The Other World
21 Years Ago

Sanctuarium, the fifteenth day of the month Dech-Dáu

TO No one or Any one

    Where else shall I begin but to mourn for my loss? All in one night, I have lost everything dear to me—Father, Mother, my blood brothers, my home, and my dearest friend Keelin. A month has passed, yet I still find myself in the deepest of sorrows, alone.

    Father, you trained me well to be the man I am now. Although your instructions were harsh, your reasons and methods my brothers and I sometimes questioned, you only sought to do us good. We all knew Eoin, the eldest of us eight sons, was to be king in your place, yet you never forsook nor neglected any of us, raising us, disciplining each of us with only the best intentions. You sought that we be humble, valiant servants of our kingdom by the time you and Mother pass, that we be leaders who serve with a heart right before the eyes of Elohim. For that I raise my gratitude to you, and hope this reaches you in Elysium, the Realm Above.

    Mother, I miss your tender voice and loving comfort, your gentlest touch when I wept as a child. Father taught us to be strong and valiant men, yet you raised us to be kind and compassionate to even the lowest of servants, taught us that as fellow Crystallians there was never such a hierarchy to begin with. You looked at everyone with love and cared for the entire kingdom. Father was blessed to have had you as a wife; I am blessed to have had you as my mother; the Kingdom of Tiern was blessed to have had you as their queen.

    Eoin, Leith, Huiel, Herne, Aidan, Kieran, and Cuinn—my blood brothers. You called me weak, and mocked me for my stature and name. As the youngest and smallest of us brothers, I was never as strong or agile or skilled in battle as any of you. Despite this, you loved me as your brother still, and aided me in my training and lessons—to become a better knight, challenging me each day as I grew more skilled in the art of battle and weaponry, and to be a wiser man to serve and lead our people. I would wish for another hour, another day, another year to spend with you all. However, fate has cut short our time together as brothers in the worst of ways, and I miss you all dearly.

    And Keelin, how I wish you were here with me, and how I wish to have told you that I have loved you all this time. All I yearn this moment is to hold your hands in mine, and to reminisce our fondest of memories, to spend hours and days and years more with you ere you leave.

    Do you remember as children, after our lessons ended for the day, we would run to the garden and sneak into the forest to explore and weave stories in our minds and play till the last of daylight painted the skies orange and purple? We would then run to our respective homes, and a tapestry of deep indigo would fill the expanse, stars like diamonds embedded in the skies, smiling down upon us. Gazing out my bedroom window, I would think of you, then, and for the rest of the night; sometimes I would see you in my dreams, your soft golden hair swaying in the wind, the sparkle in your emerald eyes, delight etched in your smile—a truth I never told you.

    And when we were children no more, the forest had become our rendezvous, where we talked and spilt our secrets. You would tell me of your dreams, of how you wish to better the kingdom, of how it seemed deeply unfair that you would never be an adviser to the king as your father was, for the mere reason of being born a woman. And I would often complain of my blood brothers, and how they would look down on me as the youngest—the weakest of my father's children. My name, one of a language unknown, they would mock even—a curse—glory has departed.

    Little did they know that my name, a prophecy, never meant me—that seventeen years ago, on the day of my birth, the Druid—the High Priest—prophesied the downfall of the Kingdom of Tiern, of our home, and that he had told my mother to name me such, for it shall to come to pass.

    What a tragedy it was to witness this before my eyes! I testify to the night the enemies struck the Kingdom by surprise, without reason, and spilt innocent blood upon our land. I can envisage home the morning after that dreadful night—the castle walls, the fortresses, the houses, the stone paths—stained scarlet from the battle, tainted black from the flames. Never would I have thought of it, never had we expected such an attack, our people slain and ruled over by another.

    Yet it began in the most unassuming of days: the morning quiet and peaceful, the bore of lessons learnt and memorized, the sunset a spectacle as Keelin and I ran back home after our hours in the forest. As always, as usual.

    Then the last of daylight slipped out beyond the horizon, a night without moon nor star, clouds concealing every inch of the new moon sky. We gathered together for dinner, none of us knowing it would be our last supper as a family, nor did we think it would be the last night of peace for the Kingdom of Tiern.

    As we ate, there came a loud knock, and the guards pushed the doors open, and in strode the Druid and the General of the Tiernan Army. They walked over to Father, their steps quick and with urgent purpose, and I knew then that something was not right. After they spake to him in hushed voices, Father quickly excused himself and stepped out of the dining hall, trailing behind them both. The rest of us continued dinner, in a strange, uncomfortable silence, the air thick with trepidation. I suppose they must have known, must have felt it as well, for no one spake a word, until the doors swung open again, and Father strode back into the dining hall, and called for his sons, saying, "An enemy is upon us. Rise; we must prepare for battle."

    My blood brothers and I exchanged glances of bewilderment: an enemy upon us? Who, and for what reason? We all rose to our feet. Two hands, however, gripped my shoulders, and pushed me back down into the chair. I looked back and up, seeing the Druid behind me, his eyes intent upon mine. "Not you," he told me. "Not you."

    I turned to Father, then, and my brothers. Father was looking at me, he had seen it. Yet he said nothing, and turned back to my brothers.

    "Father!" I called to him, rising to my feet, the Druid's grip still tight on my shoulders. He and my brothers were striding over to the door leading out of the dining hall, the General walking alongside them.

    Father paused in his steps, and turned back to face me. So did the others. "Stay with Mother," he said. "Keep her safe." Yet I descried a deep, quiet melancholy in his eyes; his voice trembled slightly as well. I think he must have known all along—this only coming to my realization after these unfortunate events had occurred.

    And so they went, and I was left with Mother and the Druid. The Druid then turned to us, and said, "We must leave Tiern, now."

    I rose up in an instant, shoving his hands off my shoulders. "What about Father, and my brothers?" I questioned.

    "They will have to fight in this battle," was his answer. "It is their duty."

    "It is not right for me to do nothing whilst Father, my blood brothers, and my brethren fight against this enemy," I said. "Take Mother to safety. Like my brothers, I am a man of royal blood, and it is my duty as well to—"

    The Druid silenced me, his hands on my shoulders once again, the look in his eyes grave. Then he said, "Listen to me, Ichabod, you are the last hope of our kingdom. We cannot risk to lose you. It is best that we leave now, that at least one remnant shall remain of the king's sons."

    "But—Eoin?"

    "Eoin," said Mother, rising from the chair she sat upon. We watched her as she walked over to us, the Druid releasing his grip on my shoulders. She looked at me with a sad smile. "Eoin was never chosen for the throne."

    Puzzlement must have crossed my features, then. I was utterly confused at this revelation. "But Eoin," I said again. "Eoin, he is the eldest. He is destined—"

    "We do not have time for this," said the Druid. "The enemy is upon us. They will be here in no more than a couple of hours. And if the prophecy is true, and if the time is now, the Kingdom of Tiern is likely doomed to fall this very night. We must leave, now."

    I said nothing more as we strode out of the dining hall, into the corridor. The guards who stood by the doors left their posts and trailed behind us. Then I remembered . . .

    "Keelin."

    Mother and the Druid turned to face me, then.

    "She is my dearest friend. If this kingdom is doomed as the prophecy proclaims, please let me save her. Let her and her family escape with us."

    The Druid sighed. Yet he said, "If this friend of yours comes with us, swear to me that you will not turn back to aid your father and brothers, that we will indeed leave Tiern this very hour, without further hesitation, without further questions."

    For a moment, I hesitated. It pained me to leave them, a pang of guilt blossoming and throbbing in my chest. It is my duty as a man of royal blood to protect my kingdom, and it is my duty as a son and a brother and a man of Tiern to fight alongside the men of my family and my people in such a dire time. Yet there was no better choice, no other choice—to save at least one more or to save none. I was now their only hope, and there was nothing I could do against it. I took in a deep breath, then said, "I swear."

    Mother sent one of the guards to Keelin's home as we prepared to leave. We were to meet in the stables—it would be quicker this way. Traveling to the port would take time, a couple days at least; then traveling by sea to Sanctuarium would take no less than a month. Traveling by gryphon, however, would make a quicker escape, for time was not our friend in such a dire situation.

    A couple of stable boys, clad in armor, each one with a weapon strapped to his side, were readying the gryphons. Keelin then arrived, accompanied by the guard who had gone to fetch her and her family. However, besides him, she came alone, her eyes red, her face tear-stained.

    I walked over to her, and pulled her into an embrace. Her tears ran down my tunic, and sobs escaped out her throat. "Father," she stuttered, "will fight in battle. Mother said she can never leave Father's side. She is determined to stay for Father. She said that I must escape alone, that she and Father will only slow us down and add to your burthen."

    I held her in my arms. I felt her pain, then—of having to leave her loved ones behind. I wished to weep with her, to mourn with her, but there was barely any time left. We must move.

    The Druid and I mounted on a gryphon. Mother and Keelin entered the carriage, a few of our necessary belongings in it as well—food and clothing for the journey. One of the stable boys drove the carriage, his hands grasping the reins of the two gryphons that stood before them. Then we took flight, the ground falling beneath us in the darkness, and as we flew farther up, we saw the plaza below bathed in firelight, men assembling together, each one in his own armor, weapons in hand or strapped to their side or back. Right below us, men in armor marched out of the fortress, onto the bridge, onto the esplanade, and down the hill, joining the men assembled in the plaza. I descried Father and my blood brothers among our Tiernan brethren—the last time I ever saw them.

    I then glanced back at the carriage behind us, and my eyes caught sight of two specks of light floating in the distance. I kept my eyes intent upon those two glowing orbs, growing all the more curious as they sped toward us—closer, closer. And to my great horror, out of the shadows emerged two winged horses, its riders, their dark armor, the horrifying masks they wore, and the beings themselves illuminated by their arrowheads ablaze. The men pulled their bows back—and I yelled, in time to warn the Druid who maneuvered our gryphon down and forward and away, one arrow flying over our heads. The other arrow, to my horror and grief, struck the carriage, and so began a fire that burned mercilessly.

    The carriage remained still in the air, and I watched from afar as the men and their horses moved, swift and agile. Their arrows flew quickly in the night sky—an arrow straight into each gryphon bound to the carriage; another piercing the stable boy who guided the gryphons. Many more arrows struck the carriage. My eyes witnessed a mass of fire glow and burn in the sky, the bright shape shrinking as we flew farther into the night—and away. The mass, now a mere speck in the distance, sank from the heavens and hurtled down to the ground, its destination I shall never know; for our gryphon, as quick as its wings were able, never ceased to glide forward, without hesitation nor a backward glance.

    My eyes brimmed with tears. We had left the Kingdom too late a time, or our adversaries had come earlier than we had expected. Mother and Keelin are now gone, their lives devoured in those cruel flames. Yet the Druid and I had no other choice but onward; whilst below us a battle raged on—the cacophony of weapon against weapon, cries of pain and fear, the crackle of fires burning, smoke and heat and light rising to the heavens. Our Kingdom had been ambushed; our men were not ready for such an attack at such a sudden time.

    I glanced only once, and never again. Tears then ran down my face, and I could not prevent the sobs that came with such horror and sorrow.

    However, no one pursued us. The Druid and I managed to escape unscathed, save our hearts.

    "Why did they not come after us?" I questioned the Druid, the morning after the first night we rested, deep in the woods.

    The Druid transferred his gaze from the fire he had extinguished to the gloom overhead. The beginning of winter made its presence known, the chill of the season washing over us, nipping at our exposed skin. The cloaks we layered over ourselves kept us warm enough. The Druid let out a breath, a cloud of steam escaping his lips.

    "They must have thought you were in the carriage with the queen," replied the Druid. "They must have thought we were mere guards. If I recall correctly, the hood of your cloak was up, concealing your face and any distinct feature. I would have thought the same, if I were in their place."

    I nodded in understanding, averting his eyes.

    "Ichabod, it is not your fault."

    He must have heard me cry myself to sleep the night before.

    "As long as you are safe—"

    "Keelin would not have been in the carriage if I had not offered to take her place to ride with you," I said, feeling my eyes well with tears. "If I was fast enough to ask Elohim for a spark of his power to ignite my Essence, I would have taken immediate action. Perhaps I would have saved them."

    "Ichabod," the Druid said, and grasped my shoulders. "Since the day you were conceived, since the day the messenger of Elohim showed me the prophecy through a vision, your parents and I knew then that in such a time you will be the last and only hope of our Kingdom. I know this is a time of great pain and grief, but Elohim has far greater plans for you and the Kingdom. We need only to hope—"

    "But where was he?"

    "Pardon?"

    "Tell me, where was he?" I said, my tone solemn. "Where was Elohim the night the Kingdom was attacked? Where was Elohim to save my mother and Keelin?" Where was he, Druid? Where was he?"

    "Ichabod . . . "

    I looked away, ere any more tears threatened to spill. "We should not waste any more time. We must continue our journey to Sanctuarium ere our adversaries find us."

    The Druid sighed and nodded. "As you wish, Your Highness."

    We walked by day and flew by night. The woods hid us from unwanted eyes in the daylight, whilst the nocturne shadows concealed us as our gryphon took wing, carrying the Druid and I east. We travelled the woods of Soleil and Venezio, and flew over these foreign lands. We barely slept, resting for only a couple or at most four hours each night. For food, we gathered fruit and vegetation we found familiar in the woods, certain they were safe and edible for consumption; the gryphon hunted for small creatures. We never had a change of clothes—the same tunic, the same trousers, the same cloaks, more soiled and growing of a more atrocious odor with each day gone by. But no matter; we moved on and forward.

    Seven days and seven nights passed. The moon hung in the night sky, half its face in the light, half in the shadows. Like other nights ere this, amidst the dearth of light, we flew on. Yet we knew there was no stopping for us that very night, for below us was the sea and the waves and the deep dark.

    Several hours since we took flight that night, the skies began to grow lighter—a dark blue than black, stars still bright against the expanse. And before us, far in the distance, a silhouette came to view—an island ahead, a great mountain that rose out of the sea.

    "There it is," said the Druid, moonlight illuminating the smile that crept to his lips. "There it is, Ichabod. Sanctuarium! Sanctuarium!"

    Since that dreadful night, after days of what felt like eternity, we felt relief: we were close to our destination, to safety—where there was food to fill our empty stomachs, where there was rest for our weary souls. Sanctuarium! Sanctuarium!

A faint orange glow painted the edge of the horizon, fading into the expanse above—a deep blue. Our gryphon then began its descent, sailing down, closer to the verdant foliage, onto a clearing on the mountain, where several men awaited us.

Once we landed, the men greeted us upon our arrival—Kadasan, Moanian, Tiernan, Soleilian, Venezio. Although the Druid had never sent word to them of our escape, of our then-impending arrival, they knew.

    "Elohim said you would come," said a man, who appeared to be the oldest of them. He was Tiernan, like us. "He revealed it to us in a vision," he said, in response to the bewildered looks on our faces. He then walked over to the gryphon and stroke its head. "Well done," he told the gryphon. "Elohim has guided you well."

    Elohim, Elohim, I thought as the men led us to our respective quarters, and till now, the thought of Elohim still lingers in my mind. They speak of Elohim and his greatness—even when we received word a few weeks later: our adversaries—the Kingdom of Venezio and the Kingdom of Soleil—had taken the throne; most of Tiern still live, but my father and my brothers and many of our brethren are dead. Yet where was he that night, the night my family and Keelin passed? Where was he to protect my family and our people? Where was his lovingkindness, his mercy, his goodness—all these aspects of him the Druid preached about to the Kingdom every seventh day?

    I write this letter as a witness' statement of that very night. I write this letter to express my innermost thoughts—the anger and guilt over my cowardice the night of the attack, the reason the vivid memory haunts me still.

    I write this letter to no one—or any one wanting answers or an account of what happened the night the Kingdom fell.