden chair. Seymour’s face showed regret and sadness.
         “Loré Nauttis?” Nacre climbed out of the bed and stepped toward Seymour. “Why is it you are here?”
         “I came to fetch your father.” Seymour gazed sadly up at the boy.
         “But his room is across the way…” Nacre pointed to the door.
         “I know, son; I know.” Seymour motioned with his hand. “What I mean to say is…” He paused.
         “What’s going on, Seymour?” Nacre placed a hand on Seymour’s staff. “Where is my father?”
         “He’s not here, boy. He seems to have left during the night.”
         “Maybe he went hunting…”
         “We’ve checked everywhere, Nacre.” Seymour grabbed Nacre’s shoulders. “I regret to tell you this but your father has vanished.” Nacre pulled away. “Loch is gone.”
         “No.” Nacre replied, as he grew upset. “I don’t believe you! He would not just pack and leave!”
         “Nacre…” Seymour stood and reached for him.
         “No! You stay away!” Nacre stepped back. “My father told me about you!” Nacre yelled with anger. “You wish to defy Aelthanor, to destroy our technicra!”
         Seymour’s eyes grew. “My boy, the technicra is evil, it will only destroy us.”
         “No! You are evil!” Nacre motioned toward the door. “Leave me!” Nacre opened the door and ushered Seymour out of it. “He will come back!” Nacre slammed and locked the door. “You just listen, he will return!”
         Seymour sighed and placed a hand on the cold metal. “May Aelthanor watch you, Nacre.”
         Seymour turned and walked back into the destruction of the living room. Not one thing in the room remained intact except for a solitary necklace precisely lain upon the mantle-piece. Seymour walked toward the mantle and picked up the necklace and attached letter. Slowly, he opened it and read the writing:
Seymour Nauttis,
         I am guessing ‘tis you for I expected your untimely visit. As you have so noticed, I have gone, leaving nothing but this memoir and my dearest boy, Nacre. I tell you not where I have gone but, in time, you shall know. Let my boy know that a Golleth took me in the wood; he need not know that I have left of my own wish and will. Steer him not from the house and keep Crenta from praying on him.
         You cannot change his faith, Seymour. He knows the technicra is a blessing from Aelthanor and he shan’t turn away from it. Keep this charm of mine which was given by Aelthanor to my own father. Whence you feel the time has come for Nacre to know the truth, just reveal this charm to him and he will know. I will not return for I have found anew life amongst others. Take care of my boy.
                   -Loch

         Seymour folded the letter and stared down at the pendant in his palm. “The Seal of Aelthanor.” He whispered as he gazed back to Nacre’s room. “A great burden for such a Lorghe.” Seymour placed the necklace in his pocket and approached the front door of the house. “But, when time reveals a shadow, he shall receive his father’s gift.”
         Seymour opened the door, exited the house, and gently shut it behind him. He sighed and slowly walked toward the marble fountain. The sun shone bright above him as he approached the dark-clothed figure by the spout.
         “What happened?” Marius gazed up to Seymour as he approached. “Does he know anything?”
         “He accepts it not.” Seymour leaned against the marble ledge. He sighed again and shook his head. “He feels that Loch may return.” He gazed toward the house. “But I fear that our Great Warrior shan’t be coming back to us.” Seymour handed Marius the note from Loch as he turned to gaze back at him. “He left me this.”
         Marius opened the letter and read it silently. “I wonder what it is that is going through his mind right now.” Marius handed the paper back to Seymour. “Surely something is amiss. He left his entire world behind – Nacre.”
         “I know, I know.” Seymour opened his hand. “He also left behind the Seal of Aelthanor.” Marius stared down at the charm. “He wishes me to present it to Nacre when the right time reveals itself.”
         “This is history, Loré.” Marius stared deep into Seymour’s eyes. “On Lorghian New Year of 1539, the Great Warrior Loch vanished, leaving behind the lost Seal of Aelthanor.” Seymour stared down at the mystifying piece. “This shall be recorded.”
         “He did not vanish, Marius.” Seymour closed his palm and stared at Marius strangely. “He simply left his home.”
         “What about Nacre?” Marius placed a hand on Seymour’s shoulder. “Loch wishes him not to know of what really happened until the time has come.”
         “But, if it’s history, should it not be accurate?” Seymour grinned a bit. “It is easy to deceive a child but much harder to deceive or change history.” Seymour placed the charm and paper back into his pocket and began to walk toward his home with the balcony overlooking the same fountain. “I must consult my books.” Marius followed close behind. “I have a strange feeling that history needs to be consulted for I’ve heard of another great person vanishing in the night.”
         “Yes, I also remember something of the sort.” Marius pulled back the beads and followed as Seymour entered. “It was quite some time ago, though.”
         “You are right, Order, but I feel that your hope needs to be recharged.” Seymour grabbed a great book and placed it on his pedestal. He opened it and thumbed through the pages. “I keep all my books.” He stopped and stared down at the pages. “‘It is Middle Harvest of 1039 and the city seems in an awful state.’” He read as Marius looked on. “‘Sometime during the night, a great person and warrior fled our sacred lands. We mourn for our loss and record this devastating truth – Aelthanor has left us.’”
         “Aelthanor?” Marius gasped as he stared back down at the withered pages. “Are you saying Aelthanor abandoned her people?”
         “It seems so.” Seymour responded. “But there’s more.” He traced his finger along the lines. “‘The rumbling of the ground warns us all. The technicra is failing for our blessed Aelthanor has failed to return. There is something in the sky coming for us. The creatures of Gollethen are coming and we must fight without our warrior. They are tolling the bell now. Aelthanor is still not here and I must go.’”
         “That does not sound like our great leader Aelthanor.” Marius spoke as Seymour shut the book and laid one hand upon it.
         “And it shall not be what the Lorghes hear about Loch, either.” Seymour slowly approached Marius. “They need not know that Loch was not taken in the wood.”
         “Is that the right thing to do, though?” Marius raised a hand. “Shouldn’t our people know the truth?”
         “Yes, but,” Seymour leaned against his staff, “not this kind of truth.”
         Marius sighed and shook his head. “It is your call, Loré Nauttis. I shan’t oppose you.”
         “Good, Order. Call for the people to gather below the ledge. I shall tell them the news.”
         “Yes, sir.” Marius bowed and left the room.
         Seymour picked up a nearby pen and opened the book to a blank page. The pen scratched at the paper as he wrote:

It is Lorghian New Year of the year 1539 and a great tragedy has befallen our kind. Sometime in the night, the Great Warrior Loch Couraen left us. He left behind his son Nacre and the long lost Seal of Aelthanor. A note within his home reveals that he shan’t return to us. Without our Great Warrior by our side, I fear we may finally fall to the outside world.

         Seymour dated and signed the entry before closing the book. He rubbed a hand across its binding. He could almost feel the pain of the Harvest entry of 1039.
         “Loré Seymour Nauttis!” He could hear Marius shout from below the balcony.
         Clapping rose to his ears as Seymour sighed and slowly stepped onto the balcony in the sunlight. “Do not praise, Lorghes!” He shouted and the clapping stopped. “A tragedy has found its way to our city.” He took a deep breath. “Late in the night, Loch – yes, the Great Warrior Loch was taken in the wood.” Gasps and murmuring rose from the crowd. “Hear me!” The sounds slowly faded. “A terrible threat surrounds us, for it takes a great power to destroy someone like Loch. I fear for our safety. Pray to Aelthanor that Nacre will grow into Loch!” There was an odd silence as Seymour stared out into the crowd. “The spirit of Aelthanor shall protect us! She will not turn on her people!” The crowd cheered as Seymour turned and entered his shelter once again.
         Marius had already return and stared shamefully at Seymour. “You lied to your followers.”
         Seymour glared at him. “I did nothing of the sort! I was merely protecting them from the truth.”
         “There is not much difference, is there, Seymour?”
         “The intentions, my friend. Lies are meant to deceive and I mean not to. I just feel that the truth may sprout a war within our city.”
         “Suppose you are right. What would happen if Loch decided to return home? What do you feel your people would think of you?”
         “But his letter stated that he shan’t return and he had found a home elsewhere.”
         “But what if he changed his mind and came back to us? More could happen now that you’ve tried to ‘protect them from the truth.’”
         “You may be right, Marius, but you are not a Loré of Flottantville and you know not what is best for the Lorghes.”
         Marius narrowed his eyes. “I suppose I do not but I still know what is right and wrong to do to them.”
         “Do not toy with me, Marius!” Seymour sighed. “On to more important subjects; I shall take care of Nacre till he is old enough to help himself and, when time comes, I shall hand over the Seal of Aelthanor.”
         “Do you feel that Nacre should bear such a burden?”
         “It is his father’s wish, Order.” Seymour clasped the seal around his neck. “But I must wait until the time comes.” He bowed his head as though in shame. “I have no choice but to do as I have been requested.”
         “But the Seal of Aelthanor has uncontrollable power and strength.” Marius stared at the circular charm. “Nacre would not know how to protect it.”
         “I understand your concern, Marius.” A gentle wind circled the room. “But the Great Warrior requested for me to give this charm to his son. Loch has been faithful many years to Flottantville and the Lorghes within. He has never turned from his duties.” Seymour walked to the balcony doors and gently shut them. “I will fulfill his wish.”
         “You are right, my lord, but I fear for the safety of the city.” Marius grabbed Seymour’s arm and helped him walk to his bed. “If Loch has left, then there is certainly something afoot.” Seymour sat on the bed and Marius stood over him. “Nacre’s life may be in danger if he bears Aelhanor’s Seal.”
         “Loch would cause no harm to Nacre. He is his son.”
         “I know this, Loré, but if Loch has found a home amongst the wrong type, then a son is nothing to him. Much like the creatures of Gollethen…”
         “What are you trying to suggest, Order?” Seymour glared harshly at Marius. “If you are suggesting Loch has become involved with Gollethen, then…”
         “Not at all, sir.” Marius interrupted. “All I am trying to say is that we are the only colony of Lorghes in Synth. What if he has befriended a Faerie or Civil? What happens then?” Seymour fell silent. “The Cour de Faé and the Kingdom of Civil wish to take our technicra and destroy it. They even promise war if we do not give it peacefully.” Marius stared out the window. “What if Loch has joined with them? We could have no hope of stopping them.”
         “Loch would not join with Civil of Faeries. He wishes for the technicra to stay everlasting. I doubt he would pair with those who hope nothing but its destruction.”
         “But he paired with you!” Marius shouted as Seymour’s expression changed to pain. “Sir, I did not mean…”
         “Silence!” Seymour rose a hand in anger. “I cannot believe that my own Order of Loré would suggest that I had something to do with Loch’s disappearance!”
         “No…”
         “I said silence, Marius!” Seymour struggled to stand. “I have been around since Loré Kenathe Organorshe’s reign and never had I seen an Order defy his Loré. I have been a Loré for almost one hundred years and you have been my Order for more than half of that.” Seymour stepped toward Marius. “I want you to leave, Marius. I do not want to see you in my city again.”
         “But, sir,” Seymour pointed to the exit, "“ Loré should not turn away from tradition!” Seymour glared again. “You r heritage is your strength and you should keep it with you!”
         “Leave me, Marius.”
         “I won’t!” Seymour lowered his arm in shock. “I know what has been happening and I know you’ve been consulting Crenta!” Seymour answered not as Marius stepped toward him. “There is still time, my lord. We can banish her before she poisons you more. It is not too late.”
         “You haven’t the idea what Crenta has been revealing to me. She has been aiding me in the rule and protection of my people.”
         “No, she is corrupting you. She is manipulating you mind. She is using you to bring the fall of Flottantville to Civil!”
         “That is not what is happening, Marius. She would not turn against her kind. All Lorghes stay together."
         “Not that one.”
         “Not you either.” Seymour ushered Marius to the doorway and pulled back the beads. “Now, leave me,” Marius slowly descended the steps, “and never return.”
         Marius stopped once on the stairwell but did not speak a word. Many thoughts ran through his mind as Seymour stared on. Suddenly, a plan hatched in his brain as he grinned and continued down.
         “I shall return.” Marius whispered as he glanced back to see Seymour walk away from the doorway. “It shan’t be in your favor, though.”

***

         Nacre slowly opened his bedroom door and glanced around the corner,
         “Loré Nauttis?” He paused as he remembered his father’s words. “Seymour, are you still here?”
         He opened the door and it creaked upon its hinges. The house was oddly quiet and the electric light above had been broken somehow. As Nacre entered the living room of the house, he noticed that everything had been strewn about and nothing was left unbroken. Nacre’s mouth fell open as he stared at the destruction. He walked further into the room with empty thoughts in his mind.
         “Loch,” he whispered to himself, “did you do this, old man?”
         Nacre bent slowly down and lifted a broken picture frame. There were three people in the photo – a woman with long white hair, a man with black hair, and a small baby. Mother? He thought as he ran a hand across the shattered glass.
         Slowly, he lifted a tattered book off of the floor and opened it to the blank pages inside. Nacre grinned and sat at the dining table. He grabbed a nearby pen and began to write:
         Lorghian New Year of 1539 seems to not be the most festive of all celebrations. Loré Seymour Nauttis speaks of him being taken in the wood by a Gollethen being. I’ve the strongest doubts of Seymour’s sayings. I do not feel my father would be so careless as to be defeated by a Gollethen. One day, I shall find the answer to my father’s disappearance. Guide me mighty Aelthanor to Loch.
         Nacre shut the book and sighed deeply. It was not a sigh of relief or despair but a sigh of hope; for, one day, Nacre knew he would find his father or his father would find him.

* Two *

It has been eight years since my father Loch had vanished. I wanted to believe he would return someday to us but over the seasons, my hope has begun to fade. I do not want to believe that he is dead – he’s defeated Golleths before; Gollethen was no match for him. I need to know the truth. Has Loré Seymour Nauttis deceived me?

         Nacre sighed and closed the withered book. Its binding had long faded and the pages had cracked but, yet, Nacre still wrote. He wrote everyday about his father and hopes of his return but he never came – no one came…except Seymour. The restless Seymour meddled in his own deception and felt no care about it.
         “Nacre?” Seymour opened the creaky door. “Are you here, Nacre?”
         “Yes, Seymour,” Nacre turned in the chair to face the old man, “I am here.” Nacre stood and walked to Seymour. “Why is it you come now?”
         Seymour smiled. “Look how you’ve grown.” Nacre bowed his head. “You look more like your father everyday.” Nacre stared into Seymour’s eyes with a sad expression. “We all knew you would grow into Loch.”
         “Don’t say that. I am not my father.”
         “I know you are not but you have trained and grown to be like him.” Seymour reached into his pocket. “I feel it is time,” he pulled out the Seal of Aelthanor, “for you to receive your father’s last gift.” He solemnly handed the charm to Nacre.
         Nacre sighed and stared down at the seal with a frightened gaze. “Gift?” He gazed confusingly up at Seymour. “You mean, he was not taken in the wood by a Gollethen?"
         “No, my dear boy, he was not taken by a Gollethen. He was not taken by anything.” Seymour bowed his head in ultimate shame.
         “So, he left me here on his own?” Nacre clenched his fist around the locket. “But why?”
         “I cannot tell you, my boy, for I know not myself.” Seymour grasped Nacre’s hand. “He left all of his people, not just you.” Nacre stared at him. “That is why we told you that Loch would not return.”
         Nacre pulled away from Seymour’s grasp. “But my father told you to deceive me. I don’t understand why he would do such a thing, Seymour.” Nacre seemed to the point of tears. “He was my father. Why would he leave me all alone without even saying good…” Nacre stopped.
         “Good night, my son, and good-bye.” Loch’s voice rang through his ears.
         Nacre choked on a breath. “He did say good-bye.”
         “What?” Seymour stood and stared oddly at Nacre. “What did you say?”
         Nacre chuckled lightly. “He said good-bye to me the night he was…vanished. I hadn’t thought of it until now. He had spoken signs to me of his parting.” He gazed at Seymour. “Why would he do that? Why would he leave so suddenly but tell me of his parting?”
         “I do not know, boy, but,” he paused as he grinned and grabbed Nacre’s arm, “I know someone who does.”
         Nacre dared not object to Seymour so, he followed him out of the door and toward a house behind the water fountain. A green light he had never seen before seemed to flow toward him. The house was old and riddled with tarnish. A window at the top was broken and the front door was partially open.
         “Seymour,” Nacre tried to stop as they entered the building, “shouldn’t we knock first?”
         Seymour and Nacre climbed the dusty stairwell. “No use; she already knows we’re here.”
         “Stop!” A gentle voice hollered as Seymour reached for the door handle. A green mist gently flowed from under the door. “The boy should not be here, you know this.” There was a soft rustling inside the room. “Why is it you have brought him?”
         “He needs your consultance about his father.” Seymour paused and Nacre stared fearfully at the light. “You are the only one who help him receive closure.”
         “Come in.” A slight click sounded from the door and it slowly opened to reveal a woman sitting at a round table with a green stone floating above its center.
         “I see your powers have grown.” Seymour’s grip on Nacre’s wrist loosened. “That is always much of a good coming.”
         Crenta stared intently at Nacre. “I have seen you, boy; I have seen you many times.”
         “I’ve never had the pleasure,” Nacre bowed, “of meeting you, though. What is your name?”
         “Ah,” Crenta motioned to the chair across from her, “sit.” Nacre obediently sat and stared at the crystal. “I’ve never seen you with my eyes but you’ve appeared many times within my Kerand. Your father tried to destroy my crystal but he did not succeed, for a Kerand is a powerful tool that can only be destroyed by its master.”
         “I know who you are.” Crenta’s eyes pierced deep into Nacre’s mind. “You are the Prophet, Crenta Vanderchauff.” Nacre stood abruptly. “I shouldn’t be here.”
         “Sit.” Crenta again pointed to the chair and Nacre sat within it. “Yes, I am Crenta – the Prophet of the Lorghes.” She waved a hand beneath the crystal. “Do not fear me.” The Kerand slowly began to lower to the table. “I am nothing to be fearful of.”
         Nacre stared at the ball and watched as a black cloud writhed within. “Where is my father?” He seemed hypnotized by the mysterious green light. He gazed up and saw Crenta shake her head; he sighed. “What is it you see?”
         Suddenly, a familiar hymn began to echo softly throughout the room. “I see,” Crenta waved a hand over the ball and stared deep within it, “a black cloud sweeping across the land. There is crying and fire. The flames leap at the houses.” Nacre stared as the cloud moved again. “The ground shakes and the valley turns black.” The hymn grew softer. “There is a leader there – a tall one with fierce eyes. He is familiar to us but slashes our skin.” The Kerand bounced loudly on the table. “They have a weapon; something big is coming. The man grins as the creature draws closer.” She squinted hers eyes as the Kerand stopped. “A woman approaches now and stops beside the man. There is someone in the distance – someone in red with black eyes and a silver blade.” The cloud stopped but the hymn continued. “That is all that it will show me.”
         “That is all the Kerand will show me. I’ve tried for years for more but it never shows me more.” She grinned evilly. “But I do know who that man was.”
         “Who was he?” Seymour questioned, for he also felt obliged to know.
         “I shall never reveal to you his name.” She stood from the table. “Not one here deserves to know, for no one here has not but cast me out.” She placed a hand on the stone and a soft red light emitted from her hand. Seymour’s face seemed to reveal and expression of pain as she gazed down and into the Kerand. “All I can see is your death.” She stared back into Seymour’s frightened face. “I know who everyone is in my vision – the woman is Althenia, goddess and follower of darkness; the man is one trusted, one bonded to Lorghes; and the man in red with black eyes and silver blade is Cromwell of Vlakorados; an Oghast bound for the death of Althenia.” She grinned again. “There was someone else in the turmoil.” She stared at Nacre. “You, my boy, were there. You had a blade of fire, blanketed in blood – you will save us from Gollethen.”
         Nacre stood quickly. “Me, save Synth from Gollethen? You must be mistaken, Crenta.”
         “I am never mistaken.” Seymour grasped Nacre’s arm and they exited the room as she spoke. “Go, get prepared – the war comes.”

Still in progress. Will have more soon!