The Mournful King

I. A Chance Encounter

Some torments could last beyond lifetimes.

The Silent could barely even remember the time before his own. Perhaps he was more fortunate than most, though. His form of captivity allowed his body to range freely throughout the world. As far as he was concerned, that freedom was illusory. No matter how far he ran, the chains that shrouded his soul remained unbreakable. He could always feel them, burning into his back, just enough to remind him that he would never again be free. Gader'el the Servant was an elder demon, and his master even more powerful. The Silent was an insect as far as they were concerned, or perhaps even less than that. Whatever the case, he was something that the demons could crush at their leisure.

What did he have to escape to anyway? A pauper's life with the mocking memory of old privilege? Years ago, he might have said, I am still alive. These days, he wondered if that was the cruelest part of his current 'arrangement' with Gader'el.

The Silent laid another brick on the mortar, methodical in his work. He focused intently on each, more to ignore his hands than anything else. He hated seeing them. The permanent black crescents under his chipped nails and the heavy callouses over both hands were reminders that he was not the man he had once been. But never did he voice a word of complaint even when his back ached so badly he could barely stand or when he broke a bone against the unkind bricks or when his blood mingled with the mortar.

In fact, he never said any word at all.

"Mute, we need help with the lumber!"

The Silent looked up from his work and then straightened his body, rising to something less than his full height. He barely lifted his head, standing with the stoop of a defeated man. Once he might have been tall. His body was powerful with muscle, though, even more than it had been in his old life. The work was ceaseless and so he had to keep up with its demands or die. Whatever else he was, the Silent was a survivor...whether he had true cause to or not. As far as he was concerned, it was cowardice. After all, he could have clung more tightly to his old life, to the old him. And yet, he hadn't, even when he could have likely saved even a few of his people.

Coward, the voices of Zaeylael whispered in his ears. Gader'el might have enjoyed his guilty conscience, if the demon had possessed any capacity to experience such a human emotion.

His gaze flickered between the men waiting. There was a girl with water too, probably seventeen or so and pretty in that markedly Yssan way, with pale skin and brown hair that fell into her emerald eyes. She was giving him that blushing smile, still drawn in by the distinguished face and perhaps aiming to fix the wound in his golden eyes. He didn't give her so much as a smile, wiping his hands on his rough pants before scrubbing at his rough beard. He was unshaven and unkempt. The handsomeness that drew her in was only a faded remnant of the self of his youth. He was almost forty now and grey was creeping into his dark beard. His hair had silvered at his temples as well.

His swarthy skin was well disguised as a worker's tan now, though the coloring was more natural than people realized. It was for the best. Had they known where he was from, he would have been treated far more unkindly. But without speech, there was no accent to give him away, and he dressed like a Yssan. His clothes were patched and worn, his boots worn so badly that he could feel each individual cobblestone under his feet as he padded after the two men.

"Lumber's still out that way," Alroy said as he pointed up into the hills, lifting his cap off his head so he could ruffle his own red hair thoughtfully. He was a good man with a face like old boot leather. The Silent thought of him as good mostly because he paid conscientiously and made sure that his workers had a lunch. It was the most reliable meal that the Silent had. "Carrig, Eamon, go with him."