The Ballad of Persephone Read online

  Watchers, the sub-race of humanity created during the time of the Forefathers still exist. Once great advisers to the Anuk, they have been downgraded to ranks of lesser servants, priests, honor guard, scientists. A Watcher’s lifespan is shorter than a Royal Anuk’s but longer than man; the longest-lived Watcher-priest boasted six-thousand years in service. These days conflict and disease have reduced the lives of the long-lived considerably.

  Through the enormous length of time since the first arrival, it is almost impossible to point out one race from the other. The Royal Anuk is indistinguishable from the common Anuk and man, save a natural birthmark of the constellation Lyra appearing on random parts of a Royal’s body. Anuk grow past six-feet in adolescence, are resilient to disease, exponentially stronger than man, and live longer. The Royals, however, enjoy a ripe old age in the 10,000’s, while the commoner reaches a paltry 1,200. The ‘Pure-Bloods’ do possess greater strength and agility compared to the commoner.

  Watchers resemble mankind in all physical facets, but their unique existence sets them apart. Disciplined, blessed with abilities of the common Anuk, intelligent, they possess their own culture stemming from the religion of ‘the old ones.’ Their demeanor, eloquent speech, and pristine traits allow them to stand out amongst the melting pot of society.

  Ethnic diversity is common within the three races. Despite differences in genetic make-up, since the beginning, all fell under the umbrella label of Human, as the Forefathers were called.

  “Why are we taking this long?” King Shuru complains to his well-dressed, slim aide. They are in the royal quarters of one of many of the king’s shuttles. His excessive girth struggles to remain concealed under fitted robes of royal-blue silks. His square face still radiates strength in these twilight years, yet today it beams with anxiety.

  The young aide, a Watcher, finds silent amusement in his flustered master fidgeting with a neatly wrapped box. “Your Grace, shuttle speeds are restricted within controlled airspace. The plague is yet to stop consuming portal engineers. Our inadequate infrastructure is being dealt a severe blow.”

  “Don’t lecture me, Samiri,” Shuru booms. “My nephew should have cleared the airspace.”

  “It was you, Majesty, who insisted no upheaval of normalcy should be undertaken on your account.”

  Shuru sends an accusative smirk Samiri’s way. “Yes…an error on my part.”

  Samiri returns a crooked smile. “I only give good advice. You’re the one who has to consider it.”

  Shuru ignores him in favor of stroking his well-kept gray beard. The color annoys him, for it was only two thousand years ago it started to turn from a dark reddish-brown to this miserable lack of color. At seven-and-a-half-thousand-years old, none of his remaining three consorts have ever accused him of lacking vigor as a result of gray hair. Vanity is a trait he is secretly a slave to.

  “What is it?” Samiri asks, glancing at the King’s present. The silk-wrapped square container appears comical in the Anuk’s large hand.

  “A seedling from the Lotai plant.”

  “Forgive me…maybe it’s because I am relatively new, but I am struggling to grasp just how does part of a sacred plant serve as a gift to her Majesty?” Samiri stares at the box with genuine curiosity. “Shouldn’t the birth of your first child in eons demand a grander affair?”

  “Didn’t they teach you anything at the academy?” Shuru asks. His casual tone with the Watcher is drawing curious glances from the nearby Lords and Ladies. The aristocracies are known to be snobs.

  “The Lotai is sacred to all Anuk, as it was brought here by our ancestors.” Shuru pantomimes, mimicking a teacher educating a student. “This gesture signifies the hope for a fruitful and blessed birth. Since presenting a flowering plant may be deadly to a newborn, a seedling is a much-preferred offering.”

  “Especially now with the plague infecting everyone…we cannot be too careful. Until we find a cure, all our lives are in danger.”

  Shuru regards him with a kind smile. Samiri’s long dark shoulder-length hair falls smartly on his olive-colored garment; it reminds the King of his own flowing matte of gray. He rests his large palm on the Watcher’s small shoulder. “We will survive this.”

  “Your Grace.” Samiri speaks with hesitation in his voice. “Perhaps if you allowed the Watcher’s Council access to the Amon-I, we might find a cure from its divine wisdom.”

  “Impossible,” Shuru responds in a whisper. “Using the Amon-I for this purpose can be likened to using the ocean to fill a teapot.”

  “Your daughter will be at risk the moment she enters the world…Majesty. Will you not protect your sole heir?”

  Shuru looks at him with sad eyes. “I will consider it.”

  An announcement crackles from the shuttle pilot informing the passengers they were minutes away from arrival. Samiri looks over his master before attending his own restraints. Shuru’s eyes transfix on the bulkhead.

  “One of the sacred tenants of religion is to trust in the Creator. If it is his will to take Persephone from me within moments of her first breath, then so be it. I am not one to challenge it, for the Creator’s will is supreme.” Samiri drops his head, assuming a dismissal. “If she is infected…then I will have The-Keeper-of-Secrets deliver the Amon-I to the Watcher-temple.”

  A wide promenade stretches across the front of the Temple-of-the-Sun. Here in this principality of Northern-Illyria, it is packed with citizens from all the realms. Crowds gather to honor King Shuru’s visit, but more importantly, seventy-thousand made the pilgrimage to celebrate the birth of Princess Persephone – sole heir to the Hyperborian throne, and thus all the wealth of the Anuk.

  It is not customary for a Queen to rule. For countless millennia, archaic mindsets remain rooted in practice traceable to Forefather ENlil himself. On the twenty-seventh day of Persephone’s life, audacious campaigns for her hand in marriage will begin; If Shuru has a son later on, however, the throne will pass to him. War and disease have rendered the monarch childless for four-thousand years. This birth, by all accounts, is a miracle.

  The grand temple is ancient, constructed by House ENki when the forefathers walked the Earth. Shaped like a pyramid, its height is 721.7847-feet, covering an area of 372,043.244-feet-square, it is a marvel to behold. Grand walkways lead to the dark-blue structure where multiple entrances welcome patrons and visitors alike. For eons, this has been a center for the healing arts. Today it welcomes a royal birth.

  Inside is sterile and bright. On each level, there is a flurry of activity; research, health care and worship, space is allotted for everyone. A grand hall on the first level seats 30,000 attendees to any affair. Today, despite the King’s insistence for privacy, assorted pageantry has made its way into the monarch’s agenda.

  Prince Vali, the Regent of House ENlil and Northern-Illyria, stands on a raised platform with arms outstretched towards the approaching King. His face is reminiscent of a lean pampered Royal who is concerned with grooming rather than public affairs. His effeminate mannerisms echo taboos publicly shunned in Hyperboria, but mere whispers do not perturb him; this age has seen many a departure from the old tenants of religion, and Vali considers himself to be a trendsetter.

  With a broad smile, Shuru embraces his nephew for all to see. “Vali…I told you, no pomp.”

  The Prince smiles with mischief on his face. “Oh, come now uncle, it’s more for me than you. Can’t a loving child dote on his King?”

  The Royals face a sea of applause. Silver spheres hover close, capturing the scene, buzzing with dim lights and pre-programmed instructions from newscasters below. Shuru shifts away from the cameras and throws a protective hand over his beard.

  Vali gazes with love at his King. “I have a hair-technician who will do wonders with that mess.”

  Shuru steps to a podium, ready to deliver an unplanned address while Vali retreats under a magnificent banner.

  “Citizens, I am humbled to see such a gathering. My family and I receive your good w
ishes with much gratitude and love. Thank you for your prayers and support. I understand feasts have been commissioned throughout the realms. When I raise my wine glass, I do so with pride and honor to you. It is because of your affections we live in an age of peace and prosperity. I love you all.” Thundering applause join enthusiastic cheers.

  Shuru offers a final wave. He anticipates Vali’s approach after throwing a glance his way. That smug little shit! He hurries to an exit before his nephew reaches his back. His thoughts fall heavy with Queen Farah.

  On the Pyramid’s higher levels, a myriad of personnel rush about in a frenzy to cater to Lords and Ladies. His Majesty’s travel companions enjoy the anxious pretense of the commoner to appear ‘important.’

  Trays of wine shuttled in from Aryavan fill cups. Fruit from the Western Continent overflow on plates. Musicians soothe the snobbery with eloquent classical tunes administered via stringed instruments. Quick sneers from the staff go unnoticed; the subservient class of Anuk and man carry on with their resentment bubbling in privacy.

  Two levels above the chaos is the private birthing wing. Medical personnel draped in white gowns stroll through bright passageways, each locked in the sole task of attending the Royal family. Queen Farah has been in labor for 6-hours now. All eyes are on the physicians who are hopeful the princess will be born without a stain of the plague.

  A century ago, the world emerged from a dark period of pestilence lasting 727-years. Humanity succumbed to a deadly flu-like virus running rampant without regard to race or social status. Religious adherents proclaimed it was judgment from the Creator for lives led in derogation of holy decrees. When the epidemic was subdued, thanks once offered were replaced by the decadent acts, held in blame. The reprieve was short-lived. Five years ago, a new viral strain emerged. The disease attacked at an alarming speed, killing the victims within days of contraction.

  Efforts to eradicate the contagion were futile. The global population diminished, eliminating long-lived Anuk and Watcher scientists who contained the previous outbreak.

  Extraordinary efforts have been undertaken to protect Shuru’s heir from the invisible attacker. Only those cleared to interact with the Royals can do so, at least while here at the facilities. Further limitations reduced the birthing staff itself. In the past a host of priests would be present with the family; today only the King and his aide are present in the birthing station.

  “Curious,” Samiri blurts out while observing the physicians and the Queen from behind a wall of glass. Shuru stands beside him in a sterile blue gown, making ready to enter the chamber.

  “Out with it,” Shuru says, as he fumbles with the plastic garment.

  Samiri shifts over to assist. “I have never witnessed a birth.”

  Shuru chuckles. “Lucky for me, I have participated in seventy-two; thirty-six my own offspring.”

  “I am sorry, Majesty,” Samiri says with a sad look about him. “Sorry for the travesties which robbed you of family.”

  “The greatest tragedy any parent can endure is the loss of children.” Shuru sends Samiri a thoughtful look. “Be thankful your race does not have to face such evil.”

  “There may be some advantage to being grown in a gestation pod after all.” Samiri smiles in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Did you know my batch is the last to be blessed with long life?”

  “I did not know.”

  Samiri returns his gaze to the Queen. “Yes, I am fortunate to have a shelf-life of five-thousand years. The new generations will have half that.”

  Shuru begins his entry to the room but stops midway. He stares at Samiri the way a father would. “You have been in my service for ten years…Samiri. You shall now be attached to Princess Persephone and rewarded handsomely with unheard-of privilege for a ‘Doh-fan-ae.’”

  “You honor me Majesty,” he says humbly with a bow. The King hurries to his Queen.

  A calm silence envelops the executive lounge below the birthing wing. Festivities on lower-levels remain a distant clamor for a few seeking refuge in the elegant abode of opulent appeal. Samiri sits on a comfortable leather chair, locked in quiet contemplation about his new-found favor within the royal household.

  Hours ago, he was a Watcher, relegated to serve as an aide to a master – in his case the highest master of them all. Now, he is blessed with privilege once afforded the ‘Doh-fan-ae’ in eons past. His thoughts drift to musings on what a great teacher he will be to the Princess – protector, guide, friend. A pleasant feeling of accomplishment washes over him until his meditation is disturbed by a rude rustling in an attached seat.

  “Samiri,” the female Watcher says in her soothing tone.

  At first, he is startled but finds calm in the brown eyes staring at him. “Aspasia. What are you doing here?”

  Aspasia crosses her legs, draped in black leather and fashionable boots. She shifts her athletic body to face him, offering a calculated smile rather than a response. Her raven hair shines with the overhead light, giving her a devious appearance. She drops her hand on Samiri’s arm, squeezing gently as he tries to move it from the armrest. “Are you avoiding me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I have been busy with my duties.”

  “Nonsense. Does the King agree to send us the Amon-I?”

  “I made the suggestion just as you asked. He will consider it.”

  Her grip tightens. Her teeth clench with delight. She drops her gaze to her peach-colored hand, squeezing her contemporary’s pale appendage. “Not good enough.” She relishes in her power over him.

  She is much older than Samiri – where he is a mere 20 years since commissioning, she is 1,043, though the casual observer would think she is in her late twenties.

  “What do you desire of me, Aspasia? What crooked affair has the High-Priest sent you trotting off with? I refuse to be a part of your schemes, whatever they are.”

  “Our numbers are dwindling brother. You are part of the last true ‘Doh-fan-ae,’ not this new generation of subservient slaves.” She releases her grip as an Anuk Lord and Lady stroll through the lounge. Samiri begins to rise. “Wait!” Aspasia urges.

  He slumps back down and leans for a whisper. “I worked my way up to aide as you instructed. I provided you with secrets known only to Anuk Royalty. I aided the Council with forbidden science at great risk. I have done everything you’ve asked of me.”

  “You have done more than that, brother. It was your science which provided the path to the plague.”

  “What!” He jumps off his chair, seething with disgust and loathing. His hateful stare does nothing to break Aspasia’s resolve.

  She stands in her casual way, pushing up close to him to exaggerate her five-foot-ten-inch stature; two inches taller than Samiri. “Yes, you are the ultimate creator. We intended to thin the herd of man for our kind to prosper once more. Inter-breeding between Anuk and man created the pandemic today, not us.”

  Samiri clenches his fist and growls, “And now it is not man that suffers, but all humanity.”

  Aspasia softens her gaze to one of plight. “We need the Amon-I to fix it. Help us.”

  “No,” Samiri says, still aggravated. “You want the Amon-I for something more. I suspect this much. Remember I’ve seen the secret writings of the Anuk. I know what they fear and where their knowledge comes from. The relic may fix the travesty you let loose on the world, but it can do more…so much more.”

  “I assure you; we desire is to save ‘Doh-fan-ae,’ and humanity.”

  A moment passes to bring calm on both Watchers. Samiri relaxes. “The King will consider gracing the High-Priest with the Amon-I. Even if I object to such power being in the hands of imbeciles, I cannot block a path to end this madness. His Grace will not take a chance with the life of his heir. That alone is enough to sway him.”

  Aspasia clasps Samiri’s shoulders. “Then you must ensure this brother.” She reaches into her jacket, retrieving an object.

  Instant horror overcomes him. “I cannot,” he says with
eyes fixed on her hand.

  Aspasia pleads, “It is the only way. If the child is free from disease, then it’s the only way. Save us, Samiri.”

  After a long night, the birthing wing is quiet. Dim corridors leading to a sterilized chamber are filled with armed sentries on watch. Princess Persephone is left to sleep in her small neonatal incubator, with one attending nurse perched in a corner. The room has a dark-blue glow to it. The air is cold, lowered to match the temperatures of a Hyperborian palace.

  Exhaustion overcomes the nurse. An unnoticed blanket of green mist flowing through the room’s ventilation encapsulates the woman. Her heavy eyes scream for sleep. Her body gives in without resistance to the nasty toxin.

  Slipping in from the ventilation masked by shadows, Samiri approaches the incubator in the manner of an unwilling fiend in vehement opposition to his task. He taps an illuminated button on the enclosure.