Blood Immortal

Heavenly Fire

By the next hour, Prince Aarian made his way downstairs in a gloom. Master Dargain, Scar, and several other knights, including Zarlando, were there to escort him to the castle’s temple garden where the ceremony would take place. Aarian was finally dressed appropriately, wearing his best thorium-crystal armor with a silky-white tabard depicting a brown-feathered gryphon woven in the heart of the design.

Upon reaching the atrium, they entered the eastward hallway and made their way outside. The prince and his entourage walked over a crenellated parapet bridge thirty feet above a brook of water. In the distance, Aarian noticed a colorful garden. An enormous statue of Daela’han—eternal Spirit of love, compassion, and mercy—was located at the foot of an ivory limestone temple.

Trumpets blew as Aarian approached the temple garden where a water fountain decorated with flowers lay. The grass was littered with orange lilies and purple orchids. Hundreds of guests wearing exquisite clothes stood there. Men wore cashmere robes and steel armor while women wore muslin dresses with gauze overlays. No elves had arrived yet, only humyns.

Aarian walked between the guests who’d formed two lines from left to right. He tried his best not to frown in front of the onlookers, but he was still miserable. When he reached the front, he saw Magi Frostwarm standing beside the king and queen who were seated on their thrones at the base of the twenty-four foot tall statue of Daela’han. His father, clothed in a chenille-furred robe, sat with a proud look; yet his mother, attired in a sparkly dress beset with gemstones, rested on her throne with a neutral expression. Aarian assumed her mood would change depending on how he’d behave.

The prince greeted the guests while his entourage joined the front rows. Once he reached his parents, he bowed and stood between them. At that moment, Scar gave him a caring nudge and then flew over to a tree beside the statue, perching on one of the branches. Aarian looked at the cheerful crowd, maintaining his fake smile. Moments later, he heard a peaceful resonance of flutes.

He anxiously looked past the crowd and noticed a large group of elves dressed in indigo and teal robes, carrying a throne garnished with flowers and incense. Seated on the throne was Princess Parla’vasa. She wore a glittery gown adorned with colorful roses and silvery bracelets; and though her face was covered with a veil, Aarian could see her long pointy ears and blue hair. A subtle glow of light permeated around her, as was the same for all virgins who remained pure above the age of three hundred.

Prince Aarian stared at her in awe, gulping so hard it looked as if he had swallowed a bone. His fingers twitched madly, so he placed them against his armor. The closer Parla’vasa drew toward him, the more he wanted to cast his eyes down and pretend he didn’t exist. After seeing her, he felt ashamed to be in her presence—the presence of purity. It was only now that he’d realized just how foolish he had been. Though he wasn’t in a position to marry a woman of his choosing, he admitted to himself that he was fortunate and blessed to have such an exotic elf become his wife. In truth, he felt inferior and unworthy to become her husband.

When the High Rulers reached the front of the garden, they lowered the throne, allowing Princess Parla’vasa to walk onto the grass. She then joined Aarian and stooped before him and his parents. For a moment, the prince seemed to be frozen stiff. Scar chuckled and gave out a loud squawk, snapping Aarian out of his trance. The groom bowed before his bride and offered his hand, which she gently took. People kept whispering to one another, seeing a humyn and an elf hold hands for the first time in history; however, they grew silent when Magi Frostwarm took a step forward.

“Today is a most sacred day for us all,” said the wizard with a twinkle in his eyes. “In fact, it is a sacred day for the entire world.” He gleamed at Aarian and Parla’vasa for a moment and continued, “Centuries ago, the thought of humyns and elves together in matrimony would have been considered to be a decadent path. We have always, since the beginning of time it seems, been at odds with each other. Yet today is the mark of a new age—a glorious, golden age of unification.”

A few humyns smiled while others remained unmoved. The elves, particularly the High Rulers, were the only ones who looked serene. Though no one deliberately demonstrated any kind of anger, they didn’t show affection toward Magi Frostwarm’s words. Despite the slight unrest, Frostwarm went on:

“It is evident that the immortal Spirits of the Nine have always wished for us to live in harmony with one another,” he said. “Dwarves, nymphs, humyns, and elves—Quel’de’nai or Mor’vyi’dou; it doesn’t matter who we are or where we come from. Though we are born without a spirit, we all have the capacity to gain one and join the Nine through enlightenment—when the mind is filled with so much wisdom it transforms into a soul, allowing the rare gift of arcane transmigration. So you see, enlightenment is the key to everything. And we all know that enlightenment begins with an open heart. Prince Aarian of Vlydyn and Princess Parla’vasa of Lar’a’dos recognize this because they’ve opened their hearts and minds to each other despite the history of hate our races have had. Today, love triumphs over hatred.”

Many people in the crowd rejoiced. The majority of elves and humyns attending the ceremony looked jubilant. Only a few citizens were still in doubt—the fact that they weren’t smiling made it obvious.

“Prince Aarian,” began Frostwarm, “do you solemnly swear to love and adore Princess Parla’vasa with all your heart and help guide her on the path of the Nine?”

“I swear it,” said Aarian.

Frostwarm smiled at him, turning his attention to the elf. “Princess Parla’vasa, do you solemnly swear to love and adore Prince Aarian with all your heart and help guide him on the path of the Nine?”

“I solemnly swear it,” said Parla’vasa, her voice soft.

Just as Magi Frostwarm was about to give them a magical blessing with his oak staff, which symbolized their eternal union as husband and wife, the sky grew dark. The sun and its light instantly vanished. Heavy wind blew against the crowd, and thunder crackled across the heavens that became blood-red. People around the temple garden started to panic and shriek when the clouds turned crimson.

“What’s happening?” asked Aarian.

No one answered him. He stared at the lightning-filled heavens in dismay, taking a step back. The red clouds started to swirl as though a hurricane was occurring. A wispy demonic face formed deep in the sky, gazing down at Vlydyn. Lightning struck the castle, shattering its towers. In that instant, what looked like meteors fell from the firmament, destroying Jerelaith’s walls and roads.

In mere seconds Aarian had forgotten he was about to get married. He broke into a run, believing his life depended on it. Dargain called out to him, among others, but he was so scared that he ignored them and strode toward the temple of Daela’han.

“Aarian!” exclaimed Scar, flying over to him.

As a creature of flight, he swiftly flew past the horrified guests and landed on the prince’s shoulder, holding on tight with his talons. Aarian momentarily winced, shocked by Scar’s sudden approach.

“What in Cyrael’s name is going on?” he asked with a bloodcurdling expression.

“I don’t know,” said Scar. “But we’d better get into the temple of Daela’han. It is imbued with old magic and may be the only safe haven for us.”

Aarian agreed, making his way to the stone temple. The ground shook and cracked while he ran. Some of the guests around him were swallowed by the garden splitting open. He heard countless screams, never daring to look anywhere other than his destination. A meteor passed overhead, at which point Scar squawked in fear and flew away.

“Scar!” cried out Aarian, unable to locate his best friend. “Scar!”

Tears filled his eyes as he panted heavily, running for his life. He reached the temple’s portal, a semi-circular tympanum carved with the Nine. The building shook violently when he entered; however, its stained-glass windows didn’t shatter. Instead they glowed, enchanted with magical barriers cast by ancient wizards centuries ago. Aarian gazed at them, noticing that each one depicted Daela’han’s thousand-year-old journey around the world of Yunedar before she sacrificed her elven heritage to become a cosmic Spirit.

The ceiling was yet another stained-glass masterpiece, but this one illustrated the arcane transmigration of the Nine: Thay’tal, Daela’han, Cyrael, Lólindir, Khordalam, Gar’kon, Zartos, Xen, and U’cleria. The rainbow-like colors of the skylight stood out even more with the crystal shards surrounding it. Aarian prostrated in dismay and prayed to the Nine above, beseeching for protection.

The front doors suddenly burst open. Knights and royalists poured into the temple. Some of them were carrying wounded guests. A few knights with blood streaming down their faces guarded the entrance while people continued to come inside. The noise they were making broke Aarian’s concentration. It was difficult enough for him to pray in silence, so the wild hysteria made it impossible for him to reach out to the Nine.

He rose to his feet, gawking at the masses like a mindless ghoul. Aarian couldn’t believe the situation before him. Although he was never one to be power hungry, he felt powerless while impacting meteors and quakes continued to shake the temple’s foundation. Peeking through an open window, he watched his majestic castle crumble. His mind darkened, now emptied of hope and faith. Minutes ago he was the prince of a glorious kingdom; now he was as bereft as any vagabond in the outskirts of Vlydyn.

Aarian vomited beside Daela’han’s crystal altar. The thought of him losing not only the love of his life but his kingdom became unbearable. He simply wasn’t strong enough to handle this situation. Today was supposed to be a monumental day—the end of the High War. Instead the elves and his people were being attacked by a demonic force that he or any person hadn’t seen in eons. He wondered whether his parents were still alive. And what of Scar and Belisa? Were they dead? He shook his head, refusing to accept that possibility.

“Prince Aarian!” shouted Dargain.

Trying to stand steady on his feet, Aarian turned to the refugees and noticed Dargain run over to him with a worrisome expression. Though his armor was dented, he didn’t seem to have any wounds.

“Thank the Spirits,” said Aarian. “You’re all right.”

“It is I who should be saying that,” replied Dargain, embracing him. “When you vanished from my sight, I thought the worst.”

“Master Dargain, what is happening?”

“I’m afraid not even I know,” said Dargain, glancing at the wounded with dismay in his eyes.

“A powerful darkness has struck against us,” said Magi Frostwarm, teleporting beside Dargain. “The sky has been possessed by a demon—no doubt the result of a dark curse placed upon us by the Mor’vyi’dou.”

Aarian was relieved to see Magi Frostwarm but was so frightened by what the wizard had said that he lost the will to respond.

“Deceivers!” cried out High Ruler Eëràndir, carrying Parla’vasa who was wounded and unconscious. He approached the altar where Prince Aarian and his entourage stood as he went on, “This was your doing, Frostwarm! You and your corrupt Magi tricked us into coming here so you could put a swift end to us!”

The wizard clunked the bottom of his staff on the floor, unleashing an icy fury that nearly froze the air. Eëràndir, still holding Parla’vasa, took a step back, and the crowd inside the temple started to hush.

“Do not dare blame me or my colleagues,” said Frostwarm crossly. “Neither humyns nor high elves have the capacity to cast something this dreadful. And even if we were miraculously able to wield such power, why in Xen’s name would you think we’d unleash such hell onto our own precious kingdom?”

Eëràndir broke down crying. He laid the princess on the altar and collapsed to the floor, shuddering.

“They’re all dead,” said Eëràndir, stammering between his sobs.

Dargain’s eyes widened as he dared to ask, “Who is dead?”

“Our glorious entourage,” replied Eëràndir forlornly, now crouched against the base of the altar and floundering. “Princess Parla’vasa and I are all that remain. Who could perform such a heinous spell?”

“Come now, Eëràndir,” said Frostwarm. “You may be the youngest of the High Rulers, but even you know who is behind this.”

“Impossible,” said the elf, shaking his head madly.

“You and I both know that this is clearly the handiwork of Saldovin Keldoran,” said Frostwarm. “And if not, then there is another Mor’vyi’dou whom we must fear.”

Aarian stared at his intended bride in shock. He didn’t know what to say or do. And he was too frightened to check on her, fearing Eëràndir would strike him down in his wild frenzy. He was too ignorant to know the name Saldovin Keldoran, and based on what he’d just heard about concerning the Mor’vyi’dou and what they’re capable of, he did not want to know any more.

“Is there a way out of here?” asked Aarian timidly.

Dargain glared at him with an expression suggesting that he’d been asked to dishonor himself. “We must be extremely vigilant and brave,” he said. “Now is not the time to let fear consume us. This is our kingdom, and so it’s our responsibility to make things right…not escape.”

“But if we don’t escape we’ll end up dead,” said Aarian.

“I’m afraid the prince has a point this time,” said Frostwarm. “The power of this spell is no match for me or any of my colleagues.”

“Jorian, look at all these people here,” said Dargain. “It’s not possible to safeguard their lives if we leave the temple.”

“Who said we needed to leave the temple?” said Frostwarm wryly.

Prince Aarian and the others looked surprised. They didn’t know what he meant. Though most wizards had mastered teleportation, Frostwarm’s magic was by no means powerful enough to teleport every single person out of Jerelaith. They were doomed unless they’d stay inside the enchanted temple. Yet the prince was the only one willing to ask what he thought to be a stupid question:

“Where could we go?” he asked.

Magi Frostwarm grinned at him, pointing his staff at a room past the altar. “Behind us is the primary prayer room of Daela’han. In it is a secret door leading to a primeval crypt. It had once been a grand catacomb where we laid our kings and queens to rest; and it was built with tunnels linking all nine temples in the city together.”

“Pardon me, Magi Frostwarm,” began Aarian, “but what do you mean by once a grand catacomb?”

“It was sealed long ago,” he said. “Fellow citizens of Vlydyn, as well as pilgrims across Yunedar, once traveled through the crypt to avoid crowds during the season of commemorating Daela’han’s journey here before she became a Spirit; yet many pilgrims were found dead below. It turned out that a dark elf by the name of Súrion had been hiding inside, killing them to gratify Gar’kon—the immortal Spirit of life and death. In time he was found. But before anyone could execute him, he sacrificed himself. It is said that Súrion pleased Gar’kon so much that he raised the dark elf from the dead. He then became known as the Shade—guardian of the primordial crypt.”

Eëràndir waved a hand as he said, “Old legends!” He put Parla’vasa over his shoulders and continued, “We need to get out of here or else we’ll all end up dead.”

Aarian looked hesitant, no longer keen on escaping.

Dargain, on the other hand, looked pensive. “It may be a way out,” he said. “But if that legend is true, we might be dooming everyone.”

“You humyns are always thinking of yourselves,” scowled Eëràndir. “There are elves here too. I think it’s time you put your ego aside and help us. Lólindir’s sake, the princess is wounded. She needs to be healed by a cleric at Xen’s temple, and this crypt may be the only chance we have of getting her there.”

As much as Dargain wanted to defend his logic, he stayed quiet to avoid disrespecting Eëràndir and his race. He was a diplomatic man of honor and evermore desired humyns to be trusted by the other races, especially the high elves. The dubious expression on his face was all he dared muster. Entering the defiled crypt seemed to be the only viable solution to surviving this living nightmare. Upon another violent tremor, he brushed his doubt aside and gave his brother a faint nod.

“I’ll need a moment to break the seal,” said Frostwarm.

He swiftly made his way to the back and entered the prayer room. Bas-relief panels on the limestone walls shared an arabesque-like motif of intertwined flowers between statues of Daela’han, all of which revealed her in various yogic postures. Frostwarm waved his staff near the center of the room. When he did so, his oak staff gleamed, and the ornamented architecture changed from stone to wood. That instant, the carved calligraphy unlaced as the center of the floor caved down into steps.

Aarian sighed with dread while Dargain and Eëràndir stood in awe at the occurrence. Not wasting any time, Frostwarm gestured them to follow him and went down the stairs.

“Not so fast, Jorian,” said Dargain. “I’ll need to guide everyone here.”

“I’ll, um, go with Master Dargain,” stuttered Aarian.

Dargain didn’t object to this, but he knew, as usual, that the prince was only joining him because he feared entering the crypt. He returned to the main chamber where the citizens and guests had taken refuge. They were making quite the ruckus, yet the knights didn’t do anything about it. Hope had been replaced with despair—Dargain could see this in their eyes, making him feel all the more disgraced to be humyn.

“Silence!” he bellowed.

The crowd heard his voice. Some people craned their necks to look at him. Others turned around completely, shocked to hear Master Dargain’s tone filled with such rage. Even the prince was staggered. A few citizens whispered among one another, wondering if he’d gone mad since chaos started here in Jerelaith.

“A terrible evil has invaded our home,” said Dargain firmly. He heard some commotion in the distance; it sounded, to him, like hopeless voices mixed with sobs. Dargain closed his eyes for a brief moment and then continued, “I have been the appointed Master of Vlydyn for almost nineteen years. His Majesty has trusted me this much, and so I ask you to also trust me and listen to the advice of a humble knight.”

He didn’t expect this, but he managed to get the crowd’s undivided attention despite how terrified they were of the situation.

“This holy temple, as it was written centuries ago by the greatest of wizards, has been the one and only reason why we’re still alive,” added Dargain. “But the magic that protects us from the evil outside won’t last forever.” Hearing people sigh in fright wasn’t his intention, especially Aarian; however, he had to be brutally honest in order to motivate them. “Which is why we must follow Magi Frostwarm into the crypt below and escape this madness.”

Zarlando withdrew from the crowd and approached him. “Wait just a damn minute,” he said. “His Majesty and Her Grace are still missing. Are we to just leave without them?”

Many people started to complain about the plan. Zarlando, the most honored bodyguard, had a point. Though a few royalists strode over to Dargain, the majority of the refugees remained seated.

“Zarlando,” began Dargain, “it is my solemn duty, as much as it is yours, to project the king and queen. That is why I have decided to go along with Magi Frostwarm’s plan. Hear me, good friend: the crypt is connected to all the temples in this city. It is my hope for us to breach every temple and gather any survivors nearby into the crypt, and that includes a search for His Majes—”

Before he could finish, a blinding light flashed before the crowd’s eyes accompanied by the most violent tremor yet. Countless people shrieked, screamed, and groaned. That instant, the stony arched roof shattered. Bricks of limestone crumbled down, crushing several bystanders. Hundreds of people ran for their lives while streaks of flame from the sky blew into the ruined temple.

Aarian backed away from Master Dargain as he gazed up at the crimson heavens. Deep in the clouds he saw, once again, the shape of a demon’s face. Its hideous eyes were staring directly at him. To him, the figure appeared less like a summoned waft of smoke and more corporeal. He wanted to entertain himself with the notion that this was a dream. Yes, this was just a dream; this was merely an elaborate illusion cast by Magi Frostwarm to make him realize that he can’t afford to live as an ignorant, naive prince his whole life—darkness exists, and one day he must become a great king like his father and rule Vlydyn for the sake of all races. He smiled, accepting Magi Frostwarm’s wisdom, waiting to wake up and return to his peaceful reality.

“I’m ready, Magi Frostwarm,” said Aarian elatedly. “I finally understand what I must do now.” He lifted his hands in the air and went on, “It’s all right. I see the light. I’m truly ready to marry Princess Parla’vasa.”

The light he claimed to see was simply a seemingly endless stream of hellfire that struck the temple’s ground, causing hundreds of refugees to sizzle and thaw into ashes. Prince Aarian started to shout for joy when he saw what had happened to his guests. He stood firm like a tree, waiting for the inferno to reach him and envelop him so he could disintegrate from this brilliant, magical scheme. Yet when the horned demon opened its fiery mouth and roared, Aarian turned pale and lost every shred of confidence that he’d managed to build. He shrieked at the top of his lungs, at least until Dargain reproached him:

“Run, you fool!”

Dargain slapped Aarian across the face so hard that it made him fall flat on the floor. He cursed under his breath, helped Aarian get back on his feet, and ran back to where Eëràndir and Frostwarm were supposed to be waiting. Upon arriving, Dargain and Aarian found the entrance to the crypt unsealed and unoccupied. At that precise moment, Zarlando joined them with two other knights—Ceirdan and Orodreth; their armor had minor dents and bloodstains.

“This is the passage of hope?” asked Zarlando, staring into the darkness with a look of uncertainty in his eyes.

Dargain shook his head. “No,” he said glumly. “This is a passage of death. But treading here is far better than treading through a kingdom of death.” His response made Zarlando and the others get a chill up their spines. “Unsheathe your swords,” he went on, “and be warned: there is an evil legend here. And if that legend is true, then only my brother can save us.”

The quartet followed Dargain down the steps while unsheathing their weapons in unison. The temple shook less as they descended. An inferno spawned above, devouring the capital city. In the meantime, darkness grew below like a diabolical soul who feeds on prey foolish enough to enter. Though, despite the shadows that Aarian and his protectors were plunging themselves into, it was their hope that they’d find Frostwarm before the phantasmal Shade inside the cursed crypt could discover them.