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sokoistrying · 21 days ago

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The Last Demon (Mire's backstory)

[witten as a comission by the amazing @ephemereos]

(this story will make more sense if you read The Fallen first)

The little peace and innocence he had been granted were gone, leaving space for an unstable, resentful demon. Every time he was attacked and berated he would laugh, acting brash, bold, swearing back at his attackers and posing no ﬁlters on his actions, further leading people to believe he had fully gone insane, but once he was alone and the mask fell it was as if his whole body was made of pain and grief.

The Last Demon

War had been ravaging on for far too long, and both factions were running low on members, energy, resources…anything; it was not sustainable for much longer. Infelix was surprised that the King had been the one to decide on a plan to bring peace and a halt to this endless war, but he had no idea how he wanted to go about it. The King had stopped conﬁding in him as he once used to do, and Infelix tried not to intrude too much. Still, his curiosity and confusion were all the more prominent now that he stood by the King’s side where everything had ﬁrst begun: the desolate patch of desert sand where he too had been brought to life, where countless of his kind had been born after him. It was somewhat of a sacred place; the demon population had spread across Deadramel and away from there, and the desolate patch of land had been left untouched and as a mere place for creation. A partial breakaway from the war that was ravaging on.

Infelix’s unease only grew once the King began to wield his magic. The King stepped forward, while Inﬂux stood to the side, observing as he began the ritual the same way he had done many times before. The ﬂow started all the same, but the energy emanating from the magic was far diﬀerent than what Infelix had seen any other time, as if it ﬂowed in a completely diﬀerent direction than usual, stronger, yet void. He could feel the typical darkness that permeated every other blackened Soul, but it still felt foreign and odd, like the embodiment of the concept of rotting matter, although not in a way that could be tangible with any sense. The abstract concept of it. And there was another aspect: Infelix was hit by the memory of what he had experienced the ﬁrst time he opened a portal to Ejoran, and how the wisps of light, the immaculateness of that realm, had hit him. Amidst all that void and rot that permeated the magic the King was wielding, there was also light. The faintest trace of it, but Infelix could clearly tell it was there.

“My King…what are you creating?” Infelix asked on autopilot, not even realising his lips had moved and his voice had come out of his mouth, hoarse and breathless, before what he was seeing. He wanted to know, needed to know, but was sure that he would not like the answer the King was going to give him. There was a certain sharpness to the King’s voice when he answered, his focus solely on his creation, his ultimate creation.

“Something to end the war.”

Just as he ﬁnished saying that, there was a ﬂash of dark energy, particles buzzing in the atmosphere and slowly cascading to the ground as the King’s creation came into view. Similar yet diﬀerent from all the other demons who had come before it, the new creature stood there, lost and confused, overwhelmed with the sight before it. The vast desert, the desolate view, and two unfamiliar ﬁgures standing before it.

The King approached with slow, careful steps, trying to appear as least intimidating as he could, reaching out a hand to the newborn demon and speaking in a much softer tone than Infelix had heard him use in a very long time.

“Hello, Mire.” The demon’s name had been chosen, binding the creature to it from then on.

“I’ve created you for a reason, to do a job for us all.” The King spoke slowly, his tone gentle yet ﬁrm, stressing the weight of this job. “You are extremely important to us.”

Mire looked at him questioningly, still confused, but with a glint of excitement in his eyes; the prospect of being such an important ﬁgure would have made anyone giddy. Infelix waited to see what else the King would tell his new creation, but he remained quiet. The King turned slightly to look back at Infelix, his gaze hard to decipher, but Infelix had a hunch that he did not want him there while talking to Mire.

“You may go back to the castle now, Infelix. I wish to talk to Mire alone. Everything is under control now, and I must attend to these matters myself.” His tone was poised to seem friendly and neutral, but Infelix could tell there was an edge to it that left no room for rebuttals. Mire peered from behind the King and watched as Infelix hesitated for a second before giving a slow nod. The other demon turned around and began to walk towards the castle. The King remained silent to watch Infelix leave, and only turned back when he was sure he was out of sight and out of earshot.

Then, the King waved his hand, and a portal appeared. Mire felt overwhelmed by everything going on. He had only been brought into existence a handful of minutes ago, yet his brain was being bombarded with information. He already had the faculty to produce and understand speech, he knew what things were called, their names and labels, all except the name of the powerful being standing next to him. All he knew for sure was that he had to obey the King’s every order, no matter what. That was his mission, what he was created for.

The King placed a hand on Mire’s shoulder and started leading him into the portal, walking with sure, determined steps. He began talking, explaining to Mire everything about why he had come to be: the war that was ravaging on, his role within it, the “gift” that was his existence in saving demonkind, those like him who he had not yet met save for the King and Infelix, but that were all relying on Mire for safety. All the information at once felt like an overload; there was so much to take in, yet so little time. Mire wanted to know more, he had so many questions. He wanted to see more of Deadramel, but here he was, being led through a portal towards a completely diﬀerent realm, so far from the appearance and energy he felt in his native place. The King told him this realm was called Ejoran, the place where the war was ravaging on, a land full of colours, plants, nature, animals, and all sorts of creatures so foreign to those of Deadramel, yet Mire felt a familiarity when observing them.

A few shapes made of blinding light stood opposite to them, and in a few moments, began to surround Mire and the King. Mire could feel pure anger emanate from them, their antagonism towards him and the King palpable, and the newly born demon felt small and powerless before them. But when he turned to look at the King, he found him calm and collected. He stopped, his hand still gripping Mire’s shoulder as he guided him forward, putting him in view of the shapes of light surrounding them, as if presenting a prized object. Technically, he truly was. The King began to speak, his voice strong and proud as he declared he had come to discuss a peace treaty between his kingdom and Ejoran, and had brought a gift to seal the accord between the two factions. The shapes of light seemed to quiver and tremble with disbelief, moving side to side and whispering to each other as the King spoke. The King continued, saying his gift was to demonstrate he was determined to put to rest the souls sacriﬁced for the war he had started.

The next moments seemed a blur to Mire: the white shapes of light encircled them and began to guide them, but kept a safe distance as if afraid they could be poisoned or infected by the King and him, as if their species could taint their purity. They were being led to the Queen herself, and Mire heard a cacophony of shouted orders, movements, and commotion at the announcement of their arrival. Threats and curses were thrown at the duo as they walked, mainly aimed at the King, who remained perfectly composed amidst the chaos. Mire wanted to react, he felt rage bubble up in his chest at the sound of such crass words towards the one who had brought him to life. But the King ordered him to remain quiet and walk behind him. So Mire obeyed, the warmth of anger still seething within him.

It didn’t take long for them to reach the Queen, who seemed like she had been waiting for them, like this had all been planned beforehand. This wasn’t lost on Mire, but although curiosity was eating him alive, he dared not speak and go against the order that had been given him. He walked behind his King, head bowed to protect his eyes from the blinding light emanating from the shapes around them, the pain like piercing needles into his eyes. He glanced brieﬂy at the Queen, but bowed his head back down once he saw the way she was staring down at him. Her gaze was heavy on his form, he felt like he could crumble and be squashed on the ground like a bug from it. There was a deep, seething hatred in the Queen’s gaze, something Mire could not escape. He had no faults for the war that had been ravaging on; he was the last born, come to life not even an hour prior, but he bore the weight of his creator’s sins, and the ones of his whole kind.

She did not greet the King, and he did not greet her, making this feel even more like something that had already all been planned out, a strictly transactional business meeting. Mire felt even more unsure of his position, of his whole presence in that moment. But he could not leave, nor do anything else other than stand and wait.

“Explain this creature’s presence. Why is it here as we speak?” The Queen asked, her tone more than glacial, making Mire feel even smaller than he already did.

“I have created him with the purpose of a peace treaty. He is a gift, to you, from Ejoran, to seal the peace between our two dominions.” The King had begun to speak calmly, conﬁdently, but the Queen cut him oﬀ before he could continue.

“What makes you believe that oﬀering me one of your kin as a gift of peace is a good idea in any capacity? Why would I want a member of your kind, the same creatures that have brought war, destruction, and bloodshed to my kingdom?” The Queen’s voice had taken an almost imperceptible growl, a slight vibration of rage in her icy tone. Mire was terriﬁed. It felt like, at any moment, she could decide to blow him to smithereens just for being in her presence.

“I do when I have created him speciﬁcally to reconcile the spilled blood and aid the lost souls of Ejoran to depart peacefully, so that they may stop roaming your lands and peace might actually be restored.” The King replied, not losing his cool.

Mire could not follow everything that was said. Some concepts were too diﬃcult, too convoluted, a diplomatic battle of words. It was all strategy, striking at each other with sentences rather than with weapons or ﬁsts. Mire was in awe, fascinated, but he could not fully grasp any of the concepts, even if he knew the focus was on him, his existence. The King and Queen continued to talk for what felt like an endless stretch of time, completely ignoring him, as if he were nothing, a mere object. A toy oﬀered to the Queen to do as she pleased. When a ﬁnal agreement was reached, the Queen shot another icy-cold glance at Mire, making him cower in fear and respect. The King seemed satisﬁed, proud. He shot a glance at Mire, giving a ﬁrm nod, as if telling him to behave, then left without a word, leaving Mire in Ejoran and returning to Deadramel. Mire felt dizzy. He had just been left, alone, in a foreign land, with someone who looked at him like he was the most disgusting being, whatever had the misfortune to come to life.

“Go on, then. Make yourself useful and do your job. And don’t disappoint me, if you value your life.” She said coldly, turning around and leaving. That was the very last time the queen ever talked to Mire or spared a glance at him. He looked around himself, confused and a little lost on what to do or where to start. Two cherubs ﬂew in, ushering him out of the room and hastily leading him to the battle sites. Ever since he had arrived in Ejoran, he could hear whispers, voices, sometimes even screaming, but they all sounded so far and foreign. Now, on the battleﬁelds, the voices had become deafening. He ﬁnally knew what it was: the souls of the dead from that senseless war. He knew his job was to get them to the other side, to guide them. And although the King had not outright told him, he knew he was the only one with the ability to do so. He took a deep breath and focused, and felt like his mind was being split as his third eye opened. Not because of the action of opening it, but the pain was caused by the brightness of the souls. Everything in Ejoran was so bright it hurt, and while the souls were much fainter in intensity, they still felt blinding. But he couldn’t disobey and back out. This was his job, and he had to take care of it.

Now that Mire could see the souls, he could also see the true extent of their misery. They were lost, grieving, pained. None of them had enough consciousness to notice the living, as if stuck in a limbo of their own, and Mire was the only one who could enter that limbo of blinding light, misery, and pain. Some of them stood still in the same place, looking into nothingness. Others were stuck in a hellish time-loop where they were forced to relive their death, over and over again. And, sometimes, albeit rarely, Mire would come across soulmates that had died together, stuck in their own loop where they mourned each other. It was horrible, it was alienating. No one could understand how bad Mire felt through the whole ordeal. He hated it. Everything was too loud, too bright, he never had a moment of relief. On top of that, it was diﬃcult to communicate with the souls and get their attention, stuck as they were in the limbo, which made it diﬃcult to guide them to the other side and have peace.

At the beginning, Mire did his best. He tried, over and over, carrying out this duty he hated with every ﬁbre of his being, that made him miserable and depressed, that caused him physical pain. He wanted to be a source of pride for the King, for his kin, to amend for the sins of the past, and restore peace. He was the reason the war had ended; this task was crucial, was it not? He tried to convince himself, over and over again, that he couldn’t simply give up and run away, that he had to power through. But with each passing day, he grew more miserable and hated his job more and more. And the hatred he experienced from the people of Ejoran did not help. He never interacted with the Seraphs, but the Cherubs and Virtues that crossed his path looked down on him with hatred and disgust. He was seen as someone, no, something, beneath them all. Including the lowest of the lowest castes, the Citeri, outcasts reduced to living outside of their society and hiding in caves. He was considered worse oﬀ than them and was regarded with disdain and mockery. Mire was merely seen as a despicable object, only used to guide the souls of their kin to rest. And he was expected to behave with no complaints or rebellion. But he couldn’t deal with it. He tried as long as he could, but eventually his anger and resentment reached a tipping point. While out on the ﬁelds, as the Cherubs weren’t watching, he took oﬀ running. He ran as fast as his legs could, pushing his muscles even when they burned and screamed at him to stop, agonising.

He pushed on, mustering all the energy he had, all the magical power he could harness, until he opened a portal. He jumped inside, rushing back to Deadramel. He only took a breath and stopped running once he was ﬁnally in Deadramel. A wave of excitement and exhilaration washed over him. Surely his kin would welcome him back with open arms, surely now that there seemed to be peace between the two realms, the King would grace him and allow him to come back. But his hopes were vain and his happiness short-lived. Seconds after entering Deadramel, he realised the voices of the spirits here were even louder than in Ejoran. If souls in Ejoran were still and miserable, the ones on Deadramel were full of hate and anger. Not only did they wail, they screamed, piercing Mire’s ears with their shrill cries full of vitriol. Ejoran blinded him, Deadramel deafened him. He could never ﬁnd any rest.

Still, he went back to the castle, hoping for some grace, but everything went downhill for him. He was not welcomed back by the King, who instead ﬁrmly told him to go back to Ejoran to continue his job. Mire hated it, no one had asked him how he felt about all of this, if he even liked doing any of that, if it caused him any pain. He found that the demons of Deadramel were not any nicer than the Ejoran creatures: they too looked down on him, going ass far as branding him a traitor of their race. Mire tried to put up a façade, pretending none of their attacks aﬀected him, that he did not care. But it became harder and harder to deal with the idea that, no matter where he went, he would always be unwelcome and scorned. Not even the lowest of the most miserable creatures saw him as an equal.

Despite being sent back to Ejoran, Mire would sometimes go back to Deadramel for weeks at a time, just to get a break from the blinding souls and pompous beings of that realm of light. Of course, he got little rest in Deadramel, always hiding, lurking in the shadows to avoid being attacked and berated for his mere existence as a pawn for two worlds. As the years passed, he began to loathe and resent the King. No longer proud of his “important” role in the war, he did not believe anything the King said now. He had told Mire he was important, that he would basically be a hero. And yet he was treated like garbage, if not worse. And things did not get better. Dealing with the constant screams and wails of the voices was gnawing away at his sanity, and Mire was becoming more unpredictable. He lashed out easily and often talked to “himself”, arguing, yelling at the wind. Clearly, he was attacking the voices, trying to make them shut up, but other demons or dwellers of Ejoran could not see what he could, so they just labeled him as crazy. In a way, Mire almost preferred that. Better crazy than a traitor.

Although moving from hate to pity and contempt was not how he wanted people to view him. He wanted to be appreciated, thanked for his horrible and degrading job. But it seemed like no one ever had anything nice to say to him. Slowly, the little speck of light he had within him, the purity from Ejoran the King had infused into him upon his birth, began to be swallowed by his darkness. The little peace and innocence he had been granted were gone, leaving space for an unstable, resentful demon. Every time he was attacked and berated he would laugh, acting brash, bold, swearing back at his attackers and posing no ﬁlters on his actions, further leading people to believe he had fully gone insane, but once he was alone and the mask fell it was as if his whole body was made of pain and grief. Grief at the life and kindness he would never be able to experience because of things he had not chosen. No, everything had been chosen for him by the King, without leaving him any room for free will. He couldn’t bear the thought of the King going unpunished for his crimes, he wanted revenge. He needed it. The thought was obsessive and all-consuming, and it never left Mire’s head.

He couldn’t get revenge alone, it would be impossible to overthrow the King all by himself. But he knew he was not the only one to fester anger and disdain for the ruler. Hiding in the shadows, he had heard more than one demon complain about how the King ruled, how sour they felt over the senseless and brutal war they had been thrust into, and how some would be collecting the scraps of the war’s results for centuries to come. Mire was overjoyed to see that the dissatisfaction towards the King was spreading far and wide, and he knew where to start sowing the seeds of discord to get aid for his plan: Dorcha. The demon, unlike others, seemed to feel sympathy and pity for Mire’s situation. At last, someone perhaps understood his unfortunate fate. And as Mire had predicted, it didn’t take much to convince Dorcha to get on his side. He too was tired of the King’s unfairness, he was tired and scarred from the war. With Dorcha by his side, Mire knew the next steps would be a lot easier to complete than if he were acting alone. The last pawn standing in their way was Infelix, who was going to be much harder to convince. But if Dorcha did the talking, Mire knew they would be set.

“I cannot believe you would even dare come up with a plan so heinous. I could understand Mire, but you, Dorcha?” Infelix said, clearly outraged at the suggestion. Mire did not reply to the attack, but his brows furrowed, and he felt a bout of rage bubble in his chest. But as soon as Dorcha stepped in, his anger dissipated, and a smirk tugged at the corners of his lips.

“I know this sounds horrible, but we are at a point where dethroning the King is the only step to salvation. Our kin deserves liberation from this endless loop of violence, don’t you think?”

Infelix remained quiet, his expression showing his inner turmoil. His ﬁsts trembled from anger at the suggestion of something so preposterous; how could he ever go against the one who had created him, given him life? The King had cared for him like a father would, and they had shared in the creation of this world. And yet…and yet he could not erase from his memory how the ruler had changed.

“I remember it well; time ago you told me, in a moment of vulnerability, how you hated the way he had been treating you. The way he stopped caring for you, as if he had cast you aside because he no longer ﬁnds you interesting or of use.” Dorcha said, before adding, “I see the way you scowl at him when he walks by. Many have noticed.”

Infelix froze over as the words hit him. His gaze remained on the ground, as if he were deep in thought. He never realised, or perhaps he never accepted the idea that what bubbled up inside him when looking at the King was scorn and resentment. How could he feel that way for the man who had created him? And yet, Dorcha’s words had hit the mark and made his castle of lies crumble.

It was painful, but he had to accept the truth: the only way was forward, and to move forward, the King had to fall. He felt his whole body shake and tremble, while Mire watched with anticipation, overjoyed at the sight of Infelix’s resolve crumbling. He grinned gleefully once Infelix raised his gaze to look at them and mumbled, “I’m in.”

The deal was sealed.

The three worked on a plan, supposed to be foolproof. They rallied up a few demons who were just as dissatisﬁed with the king, and organised an attack. They would meet secretly when they were all free from their duties, conspiring against the unsuspecting King’s back. Everything was going so smoothly that the three demons believed they would succeed seamlessly, and the old era of Deadramel would see its last dawn, giving way to a new shift.

Mire did not have the battle experience the other two had, so he would not be attacking the King. At ﬁrst, he was angry about being cut out, but realised it was for the best. Bringing down the King would be no easy task, and there was no room for any mistakes. Besides, as soon as the other two tasked him with attacking the other unsuspecting demons, he became excited again. He felt bloodlust like never before and couldn’t wait to jump into action. In fact, on the fateful night of their attack, as soon as Infelix and Dorcha gave him the signal, he rushed oﬀ, laughing maniacally and glancing back at them with a wide grin. The two demons chuckled and scoﬀed, turning back to the castle, ready to put their part of the plan into action.

Mire took his time to barge into the unsuspecting demons’ homes, accompanied by a few other rebels. He broke in and began to attack indiscriminately. The demons would scream, yell, and try to defend themselves, but Mire was a killing machine. Partly because his victims were still half asleep and taken by surprise, and partly due to his pent-up rage ﬁnding an outlet, none of the demons survived his attacks. He ripped at their throats, broke their limbs, did anything and everything to inﬂict as much pain as possible. The whole time, his only thought was the years of hell and abuse he had endured, all the yelling, the horrible words he had to put up with. He laughed hysterically, bringing down demon after demon, bathing in their blood and breathing in the stench of death. It felt so good to put his anger to good use. It felt so good to get revenge. Oh, how he hoped for Dorcha and Infelix to kill the King quickly. Actually, he hoped they’d make him suﬀer as long as possible. The bastard deserved it, he wished he could kill him himself!

As Mire killed and maimed his victims, he could hear the screams of the souls get louder, grow in number. But he didn’t care. He laughed at them, laughed at their pain and turmoil. Now they’d be in the company of other screaming souls and see what he had to endure every day. He wasn’t going to stop, he could have continued forever. But the noise coming from the souls and from his actions prevented him from hearing other screams. Screams of his rebel comrades and of the King’s guards coming to attack them. The plan had failed, Infelix and Dorcha had been busted and detained. The guards swarmed the house Mire was currently in, and he turned to stare at them, grinning widely and with a crazed ﬁre in his eyes. He jumped, attacking a guard, but he was soon brought down as multiple demons attacked him. They hit and beat him multiple times, and still he trashed and fought back, until they were able to immobilise him. Even after being beaten down and tied, while he was carried to the castle, Mire continued to smile. A shit eating grin on his face, he panted and heaved, still in a high from all the killing. His body was covered in blood, some dry, some still fresh, dripping down his form and onto the ﬂoor.

He was dragged and thrown into a room, right next to Dorcha and Infelix. He looked up at the king, his pupils blown and his grin wide. It didn’t matter that they had lost, that the rebellion had been stopped. He felt so good after all that bloodshed. He loved it.

By the morning, the King came to them with his punishment.

“I shall make it clear to you now: I do not wish to bring harm upon any of you.” The King’s powerful voice boomed in the room and bounced oﬀ the walls, adding to the sense of gravity of the situation.

“But…I still have to punish the three of you.” Now that it had been a few hours since his killing frenzy, Mire was starting to sober up, and the reality of the situation was settling in. They had lost, and the rebellion had failed. He felt angry, betrayed. He expected the King to kill them, and yet…why did it seem like he was going to grace them? Why did it seem like he was going to aﬀord them pity?

“I shall banish you to live out your days in other vessels, in a diﬀerent, unknown realm. Take this time to think about what you all have done.” The king did not seem pleased with having to punish them. Mire could feel a hint of pity, of heartbreak. It almost made him feel sad, too. For a second, he wished none of this had happened. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, like he was a ﬁsh out of the water.

Before any of the three demons could react, the King waved his hand, and a ﬂash of light consumed their vision as they felt their bodies being dragged back. Mire wanted to scream, but couldn’t, and the last thing he heard were the mocking, gleeful voices of the spirits in the throne room, laughing at him. Then, it all abruptly went black.

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