Halls of the Dead

~Interlude 3~

~Interlude 3~

~1159~

~Seven years prior~

Denile stirred in his bed as his frail old body weakened with each day. Family visited frequently, speaking to him as if it was his last day alive. New doctors came, all equally pessimistic about his condition. It was as if the world wanted to infuriate him in his final days.

Then, Denile asked for the monks to meet with him.

Barja and Felli came once again. When they entered his quarters, Denile asked his family to leave so that he could speak to the monks alone. Whedon and Ein were especially reluctant but did so.

"I saw your message," Denile said from his bed.

Barja smiled mischievously, "I'm glad it found you well."

"What will it take? How much is it going to cost?"

Barja chuckled to herself, "We don't want money."

"What do you want then?"

"An ally."

"Pardon?" Denile asked.

Barja raised her hand, and her face turned serious. "You must understand. We cannot save that old body you call a vessel now. Nothing can stop it from perishing."

Denile rolled his eyes. "Then whatever help you offer is worthless."

"I disagree. How would you like a younger body?"

Denile was stunned. It was as if they had read his deepest desires. "...Is this possible?"

"There is a ritual that allows one's essence to persist beyond their original body within another vessel," Barja explained, "It only needs a person who is willing to forgo their current body and another to act as a new vessel. After the ritual is complete, you could transfer to another vessel as you please."

"...Is this real?" Denile asked in disbelief.

Barja placed a hand on her heart, "I've performed the ritual for the former leader of the Hall of the Dead. When my time draws near, I'm sure Felli will do the same for me."

Denile slunk into his bed. It seemed too far-fetched to believe. But the concept was too promising to ignore.

"If I may speak brashly, Denile," Barja spoke his name dismissively, disregarding his kingship, "I've seen enough people in their final days to know when someone's time is nearly up. You have mere days left. If we're going to perform this ritual, it needs to happen soon. There must be someone you can trust to serve as your vessel..."

"Whedon!" Denile exclaimed, "My son will help me!"

"Can you call for him?"

"Of course," Denile prepared to holler for the guards to bring him, but then he stopped... "What will happen to me... my body, I mean? After the ritual?"

"Once your essence is transferred, that body will die. But your essence, your thoughts and memories, will carry on. Soon enough, you'll be able to take control of whatever vessel you reside within."

Denile stopped for a moment. He looked at his hands. His old, weakening hands. His shriveled form. The more he looked at it, the more disgusted he became... For one such as him, he deserved a youthful body.

Denile called out to the guards outside his quarters, "Guards. Bring Whedon to me at once!"

At first, Whedon thought his father and the monks were playing some sort of joke. Or perhaps, a strange thought experiment. But as they continued to explain, he grew wary of his father.

"Please, Whedon, I need you for this. It must be you!" Denile begged.

"But Father... T-This can't be real."

"It must be!" Denile pleaded, "The longer we wait, the greater the chance I'll be gone forever. You don't want that, do you, my son?"

"Of course not!" Whedon asserted. He turned to the monks and hesitantly asked, "What must I do?"

Felli drew a metal-bound book from his robes, one with a lock keeping its pages shut. He fashioned a key to unlock it, opened a page near the end, and handed the book to Whedon.

"Place your right hand on your father, hold the book in your left, and read this passage here," Felli said, pointing to a scripture within the book in an unknown language.

"Right here? These paragraphs?" Whedon asked nervously as he took his father's hand.

"Yes. It's important that once you begin, you read all of it without interruption."

"And my father's essence will enter me if I read this?" Whedon clarified.

"Exactly. He won't be cursed by his old body any longer."

Whedon swallowed, cleared his throat, and began.

The next thing Denile knew, he was sitting in a chair beside the bed. His vision was clearer than it had been in decades. He had a book in his left hand and in his right, he was holding... his own hand. He looked and saw his own lifeless body before him.

Denile was within Whedon's body. But it shifted in its seat of Whedon's volition, not his own. He felt like a mere observer.

"Father?" Whedon uttered, placing his hand on the heart of the lifeless body in the bed.

Then Denile took control. He said, "It's me, Whedon. I'm here. I'm with you."

Whedon was startled when he spoke without meaning to, until he realized it was Denile's will. Then Prince Whedon began to sob.

The rest of the royal family filed into the room at the sudden passing of King Denile. Each of them wept and mourned for him. Whedon cried as well, but his were not tears of sorrow. They were tears of relief, for Whedon knew that his father was still with him.