Faded were the endless moments of pleasure, the gatherings of orgiastic dancing, and the much deeper pleasures of the flesh. His sensual and beauteous people’s cravings had all but died, becoming almost as stark and bare as the great tree of Nethrizil. Not a singular leaf remained on the great tree, the ancient black skeleton of it hung over his world, its stark twisting canopy a reminder that all was not well.
The King of demons had hesitated to do what he now knew he must. In his majestic vanity, Xonereth had believed that he alone could do what was needed to right this travesty. He with all his great powers could mend the fracture between the two worlds, the above and below. He had irrefutably believed in his own abilities, and not since the War of the Brothers had he even paused to question that fact.
He and the other highborn had always lived a life of unrestrained debauchery and privilege. Though all the Nethris led lives of similar excess, even the lower castes. Pleasure and its overflowing cup called to them, in ways that humans could never fathom. If a mortal could even experience a fraction of what the demons enjoyed it would be enough to snuff out their existence entirely.
Perhaps the Nethris had these inclinations because of the world that surrounded them, a world of monotone, for their universe was devoid of color completely. There was no wind, no rain nor snow in this strange monochromatic universe, there was no moon, no stars nor shadows cast by sunlight. Only the eerie phosphorescent glow ranging from muted grays to stark blinding silvers, and every shade of gray in between.
This continuum was comforting to the demons, yet like many things of this place it would’ve caused lesser minds to run to madness. Perchance this was why the Nethris were hardwired in this way, like a stunted tree growing for the sunlight on the canopy floor, craving that missing component; the rampant color of the upper worlds.
Xonereth being a high-caste demon and natural master of all he surveyed, as a result he had thought himself unstoppable in a very grandiose fashion. His new situation sat with an unfamiliar weight on his shoulders, and the heaviness did not relent but only grew with the passage of time. Since he had assumed power in his twin brother's stead many eons ago, he was the divine King of all, and as a result, he had thought himself beyond such helpless feelings.
The most intelligent of human minds were simplistic to the Nethris. They would gaze on our brightest as we would gaze on ants. Thinking us no more capable of anything but the most rudimentary of thought, and for as long as humankind had walked the earth the Nethris had toyed with humankind as pieces on a chessboard. They had been present by the shoulders of Dictators, Kings, and Queens. Figures embellished in history larger than life were ruled and directed by demon madness. Pushing, goading, and cajoling, bending the history and fortunes of men and women to their will.
The Nethris broke all the rules of what humankind would find moral and palatable, even those who considered themselves evil, or those who strayed far from the beaten path. The moral boundaries of the Nethris did not stop at bending powerful humans to their will and interfering with the destinies of those who dwelt above. Being highly sexualized beings and possessing a great curiosity, humankind was not their only prey. They freely fraternized with all the creatures of the earth, even the botanical kind. Many a scientist who had long studied, trying to fathom quantum leaps in nature's evolution at various points in the earth's timeline, those freakish occurrences that were seemingly inexplicable. Many of these events were the handiwork of the Nethris, in all their liaisons on the upper earth.
Yet the upper reaches where the humans made their homes were fraught with danger, for even these mighty beings. There had to be some form of balance after all. To go about by daylight and feel the sun's golden caress would spell almost certain dissolution, even with their immortality. There was only one recorded demon who somehow had survived such an incursion into the daylight, and she bore terrible disfigurement from her experience, Xonereth’s beloved Sheharazade.
In this world of no time but limitless darkness, that was until the light pillars had descended to slice the night like blades. The haughty ruler cast his raven gaze towards the ink-black waters beneath the great tree, they were almost gone. Seeping into the fractured world above, poison to that plane of existence. Warping and shaping environments, maiming life. In turn, robbing his own world of its lifeblood. How had his pride let this continue for this long? Would it now be too late, as he sought resolution in his heart?
All the demons had believed quite wrongly that these recent events and the portents of the prophecy had been some kind of competition for their offspring, a trial, a race. They did not enjoy the idea that somehow they had been wrong, and the ramifications of their seemingly childish games had put their world in jeopardy. It must be set right.
Xonereth stood, still graceful and unbowed despite his private agony. If any being of this universe had the answers to the riddle of the prophecy, and his people’s plight it would be the Oracle. Part myth and part religious reality often sought by humans and demons alike. Deep within the tunnels of Baiæ Italie.
The proud ruler had been loathe to admit defeat, as he traced his black nails that resembled talons on the shining surface of the basalt table top. Talons that were tipped with ornate silvered finery. The demons could not touch or wear gold it burned them like acid, so silver was the main precious adornment worn by all.
The Oracle may be his only salvation to solve this rending of his world. It had been millennia since he had last been admitted audience. Not since the War of the Brothers had he sought the Oracle’s guidance, and it was a difficult path even then. The unbent pride in him did not wish or seek this audience, and yet he knew he must.
Travel to any destination was easily within his powers, he merely had to wish and he had arrived. However, Xonereth could never chance to course the upper planes by day. To do so would spell disfigurement or worse, one misjudgment, and the risk of nonexistence was high.
That was very much how most of his kind came to their end. How his love Sheharazade had survived he did not know, and he did wondered if there was anything critical to the problem he now wrestled with, he had missed in her survival? This terrible ending did not happen often, but many such happenings had been recorded over the eons. It was always a great risk.
He didn’t wish to dwell on endings, yet today he did. Like all rulers he was expected as his father had before him, to go to the great tree one day and meld with his ancestors. To return at the end of long millennia like all the highborn will, once they had grown weary with the long existences they lived. However what if no more demon kind were born, what if Nethrizil was only a dead husk? It was a fearsome thought.
*****
It had been eons since a full court had been held in the palace of Narkeem’ezet. Not since the War of the brothers had Xonereth seen such a turnout of his subjects, from the most high caste demons to the clever but distorted Grishak, and even the ghostly Nruz from the far lands.
The Grishak were the artisans of his kingdom, they constructed the great palaces and buildings, carved the monuments, and forged the beautiful armor and weapons of his people. They wove the finest magical textiles and painted great art. They were to the high caste’s eyes, ugly in appearance. Short of stature and thick of limb. Yet none could speak ill of their creative prowess, the kingdom owed its beauty and grandeur to Grishak's ingenuity and design.
The Nruz were different, entirely. Hailing from the far lands that the demons rarely visited beyond the mountains. None really understood how the Nruz came to be. Some speculated they were a people that had inhabited this plane of existence when the demons were new. Others surmised they were the manifestations of demon spirits that refused to conjoin with the great tree in eternal rest. Incorporeal and transparent beings. Many viewed them with distrust.
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Xonereth cast his eye over the assembled crowd of courtiers and supplicants, aware of Sheharizade who crowded close by his shoulder, her face and snow-white hair tucked deep within the cleft of her raven cowl.
“It looks as though we shall have a lively debate.” She said softly. As what she had to say was for her consort's ears alone.
“Yes. I expect trouble from Belial, Karau too, and I imagine Abbadon will not go quietly.” Xonereth replied with an air of resignation.
“It is not like they can refute the truth my Sire, it is there for all to see in that hideous burning lightness.”
Xonereth glanced across toward the Gothic arched windows at the ugliness that lay beyond. Rays of light pierced the ink-dark sky like the tips of many swords, and he fretted at how long he may have to repair the damage, and if his action would come too late.
Worried he may have been, yet it did not demean his proud carriage as he made his way to the singular basalt throne carved in all its grandiose glory with designs of intertwining death, decay, hatred, and lust.
The demon's society was mainly a patriarchal one, there was room only for a singular ruler, one throne. There was no lesser one by its side for the King's chosen consort. She like all the others were his subject, she did not rule. She would stand among her peers in the crowd as he spoke, there was no favoritism here. Many demon kings did not listen to the demonesses that became their consorts, and in recorded history, there had never been a Queen of the demons.
His people silently parted as he made his way among them, traversing the immense approach to the throne, their voices lowered to a whisper and becoming altogether silent as he passed them by. He registered the defiant expressions of a few in his court, some of the most highborn demons looked at him with admonishing stares, something he had never witnessed before the prophecy had reared its ugly guise.
For this important audience with his people, he had dressed in his full royal regalia. It was essential in this time of crisis he appeared calm and in control. Robes of the finest demon darkness covered his perfect, lithe masculinity. The unadorned silver diadem of every day was replaced with the heavy jag-toothed crown of his office. It too of silver, heavily encrusted in a myriad of diamonds. It was worn by his father before him, and his father before that. An artifact of old. Its uneven teeth rose up like pointed spires through his night-dark tresses. He was as he trod the path to his throne most conscious of its weight on his brow, as he was equally conscious of the weight of his rule on his mind.
He sat his throne and in one collective movement, his people bowed before him. He let them bask in silence for a time, sparkling black eyes searching among them for the defiant. Then he spoke with a commanding, dulcet darkness.
“I Xonereth, son of Great Semiazas and the Prime Consort Ardat Lilli come before you all on a matter of great precedence.”
The crowd was silent, all eyes on their ruler, expectant.
“I do not have to tell you of which I have called you forth today, or of the peril it represents to our kind.”
He raised his bony, ebon-clawed hand endowed with many rings, and pointed at the vague obscene light that could be viewed through the ornate Gothic windows of his basalt citadel. The eyes of the crowd followed his gesture, and then back toward their leader.
“Our world has been invaded by such obscenity! The swords of light come for us to pierce our dark, and they grow brighter and more numerous by the day! And we do not know why! I believe we may have very little time to determine our fate. The great tree lies bare as you have all witnessed, and the seas have all but dried. The upper world it would appear is bleeding into our own, as our world is bleeding into the above. All of us are aware of the prophecy and its riddled words, slowly it manifests into truth before our very eyes. No new demons have been born in many centuries, and it would seem our society is in a terrible decline, a decline that MUST be arrested!”
“It’s the infighting with your brother, and the curse of your families legacy!” Someone remarked loudly in the crowd, quite unafraid of the wrath of their leader.
“The War of the Brothers has brought this on us!” Someone else shouted.
Xonereth had feared this, he did not know who had spoken, but the crowd was no longer reverentially quiet as before. Whispers abounded, the sound echoed in the vast royal chamber resembling the hissing of a nest of serpents. He raised both his bejeweled hands for silence.
“I propose in this dire time to seek audience with the Oracle.”
There was a collective gasp from the crowd at this statement. Few returned from the Oracle unscathed, yet history had told that their ruler had returned from such a meeting once before.
“So you are telling us my Liege that you have no idea or method to avert this catastrophe that comes for us?”
The voice that had risen from the crowd was none other than Abaddon one of the most powerful of the highborn. Just as Xonereth had expected. The high noble had always felt that he should have ruled in Xonereths’ place after the War of the Brothers. He was always the first to make trouble in any rational debate. He was lord of chaos after all.
The proud ruler stood abruptly at Abbadons’ outburst, one must never interrupt the supreme being when he spoke, and his subjects gasped at Abbadons’ impudence. Would he be punished? The crowd wondered.
“I see Abaddon that old wounds still run deep, perhaps you would wish to venture before the Oracle in my place?” The ruler drew his thin black lips back from his pointed teeth in a disdainful sneer.
Abaddon was clever enough not to continue. The threat of the Oracle was not to be taken lightly. Instead, another booming, angry voice rose above the others. “Let our Ruler finish!”
It was Geryon, a demon who did not appear in the usual demon guise. Though all of demon kind were free to express themselves as they wished, often taking many different forms, very few actually chose to do so. He pushed forward through the throng, his powerful jet-black equine shoulders parting the concerned populace with ease. Geryon was a hellish centaur, powerfully made, tall at the shoulder, with a sweeping tail that trailed the floor in his wake. His hard hooves struck sparks on the stone.
Xonereth continued, pleased with his cohort's show of solidarity. He knew he could count on the guardian of hell.
“As I said I must without further delay seek the Oracles help. I believe we have little time. As you all know the path to the Oracle even for one of power is a difficult pilgrimage. Yet it must be made, preparations are being made even as I speak.” Yet his congregation was not finished…
“We are dying!” Jahi a female demoness exclaimed as she tore at her hair. “Our numbers slowly dwindle, no new children have been born to us since the War of the Brothers. We are being punished, punished I say for the sins of the Royal family! Yet the highborn play with the humans and sow their seed upon them, creating half abominations. Where are the pure born!”
Xonereth countered the frenzied demoness swiftly.
“The lack of the quickening of pure born among us troubles us all! As it has done for many centuries Jahi.” Xonereth chastised her. “The half abominations as you put it, are scripted in the words of the prophecy. I and many others believe they have a part to play in all this. The Oracle may shed further light unto their usefulness!”
Chastened Jahi slunk away back into the crowd becoming almost invisible.
“How do we even know the full extent of the damage to our world Sire?” A graveled voice asked respectfully.
It was one of the elder Grishak, thick of torso and limb, white-haired, a stark contrast to his dark flesh. He bowed low as he spoke, and took much time righting himself due to his vast age. It was rare to hear one of the Grishak speak at court unless directly questioned. “I know the lights are present in the mountains where we call home. I saw many light shafts on the way here, though we did not pass close by them directly. Has anyone been sent close enough to investigate?”
“No, they have not. Xonereth replied somewhat more gently than he had with Jahi. “I fear it would possibly be death or terrible disfigurement to approach too closely.”
Most of the crowd nodded in assent at this statement.
“What if the light suddenly opens above Narkeem’ezet!” Someone exclaimed!
The audience chamber once again echoed with many voices all muttering concerns.
“Why did we not do anything sooner?” Another demoness added, bolstered by her sisters’ remarks.
Xonereth knew her by the name of Nyx, she was both sister and wife to Erebus, a demon he considered a friend. His eyes flicked through the crowd spotting her highborn mate, he neither appeared angered nor appeased by the proceedings.
Xonereth again spread his arms wide for silence, it was half-heeded. Sheharazade shot him a look of loving concern. Simultaneously the gargoyles and bats above all shifted, at once leaving their roosts, fluttering with a discordant madness against the vaulted ceilings above, animated by their ruler's anger. The crowd gazing upwards went silent at the creature's collective distress.
“It is true.” Xonereth continued. ‘We have spent far too much time in contemplation, delightful wickedness, and mischief. We are all to blame. However, as your Ruler the weight of the blame falls largely on myself, and shall I take up that responsibility. I will have audience with the Oracle whatever it costs. In my absence, Sheharazade will be my Arch Councilor at the Royal Council's apex.”
There were again many murmurs at this appointment. It was highly unusual for a demoness to take on this responsibility. Kings rarely sought the council or assistance of their consorts.
“I must make preparations, we have little time.”
The demon King strode from the chamber flanked by his closest advisors, Sheharizade again at his shoulder. The gargoyles screeched and bickered returning to their stone-like stillness, once more seeming to meld with the basalt of the columns that rose high above. The bats too fluttered to their rest, and slowly the crowd began to leave the chamber. Though some stood in groups conversing in hushed tones about the severity of their plight and the effectiveness of their appointed monarch.