Immortal Darkness: Shadow Across the Land (14 page)

Thankfully, Molar was able to receive much
rest through the past few days. The fear of his father cuffing him
to the ground once again had swelled through his head, causing
himself to cringe away from Carpla whenever Molar caught sight of
him trotting through the castle’s halls.

For three days had the little griffin
remained strapped in shackles—restrained in chains, to say the
least. His bones itched every day for freedom, for the freedom to
go outside and run and play. At the same time did he notice as the
chains started to rust after only a few days. Such a sight caused
slight disgust to enter his mind.

It was during his time in these rusting
shackles when he could reminisce about the times before he had
become an enemy to Mocrano. All those times he had spent running,
flying, catching fish; all were to be taken away from him in one
fell swoop.

Breaking into his thoughts, Carpla came
walking into the room when he demanded, “Come on—we’re going to the
Mapharaux.”

“Um. Now?” wondered Molar with a nervous
smile forming in the back of his beak.

With a shriek did Carpla snap, “Yes! Right
now! Get out of your shackles and follow me.”

A pause came between the two as Molar looked
down at his only constraints.
Is he serious?
wondered he.
Again and again did his gaze switch from Carpla to the chains.
Finally Molar came out and asked, “How do I get out of these?”

And yet another pause commenced before Carpla
released a sigh and came up to his son.

Oh no!
thought Molar.
He’s not
going to hurt me, is he?

Cringing away from what he expected to be
another round of torture, Molar waited for his punishment. It was
within heartbeats, however, when he felt the once restrictive
shackles releasing their grip on his ankles.
Huh?
he
silently asked, taking a look up at Carpla.

“Come on!” he commanded. “We have to get
going!”

“Okay,” called out Molar from behind,
starting himself on a slight run—only to remember two of his paws
were missing.
Maybe instead of running
, he thought,
I’ll
just fly!

It was after quickly sipping from a glass of
malid—which had been conveniently placed at the castle’s front
room—when Molar rushed up to Carpla’s side. Readying himself for
the fight that was to be his trial, the little griffin gave the
castle’s front doors a great push.

“Wait!” called Carpla, halting his son all
the while. Upon catching Molar’s attention did Carpla reach for a
set of robes sitting just below where the glass of malid was.
Shoving the dirt-ridden cloth in front of Molar’s face, he growled,
“Put these on.”

These robes presented to Molar—while they
seemed to have belonged to a noble at one point— came splashed with
a heavy dosage of filth. Nearly every space on these filthy clothes
looked as if they had been dragged in the dirt for a whole day and
drenched in a puddle of mud for a whole night.

While appearing dust-covered to the eye,
these robes smelled of blood. What could have been done to make
what was once a pinnacle of fashion into an insult to both the eyes
and nose? Thankfully for Molar, he and all the other bone-created
Mocranians hadn’t any sense of smell at all.

Hesitating, Molar thought to himself,
Where has that thing been?
As these words continuously
echoed about in his head, he crept up to the robes—after which
Carpla wrapped them around his son. “Keep still,” he would hear
over and over again as he timidly waited for his father to
finish.

Upon finding himself all tidied up, Molar
noticed as Carpla walked out his castle’s front doors. “Wait for
me!” he called, raising himself off the ground.

As the father and son passed through their
home’s barriers, Molar asked of Carpla, “Why did you put this dirty
robe on me?”

A moment of silence passed. Without taking so
much as a wince over at his son, Carpla responded, “I don’t
know.”

“Oh,” replied Molar, struggling to hover with
just the right speed and altitude. “Well, can I take it off?”

“
No
!” rejected Carpla through a
surprisingly cunning voice. “You keep those robes on through the
whole trip!”

“Fine,” Molar sighed. But in his mind he was
thinking,
Please get it off me—it’s itching like crazy!
These thoughts in mind, he jittered about in mid-flight,
occasionally bumping into his father all the while. More and more
did he thrash about in midair, which caused him to silently urge
his wings to hold him steady. Quickly did he completely forget
about his itching and he instead focused on trying to set the
balance in his wings.

At last did Carpla stop in his tracks. “Stop
that!” he finally shouted after enduring what felt like a year of
feeling his son bumping into his shoulder.

A surge of fear spreading through his bones,
Molar nervously planted himself down to the ground. As his feet
beheaded feet touched the ground, he resisted the urge to release a
great cry of pain.
Well, what am I supposed to do?
he
wondered all the while.

Almost as if Carpla had taken a plunge into
the griffin’s mind, he explained through a sigh, “If you want to
fly, stay a bit further from me. Just a
bit
.
Understand?”

“Yes,” assured Molar, growing testier with
every passing heartbeat. A sigh escaped from the little one’s beak
before he pulled himself up off his feet once again.
Not too
close but not too far
, he constantly reminded himself all the
while.

It was literally a chore to have to hover
above the ground while keeping his distance from Carpla
and
resisting the urge to scratch at his still-itching bones. Every now
and then would he grunt with anger as thoughts of helplessness
refused to leave his head.

With time however, such thoughts were
replaced by thoughts of regret.
Why couldn’t I have just kept my
opinions to myself?
Molar thought while sighing. Although he
was coming up with a plan, he was well-aware of how difficult it
would have been to win without anybody to help him. He often asked
himself why anybody would bother to help him, but the answer always
came out the same. He was a complete disgrace to everything the
Mocranians believed—as far as they were concerned.

Molar could only imagine the pain he would
soon feel. He pictured the Mocranians standing idly by while a
blade swept through his neck. He could feel it now; the blade
slicing through his neck, the cheers of many resentful Mocranians.
It would have been chaos for him to take sight of this room full of
cheering despisers.

Regardless of whether or not he received the
death penalty, Molar remained afraid and weary of whatever Yofel
would do to him after the trial. As far as he was concerned, the
penalties for crimes
against
Mocrano usually involved
imprisonment, banishment, and even Mocranian enslavement. Being
that Yofel was his grandfather, Molar realized how unlikely it
would have been for him to receive death.

“Father?” Molar asked while keeping his
distance. “Do I need to tell the truth in this trial?”

“Yes.”

This single word smacked Molar with the
intensity and speed of a lightning bolt. Regardless of the shock he
had just received, he replied simply, “Okay.”

If he had to act in complete openness and
honesty, Molar would have to tell himself how much of a displeasure
it would be to work alongside the slaves. Doing something as simple
as looking at a worn-out slave could make him feel a terrible
sickness build up within him. Working with them would have been
much worse than him than for the slaves.
The slaves are bad, the
slaves are bad—

On his trip to the Mapharaux, Molar passed
many Mocranians—half of which shot him threatening glares when
Carpla had his back turned. He silently told himself to ignore
these silent threats whenever they came into his sight. The proving
of his innocence to Mocrano was of more importance than what these
Mocranians’ biases had to say.

With time did the noble and outcast find
themselves growing nearer to the Mapharaux. They could feel its
glow shining over their gaze, allowing a slight sense of glory to
penetrate their minds. Surrounding them, however, was a horde of
hundreds of other Mocranians just waiting for their chance to enter
the Mapharaux.

Holding himself close to Carpla, the
frightened griffin suddenly realized why he was given the filthy
robes.
My father didn’t want anybody to know it was me!
Pulling the irritating clothing over his face, he nervously looked
up and down and all around—to realize nobody had noticed who he
really was.

A wave of relief swept over Molar at that
moment.
Nobody knows who I am! This is great!
How long it
had been since he’d taken sensation of freedom, he hadn’t known—but
he felt as if he could fly out into the Mocranian wilderness
without punishment.

There was only problem with this sensation:
he couldn’t express it. If such an occurrence were to take place,
Carpla would chase after him—or maybe even cut off his last two
remaining paws! Such a thought made the little griffin’s spine
quiver—quivering just enough for his robes to slip off the rest of
his body.

Oh no!
he silently screeched as his
only means of disguise fell to the ground.

“Hey!” a child called out from behind, “It’s
Molar!”

A quick turnaround allowed Molar to take
sight of the hundreds of Mocranians—who had already locked their
gaze on the troubled griffin, none of which seemed at all
pleased.

Oh, come on!
Molar cried. He and his
father were just in the midst of the Mapharaux’s opening—
just
under
its welcoming rim. Were they to be taken all the way to
the back of the line just because of the Mocranians’ inability to
tolerate Molar’s opinions?

As the surrounding Mocranians prepared
themselves to remove Molar from their presence, the frightened
griffin rushed into the Mapharaux. Through millions of Mocranians
did he pass, rushing for his life until he found himself in the
midst of a bright and beautifully-lit room.

Forgetting all about his fears, Molar stopped
in his tracks to observe the area surrounding him. All across the
ceiling was a group of chandeliers—all of which cast their noble
light upon him. All the while did he feel as the light’s warmth
assured him peace in serenity after this trial.

Rather than with metal and glass, the
chandeliers were made from metal and diamonds. Even a Mocranian of
Molar’s royalty found the sight of these gems mesmerizing. How
anybody could have afforded this—even somebody as royal as his
grandfather—was well beyond Molar’s knowledge.

In addition to having a beautifully-decorated
ceiling, the Mapharaux was also surrounded by polished walls. The
checkerboard textures and eloquent designs on the walls held enough
beauty to keep himself hovering in the same area a bit longer.

It wasn’t long when Molar found somebody
pulling him by where his foot had once been. He released a screech
of pain just before realizing it was Carpla who had picked him up.
Within heartbeats did he find himself hanging upside-down beneath
Carpla’s grasp.

Glaring at his own son from behind his hood,
Carpla walked over toward the center of this room—which was
surprisingly empty. While completely devoid of all life, this
center seemed to attract all sorts of attention from outside its
gates.

“You’ll stay right there,” explained Carpla
while pointing to a spot near Yofel’s judge stand. At this spot
also shone a spotlight, but no guards stood around it.

While still hanging upside-down, Molar took a
look at the spotlight. It was after staring at the light for only a
brief moment when Molar found himself plummeting to the floor. With
a crash did his head meet the floor. With a grunt did he pick
himself up with his wings, floating over to the spotlight all the
while.

Once in the midst of this spotlight, he took
hearing of many of the Mocranians in the room murmuring thoughts to
each other. He almost wished that he could hear at least one of
their conversations.
But I can’t let their negativity bring me
down!

Taking just above the spot-lit ground beneath
him, Molar made an attempt at pushing the outside voices from his
mind. He knew that in order to win a trial, all outside
distractions must have been left in the dust while a storm of ideas
brewed in his head.

It was only shortly after Molar set himself
in the spotlight when Yofel came walking into the beautifully-lit
room. It was the first time Molar had taken sight of his
grandfather since his first day of flight. The entire assembly of
Mocranians found themselves quieted down upon witnessing the
emperor’s presence.

Through a slightly slow pace, Yofel made his
way toward the judge’s stand—which set a short distance in front of
Molar. Every step the old creature made caused Molar’s bones to
tense up more and more with time. It was almost as if the
chandeliers’ light had gone out—and all which remained was the
spotlight in which Molar now stood.

Once in his chair, the emperor of Mocrano
asked Molar through a slightly tense voice, “Do you know why you
have been called down to this trial?”

“Yes,” Molar answered somewhat calmly after a
short pause, “I am here because I thought the slaves should be
treated better.”

At the sound of these words, a horde of
murmuring spilled out between almost every Mocranian in the room.
Molar felt a sense of embarrassment trickle down his spine, all the
while triggering the desire to cower away from his problems.
Thankfully for him, the murmuring came to a stop when Yofel began
to speak once again.

“Well,” Yofel continued, “before you were
born, I had worried that you may try to rebel when you saw the
slaves.” After another pause of silence, “I wanted to tell your
father that it wasn’t a wise idea to create a son with the same
bones of a griffin—but I decided to leave him alone.”