Most of us long to "Be" but when the path gets too costly, or steep, we take solace in what we "Have." Remove the trappings of what we own and then what is the sum of us?
They were the survivors, abandoned by the allies who swore to protect, in...
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Xonereth had been reading, tireless in pursuit of some vestige of hidden knowledge buried in these ancient tomes that would help his people and their plight. Giant hinged volume clasped in one long and elegant white hand, fingers bedecked with a plethora of glinting gems of assorted darkness.
There were no colors here in this monotone world. Only every shade of gray sandwiched between the starkness of white and the contrast of umbral black. His long unbound, hair trailed down onto the desktop spilling over his raven robes like the darkest ink.
The Monarch's study was interrupted by the swish of fine diaphanous silk gliding over the flagstones. No word of greeting was uttered. A beauteous feminine form sought his sandaled feet, as she cowered and bowed before her ruler awaiting his notice.
He looked up, then down towards his graceful and beautiful subject. One of the lesser handmaidens of his court. The two did not speak. Xonereth stood, setting down the volume with a dull thud. He strode from the room.
He did not have far to wander. Down beyond the colonnade, alabaster posts thrusting up from the blackened earth, like the teeth of an ancient reptile. There a tight knot of his people stood, his Prince's and Lord's amongst them. There were whispers and accusations being bandied about.
Some distance beyond this throng of concerned onlookers the proud ruler spied a handmaiden bowed to the ground in a gesture of acute sorrow. Then further ahead a black cowed figure seated on a large basalt boulder, facing away from his gaze.
Xonereth strode through the press of his people, they fell to silence as he passed. Axtros dared to reach out to touch his magnificent personage. To pluck at his King's robe, an unseemly gesture. Xonereth shot him a withering look of disdain and any words he had to utter died in his throat.
Xonereth strode forward, past the distressed demoness who was tearing at the earth, she was of little consequence, he being of the ruling caste. Rulers do not look deeply at their servants after all...
He paused behind the seated, shrouded figure. Eyes leaving for some moments to gaze at the vista of the ever-rising waters, complete with the hillock and the great tree Nethrizil beyond. Impatient waves lapping at the substance of his world.
Xonereth then turned and with an imperious and even callous gesture bid the distraught handmaiden to leave. Though greatly distressed she hurried away immediately, leaving only the marks of her anguish in the volcanic black soil.
"Sheharizade." Xonereth stated in his regal and commanding tone. The figure before him sat, quite motionless as though unhearing. The proud king was unused to being ignored, he had rent souls for an eternity in torment over less.
"Sheharizade." He called again patiently, walking closer behind her. His bejeweled fingers sought her shoulder, and still, she did not turn about to face her Majesty.
For a moment the Lord of all he surveyed just stared before him at his mute and unseeing Princess, then it came to his attention the lock of snow-white of hair drifting beyond the confines of the cowed robe. His fingers sought the snowy mane nestled on the velvet black. He felt a tinge of great unease as he bowed lower and eased his love's familiar face to look up into his.
He was appalled at what he saw. The final line of the first prophecy screamed into his mind.
'And those beautiful, straight, and true will be bowed in a mantle of white.' ''NO!" He shouted in anguish at the oppressive leaden dark...
