Gaharón - Completed

My blood runs deep within the roots of this earth. My malice, my love, my hatred, my triumphs, my failures, my temptations, my lusts, my good will, and my ill-intent; coursing through the veins of the earth. The oceans run red with the blood of my ancestors, and the soil beneath my feet is tainted by the ashes of my enemies. Reaching into the deep places of the earth, I thrive on this coursing blood of mine which lies in waking there. I am Fäxrad, the Bloodchild. Formed from death and life, a union of malice and love; I am darkness, and I am death.

These were the words spoken to me by Him on the day my childlike innocence vanished, and I became aware of the world of Gaharón for the first time. The day when earth and sky collided and a chasam of blackness filled my soul. I forgot the legends of yesteryear, and hearkened no longer to the promises of the future. No longer did I require air to breath, nor liquids to drink, nor food to eat. I became as a thing without past, future, or present. A machine, created to serve…..a servant of darkness.

Torchlight strikes the eyes of those living in Coriander Manor, burning deep into the weakened eyes. Bloodshot and weary, shining out from the palest of faces, eyes that may or may not know the light of day. Living ghosts; shells of the people they once were.

Although it is morning, no light is shining down from Alïaxdra, our beautiful Mistress of the sky. Both moon and sun in one, she changes her garb to suit the needs of Gaharón. From her home within the clouds, she weaves her silken gowns of moonlit silver and scintillating gold. It is her only care to light up the world around her, as she has for the last four thousand years.

It has been many a year since the light of morn shone through the cobwebbed windows of Coriander. Fäxrad long ago forbade Lady Sun from removing her nightly cloak, thus leaving us only a Moon with which to light Gaharón. Catering to the orders of Darkness, Alïaxdra has accepted her banishment, and left our world cold and lightless. A frost has lain itself over the land; hugging the earth with a vice-like grip of ice and darkness.
That is all we have ever known, those of us born to this world of icy darkness; those of us who serve Fäxrad. There is one, however, who is different. It has been fabled across the land that this one girl, this one servant of Darkness, was born Outside. Outside of this realm of darkness and frost, a land where there is sun and warmth, and life abundant.

This one girl is known to all here as the Chosen Servant; one not born in Coriander, but brought here by Fäxrad himself. Her true name is a mystery to us all; but Darkness calls her T’navre – servant.

On this lightless morn, like all other morns, we find ourselves woken by those cursed lights which are called torches. The dimmest of light scathes the pupils of Coriander’s residents; anguished moans fill the air. Screams echoing from ravaged souls, torn by years of grief and misery.

One voice still is silent, but it does not give us concern. It is she, that Chosen Servant. She, as always, is the silence in the center of our chaotic storm. We are watching her now as she rises from her seat, her long skirts flowing around her, a rustling sound of silk and skin merged as one.

A wave of sweet perfumes spread across the still air as we watch her stride across the floor. The stone floor creates a raspy buffer against her slipper-clad feet, sending light echoes down the damp corridor. It is routine, this morning ritual. She rises, and we watch her as she makes her rounds. From one chamber to another she seems to glide, tending to the weary and the sick. It is her task to do such; He gave it to her. No good sense in letting His servants die in this pit of stench and filth. At least, that was her reckoning; and because of this, it must also be His. For her thoughts are not her own, but His, put there by His own dark arts. Overshadowing her free will, He shows us his awe-inspiring might, and throws us into the tumultuous depths of terror.

But hark! What is this? The maiden T’navre…she has opened her mouth. All eyes turn to her as she speaks, her voice so foreign to us, that even the most apathetic of our ranks strain to hear that tone which emits now from her being.

“Good morn to all who dwell here at Coriander.”, her eyes are bright, liken to the dark stars of Gaharón’s mid-day sky. “It is Milord’s wish to prepare a banquet in this place next fortnight. We are expecting guests of a most unusual nature, and you would all do well to attend to them to the best of your abilities. These are the words spoken by Darkness, and all shall obey.”

With her last words still echoing off the cold stone walls, she closes her mouth and turns away. A frantic murmur ripples throughout the ranks; we servants are unaccustomed to serving anyone other than our Lord. Such a thing is unheard of here.

Even more shocking than the words of T’navre, is the voice that now calls out from the midst of our populace; a single child, not yet mature in his years, speaking out to the second-in-command with the air of much older man. “Where do these visitors hail from? Why are we to serve them? Tis’ not our service to attend to anyone other than Fäxrad!”, his words are forceful, and biligerent.

A moment of hushed silence settles across the crowd as she turns back, a look of utter shock in her dark eyes. Never have we spoken directly against orders given to us; and certainly never a child. We are watching her now, her lips are parting, and finally she speaks, “Kil’ar, you would do well not to question. I will give you your answers, this once. Our visitors are from Nevaeh – the cloud dwellings. The Lord of that land will be coming.”
Murmurings fill the air now, for the Lord of that land is truly a man filled with Light, and thus the enemy of Darkness. He is called Roivas, and Fäxrad once served under His father. Such discord rose up between them, that it drove Fäxrad away until he came to dwell here in Gaharón. Truly to have this foreign Lord now visiting Coriander Manor….’tis surely an omen of ill will.

Discontentment fills the air, the never-ceasing wailings of Coriander rise once more, filling the deepest corridors in mourning of the torment yet to come.

Feet in Coriander Manor have learned to run quickly, tread lightly, and avoid all obstacles. Hands here have learned to move nimbly, work rapidly, and serve with precision. Eyes here have learned to betray no defiance, to remain on the floor at all times, and avoid all traces of light. These traits have come to truly manifest during the fortnight’s preparation for our Lord’s banquet, in which all who toil in Darkness’ service find themselves ill at ease, and stumbling on tasks done daily.

Every floor as been scrubbed, furniture has been oiled, and every cutlery item has been polished to a sheen. Countless dishes of food have been prepared, and many more laced with poison for the unsuspecting lips of enemies. We have come to understand that this banquet is not about treaties and peace talks, but to do away with the enemies of Darkness; and so we shall.

There is jostling among the servants as they gather within the great hall, anticipation and anxiety filling the air. Though having been born and raised within the walls of Coriander, there are many servants who have never lain eyes on our Lord. Now is the time at which He is to be revealed to them, and eyes that have not seen will be opened.

Pungent fumes of a sickly-sweet nature fill the air, followed by an icy breath of air. Icy fingers wrap around us, pulling us down to our knees in one collective bow of submission. Those who dare lift tentative glances to see our Lord.

Tall, imposing, and broad-shouldered, He is most truly one to be feared. He sports a fine mane of black hair, and eyes as black as death. There is no emotion in His eyes, but only apathetic disinterest. He gives us one brief nod of acknowledgement before taking T’navre’s hand and leading her forward. As His highest servant, she has this awe-inspiring honor.

Roivas has long-since arrived and been seated, along with his many servants. Such splendid folk they are! Clad in shining clothes of the finest quality, with shoes, and cloaks. Things unheard of to the servants of Coriander; but the most amazing thing is their faces. These servants of Light…they are smiling.

Standing to the sides of the room, we servants watch with careful anticipation should our Lord require our services. Confusion fills us as we see the servants of Roivas not standing to attention as we are, but sitting with their Lord at the table of Honor. Such things are foreign to us, and inspire confusion within our ravaged souls.

Roivas himself is one to be awed. He is tall, slender, with fine hair shining like Alïaxdra’s golden garb. His eyes are light-colored, and tinted with a light of compassion. There is a soft smile on his face as He speaks to His servants, His voice soft and well-tempered.

“Roivas, Coriander welcomes you to its finest seats.”, comes Fäxrad’s taunting voice, resounding against the echoing walls of the great hall, “We bid you sit, eat, and make merry. All is ready, and the food lays in waiting there at the table.”

With these words spoken, our Lord seats himself by T’navre, a malicious smile on his face; a smile that fades as Roivas speaks for the first time.
“Fäxrad, I do not wish to start off this evening on a bad note, but I must speak of a matter which troubles me.”, he paused, waited for acknowledgment from Fäxrad, then continued, “You have within Coriander a servant which does not belong to you. Born in the land of Light, and not in Darkness. You have no claim to her soul.”

A collective murmur fills the air, and is quickly silenced by Darkness. There is only one servant within these walls who comes from Outside. T’navre herself, the high-chosen.

“She came to me willingly, to taste the sweet rivers of our land. Light is only so wonderful for a while, my brethren. T’navre’s heart was made for Gaharón, not for Nevaeh. She belongs here; she belongs to me.”, Fäxrad’s voice was cool and even, his eyes still void of emotion.

“She belongs to no one, Fäxrad. D’evas is her true name, and you know this. She was born in the land of Light.”

Intrepid fear fills the air as we servants cower back away from our Lord, feeling his rage reverberating throughout Coriander.

“I care not what you say, Roivas. She is my servant. If you wish to buy her, then you may, but do not bring these fanciful words to me, when you know what the price for her soul is. Cease this senseless prattle, and let us go on with our banquet.”, Fäxrad’s jaw is now clenched tightly, a flash of anger in his eyes.

“Truly, I do know the price for her soul, but you underestimate me Fäxrad. I am willing to pay the price.”

A collective gasp rises from the lips of the servants of Light, shock on their faces. T’navre herself has now lifted her eyes, those dark eyes which always before have felt the things Fäxrad has put into her heart. There is now a look of realization in her eyes, and wonderment. We servants are thinking to ourselves that she has finally realized she does not truly belong here.

Will Roivas truly pay the price for the soul of a servant of Darkness? It is hard to fathom, for that price is blood, and the Lord’s own. Will he truly give His own life so that T’navre can live in Light? It seems that we servants of Darkness are not the only ones shocked by this proclamation, for the servants of Light are now murmuring amongst themselves.

Both Lords have now risen, and Fäxrad’s face is a picture of malicious joy, taking pleasure in this sadistic turn of events. Such rapid events they are, these things that are flashing past us!

Within moments we servants find ourselves left behind to clear away the banquet as our Lords move deeper within the manor, to complete the payment. We are watching our fellow servants, Roivas’ servants. Worry and trepidation is in their eyes, even tears. Such a thing causes us wonder; to be that affectionate towards your Lord. Is such a thing possible?

Hours have passed as we clean, and commiserate. Will there be a Kingly death in this manor today? Or shall Roivas decide His life is worth more than the soul of a simple servant girl?

We have to ponder no longer as a sudden collective wail rises up from the servants of Light, and the entire manor shakes. Such a brilliant roar is heard from the depths of Coriander, as to cause us to drop to the ground. We know now. It has been done; Roivas is dead.

It has been nearly 3 days since the banquet. With the Lord of Light gone, our lives at Coriander quickly returned to normal, but for one exception. T’navre has lost her position as high-chosen, and now resides in the outer chambers of Coriander, waiting for the day when sweet death shall take her. The servants of Light, with no Lord to watch over them, are now added to our ranks.

The might of our Lord has struck terror into our hearts once more; that he can keep both T’navre and the servants of Light here within Coriander – against the ancient laws of Gaharón. To defy even these ancient laws, set down by the greatest of Kings….’tis true might indeed.

On this morning however, something is not quite right. As the servants of Coriander awaken, we find our chambers much warmer, and the scathing light of the torches is drowned out by the brilliant light of Day, streaming through the windows. True screams of agony fill the air as eyes are burned mercilessly by the shining sun. Many of the servants of Darkness have not seen Alïaxdra’s light in decades. Many have never seen this light at all.
A cry rises up from the ranks, “It is Lady Alïaxdra! She has returned from her banishment! Does she dare defy our Lord?”

Another voice is heard from behind the first. A voice all too familiar to us. “Alïaxdra has been allowed to return by the order of a Higher power than your Lord. She has been banished far too long. Gaharón needs the light of day.”

Roivas is alive! Such shock reverberates throughout the manor, even through the ranks of the servants of Light. He stands before us now in His splendid silk robe; dyed a brilliant royal purple. There are scars on His body, scars of His death.

Surely this power is greater than our Lord’s by far! To defy even Death itself! It is a mighty thing indeed, and causes wonderment within us.

Standing by his side is a woman who is familiar, and yet foreign. A mane of rich brown hair flows around her slender waist, and a light twinkles in her dark eyes. There is a smile on her lips, and a name is whispered throughout the chamber. T’navre. No. Not T’navre. This is her true self. This is D’evas, the one born of Light.

My heart beats with the reverberating of this earth. My love, my joy, my triumphs, my peace, my patience, my gentleness, and my good will; coursing through the veins of the earth. The mountains stand tall with my power, and the sun shines with my Light. My enemies are blinded by the brilliance they do not understand. I am Roivas, the Light. Formed from power and goodwill, a union of joy and love; I am Light, and I am Life.

These were the words spoken to me by Him on the day my childlike faith was given to me, and I became aware of the world of Nevaeh for the first time. The day when darkness and light shattered, and my heart became filled with understanding. I remembered the legends of yesteryear, and hearkened to the promises of the future. I breathed the sweet air of the heavens, drank the rivers of sweet nectar which flowed through my Lord’s land, and feasted on the bounties He provided. I became as new person, one to learn and absorb everything around me. I became a willing servant to the one who redeemed my soul, and returned me to my home in the land of Light; a servant of Light.