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Forgotten. Forlorn. He sat alone in the cold wild. They called him the Demon. His appearance was worthy of the title as he hunkered atop an icy summit, wearing the skin of a razorbeast. The grisly hide both kept him warm and enhanced the terrifying stories told in the nearby villages when wary travelers caught a glimpse of him flying through the trees or scaling the bluffs. They saw the beast's skull that served as his hood, the fangs, and the sharp shadows cast over his face, certain that he was inhuman and evil.

He did not know what he was or where he came from. He only was and for years he had struggled to understand what that meant. The meaning of his existence eluded him. He wondered where he was, why everything looked unfamiliar and alien to him, and why he could not remember anything. His mind hollow, his senses numb, and his memory cut off, he haunted the Shallow Mountains searching for something. He would have sought sanity if he knew what it was, but all he knew was the life he now lived. No traces of the previous one remained. All he had were the hideous flashbacks, snatches of his former life, and the nightmares that tormented him regularly.

How many seasons had passed while he wasted away in the barren, cold country of the Shallow Mountains? He pondered this as twilight fell and the moon rose. The second moon, green tonight, came out as well. One of the few things he found pleasure in was watching the cycle of the moons as the seasons waxed and waned. The second moon did not come out often, but when it did, he loved to lie on his back and admire it all night long in the open space of the wild. The second moon appeared in varying colors throughout the year, and each night that it was visible it transitioned from the dark to bright shade of each hue. Seeing the colored night-disk released him from the turmoil of his mind and made him feel at peace, more connected to other people and less lonely in the knowledge that he was not the only one who looked upon it in wonder. When he saw the colored moon, his mind became clearer, even if he could only recall new memories.

The oldest of these was waking up on the shore not far from the bluffs. He was lying facedown when he was startled by a large crab scuttling sideways over the sand. His back and neck were dry from the hot sun and salty breeze. His lips were cracked, and his tongue lolled in his mouth. He struggled to his feet and began walking away from the sea. He knew nothing in that moment, the oldest moment he could remember, except that he had to escape the ocean and the merciless sun. He stumbled inland until he reached a wood and then searched until he found a bubbling brook. One of his most vivid memories was the sweetness of the water that he drank there all those numberless years ago. He made the trek back to revisit the place where he made the first pleasant memory he possessed, and each time he went back he told himself that he would give it up, along with all of his new memories, all for a mere glimpse of his previous life.

From the brook he moved on, crossing several others, and made his way into the Shallow Mountains where he now lived as the Demon in the minds of the villagers. He, of course, was oblivious to this assigned name. Squatting on his haunches like an animal, he was aware only of the steam coming out of his nostrils into the cold night air and the raw chill telling his senses that, whatever his circumstance, he was alive.

Soon he fell asleep, lying on his back and wrapped in the warm fur that served as his cloak. Like always, he dreamed, but this time it was not an unpleasant experience. Normally, he endured either mad, chaotic nightmares or fantastic dreams of light, hope and happiness; everything he could not possess in real life. Tonight his dream was the sanest vision he had experienced since he awoke on the shore, and it made him feel more human than he could ever remember feeling.

In his vision, two knights arrayed in the most splendorous armor of gold and silver marched toward the towering doors of the king's throne room. Between them, they bore a pitiful man in tattered clothing that was besmeared with soot and ashes. His hands were bound in chains behind his back.

The massive doors flew open and radiance from within made the prisoner cringe. Upon entering, the prisoner saw through squinted eyes two ranks of knights like the ones who dragged him in, on either side of the magnificent king. The king sat upon his throne, and the wretch turned his gaze from the rows of knights to look at him, his face full of awe. Before now, he had had a good mind to fling curses at the king and blaspheme his name, but now he was utterly speechless.

The mighty king looked resolutely at him, inside him, making eye contact with his soul. In one moment he knew the prisoner better than the prisoner knew himself. On his knees, the chained one began to weep, feeling more wretched than ever. The gaze of the king had broken him.

The king remained silent, never taking his eyes from the prisoner. Then he boomed, "You stole what I gave you and misused it. You oppressed my people, the people to whom my promise was given, that they should never be harmed! How can I allow this to go unpunished, when I promised them my protection?"

For a moment, the prisoner's numb eyes lingered on the jeweled hilts of the swords that were strapped at the sides of the knights. Then, with a stricken face, the chained one looked up at the immaculate king. He was hopelessly lost, guilty beyond doubt, and he knew it. The king demanded that he speak up for himself and answer for his crimes, but the prisoner could say nothing. The chained one made a sore, pitiful sight. Still, justice could not be left undone. The wrath of the king must be poured out.

The king rested his chin on his palm and thought a moment. Through dirty strands of hair, the prisoner looked mournfully at the floor with resignation. The compassion in the eyes of the king was immense as he said, "This is what we will do. I will leave my throne and royal robes, and you will cast off your rags."

"What?" the chained one muttered from the shadows of his filthy hood.

"I am going to take your place," the king explained.

"But…" the prisoner began to say, but already the knights were leading the king over to where he stood. His robes and crown lay on the throne. Then the knights began stripping him and putting his rags on the king. "How can you do this?" he demanded, finding his voice at last.

One of the knights froze and looked at him in wonder. "The king's command must be obeyed. We do not dare challenge his wisdom."

"But he is the king!" the prisoner shouted as they hauled him away. Already the king looked dim and ugly in the heavy black chains.

In an instant, the former prisoner found himself sitting on the king's throne, wearing his robes and crown. He was no longer repulsive, no longer condemned. He was unchained, free from the curse of his crimes, and soon after he realized this, a light began to glow all around him. He remembered the light that had blinded him moments ago, the light that was not his. He suddenly knew that the king had given up everything to rescue him and to give the offender his own light, his own glory. It was not fair. The unchained one wept again, this time for joy at his release and for sorrow at the king's demise.

Copyright © 2004 Anthony Harrison