Gods and Guardians

Chapter 1: Queen Abigyl

"I will never forgive you for this!" Nimrod exploded.

Dasirus' jaw hung for a while. Nimrod has never acted like this with his father. Nimrod's eyes burned with rage and wild fury, his hands threatened to unleash madness. Dasirus struggled to stay calm, to control the situation.

"Nimrod!" he meant to bellow him into stillness, but his voice failed to carry much force. Scrolls and letters trembled on the table as Nimrod thundered with two molded fists.

"No! Don't call my name!"

"But you need to understand that—"

"I'll not let this happen! Not again! You cannot continue to run my life like that!"

The door swung open, swinging with urgency. The chamberlain dashed in with breathless efficiency. "Your Majesty, anything the matter?"

Nimrod's eyes returned to his father. "You will never stop me!"

"I'm doing this in your best interest—"

"You will not stop me!" Nimrod smacked the table with finality.

"Your Majesty?" the chamberlain called, unsure what to do.

Then Nimrod heaved a long uncomfortable sigh. Dasirus just watched his eyes with anxiety. The boy suddenly turned away, brushed past the chamberlain with a vicious shove, and he was gone.

Dasirus did not speak for a while. His eyes maintained an enigmatic posture as far as the chamberlain could judge.

"A father and son will sometimes have disagreements," he said, and followed with a sigh.

"True, Your Majesty."

"Well then, I'm not under attack. You may leave."

"All right, Your Majesty." He bowed.

His heart beat wildly with rage, betrayal, frustration. His breathing fanned the fires of fury to the brink of stupor. On one hand, tears of helplessness stood poised; on the other, a dark intention loomed formless. He picked a flower vase begging with innocent white and pink star flowers, and hurled it into the fireplace, shattered the ornament into a thousand pieces. The fire continued his battle, consuming the star flowers with a little hiss and spurt. He hates to wallow in self-pity, but worse he was sinking into depression. He won't cry. He won't shed a single tear. He gripped the window sill. His fingers grew tighter for a while to their limits. He closed his eyes, took in several deep breaths. His chest swelled each time with progressive clearness. His nerves settled slowly. He opened his eyes finally. The palace immediately felt like prison. He thought of going to Damian. Then each star gave him a reason why not. Then he realized that it wasn't just the palace that was prison. His whole life was a prison.

His existence was bounded on all sides by galling limitations, senseless but nonetheless, formidable boundaries. There was no way he'd be living like this forever. And forever meant tomorrow, the day after and after. His life was a prison. No, his life was not a prison, it was an irony. He was in prison because the prison was supposed to mean freedom from woes and throes. He was insecure because he was being secured by the limitless powers of his father, the king. Now, he can't do anything because his mother has done everything. He can't live because she has died.

* * *

Many teneries ago, this happened.

Mazul, the Ahzabian king, hatched a flawless plan, or so he thought. In timing and precision, in mode and gravity, the Ahzabian invasion would never be forgotten, for it shook the faith of many a few. The northeastern gate was breached.

The gates were sixty aces high. They weighed a few tons not only for their height but for thickness too. They had large wheels of iron at their bases. They were always opened from inside; the external guards gave the orders if a visitor was outside. They were locked in three places: the top, which was naturally beyond any man's reach; the bottom, though no one usually bent to open it, and in the middle where the lock took the shape of two gigantic crossed swords. A pulley system from the inside was operated to open the locks, all three of them. For the convenience of an attacker, two security towers flanked the gates. An infinite procession of eyes ran the height of the towers presumably for the purpose of communicating aggression with the attackers if they were welcomed.