When does it come to the point a lowly mortal’s life when they find themselves prepared to attempt something which they do not understand? What chemicals strike to form the notion? What synapses bend and spark the right way for an idea to form? What kind of incepted desire grows and grows in the mind of the meagre and pure mortal human that compels them to take that first step out of the light, and into the darkness? These are questions I have oftimes wondered, but never seen answered; many, many times have I watched mortals dabble in that which they should never, ever think to touch, and come out either stronger or destroyed at the hands of my compatriots. Never once did it happen to me, that I should be the one to venture beyond the void between the world of the holy and the world of the unholy.

That is, until one day, someone very stupid made the connection to find his way to me.

His name is unimportant; it serves no use to anyone now. Similarly, do not feel the desire nor the intrigue to ponder his form or his appearance; you shall never find him if you tried to look. All that you need to know is that he was stupid, and arrogant, and an athlete.

The institutions held a tournament every solar cycle; something to commend the physical prowess that the student had learned on behalf of the master. From their perspective, it was a battle of honour, a rite of passage to manhood, but to I, it was simply an effective way of relieving my boredom in the world of the demonic.

But who am I, you ask? You will not be able to speak my name as it is written or spoken in my native world, but for your sanity, I shall indulge you in the knowledge that it loosely translates to your word ‘King’. So, for the sake of ease, you may refer to me as ‘King’. I am the demonic wolf of the third pit of Hell, powerful yet obedient to the right words so long as I am bound by the laws of my world. You may have noticed by now that I am speaking to you personally; if you are smart, unlike him, then you should realise that I am no longer in Hell, nor am I bound by its laws.

I am in this world of yours now.

And there is a reason for that. You see, it was only two cycles ago that this particular tournament of champions took place. The institutions that these young students attended were particularly emblematic, I’ve noticed; they represent the pride of their areas, the spirit of the city or the town in which they sit. And even these institutions have emblems themselves. His was the Lynx; that was what this group of champions called themselves: the Fighting Lynxes’. And, in this particular bout between the institutions, the Lynx did battle with the Bald Eagle.

It was the day before the battle; the teammates had been training unmercifully, running drills and bombarding each other with their own bodies like bucks locking antlers over does. It was animalistic and childish, but it was entertaining to watch from my position in the pit. However, I was curious to see what happened post-training. This was a special day, it seemed; the superstitious of the group was preaching his gospel, spreading fear of bad tidings and wrong luck and curses to his fellow champions as they shed their armour and tossed back on their working garb.

“An omen,” he had told them. “It was an omen. You saw it too; those ravens on the pitch, locking beaks. The raven closest to our goal lost the fight!”

The others dismissed it; it was a common occurrence for the pious to preach, and for the faithless to dispel their words like steam. However, that was when the general, (or as the term has apparently evolved, the ‘quarterback’,) decided to start listening. He had seen the ravens, and while he had no idea what it meant, he turned to the pious one, who apparently did. He listened, and worried, and fretted over the matter, until he returned home, thinking and thinking about what to do. He could not bear to lose the bout between the goals the next day; that would bring shame to himself, his fellow champions of the Fighting Lynxes, and to his institution. That would not do.

He researched, his mechanical window into the world being directed by his fingers at almost the speed of sound, and found himself looking at ways to counter the curse of the raven couple. Little did he know that the pious had been wrong; the ravens had been exchanging food, perhaps in a slightly precarious manner, but there had been nothing wrong or particularly dark about the practice. That didn’t stop him, though; the champion read onwards through the net of thoughts and information, until he stumbled upon a particular method hosted a very questionable location, titled: ‘Necronomicon-dot-com.’

The spells were easy, if you had the sense and the tools needed to complete them. However, he had only the prerequisites for one ready. And what a spell it was: ‘The Summon of the Guardians’. A very old and very powerful, yet simple and notice ritual, this spell, as he read, would bestow a guardian onto those whose names he held in his mind, and bring them luck for as long as it was needed. That would be the perfect way to ensure victory on the field of honour: guardians for the Fighting Lynxes.

However, that was one side of the story. My side was rather less enjoyable. You see, I was bored. An eternity living in the fires of Hell, bombarded with the screams of the guilty and the unlawful souls, had become tedious and mind-numbing for even this humble servant of the beast. Day in, day out, I tormented the souls that burned in the pits, with howls and bites and rips and snarls, everything to drive their minds to insanity, pull them back, and then drive them again. Every day, every night, every single moment since the beginning of my life. It was unbearable.

So, I plotted. I wanted to find my way out of this pit of Hell, this cavern of desperate tedium and wanton boredom, and this ritual would be my chance. I don’t need to remind you just how important the way you conduct a summoning ritual is; once you open a door, you must make sure you only let through what you want. And how easy it is to let out that which you had no intention of permitting into your world; how many times has it happened before? Hundreds? Thousands? More than that, definitely.

Now this stupid boy was no different from the many others who had fallen prey to a mistake, or a modest trick. An ‘a’ disguised as an ‘o’, the only change I needed to disrupt the entire operation; the whole enterprise of selfishness and arrogance would be derailed, and I would be free. That was why I changed that one letter, (and a few words here and there for extra security,) and changed the whole ritual. And, minutes later, it was time for it to begin.

He lit four candles, two red and two white, stacked symmetrically in front of the window into the information superhighway. From that glowing screen, he read the instructions and spoke the incantations aloud. I felt the world of the spirits quiver and tremble with anticipation, the guardians of which the page spoke readying themselves for movement to their new charges. But I kept my observations upon this boy; I saw him down there, hands to his chest, with the first two fingers of either hand crossing to form a pentagram turned upside down. That was his first mistake; the pentagram pointed upwards would be a sign of benevolence and protection, but by following my false instructions, he had sealed his own fate. Unwittingly, he had bound himself to a symbol of the unholy, the ram’s head held above his heart.

The words he spoke were in the dead language of Pompeii and Rome; he didn’t know what any of it meant, which made it so easy for him to slip on the words I desired him to. I felt the walls of Hell rippling with energy of human contact, of human contract, and I prepared myself. I started my own half of the ritual, the ritual of the signature if you have to put a name on it. What else do you do when offered a contract, but sign it? I signed myself away to the contract, even though it was flawed by the broken ritual, and not mine to sign. I felt the flames of Hell start to recede around me, my immortal form starting to shimmer and fade with anticipation.

The wind blowed around in gales from outside; the mortal world knew that something was wrong, and that the order of the holy and unholy was being tampered with, even accidentally. This was why your parents warned you never to dabble in the dark arts of demons and ghosts; we are a frightening bunch. The candles burned faster, and faster, with the flames turning red on the white candles and white on the red ones, a sure sign of miscorrection, had the stupid champion been smart enough to notice it. Had he been, I would still be in Hell, my contract left unfinished and my body bound to the pit for an even longer stint.

The final words were uttered in the language of the dead, and my body disappeared from Hell at last, the bond shattered by human demand. The window into the superhighway went black, and every glass candle in his house exploded into shards. He cried out in shock, only now noticing what was happening. Flames gathered in the pit of his bedroom, while his possessions moved before his very eyes to cover the window outside and his door, preventing any chance of escape.

The fires on the floor ran in lines, forming a pentacle of flames across his carpet, from which the pieces fell away, leaving a black hole of nothingness. He screamed at the sight of it all, sure that he was about to come face to face with his maker; little did the champion know that he was coming face to face with something much worse. I felt myself being pulled through to their world, finally leaving the fires of Hell behind me for much better running grounds. I grabbed at the floor of his bedroom and hoisted myself through the doorway to his world, my body steaming and smoking on contact with the air.

He screamed even more now, but no one came. As long as I was here, this room would never be heard from again. The door closed behind me, and several arcane markings across my arms, legs, body and face, and my long, whip-like tail, began to glow with the same bloody redness as the candle flames. He was cowering in the corner of his room, on top of his bed, and stared at me through quivering hands. It was actually kind of cute, in a way, and funny. But, what would have made me laugh the most was what he asked me. Out of everything that had happened, he chose to ask me this:

“Are you my guardian?”

I had done it; I had crossed into the mortal world, and now I intended to stay there. However, there was one loose end for me to take care of: him. He had committed himself to the ritual, so I could only remain in the world while his soul was its property. So, instead of asking any questions, I leapt for him. The champion of the Fighting Lynxes didn’t fight back, as my jaws locked around his neck and tore clean through his throat. His blood spilled out across the floor in puddles, and soon his spirit had replaced mine in Hell. His soul, however, was mine for the keeping. I took it as my own safeguard, holding my own key back to Hell should I ever decide to use it.

But, until that day comes, I shall never allow his soul to be freed. Even now, as I wander the world, as a demon wolf and a figure of urban legend, I will never let go of that soul; I shall never go back there. I will stay on your world forever. So remember me, mortals; remember my name, should the unfortunate day come that you should cross paths with me. I am the demon wolf. I am the shadow in the night.

I am King.

King ©  lunaria_dragomere
Art ©  lightnymfa
Story ©  hirotsuyoi