Halls of the Dead

~Interlude 4~

~Interlude 4~

~1159~

~Seven years prior~

Days after the ritual, Denile was able to witness his own funeral. They buried him with past kings, and he heard the words of appreciation the citizens had for him.

Commander Ein never shed a tear, of course. A man as strong as him would never do such a thing. But he took every opportunity he could to remind the court of what a great friend King Denile was.

After all had been said, Whedon was crowned the new King.

When Whedon was alone, he and Denile would take turns speaking through their shared body. Whedon allowed him to have brief stints of control so he could simply feel what it was like to truly have a young body again.

"I wish we could tell the others. But they wouldn't understand," Whedon pondered.

Denile took control and spoke, "They might think you insane. But perhaps one day, we can tell them."

Whedon smiled to himself, "I've always worried what I'd do without you. How I'd lead this city on my own. It's relieving to know I won't have to."

"We've been given a gift. Together, we can make this city the greatest in the world. I see no reason why it would have to end in your lifetime either."

"What do you mean?"

"When you grow old like I did, we can have those monks perform that ritual again. Perhaps Norton will be able to help us. When his time comes, he won't have to act as King on his own either. He'll have us to help him," Denile voiced his aspirations.

"...We could go on forever."

For a few days, all was well. Whedon slid into his new role as King quite comfortably, knowing his father would be there.

Denile was slightly perturbed by the fact that many of his closest confidants were moving beyond his death. Besides Ein, they did not appear to grieve anymore. Perhaps they were only putting on a strong face, or maybe now that he was 'dead', he didn't really matter to them.

But it didn't bother him much. He'd surpassed a single life and could live forever. What people thought of him when he was alive was inconsequential now.

But one day, during one of the many kingly meetings, he started to feel... faint. Whedon was fine; he showed no sign of noticing. But Denile's essence felt somehow weaker. He didn't understand why.

It terrified him. After having a grasp at eternal life, it felt as though his tether to this world was now shaken. Denile had no idea what to do.

He felt relieved when the monk Felli came for an audience with the King. The bald man knelt before Whedon's throne before rising.

"Nice to see you again, my King," Felli greeted.

"You as well... Where is the leader of the Hall of the Dead? Where is Barja?"

Felli feigned a glum expression, "She passed mere days after Denile. I've taken her place since then."

Whedon knew that was not true but played along, "I'm sad to hear that."

Felli drew a thin book from his robes, "It's a modest offering, but I thought I'd present this to you, my King. As a gift to your new reign."

"Thank you very much," Whedon said. He motioned to one of his servants, who then retrieved it from Felli. The book was nothing special; just another copy of the history of their city. They already had countless copies of this book in their library. But he doubted that this gift was so simple.