Undesirable

Prologue

Girisha's Parchment

The night was never dark. It was beyond-the-pale; along with an indescribable silence underneath, where dwelled the abundantly cold wunderkind.

He was Girisha of kingdom Uttain, which was an inselberg after the summit of the white massif farther in the north.

Uttain was also known as the pinnacle of the ginormous jebel that was fortifying the tract of Maia from the howling gale of Maruta. And Girisha was the sentinel of such a stronghold: he was The Nightman to protect what was behind his donjon.

But to his reverence, the wind was absconding that night, and the mountain of Uttain was decaying. Its rocks were plummeting into the river that was flowing into the valleys, and on the field of Himavan alongside it, which was nothing but the wild grass to swathe those boulders.

But back in the time, the field underneath the mountain's shadow was a fertile turf where Himavan was farming Goldenseal, making its tea, and serving that to the king of the mountain and his remarkable assembly to begin their morning. But the field was demolished when the first thunderstorm had been welcomed with the twirling-cloud twice the mountain's size.

The storm-cloud resided there for a decade. It moved not an inch by the mere wish of the invisible god dwelling in it, and there was the force of the sentinel Girisha, who was holding on to it in search of his glory. He swung his sword to slice the cloud, and when he inhaled, the time rewound itself, and his misery did not go away until the lively night after eleven years.

His endeavor shortened. And he was thrown.

Himavan was nowhere to protect his land and his brother. Neither the mighty king, Ruthrva of Uttain succeeded to set his foot on the top of the inselberg to warn the world behind. In the fullness of time, the lord and his dwelling crumbled into pieces. And what was left in the words was the purpose of Uttain: it was to open the path of the dawn to far-flung to its sister, Maia.

The fallen Girisha was a firm stalwart to it, even when he was kneeling on the brink of river Yale, the white-water stream.

Even though the night was not dark, he was. When he smiled, his grey teeth dazzled as if a star had relinquished its shimmer, and how so his silver hair did not glitter. Those hairs seemed spiky. A blue thunderbolt was streaming around them in a million lapses in a second. And below, his cerulean eyes were fluorescing. They were thrilling to gaze upon. But too, they were fierce with excitement when he was looking at the night sky.

However, the night was a blessing to someone else. And the sky did not turn its facet by some celestial force: the star's gravity had risen: they amended it to Uttain to become the gloomy and egregious sphere underneath their aura, and they summoned the thunder over the head of genuflected Girisha.

The time—that had vouchsafed him a brief moment to shine—devoured back what did not belong to him. Meanwhile, there rang a thudding sound of lightening similar to the collapsing of metal on the rock. But the floor seemed ivory as far as the horizon to look from the tip of the valleys. Its roof was sibylline: it was hazy, with the noise of clouds crashing on each other: it altered into marron, and then, with the fire of a dragon, it metamorphosed into gold, yet there was no dragon but the infinitesimal holes in the clouds that were illuminating down the enormous howling and the fire-rain to melt the snow. Yet ere, the fire would touch the turf, it was extinguished. Its last ray was green and then blue when the celestial being Ruthrva cried silently for the fallen. And in that beam, there was a mighty shadow of a dead man smiling.

Girisha lay down in the white stream without closing his eyes and a merry laughter when the squall thrived. He had a silver-shinned parchment in his hand, and a few crimson spots that were leisurely dripping down his head to ears to the flood. As that water clutched the paper, the silver shine was shrunk into the letters on it—verily, the portraits of numerous birds' face. And when Girisha's finger touched it, a bright light thrived all around, consumed everything.

The light bided there evincing the hall of Ruthrva when his head was down, and the written letters—that were, '...you have arrived in the light.'—scattered from the parchment to the stony floor that was opaque. Thereinafter, nothing was there, even no king but the yellow light. And on the top of it, there were whirling clouds.

The world seemed as same as it was the heaven from the horizon. It metamorphosed into a massive golden cloud as it became older.

And there remained a ghost to carry forward the old lines to the new limbs. The man with the spiky hair, who came to light after that, defined it as a golden dawn in the parchment. He wrote, 'Let the world change. I will make it peaceful when you arrive in the light...'

The words faded on the pale paper, and he folded it smiling underneath the ether.

*

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