“Gather children, gather here around me,” demanded an old man in a voice the children did not find any different than his usual tone. As children are wont to do, they playfully hurried to listen to another from the old man. Yet, the gathering of the adults heard the solemnity and finality in his voice.

He was a storyteller in this small hamlet; entertaining the children and teaching the old. Their hamlet was small and hidden deep in the mountains - the least visited place in all the lands. With only ten families long ago, they were a small community connected unlike any place else. But as time passed, their numbers grew, and families even more so. From a hamlet, it turned to a village with over a hundred souls. Then from a village, it became a town but always locked away from the outside world. The mountains were carved to make homes, the steep lands made into farms, and the plateaus -- formed from the elements of nature taking their toll - growing above them were stores, schools, playgrounds, and a massive town hall.

Through time and time passing, he was always there, teaching and narrating to all who would listen, no matter their age. His home was by itself, built in the mountain; separate from the others. Wide and spacious it was made for him to sleep in and others to gather and listen to his tales. That was the extent of the knowledge he had. He spoke with warmth and kindness that encouraged others to seek what they knew not, and he already had. But, his arrival was anything but that. We had heard of his previous exploits and tales, of a time before he came to this little home; stories of death and destruction aplenty. They all were stories remembered but not written. But the tale of his arrival was recorded in stone, never to be forgotten; carved into their souls.

Long ago, he walked, to the gates of the mountain pass, soaked in blood; a demon from the depths of hell. The tiny community, living in the high mountains separate from the world, met him with determination to stop the demon from bringing the darkness he carried. All were prepared to die, standing to protect their family. Just like the kingdoms burned before, who stood to defend themselves as they found his ire unbearable, only to return to the rubble they had used to make them, all around their lonely home. They watched him walk with a purposeful stride. His eyes lowered to watch the earth pass with every step, but with a jerk, he looked at them with burning eyes and a stormed face - shadows lining his eyes. Even the most braveheart of the villagers stepped back in fear, shivering at the attention the demon had given them, their hearts felt like they were being crushed with a mighty weight beyond their ability to uphold. One by one, they lowered their gaze, fear taking hold within them. Fear that if they looked in the demon’s eyes, they would drown in its murky waters.

Coming close enough for them to hear, he stopped his march and silently stared at them. Longer and longer the silence stretched until the tension was palpable. His long white hair was fluttering in the wind, while his ragged clothes did so as well, almost tearing off him. He raised a hand covered red from the blood of his enemies, and in it, he held a sword, completely ordinary to those without discerning eyes. “I - I am death,” he said in a voice that seemed unused for a long time. “It's most physical form,” he gestured to himself, demanding they look at what covered him completely. “I walked in line with those that thought they held the world in their grasps, then taught them how far they each were from their goal. I’ve killed kings mighty and weak. Then toppled the greatest of empires. All with my bare hands and this simple sword.”

He paused, and they all feared the hidden meaning none except the village chief could discern. Not with all the blood and gore that covered him. The pause was elongated with the rhythmic and loud winds that whipped against them all; whistling its dark tune. The demon looked to collect himself, then spoke again, this time with emotions that were begging to be released from their stoic prison. “But, I am also a storyteller. A narrator of tales forgotten and some never discovered, but above it all” he stopped again, closing his eyes, the demon shook with emotion; reminiscing a time better than this. Slowly he opened them once more, but tears had already been given release to the world, streaking down and making lines in the red that covered his cheeks.

“I enjoy-,” his voice broke, unable to speak its mind. Taking a deep breath, he gathered the strength he had exuded in the beginning and spoke again, determined to say his piece. “I enjoy watching children smile in genuine happiness. Some may call it a weakness, but I believe it is a strength that has kept me undefeatable and pure from the dark taint and blight that has consumed this world.” The villagers listened in disbelief, murmurs and nervous chuckles broke out from the mass. How would a monster enjoy the happiness of others? How would a demon enjoy entertaining those that it should have desired to end? The thought mocked all that existed and the history of this world. But before they could interrupt him truly from the folly, he spoke with a brittle and croaky voice, “Will you give me a place to narrate my stories, chronicle my tales?”

Then, the chief of the hamlet had seen something within the words the demon had spoken that the others could not find. Walking out of the group, with a long staff he put most of his weight on, he strode towards the demon. He stopped but an arm away, his long robes billowing in the wind. He looked the demon in the eye as if to find something that should not be there. After a time, with an old voice, he spoke, addressing the man before him, “You poor soul, what pain and grief you must feel. Come, we will give you a home with peace and ears to listen to your tales. I cannot guarantee the people of my humble home would listen but know that my children and I will always.” The other villagers could not believe what had happened then. Furious, they yelled, questioning his choice, then questioning his sobriety, and lastly, they challenged their chief’s sanity. What man, wise or foolish, weak or strong, king or peasant, would have dealt with demons from the lowest layers of hell? 

But through it all, the chief persevered; undaunted by their words. He took his cloak off, the one he wore to stave off the cold winds, and covered the demon with ragged clothes. Slowly he led him back, while the villagers parted in fear. The pounding of the chief’s staff and the wind, seeming to cry in protest, were the only sounds that could be heard. Everyone was to afraid to voice their opinions; they could not deny him this for all their lives were held by a thin cord pulled taunt already; close to breaking. They accepted the demonic storyteller though disgruntled at the lack of power they had in rejecting him. It took a while for them to finally listen to his tales, only the chief - who was quickly replaced by another - and his family would hear the stories told. For ten years they shunned them, but like all things, time took its toll. With it came curiosity and an urgent burn to know what those shunned by everyone listened to all day long. Starting with one family then another and another again, until they all sat in front of the tiny cabin - the demon had made -  listening to tales of adventures, dragons, heroes, magic, and even stories of a race most peculiar in a land even more so - hobbits he had called them.

For centuries, generation after generation, they listened to tale after tale; each different than the one before it. After a few were heard and the demon adamant that he repeats not a story already chronicled, they began to record them all. They would carve them in stones, pieces of drifting wood, bones of long-dead animals, and for those a bit better off than the others; they would write them on thick parchments - for centuries to come. The stories were all gathered and placed in what they termed ‘The House of Tales,’ but he would simply call it a library.

Now, after time immemorial, he began to tell his personal tale, the story of a demon that killed the world, or what they knew of it as a secluded people. The one story he has yet to tell, and they to record. “Children, this is my last tale. It is time I move on.” The demon said in a voice thick with emotion. It would open long forgotten wounds, time seemed to have overlooked. A past he had tried to hide no matter how hard they attempted to pry it out. The audience, filled with every person from the village sat in the demon’s home, the front walls removed to accommodate their numbers. While the demon sat in the front facing them. The children, as was usual, sat in front of him - a demand he would not relent on, while the villagers wanted them to sit with their mothers and the women in the back. Behind them were the men, some armored having just come from training, patrolling, or hunting. And even further were the women, all wearing black to symbolize the finality of this moment, and with it the loss of the villages storyteller - a position none after him would ever hold.

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It was then that men and women shook with grief as they heard the final confirmation of their beliefs. Sobs broke out from between the women, sitting in the back, hiding themselves from the children so they may have joy in his last moments. While the men were stone-faced as their hearts tore piece to piece in grief - holding their emotions in check not for themselves, but for those that depended on them. He may have been a demon, but he was one with a pure heart. Even if that statement was a fallacy in its most basic structure; even if the one word that would define evil were a demon, he would be the black sheep that challenged the norm.

As the silence continued, a squeaky voice interjected, interrupting the solemnity of the moment, “Where are you going, Granpa?” the little girl asked, curiosity shining brightly in her eyes. She was a tiny one, smaller than the rest. She always wore a grey robe that used to have an intricate design of flowers and swirls - now faded from overuse- no matter how dirty it was; a gift from the demon she had once received long ago. Her hair, purple and wild, was constantly tied back into two ponytails that were untamed. “Are you going to were my granny went to last year?” She continued oblivious to the tension that had built. Fidgeting in her spot, she seemed to want to holler out her words, but knew better, so she continued in a singsong voice that made the demon smile, “My daddy told me that she went to a better place where granny could have all the toys and dresses she ever wanted! If you go, don't forget to bring me back a present.”  She was the greatest grand-daughter of the once village chief long ago. Her resemblance to him was uncanny, and her openness to the world even more so.

Unable to hold herself back, she quickly crawled up to where the demon sat in the front and whispered in a voice all heard, “Don't tell daddy, but granny was weird. She forgets everything! I asked her to bring me a present last year, and she still hasn't returned!” Upset at her grandmother's forgetfulness, she crossed her arms and pouted cutely. The demon could not hold himself back any longer, he laughed for what seemed to be the last time. Hugging the child of his deceased friend, he thanked her for the break in tension that had built and whispered in affirmation to her request. Putting the child on his lap, he began once again to narrate his story. “As I was saying before this curious one interrupted me. This will be my last tale and the greatest of them all. A story of a young man taken away from his family, friends, and home, then thrown into a world he had no place being in. He was weak in both body and mind. So weak even the rabbits Miss Wakayku raises could beat him.”  

The children were gasping and shaking, each with anticipation and curiosity unbound. It was apparent they had a million questions they wanted to ask, but they knew from many scoldings before, to never interrupt the storyteller once his story began. They were even more reserved than the adults who understood the meaning of his words. They murmured to each other in disbelief, how could the demon have been so weak? How did he survive the cruel world they knew to exist beyond the mountain pass?

Grunting in irritation, the demon raised his heavy eyebrows and stared at the adults, silently questioning whether they would follow the laws of his tales. They were simple and only three; developed by the worship these people had for him. The first and most obvious was never to interrupt the storyteller. Once his tale had begun, they all stood in his domain. The second, to never leave once the story had started no matter the situation, for he would not retell any story ever again. The scripts, recorded by scribes, of his tales were but a fraction of the story, his voice the majority. The third and last was to spread his words to all who would hear them, spreading them by word, letter, or action. A holy pursuit they swore to accomplish long ago. They would send envoys to those that had survived his culling and built upon the ashes of kingdoms lost long ago. With the envoys were copies of their holy scripture put into bindings of colorful make. Colors of green, brown, and purple, filled with lessons and tales for all to hear; just as he asked from them.

Embarrassed at their actions, they quickly ended all discussions they had begun and positioned themselves once more to hear his tale. Smiling at the discipline he had carved into each one of them, he continued his story, “He was a man of another world filled with the greatest things, all in the realm of the gods and dreams. There they had lives of peace, meat every day - some even multiple times - and the ability to send a letter to the other side of the world within an instant. In this world knowledge was available to everyone who sought it; not hidden within towers and castles. The people were connected to everyone else, not even the great oceans separating the lands or the mighty mountains - touching the cloud - could stop them from traveling through. But most awe-inspiring of them all,” The demon paused dramatically, his words were already within the realm of the impossible. But his next words were even more so, “They managed to walk upon Adion - The Light within The Dark - on the moon. There they learned that Adion was nothing but a massive rock with no light of its own. Dull, dark, and uninhabitable. Unwelcoming those that had come to it and nothing more than Raeil’s brilliance reflecting of it.”  

He let them exclaim in surprise; his words were things the gods would be incapable of. Limited to the rules of this dimension. The laws of physics they had, no matter how much they bent them, still withstood the greatest efforts put into breaking. Once he thought enough time had passed, the demon began to speak again, but this time he spoke with great pain.

“But saddest of all, sadder than his great loss, was that he was without the ability to gain Baserrah, and wished to keep his soul pure. Existing in what children were born with, the Fitrah - The state of absolute purity. Or at least as close as he could possibly be to it. So he stayed weak, cursed for eternity even though many had offered him cores of great power.” The demon's voice had become thick with emotion as he remembered past struggles and pain. He told them he was a cripple - an unwanted cur. A burden on society as a whole hated and ostracized then pushed to the edges of society. Forbidden from interacting with the world, prohibited from trade and even marriage. They were the weak meant to be culled by the strong; the pitiful none would give to.

A churning sensation within his stomach found its way into reality, assaulting him as he thought of the past. It was a sign of the time he had or the lack thereof. His story must go on no matter the words he spoke after this; no pause will be graced henceforth. Their surprise and demands were forgotten in the demon’s mind.  He was adamant that he finishes his story before death took him as well.

“As he lived within the forests, too afraid of the potential prey to even hunt, he used knowledge taught by his father to gather wild vegetables and berries for many days. And on the eve of leaving the accursed forest that starved him, he found the catalyst of change. Then was the day he swore to raise Hope within a world filled with blight and darkness. To raise a purity only seen in young children that smile.” He spoke hoping to cause some levity in this gloomy atmosphere he had created, and remove a bit of the pain in his soul. Maybe if the children smiled, he could live a bit longer. But it was not enough, breaking his promise of no pause, he did so. A silent tear streaked down his old and withered face, affected by time like all things. Slowly it streaked, down the wrinkles that lined his cheeks, then onto his beard. Gradually it found a single stray of hair not perfectly combed, falling down.

As it fell, the little girl had looked up to see why he had paused his story, only for the tear to splash on her forehead. Her eyes opened wide as she watched, while he closed his with a tremendous effort. Doing his best to prevent any more from flowing while memories of pain and loss passed his mind’s eye. “This is my tale. The story of one never meant to exist in this dark and evil world.”

And so his story began from the very beginning…