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30 days until the ceremony
Father wasn't cruel. He was training his son to be the next ruler of the Infinite Realms. He had to be strict, he couldn't afford to be nice when the coronation was in one month.
“Why is this so hard for you?”
That didn't make the disappointment of Undergrowth, the Ancient of Life, any easier for Pariah to handle when he was only a youngling, not even 150 years old. 145 years old with a too-big ring on his finger and a crown that didn’t fit him on his head. Neither would truly be his until the ceremony one month from now, where they would change to match the new king of the Infinite Realms.
“I’m sorry, father.” Pariah hung his head low, shame coursing through him as he forced himself to relax from his tense fighting position.
Knowing that their sparring was over now, after an hour of near total failure to use the sharpened sword in his hands to slice through Undergrowth’s thorned whip, he tucked it back into the holster at his hip. Father’s whip, too, melted back into his body, maroon flowers soon blossoming over the spot it had been, something like disappointment crossing his face as he stared his son down.
“Pariah.” Undergrowth never yelled at him, but somehow this was always worse. “You must train harder. You will take my place on the throne in one month, and you have yet to best me in combat. Many ghosts will come for your head one day, and you must be ready to defend yourself.”
It was true; Pariah had seen the Ancient of Life take on several challengers since he was old enough to sneak in and watch the fights. Even Requiem, his mother, the Ancient of Death, had had a few ghosts think she was an easy target. None survived their wrath, and Pariah was glad he wasn’t around to watch the ectoplasm splatter the walls those long nights.
“I understand.” Pariah gripped the sword hilt at his side tight, feeling disapproving eyes bore into him from above. “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want apologies. I want results." Undergrowth let out a small huff, a rare occasion considering he didn’t like imitating the Mourned ghosts as a Deathless ghost himself, muttering, “Ancients, what am I doing wrong?”
The churning feeling in Pariah’s center keened, and he pushed back tears—a king-to be wouldn’t cry like a newly-formed ghost—tucking his head down further. It wasn’t even that Undergrowth was angered, or about to raise his whip against his son without warning; he thought he was doing something wrong, not his son who wasn’t ready to be king.
“Excuse me, Father,” Pariah grit out, and tried to walk off into the garden calmly. He needed to get away from this small arena tucked just outside the palace walls, and hopefully disappear into the hedges for eternity.
He scurried off, tears pricking his eyes, and the horned ogre-maids with brooms in one of their four hands and piles of leaves at their feet bowed deeply as he passed. They were afraid of the wrong ruler. He just wanted to be able to look one of them in the eyes and smile instead of being their undeserving master.
As he walked, a voice in his head repeating why is this so hard for you and what am I doing wrong in his father’s tone, he finally came to a halt just in front of the corner of a tightly-trimmed hedge next to the small water fountain, and collapsed to the ground.
“I can’t do this,” Pariah muttered, even though if his father heard that he’d be even more disappointed.
He was going to be the youngest, weakest king, a ghost laughed at, not revered like the other Ancients before him. Even if his mother’s history and law lessons were going a lot better, and he knew the laws better than most, if one strong ghost beat him after he was crowned, by right of conquest, they would be king, and everything would have been for nothing.
Nothing was going right for Pariah.
It was too much. All of it. All the training and lessons and restlessness and–
A small shuffling of leaves caught his attention, and all those awful thoughts washed away for the time being.
“Hello?” Pariah reached one gloved hand to push aside the looser leaves where he heard the noise, and just then, a small blob ghost popped out, having been slightly speared by a thorn.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, trying not to scare the harmless, nearly mindless creature away. Blob ghosts were temperamental, weak, and easily frightened.
“Get your hands off of me!”
Pariah reeled back, hands raised and frozen in place. Blob ghosts weren’t supposed to be able to talk; the most they could do was chirp or squeak if they were on the stronger side.
The string of curses the blob ghost let out as he yanked the thorn out of himself would shock father’s court, and possibly warrant getting obliterated for if spoken to the king, but the blob didn’t pay any mind to Pariah, Prince of the Infinite Realms, acting neither fearful nor overly respectful.
Almost like the guards just outside the palace walls, in earshot of Pariah’s room, laughing over nothing after training.
“...Sorry,” he said, watching the impossibly able to talk blob ghost’s tail writhe in frustration at being stuck, then suddenly pulled free. “I’m…” His name would be easily recognizable to most ghosts in the Realms, but he was willing to take that chance. “Pariah.”
Blob ghosts didn’t have names unless they were someone’s pet, and even then, giving a name to one meant getting attached, and if they flew off, lone blob ghosts didn’t last long in even the most peaceful areas of the Realm. Even still, they weren’t exactly able to tell a ghost their name.
“I’m…” the blob ghost suddenly stopped, trailing off like he couldn’t remember the name his master gave him. Or, Pariah suddenly realized, maybe he was a Mourned ghost who’d had another name from the other realm they all came from, but, like most Mourned, couldn’t remember it.
“Where did you come from?”
A lot of Mourned told stories of strange blue-green realms full of metal carriages and dense woods and roads paved with sheets of pressed rock, and some had these awful things happen to them before coming here confused and calling themselves monsters.
But Pariah had never met one himself.
“Earth.” The blob ghost choked out, like he had to say it before he forgot. It was a real possibility he could, given he was a blob ghost and not a full ghost, and that was why Pariah wanted to keep him talking.
“What do you remember?”
“I was hunting,” the Mourned ghost said, red eyes flickering like he was trying to keep the memories sharp. “A panther, in the wilds.” Pariah hadn’t heard of that kind of creature, or what that kind of place looked like, and wasn’t sure what to picture. “What–”
The blob ghost’s tail flicked around wildly, and the small creature, barely bigger than the palm of Pariah’s glove, seemed to finally realize what he looked like. He sputtered, ectoplasm swirling violently under the surface of his skin.
“It’s okay!” Pariah said, pressing his palm under the blob ghost so he didn’t fall out of the air in his panic. Destabilization was not something Pariah wanted to see firsthand. Quieter, he whispered, “It’s okay, calm down.”
“Calm–” The blob ghost locked in on him, fury creasing his eyebrows. “I am the size of your finger and neon green, and you want me to calm down?!”
“Yes,” Pariah pressed gently. He really didn’t understand his circumstance, and getting angry would only work against him trying to remember anything. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“I’m–” the blob ghost tried again. “I was called the Skulker when I hunted. But that’s not– I’m–”
“Skulker is fine for now,” Pariah reassured. “You can tell me your name when you remember it.”
Newly-named Skulker muttered something, and it was only then that Pariah noticed that he was in fact breathing, or at least choosing to. Most Deathless ghosts chose not to eat or sleep or breathe, but some did. Most Mourned, on the other hand, came to the Infinite Realms wanting—needing to, they would insist—do all of that before they realized that wasn’t true.
“Skulker,” he agreed, “for now. I…I was the best hunter on the planet. No man could compete with me.”
And now he was comfortably resting in the palm of Pariah’s glove, weak and helpless against the smallest of thorns. In a way, Pariah felt like he, too, was a blob ghost in a realm of thorns.
“What were you doing out here crying?” Skulker suddenly asked, his temper mellowing out after a few moments of silence.
“I’m…” He didn’t want Skulker to know he was the soon-to-be crowned prince of the Infinite Realms, but he also didn’t want to lie to what might be the only person that wasn’t treating him like the royalty he didn’t deserve to be. “I’m supposed to become someone important soon. My father doesn’t think I’m ready–” And neither did he, truthfully. “So he scolded me. That’s all.”
“I…” Skulker’s core thrummed out loud quietly as he thought on it. “I understand, somewhat. I was told I was the best hunter, and I claimed to be, too. But I was overconfident, and took on something I shouldn’t have.”
Pariah knew you shouldn’t ask a Mourned how they got here, what happened before they formed, and he wasn’t going to, despite his curiosity.
“I’m a Deathless,” he said quietly. He wasn’t sure how Skulker would react to being called a ghost; some Mourned wailed for hours, some ravaged the Realms in the short time they had before destabilization, and most didn’t take it well. “I was born in the Infinite Realms. I’ve never left–”
I’ve never left the palace walls, is what he was going to say, but if Skulker heard that he was in the King's Keep, he might put together that Pariah was royalty. Considering everyone kneeled at his feet in fear knowing that he was the prince, and that if they disrespected him, they’d suffer the consequences (from his father if not him), Pariah really didn’t want the same from Skulker.
And he really had never left the Realms. Some curious ghosts flew through these strange disappearing portals and never returned. The yetis of the Far Frozen, another place in the Realms Requiem had shown him in her books, were trying to study them.
Pariah had never even seen one.
“Pariah!”
Father’s booming, naturally-commanding voice was unmistakable, and it wouldn’t be long before his thorns appeared at his feet once he responded. Skulker, having startled at the shout, began to shove himself back into the shrubbery.
“Will I see you again?” Pariah asked, voice hopefully low enough Undergrowth wouldn’t hear. Father wouldn’t approve of having a ghost this small and weak as a pet, let alone a friend.
Only the tip of his head visible, Skulker paused. “Maybe,” he muttered. “It isn’t like I have anywhere else to go.” That last part didn’t seem like it was meant for Pariah to hear, so he wouldn’t address it.
Pariah nodded, and then Skulker was gone, either pressed deeper in the hedge or scurried off to the other side of the palace walls and out into the Infinite Realms’ endless green.
“I am here, father,” Pariah called, standing up from his kneeling and quickly stepping to the fountain, sitting down on the edge like he had been merely lost in thought.
In a mere ten seconds after responding, his father’s muddy-black thorn crown appeared from the ground, his red eyes and pointed beak coming next, followed by his dark shoulder pad and moss-covered cape and gloves crawling with bright flowers. Pariah always had to try hard not to startle every time Undergrowth appeared from the ground so quickly and silently, considering Requiem simply floated along like most ghosts, dark, cold mist following her haunting presence.
“Father.” Pariah stood up, brushing off his black tunic lined with brown. His hand habitually came to rest on the hilt of his sword as he stared up at Undergrowth, Ancient of Life, seeming unperturbed as the crown prince should be.
“Son.” Undergrowth seemed tense, the sharp vines crossed over his chest spanning from the crown spiked on his head clinging to him even tighter. Father had once told him that he could no longer take his crown off, and that when he was too emotional, the thorns dug into him and bled him. “I…apologize for my earlier words.”
Pariah nodded deeply once, keeping his head down. From the corner of his eyes, he caught Requiem watching from her room on the second floor, her long-brimmed hat partially covering her face as her mist poured out of the room’s open window.
Undergrowth never apologized, especially not when he was right.
Requiem was Pariah’s guiding voice sometimes, and taught kindness and justice along with history.
She was Father's guiding voice, too, sometimes.
“You know I expect great things from you.” That part sounded like Undergrowth’s true thoughts, at least. “You are my son, which means you will be a great ruler. That is why I am hard on you. I want–” He stopped, either pained or unable to come up with the right words. The Ancient shook his head slowly, trying to clear his thoughts. "I want you to be safe, above all else. That means teaching you to be strong, which I know you are."
“I understand,” Pariah said quietly, knowing Undergrowth wouldn’t change his mind or accept any rebuttals. He had been kept alone for this long, forbidden from leaving, and Father had always claimed it was to keep him safe from his political enemies, and it was only until he could protect himself, or win in their fights even once. Pariah suspected otherwise. "Thank you for your concern as always."
Maybe if he was more ruthless like his father could be, he would have an easier time.
Undergrowth’s face softened just slightly, and he put his mossy hand on Pariah’s back. “Come. Your mother is waiting for us.”
Just as suddenly, he sunk back into the ground, vines seamlessly disappearing and likely appearing inside the palace. Father couldn’t walk or float too often like most ghosts, but he found other ways to move around. Maybe that show of power, his complete control over everything alive in the Realms, was what kept people afraid to stand up to him when he displeased them.
Pariah knew a tense meal that he could (but shouldn’t) avoid waited him inside.
He tried to let go of his residual tension as he took the first steps towards the palace walls feeling more like a cage than ever.
As Pariah shook off his boots by his wood wardrobe, leaned his sheathed sword against his bedside table, and unclasped the hooks holding his cape up, he tried to keep his mind away from the meal Undergrowth asked him to attend.
Requiem had reminded him of his daily lessons, and how he should be studying harder, too. She had offered to do it twice daily, and Pariah had rejected her, trying to please his father by asking instead for more sparring sessions.
If he wanted to be stronger, he’d need practice from someone like father, undefeated and powerful, a leader and ruler through and through. He couldn’t study his problems away with his mother, and she knew that as well as he did.
He sat down on his bed, legs hanging off, just reveling in the silence of the Realms.
The Ancient of Dreams, Nocturn, used his power to give them all a semblance of time—the day and night cycle wherein the Realms’ endless green darkened enough for a lot of Mourned, and some Deathless, Pariah’s family included, to use as their cue to give themselves a time of rest.
It was not even 5 years ago, on his last Decade’s celebration, that the Ancient had showed himself and gave him a gift: the leather-bound book and small supply of drawing charcoal in his bedside table.
The Ancient—unforgettable towering body a void of sparkling stones that seemed to shift with the Realm itself and not with him—had smiled with a mouth of too-big fangs, leaned down with his curved horns primed to attack the youngling, pressed both things into his gloves, and called it a boon for the future.
As Pariah reached for his favorite pastime, he tried to think of what to draw this time. He was getting better at it the more he tried, but he was almost out of charcoal, so he had to be more deliberate and make every drawing matter.
Just before he could get lost in his imagination, a small presence, a tingling feeling of unfamiliar ectoplasm, caught his attention.
He shut the drawer, throwing his eyes around his room for the unknown ghost. It was a very weak presence, and that meant it was either a rogue blob ghost or his new friend. He took a chance, and asked the seemingly empty room, “Skulker?”
His bedroom remained silent for a few, long seconds, but eventually a small green speck poked up from his wardrobe. When he found the room safe to appear in, the tiny blob temporarily known as Skulker flew over and gently landed on Pariah’s soft red bedsheets.
“You came back.” Pariah held back a full-blown laugh purely because it wouldn’t be very kingly, but he couldn’t help smiling. He hadn’t truly expected Skulker to stick around when he hadn’t given him much reason to.
Skulker’s tail twitched in the same way Pariah’s fingers wanted to twirl his ring sometimes. “What other choice do I have?” He sounded pained, and Pariah hated it. “I have no idea where I am.”
Skulker must be really new, then, to not even have the slightest idea where he is or who Pariah is.
Pariah gestured out his cracked-open window to the endless green. “We’re in the Infinite Realms,” he said, then gestured around his bedroom. “This is my room in the Keep. The purple doors out there are others’ lairs. When you get stronger, you can make your own.”
“Make…?” Skulker’s red face shrivelled up in confusion, or maybe just uncertainty. “How?”
“I…” Pariah paused, because he hadn’t really been taught, having lived here his whole life. He knew about the lairs, but hadn’t actually seen any of them outside the far away purple doors drifting by rarely. “I don’t know.”
He didn’t even know if it was possible for the usually weak blob ghosts to have lairs. Skulker seemed more lost the longer he stayed quiet, and Pariah didn’t want him to decide this ghost in front of him wasn’t worth the risk of being caught by whoever his father was.
“But you can!” he said, maybe a bit too hastily. “Eventually, I’m sure. Maybe I can help you someday.”
“Maybe,” Skulker agreed quietly, with a hint of a hopeful blob ghost-like chirping underneath his stronger voice.
“Where did you say you came from?” Pariah had been meaning to ask more about him, not having had the chance to even meet any Mourned in the King’s Keep. Not even the maids cowering in front of him when he floated by were Mourned, all being Deathless. He always suspected all of them, almost identical in looks, were made by Father.
He wanted to be that powerful one day. Only Ancients could create life like that.
“Earth,” Skulker said simply. “I’m–” he looked down at himself, grabbed at his tail, then let it phase out of his tiny grasp, whether by accident or on purpose. “I was human.”
“Human,” Pariah mimicked, rolling the foreign word on his tongue. He wondered what ‘human’ looked like, considering most Mourned called themselves monsters when they first appeared.
“Your turn.”
“My…?”
“You’re not human,” Skulker clarified. “What are you? What am I?”
Pariah didn’t want to upset him, or make him destabilize, but he couldn’t hide it forever. “I’m a Deathless,” he said slowly. “A type of ghost. You’re a Mourned, the other kind. I was born in the Infinite Realms, and you came from your ‘Earth’.”
“Mourned.” Skulker’s tail flicked around wildly, and his tone was somber, low—really more akin to a brand-new youngling’s Rumblings, the kind of sounds they made before they knew how to speak. “So I really did die.”
Pariah could only nod. Ghosts 'died' in a sense, but it was more accurate to say they destabilized. Melted into the ground in giant green puddles, fizzled out like static, or simply slowly turned so intangible and invisible they could only be seen by the strongest of ghosts, forever cursed to be present but not seen, heard, or felt.
That one scared Pariah the most.
“How did you know which room was mine?”
“I saw these… creatures in strange outfits coming and going from two bedrooms. There was a woman in the other. I don’t know if she saw me.” Mother had strong senses and an eye for detail; she could sense a blob ghost from miles away. “You said you were going to be someone important. I thought you might be a leader’s son. Or a… noble.” Skulker hesitated on the word like it, too, was foreign. “But…” Skulker’s head turned towards the window, where the hedge garden they met sat, under the infinite green. “This isn’t like anything I’ve ever seen. Maybe everyone has houses like this.”
They didn’t. Undergrowth and Requiem were royalty—and two powerful Ancients, anyway—and therefore so was their son. He was told that when he took the throne, at the ceremony, another Ancient, one he’d never met, would be the one to officially crown him. He already had it—the sharp, red five-pronged crown sitting atop his head just above his two horns marked him as royalty—but he wouldn’t be the king for another month.
Hopefully ‘Earth’ was different enough that his crown just seemed like another oddity of the Realms' ghosts to Skulker. He wasn’t going to bring it up, anyway.
“Do you…have anywhere else to go?” Skulker already admitted that the answer was no earlier, but he wanted to ask despite that.
Skulker paused, and Pariah’s stomach did a weird turn thinking that he might be too forward. “...No. People don’t even notice me,” he said. “And when they do, they brush me off like I’m a bug.”
The only bugs Pariah had seen flying above the garden some days were the size of his hand, if not bigger, but he nodded at Skulker to continue.
“Staying here–” He seemed to argue with the ideas buzzing in his head for a moment. “Wouldn’t be so bad. For now.”
“Until you can make your own lair,” Pariah agreed easily. He couldn’t hide him from Father and Mother forever, especially if Mother already knew about him. But having a friend until then would be nice.
It would be his first.
Skulker reached out his hand, and Pariah took it as gently as he could, giving it a slow shake that rocked the blob ghost’s entire body. He was so small. “Until then.”
29 days until the ceremony
When Pariah put on his crown the next morning, along with his boots and cape, tucking his trusty sword at his hip, he found Skulker curled into himself on his bedside table, breathing deeply and fully unaware of the ghost prince getting ready in the same room.
Pariah couldn’t help but stop and watch for a little bit, entranced by the ways Skulker differed from the Deathless around him. Undergrowth didn’t like breathing or blinking, and neither did Requiem—for Father seemed like he equated those actions with being like a new Mourned, and being weak, for Mother it seemed like she truly never considered it an option, being Death itself for the Realms.
The gentle rise and fall of Skulker’s tiny body was captivating, in its own sense. Pariah mimicked it for a few seconds, but unlike Skulker, who kept a steady rhythm, he lost his quickly. He didn’t bother trying again; the Prince of the Infinite Realms didn’t need to breathe, and he wouldn’t start now.
He wouldn’t be the kind of Deathless who envied the Mourned for their otherness and strange, enthralling memories of different realms.
Pariah adjusted his sword again, a habit he needed to break, really, before setting off for the garden. He had training to get to, and he needed to change his strategy if he was ever going to beat Father in combat.
Undergrowth was waiting for him in their usual spot, a large clearing in the maze of hedges and bushes of blooming flowers. The grass underneath them had been made softer than the laid stone, courtesy of Father’s subtle kindness; Pariah had been knocked off of his boots a fair share of times, and was grateful for the soft, somewhat damp soil on those occasions.
“Son,” he greeted, and quickly let one of his branching vines coil and sharpen into his thorn whip. Pariah appreciated the lack of wasting time with Undergrowth. More time to spar, more opportunities to win for once.
“Father.” Pariah unsheathed his sword, getting into a battle stance just as quickly as Father did.
Father paused, hand tightening on his whip for a moment. “You have a look about you, Pariah.” He saw his vines shift and slither in place as they prepared to melt into the ground and appear wherever Father next wanted to go. “It suits you.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Undergrowth’s whip cracked loudly, and Pariah set off with a growl.
He hadn’t won, not even close.
But even as Pariah got up on shaking legs with Father’s help, already getting ready to nurse a potential bruise on his wrist for the rest of the day, he felt a lot better about it. Father always encouraged him to fight him with no mercy, because he wouldn’t be shown any when he was challenged, but he never liked the idea of slicing up his family.
He had decided to trust Father’s encouragement for once, and strike to kill.
It was the first time in years Father had smiled, and complimented him as he regrew his wounds easily, vines filling in the few sword slashes he'd managed to land.
I always knew my son had it in him, he had said. You'll be a fearsome fighter soon.
Pariah felt like something in him clicked into place at Father’s words, and he bowed out of their fight for Requiem’s history lesson with a smile.
After his lesson, Pariah decided to take the long way to the library, intent on settling down with a good book. He passed by a few maids, all tucking their heads down and greeting him stiffly, voices wobbling with the usual fear he was used to being addressed with.
“What is this place?”
Skulker’s voice caught him off guard, and he stiffened, hand immediately coming to the hilt of his sword. The blob ghost had landed on his shoulder, and weighed just a bit more than a slightly heavy feather.
“The Keep,” he answered, then warned, “keep your head down.”
“These creatures–”
“Ghosts,” Pariah corrected. Calling ghosts 'creatures' was rude, especially from a Mourned.
Skulker paused, then continued more hesitantly, “These ghosts, they bow for you. You and the plant man and mist woman.”
Requiem likely already knew about Skulker, but if Undergrowth found out he was keeping a weak blob ghost around, it wouldn’t end well. Maybe not with Skulker getting obliterated—not if he was deemed harmless or if he caught Father on a good day—but it would mean harsh disapproval at the very least, and Father’s disappointment was already soul-crushing.
“Stay away from them.” Pariah had to say it now, before his only friend was ripped from him by his own guardians. "Even I can't protect you forever."
Pariah dipped around a corner just as a maid was about to pass him by, debating changing his course entirely from the library to anywhere that they could talk in privacy.
“But who are they?”
If Skulker didn’t know the name Pariah, he wouldn’t know the importance of theirs. He could give Skulker that much, and didn’t have to lie about him being royalty just yet.
“My mother and father, Requiem and Undergrowth. If Mother saw you–” which she likely did when Skulker was poking around looking for Pariah’s room, “she likely doesn’t care, but Father would. You don’t want to earn his ire.”
“What am I meant to do?” Skulker whispered, probably not meant for Pariah to hear, but considering he was curled up on his shoulder, he did hear his confused words.
Pariah’s thoughts drifted back to this morning, and how Skulker ended up sleeping on his night stand while he rested on his plush bed. Thinking on that unfairness, he switched his course entirely to go back to his room.
“There.” Pariah declared, almost proud.
He had gathered his softest shirt, swirled it up neatly, and placed it on his nightstand. Seeing Skulker test his makeshift bed, and watching his tail twitch in approval, it was almost a relief that he hadn’t yet scared his friend away with his, admittedly, harsh warning earlier.
“This is better,” Skulker said, taking his tiny hands and working the space into something more comfortable. He poked his head over the side of the stand, then grabbed at the handle and tried uselessly to slide it open. "But maybe–"
Even though he knew he was too small to pull it open, Pariah still hurriedly shooed his hands away. “Don’t go in there.” Skulker recoiled at his sudden words. He didn’t even realize he was scowling until then, and forcefully relaxed his face. “Sorry,” he said. He always did get a bit overzealous when it came to things like this. “That was uncalled-for.”
He slowly opened the drawer after a moment, deciding this was how he should apologize. “This was a gift.” He grabbed his drawing book, clutching it tight, and watched Skulker look into the drawer and see it, aside from the almost-out supply of charcoal, be now completely empty. “I don’t like people seeing it, that’s all.”
Once he was out of charcoal, though, he didn’t know what he was going to do with the book. He hadn’t left the King’s Keep, and didn’t even know where to look for more. Nocturn had given him this gift, but hadn’t told him where he’d gotten any of it.
“Can I see the book?” Skulker asked, voice slightly higher in curiosity.
But Pariah shook his head. No one had seen them yet, and he wasn’t sure if he was ever going to show anyone. “Maybe later.” He gently set the book back into its place, shutting the drawer again. “I have to continue my lessons for the day soon. You should stay here so no one sees you.”
Skulker was like his drawings in that way; he didn’t want either to be taken from him, despite knowing Undergrowth wouldn’t destroy his drawings in the same way Requiem wouldn’t obliterate Skulker.
There was always some small doubt, though.
“Okay,” Skulker said softly, and pointedly made himself comfortable on his new bed. "But don't keep me long. I want to hear more about this place."
Pariah left for the library, feeling Skulker’s eyes on him up until he closed the door behind him.
“I heard about this morning.”
His family usually ate in silence, so Requiem speaking up was new. Father sat at the head of the long table, his wife on his right and his son on his left. The food prepared for them always had this lingering ectoplasmic tang that couldn’t ever really be covered up, no matter who made it or what the chef manipulated it into being. Some days it was more tolerable than others.
“This morning?” Pariah asked, poking around his half-eaten plate of curled, yellow vegetables and a fried meat patty. He hadn’t wanted to touch the foul-smelling meat for some reason, but Undergrowth always made it a point to have them both eat at least a little every day so they didn’t grow weak with a lack of fresh ectoplasm in their system.
“Your father was proud of you,” she said, a faint smile tracing her face. Her long, curly, dark hair never seemed to dirty, her skin ever flawlessly dark blue, even though she hadn't had a plate in front of her in a long time.
Her words were a little flattering, and Pariah couldn’t help but feel proud. “Thank you, Mother.”
“Has something changed?” she asked, a small tilt to her head. “Have you… met someone?”
Her words this time were innocent-sounding, but something in Pariah sunk a little. She knew about Skulker, and he was expecting her to bring it up at some point, but in front of Father was not how he wanted it to go.
"Met someone?" Undergrowth tensed at his side, frown deepening. Pariah wasn't allowed to leave the Keep, not until after the ceremony.
He always thought it was because his father was, on some level, ashamed to have Pariah as his son, too afraid to admit to the Realms that he couldn't raise a fighter.
Perhaps this was his chance to prove Father and the rest of ghostkind that he was ever bit the ruler he was born to be, even if only with his words for now.
“I’m just…” he started, placing his fork down on his plate. “Tired of being weak. I need to stop being a coward.”
That was part of the truth, if not most of it. He couldn't protect anyone, Skulker included, if he was being cowardly or hesitating. But he was also a good part of why he decided to throw himself into it more, knowing the ceremony was coming up. The idea of being the weakest king to ever rule gradually made him more nauseous, to the point where he just had to say enough was enough.
Undergrowth’s frown curled up into a smile. “You never were,” he said. “My son could never be such a thing." A bit of sadness, perhaps doubt, seemed to leak into his words. But Pariah had expected that much. "But I am glad to hear your resolve strengthen.”
“Yes,” Requiem said, switching gazes between her husband and her son. “I’m happy, too.” She wasn’t smiling. “For you, Pariah. You’ll make a good king when your father steps down.”
The table remained quiet for the rest of the night, Pariah content with letting his parents drop the subject on a good note.
Skulker was waiting on his bed when Pariah returned with a book taken from the library in his hands.
"Why is he like that?" He asked, flying up onto his shoulder as Pariah stripped down to his tunic, leaving his sword at its usual spot against his wardrobe and his crown next to Skulker's makeshift bed. Taking it off felt weird as of late, but perhaps he was just getting a headache from wearing it too long.
"My father?" Skulker nodded, then gestured down to his wrist, at the green-tinted bruise forming from this morning. "I'm going to be someone important. We can't afford niceties."
Not when the ceremony was so close, at least. Maybe three or four decades ago, back when Pariah was more unaware of the politics of the Realms, they could have played with wooden swords in the garden while Mother cheered them on quietly.
"Who are you?" Skulker asked, then, with more force, "You keep saying you're going to be important, but people already bow to you. You and your family. So who are you?"
Pariah threw the book down on his sheets before he, too, sat down, legs hanging off. He couldn't avoid this forever, but if Skulker was already scared of Father, he wouldn't like knowing that he was one of the most powerful Ancients in the Infinite Realms.
Would he leave—or worse, destabilize—when he found out?
Pariah wasn't willing to risk it, at least not when Skulker was this new and unstable.
"I'll tell you another time," he said. "Can you tell more about Earth?"
"That's unfair," Skulker grumbled, something bitter evident on his face. He had crossed his arms over his chest, huffing in displeasure. "But fine. What do you want to know?"
There wasn't anything specific for Pariah; he was just curious about this other Realm. "What did you like about it?"
Skulker paused, several thoughts seeming to pass on his face. "The wildlife," he eventually said. "There were so many different plants and animals. It was thrilling to study the wilds before I learned of the different kind of thrill of the hunt."
Life here in the Realms could be quite fantastical in itself, as could the ghosts (and especially the Ancients), but studying it all was mostly left up to the Yetis of the Far Frozen, seeing how they were excellent fighters and curiosity-bound scientists. If Pariah wasn't royalty, he'd have a lair of his own creation and happily spend his days there, reading and drawing and largely not caring about politics or perhaps even other ghosts in general.
"Can you tell me what the plants looked like?" Pariah asked, thinking of his drawings. If Skulker could describe it well enough, he might get to know what a plant from another Realm looked like.
Skulker lifted his head, but stopped his nod halfway through. "The day you tell me who you people are, I'll tell you about the flowers." His voice had this sharp undercurrent, the same it was when he first recoiled at Pariah's hands pulling him from the bush. "Deal?"
Pariah couldn't really argue that point, so he shrugged and took Skulker's offered hand, giving it a gentle shake. "Deal."
They stopped talking there, Pariah opened his history book while Realms darkened, Skulker curled up on his shirt-bed, and Pariah sat and watched him breathe for much too long.
28 days until the ceremony
After the Realms lightened again, and Pariah put down his book, content with getting halfway through while Skulker slept, he dressed himself, leaving his crown for last.
Usually he'd get a small surge of energy from the ancient artifact, despite it not yet having formed a bond with his soul, but it was different this time. The surge was gradual, and sent weird shivers down his body. He shrugged them off, and it was easy to blame him not working hard enough to be a proper host for its power.
He looked over at his bedside table, and found an empty nest where Skulker had been resting. "Skulker?" He looked around the room, a small amount of panic settling in. Had he destabilized or been caught by a maid sneaking in to tidy?
Pariah shook himself off a little, and put his heightened senses to good use searching the Keep for Skulker's signature while floating down the halls. Every ghost, no matter how weak or strong, had one, and it was unique to them.
As he passed ghosts, they bowed. It felt more annoying than sad, this time.
Eventually, he found Skulker, half-visible, trailing after a gardener floating in front of the hedges he was pruning. He hadn't noticed the blob ghost, and Skulker hadn't noticed Pariah either. But he was playing with fire here, getting so close to ghosts who could alert Father to a strange blob ghost infiltrating the Keep, so Pariah had to do something.
"You!" he called out, hand coming to rest on the hilt of his sword. The gardener, a feline ghost, stiffened, gloved hands clenching down on his shears.
"Yes, your h-highness?" He was shaking, the red-orange spotted fur across his arms and legs raised and his knees looking close to buckling despite his skeletal frame and stiffened tail not even touching the stone pathing underneath them. Was Pariah really that threatening?
"I'd like some flowers brought to my room," he said, voice attempting to be more commanding than usual. He needed to be a bit more firm if he was going to make this servant leave his work so he could talk to Skulker. "It's a bit dreary inside right now."
"Of course, my prince. Right away." The gardener ducked his whole torso in a deep bow, the tip of his shears clicking against the stone. His tools being part of his body, they melted back into his gloves in a flurry of ectoplasm as he began to scurry off towards the flower garden.
Pariah couldn't help a small frown; he always felt a little bad about forcing others to do work when they were already in the middle of something else.
"Skulker." He turned his head to the hedge his friend was hiding on top of. He almost blended in with the vibrant green perfectly, a true camouflage, but his soothing signature was unmistakable. "I know you're up there."
"And I know you're down there." Skulker said, in a teasing, sneering tone, before flying down to sit on his shoulder with his arms crossed. "Everyone seems in a rush. They've been floating around cleaning all day. They don't even notice me."
"My family…" Pariah could tell him about the crowning, at least. "We're hosting something important soon. Ghosts from all over the Realms will come. We must make the Keep look perfect."
"Something important?" Skulker asked slowly as Pariah started walking back towards the towering palace. He noticed vines starting to grow across the brown-red bricks, sprawling upwards with fervor; he should tell Mother that Father was getting stressed about something again.
"Yes."
"What's the occasion?" He pressed further.
"A crowning," he said, taking a few turns in the small maze at a casual pace, looking to admire the flowers while keeping their conversation away from prying ears. "It's the king's 10th Century celebration. He's told the Realms it's time for him to step down as ruler and make way for the next generation. We host such elaborate events at the Keep."
"10 centuries?" Skulker's tone was shocked, disbelieved. Ghosts lived that long if nothing stood in the way. Did humans only live a couple centuries? Pariah nodded once, confirming.
"He's an Ancient, one of the oldest, strongest ghosts. There are several, his wife included." He could tell Skulker this much; he'd leave Pariah and make his own lair eventually, he should know the basics. "They all control a primordial energy. Life, death, time, space, and such. Sometimes the role is passed down, but mostly it's not." Some ghosts earned their title and their power, rather than being born with it.
"Life and death, huh?" Pariah resisted the urge to cringe at Skulker's curious musings, because he really should have left it more vague. Father and Mother radiated their energies. Skulker had at least seen Mother, even if he hadn't stuck around long enough to see Father after being plucked from the thorns.
When Pariah turned the next corner, he froze, hands stilling at his side. "Skulker, hide under my cape," he ordered firmly yet quietly. "Now."
The blob ghost did so without question, slithering quickly down his back and grabbing onto the inside of his cape, just as Father turned to look up at him, a wilting, orange dream flower in his gentle grasp. They died so quickly when not regularly fed the positive emotions of others. It quickly brightened with color, blue stripes blossoming up with newfound life. "Pariah," he greeted, a neutral smile on his face.
"The garden looks lovely, Father," Pariah said, making a point to look around at the plants bursting with life. Though the gardener did much—trimming, giving the flora a good watering with his control of the element, and many other things—Father often came to grow back that which began to die, whether naturally or because his wife visited with her deadly mist.
"Such is our life, son." He gently waved the bright orange flower back into place, tucking it neatly in the bush alongside the many others. "We all have our roles, some easier than others." For Father, reviving a dying plant was easy. Raising a child, on the other hand.
"I understand." He had his role, too. Currently, that was him masking Skulker's signature with his own. "Where is Mother?" He should try to leave, and get Skulker somewhere safe, away from Undergrowth.
"She's in the library, I believe." Undergrowth glanced towards the next bush of dust roses, some of the violet flowers shriveled and blackened, wilting with a lack of soot in their soil after so long. The vines below him started to slither in place a little as he prepared to shift to the side to tend to them, too.
"Thank you," he said, and took it as his opportunity to leave.
Once they were comfortably out of earshot, Pariah walking through the wide-open doors of the garden and into the joined room where they hosted guests sometimes, Skulker once more hopped onto his shoulder.
"Who was that?" His voice was shaking with uncertainty, or maybe even fear. "He gave me the weirdest feeling…"
"My Father," Pariah answered. "Stay away from him. I can only protect you so much."
He couldn't blame Skulker for being afraid in the face of an Ancient with only one youngling prince to keep him safe. Pariah remembered feeling that exact thing when he'd snuck into one of Undergrowth's political meetings. He'd never felt Father's energy fume and crawl with danger until that day. Even in the garden just now, Father's energy always leaked out some feeling of danger, of standing in the face of a true threat. Being with him for this long had dimmed it, but not by much.
After he shrugged off the phantom feeling of impending fury from the Ancient, he let Skulker's energy linger instead. His didn't scream danger, his was more akin to eating something sweet after studying for hours, or like falling onto his bed after a grueling day.
With the way the blob ghost curled deeper into his neck, accidentally letting out a small purr-like Rumbling which Pariah only barely caught, he had decent hope that his was the same for Skulker.
25 days until the ceremony
After his history lesson with his mother, Pariah was prepared to settle in for an afternoon of reading on his bedroom's floral-patterned chaise. He was instead greeted by Skulker, with a few pieces of charcoal in his hands. It was different from the ones Nocturn had gifted him those few years ago, but he could tell it would likely function the same.
He took the small objects from his friend, turning it over in his hand. Loose black specks crumbled across his gloves. "Where did you get this?"
"I found a fire," he said, tail twitching before forming back into his legs. He seemed to swap between tail and legs at random. "There was a woman there, with blue hair. She seemed angry. She was…crying."
A ghost with fire control, then? Those weren't all that uncommon, according to Requiem's books at least. He felt a sudden surge of something strange curl in his chest thinking of Skulker leaving the grounds without telling him, however. "Did she see you?"
"No, no I don't think so," he said. "I'm tiny, remember?"
Yes, tiny and weak, and shouldn't be messing with much more powerful ghosts who don't have his best interest at heart. There were some places that considered blob ghosts a delicacy.
"Thank you," he said. "But you shouldn't leave without telling me." There were ghosts who would love nothing more than to keep a talking blob ghost as a pet, or worse, an experiment.
"But–" Skulker snapped his mouth shut, and was hopefully rethinking his rebuttal. Pariah was right, and he really didn't want to fight on this.
"It's very thoughtful of you, Skulker," he said gently, and pulled open his drawer to grab his drawing book. "I'm grateful, truly."
He took off his boots, set his sword down, sat down on his bed, took off his gloves, crossed his legs, and opened his book to a fresh page, charcoal piece in his hand.
"Will you tell me about your wildlife?"
He was opening up the door for him to hold up his end of the bargain in this way, but it felt like a good time to be more open, after Skulker gave him this kind gift.
Skulker flew up to rest on his shoulder, staring down at the blank pages. "They were called sunflowers."
That was a pretty name for a flower. When he said that to Skulker, the blob ghost had smirked toothily and agreed, speaking of the vibrant colors fondly.
As Skulker began to describe this yellow and black flower, Pariah let his words flood his mind with beautiful imagery. His hands worked the page easily, and though he couldn't add these bright colors with his only tool being a pure black, he loved hearing about this strange plant. Skulker corrected his placement of the leaves once, but he crossed off the part he'd made incorrect and drew it lower on the flower's stem.
"The Ancients," Skulker asked, as Pariah swiped away stray bits of charcoal from his drawing. He was already starting on another piece, on the next page over. Perhaps he could settle down and draw some more before becoming king, before all of his time was taken away by the duties of the throne. "Tell me more about them."
"I…" Pariah paused briefly, deciding how to sculpt this new muse. Instead of a flower, he was wanting to sketch his friend. "I only know a few of them, truth be told, and not very well. They're not like you and me."
He knew his father and mother well, but they were only two out of several. He would meet another at his crowning, the Ancient of Time, supposedly. He didn't show himself often. Nocturn had only visited that once, too, for a reason Pariah couldn't fathom. It had seemed like a random whim of the Ancient. There were a few others, but they, too, didn't show themselves.
"Just try." He could practically hear Skulker rolling his eyes. "You must know something."
He had heard this lesson from his mother many times, and there was no hurt in telling Skulker. If it would help protect him in any way later on, he couldn't argue with that.
"...The Ancient of War lives in her stone maze, protecting her Box of Evils," he began listing from memory. "The Ancient of Elements, usually shrouded in a fury of rage, is kept prisoner by the Observants. There are a few ghosts powerful enough to hold the title—notably the generational line of Walkers that keep order and Behemoth, the vengeful, greedy Guardian of Treasures—but none of which I've ever met."
Skulker nodded along with his knowledge, face ever growing more curious.
"You'll see at least two at the ceremony, though," Pariah said, his fingers working across his page to mimic his friend's sharp glare. "I was hoping you'd come."
Come, and see him become king. He felt more ready for the role than he did before, having stood a fighting chance against his father that day, and resolved himself for the role ever since. He couldn't stand around letting everything happen to him, he needed to happen to everything else. He had been ready before now—he had known the law from his mother and the politics from his father—but hadn't forced himself to be ready until then.
"I'll–" Skulker said, quietly, almost unsure. "I'll come." Then, harder, "I'll be there. You're my friend."
Friend. That word struck Pariah in the chest, because it was the first time Skulker had ever called him that.
"Friends," he agreed, unable to help a smile. "I'll keep you safe so you can enjoy the event, don't worry."
Would anyone truly oppose him keeping a harmless blob ghost around when he was king, though?
24 days until the ceremony
With a little free time in between his daily tasks, Pariah took some time to show Skulker how to make an ectoblast. He preferred his sword most days, but he, like most ghosts, was gifted with the ability to channel his ectoplasm and force it out in a heated blast. He had a few other abilities that he'd show Skulker one day, too.
Sometimes he felt quite useless around the Keep. Aside from his readings with his mother and his sparring with his father, there wasn't much for him to do with him being forbidden to go outside the Keep. His knowledge was greater than most ghosts out there in the Realms, and his prowess when it came to sword fighting (while not comparing with Undergrowth) was nothing to laugh at either.
Yet he wasn't allowed to leave.
On that day, he'd given him a small demonstration, a tiny flame in his palm that grew with heat like a flickering fire. Skulker had watched, amazed at the show of power.
"It's beautiful," he had said, something like youngling wonder in his voice. His hand hesitated, but eventually he reached out to get closer, then pulled it back when it got close to burning him.
"Almost every ghost can do this much," Pariah had responded in kind. "You can, too."
He hadn't known that for certain, as most blob ghosts were too weak to understand or too animalistic to perform combat, but Skulker was a special case amongst them. If there was ever a blob ghost able to do it, it would be him.
Seeing his hesitation, Pariah continued gently, "Just give it a try. I believe you can do it."
Skulker had placed his palm up, copying him in that way, and grunted a few times in concentration, a minuscule amount of deep green flowing through his body in thrums. At first, it was small, and would barely be able to start a fire, but Skulker kept trying. After Pariah gave a few more words of encouragement, the small flicker grew and grew until Pariah could just barely feel the heat. He was perhaps the first blob ghost to ever accomplish this.
Something seemed to radiate off of his small fire, warm and comforting. When he was younger, sometimes Mother felt like that, leaking out some of her energy as if to say you're safe, I'm here, I love you. He missed that feeling since she became his teacher, and neither of them had the time to sit in the garden and make crowns of flowers.
"Good," Pariah couldn't help but smile at the success, radiating in Skulker's soothing energy, suddenly wanting to hold the fire to his chest and keep it safe. Skulker was breathless with the strain, but returned his smile. "If you keep practicing, you'll get stronger."
Maybe one day, Skulker could even spar with him. He'd have to grow much bigger, obviously, but he could hold out hope.
22 days until the ceremony
The days started to pass faster.
There was so little time to do much but train and study while the Keep was steadily getting prepared for thousands of ghosts. It had always been like such, but that left Pariah unable to spend much time with Skulker.
On that day, he'd risen earlier than usual, and decided to spend his early hours practicing his sword swings in the garden. He felt Skulker's eyes watching him from his bedroom window, and could almost sense the envy pouring out of him in waves. Strong emotions were like that; if you were watching for it, you could tell what a ghost was feeling, even from afar.
Having a ghost feel such radiant envy for him normally felt weird, foreign. It was usually the guards in training when he passed by, wanting to be strong and get recognized by royalty, perhaps even become a retainer, who gave him this crawling feeling.
Now, though, it felt, different. To have someone look up to him, because he was stronger than them, it was almost a nice, featherweight touch on his soul. It must be how Father felt when Pariah fought him, glancing up at a height he thought he'd never reach.
He kept swinging, savoring Skulker's eyes on him. He'd help Skulker get stronger, too. The ectoblast he'd continued to make stronger was proof it was possible.
20 days until the ceremony
Pariah paused, hovering over his book. He had joined Mother for a light reading session in the library, illuminated only by the lit candelabras burning bright green on the desk they were sharing. He always enjoyed the atmosphere of peace and silence, where he could lose himself in the pages and in his mother's biting cold death mist.
"Mother," he said, quietly. She looked up from her own book, her long-brimmed hat no longer obscuring her dark face.
"Yes, Pariah?"
"Have you been to the other side of the portals?" he asked. "The disappearing ones?"
She slowly shook her head. "I haven't. It's dangerous there, you know that."
"But the creatures on the other side," he pressed. The humans. "Have you met any?"
Skulker hadn't been able to remember his name or what he looked like, or even seem to be able to describe any of the other humans he'd met. Like most Mourned, his memory of this other Realm, Earth, was fuzzy at best, non-existent at worst. He'd been able to tell him about some other flowers—things called tulips and dandelions—but anything about himself was weak.
He still hadn't gotten his real name.
She shook her head slowly again. "I'm Death here only. They have their own gods to take care of that for them."
Pariah wondered what kind of gods humans had. The Ancients here were proclaimed as gods sometimes, and none were alike each other, let alone like regular Deathless.
"Why do you ask?" She was running her thin fingers against the edges of her pages as she pondered.
"I'm just curious," he said. "About Mourned, and those portals." And Skulker and humans and whatever Earth looked like. One day, he'd leave and find out for himself. There had to be a ghost out there that could travel between the two freely, if not now than sometime soon.
Requiem stilled, gazing at him cooly. "It's not wise for you to play with fire, Pariah," she warned, stern yet calm. He hadn't heard that tone from her in a long time, since he was a bit more rebellious. "You'll be king here, not there. You shouldn't get attached."
Attached to Earth, or attached to Skulker? "I understand," he nevertheless said.
Mother was wise; she'd been a ghost much, much longer than he had. He wouldn't fight on this. But she knew about Skulker already. Her warning just now, what did it mean for Skulker catching her attention, if she or father ever decided they didn’t want him around?
Pariah didn't like thinking about that.
19 days until the ceremony
Even though he knew his mother wouldn't betray him or his trust, Father had made an odd comment after their early sparring session.
You'll find ghosts you can trust, he had said. Strong, wise ghosts. Weakness will become your enemy.
He was always a bit stern, always with a light frown on his face, but he had practically spat out weak like it left a bitter taste in his mouth, like he had a specific ghost in mind. His parents were a team. He'd known for a hundred years now that if he told one something, the other would know, too.
Requiem knew Undergrowth better than Pariah did, and she was fiercely loyal to him and to the Realms. There always sat a question in the back of Pariah's mind when her calm exterior became stern just like his father's: if she thought something he liked was going to inhibit him, how far was she willing to go?
He loved his mother. Fiercely, and he trusted her intuition and knowledge just as he trusted his father's guidance and strength. But hearing that, his trust in their compassion tilted to the side a bit.
As much as he trusted them, and as much as he wanted to keep his best friend by his side, he knew that it would be for the best if Skulker had some place safe to go when the king and queen found out this blob ghost was being friendly with the prince.
Or, worse, keep him from being hurt in a power-hungry ghost's attempt to get to the newly-crowned king. That was going to be a reality in a mere 19 days.
He needed to do something.
He had chosen a time when he knew they wouldn't be interrupted to pull Skulker aside in his bedroom with a plan and a clinging hope.
"I'm going to help you make a lair," he said firmly, pressing the determination in his chest forward.
Skulker's bright red eyes swirled with color, his tail shifting back into legs as he flew up to sit on Pariah's shoulders. The weight was always a little soothing, admittedly.
"How?" Skulker asked, surprise leaking into his voice.
He walked over to his chaise, cupped Skulker in his palms, then set him down and knelt in front of him. "When I was a child, there was a time when I had gotten very ill."
He had had bright red spots dotting his whole body, a constant dizziness and sluggishness, and, scaring every ghost around, had started to fizzle out. He couldn't remember much from that time, but seeing his father—a man with unflappable confidence and strength, who always spoke with no doubt in his voice—tearing up as Pariah was fading out in front of him; he'd never forget that.
"My mother did something for me that helped me recover, and it made me stronger."
She had pushed past her fearful husband, determination in her step, pressed her hand onto Pariah's forehead, and gave him some of her limitless energy. It had been a warm, soft feeling, just like when she used to braid his long hair and hum something soothing, and Pariah had completely recovered three days later, feeling better than ever.
"You're too weak to make a lair now, but if I give you some of my ectoplasmic energy like she did, you might be able to make one. It would be small, most likely, but you would have a place to call home."
The thought of Skulker calling someplace else home stung at his chest, but he pushed it away. He needed someplace safe, and Pariah couldn't always hide him from prying eyes, right?
"Like those doors?" Skulker asked, likely recalling Pariah's words several days ago. He nodded, confirming.
The doors varied in size sometimes, but every single floating, purple door led to a ghost's room, if not a ghost's entire realm, their haunt, if they were strong enough. There were rumors some of the Ancients had lairs and haunts on the other side as well as in the Infinite Realms.
"Is that something you want?" Pariah asked gently. A small part of him hoped Skulker would say no. He didn't like the idea of Skulker deciding his new lair was better than being with Pariah. But it was his choice, in the end.
"Yes!" Skulker squeaked loudly, nodding rapidly. "Yes," he said quieter, when Pariah recoiled at the sharp noise and too-quick reply.
"Alright." Pariah nodded, cupped his glove-less hands in front of him, and Skulker took his cue to fly up and rest in them. "Try to relax. This might feel odd."
Wordlessly, Pariah closed his eyes and reached for the soothing feeling he could recall from all those years ago. Mother had leaked her energy into him tenderly like a slowly flickering fire. A soothing, calm wave of strength and peace. He wanted that for Skulker already.
All too sudden, Skulker made a small strangled sound, and Pariah felt him writhe in his hands. He startled when the ghost's body turned warm in his palms, giving him a rapidly-growing feeling of being on fire. By the time he opened his eyes, and by the time he had halted his energy transfer, it was already too much.
The already-weak blob ghost in his grasp was already halfway obliterated, green body oozing between his fingers and choking on nothing, desperately wheezing and trying to hold onto life. Pariah realized, with a sharp dread stabbing his core, that he could barely feel Skulker's signature.
"No," he whispered, trying to keep as much of his ectoplasm in one place. The parts that dripped out of his grasp were already vanishing into the Realms. "No, no, no."
What had gone wrong? In a last ditch attempt to save Skulker, he scooped up as much as he could and set it all in his shirt-bed. Being somewhere comfortable, and in someplace he spent a lot of his time, always unwittingly leaking out his energy like every ghost did, might help. That was why when he had gotten sick, Requiem insisted he stay in his bed as much as possible, after all.
But he hadn't considered something very important: Requiem was a Deathless, and so was he. Skulker was not.
As Pariah helplessly watched his only friend slowly stain the shirt, flooded with an overwhelming horror—of being overconfident and failing, and of bringing the worst on his only true ally—he could only regret that he hadn't learned more about the other Realm and the human Skulker used to be.
He regretted that he never managed to get his friend's real name.
Pariah knelt at his bedside table for what felt like days. Every possible awful feeling took its turn punching him one at a time—regret, anger, sadness, absolute self-loathing—until there was a comfortable nothing.
Skulker made another strangled sound, before his voice managed something. "...right," he whispered. "I'm alright."
Pariah's eyes shot open, and locked onto the puddle of green staining his shirt, or, at least, what used to be a stain. Instead, Skulker's red eyes and even-smaller body was limp and flat against the fabric.
He was weaker than ever, barely even sentient, but he was still here.
"You're–" Pariah stopped short, because what could he say to Skulker in the face of his mistake? "I'm sorry," he whispered. He should have studied more on Mourned and Deathless, and how their energies might or might not mix, before so confidently claiming he could help. Father never would have made that mistake. "You can rest. I'll keep you safe."
If Skulker wasn't ever able to leave, let alone make his lair, Pariah would take responsibility, and keep him by his side forever. Maybe that would be better than sending this blob ghost out into the Infinite Realms with only a small hope of being more than a pest for most ghosts.
Maybe Skulker should never leave anyway.
"I promise."
15 days until the ceremony
Skulker made a full recovery four days later.
He had shakily, slowly, crawled out of his nest of fabric, and took his familiar spot on Pariah's shoulder, whispering his thank you for saving him. Pariah had hugged him tight and apologized once more, feeling something soft curl in his chest at the intimate moment following what could have been tragedy.
All Skulker had requested after Pariah fretted over his signature three more times to make sure he was stable was a chance to read some of the books Pariah had brought back to his room during his little free time. He had yet to demand more from him.
Requiem was usually in the library, gracefully turning her books in peace. When she wasn't taking care of her duties—guiding the weakest Mourned souls to their final resting place wherever they chose to go, or helping the elder ghosts fade out peacefully—she tended to bury herself in the dusty pages. Undergrowth quietly tended to the flowers when he needed silence, too.
She hadn't been sitting at her long wooden desk when Pariah crept in, Skulker hiding under his cape. He had been planning to bring the blob ghost into the library and help him choose his reading material, but maybe this was better; Skulker hadn't many places he could safely be in for any amount of time.
Pariah had asked what he wanted to read and Skulker had insisted on books about the Realms itself. He had yet to ask about the king or the ceremony despite Pariah being a bit cagey about it whenever he talked about the upcoming event.
He knew the library nearly as well as his mother did, so Pariah quickly found two books about the Realms: one an old researcher's hypothesized journals about how it was created, the other about the history of the Ancients (mostly the older ones that had made a name for themselves rather than the modern ones that stayed hidden, admittedly).
He had quite lazily chosen his own just as he floated by the towering, seemingly endless shelves and back to the table, and only when he sat down and pulled his squeaky wooden chair into the desk did he see the title: Effects of Long Term Overshadowing and Artifact Corruption. Glancing at the author's name, a yeti named Gelid, he knew the ghosts of the Far Frozen must have been testing such things for a while now.
While perusing his lengthy descriptions of overshadowing, untested artifacts from the other side, and the mind corruption that came with them, Pariah couldn't help but let his eyes trail over to Skulker, hovering over the book that was much bigger than him, intently reading.
It only struck him then that Skulker knew the Infinite Realms' language despite being a Mourned coming from another realm. He had read and heard that all Mourned, upon dying and being sent here, were gifted the knowledge from the kind will of the Realms itself, but it was still amazing to think that one could learn another language entirely in an instant.
He turned back to his book with a small wondrous shake of his head. His single braid swayed with the action as his eyes caught back to their place.
–ne such artifact, which we have dubbed the Pendant of Glass, was given to a volunteer. Pariah's eyes followed the anecdote to the next page. The following days he began acting differently. His strength in combat was unmatched but erratic, and, after a minor provocation from a colleague, became somewhat feral and territorial. We removed the artifact with some struggle.
Pariah would leave for the Far Frozen one day, and meet some of these researchers. They were some of the most brilliant scientists, as proven by the fact that the elder Ghostwriter, ever busy leading his apprentice to take his place, still decided that their research was worthy material for the king and his ilk.
"Don't touch that."
Pariah hadn't even noticed his mouth open until the words spat out, his hand gripping Skulker's tight, ectoplasm practically squirming under his grasp. He had flown up and curiously reached out to touch the red spokes of his crown, perhaps quietly asking something Pariah hadn't heard in the midst of his reading, and something deep within Pariah reacted before his mind could.
"Don't," he repeated, nearly growling the word out. Skulker started to desperately pull his hand loose. "Not without asking. Understand?"
No one touched the crown of the royalty. No one had dared to try. Not in front of him, not when he set his crown down to rest, or ever.
Skulker remained in place, still as an ice shard, before nodding once, tight and quick. Pariah let him go shortly after, and Skulker, gripping his morphed hand, shakily flew back down to kneel on his pages and shudder in quick breaths.
Pariah huffed, frustration shaking at his core, before righting his crown and forcing his eyes back down on his pages. Skulker should know better than to touch something that important without permission, even if he hadn't yet told him about him being the prince. Something small begged him to apologize for his words, but was silenced swiftly afterward.
Pariah went to sleep with his crown on that night.
13 days until the ceremony
Pariah only noticed after a day of full planning for the ceremony—where he was to be at what times, being measured twice over by no less than three tailors, told the names of every person he was supposed to know—that his drawings had been left to the side for a while.
As he grasped the small book in his hand after half a day of more endless planning and lectures from his father, he was struck with the urge to gloss back at his progress. Skulker had gladly eaten his portion of food that he'd asked to bring to his room—he hadn't wanted to touch, let alone eat, anything lately—and was staring at the book from his shoulder.
Pariah debated asking about the flowers of Earth again as he began to flip through the pages. His first few were rough, barely more than a child's first dabble into the art, but over time, he'd improved. He could remember what he'd been thinking, for the most part.
The day he'd harshly pressed black into the page, detailing the thorns of his father's whip; he had been scolded for appearing late to their sparring that day. Two pages from that, Mother had braided his hair like she'd done when he was young, and that night he'd detailed her delicate hands and intricate silver ring.
His fond smile vanished upon continuing to flip through his art.
Skulker's description of sunflowers had been wonderful, and he'd done his best to imitate the plant. He remembered that well enough, and he could tell he had been in a good mood. The next page over had been a similarly happy depiction of the blob ghost, every line doing its best to describe the parts of Skulker he liked, that made him different: his sharp glare, his toothy smirk, the way both of them were more relaxed when the two of them were alone, without Undergrowth around.
Pariah did not recognize the rest of these drawings.
He especially didn't recognize the sprawling, curled flower in the center, a crushing honey flower, named aptly for their thirst of ectoplasm, seeming to burst from the page itself with how much space it took up, leaves sharp, thin spokes not unlike small blades. It was similar to the flowers sometimes blooming from Undergrowth's eyes when unrest stirred among his political groups, sharp and bleeding him before Requiem quietly killed them and soothed her husband with kind words. That had been happening more often lately.
The honey the flower produced by capturing weak ghosts and draining them dry was a delicacy, and a wonderful medicine. Father had been supplying it with his own essence, then sending the thick nectar to the Far Frozen in exchange for their knowledge for many years now.
Pariah remained quiet, thumbing over the art as Skulker silently watched the action. The flower had always disturbed him, as any normal ghost would. Yet here, silent and still on the page, the predatory flower seemed fragile, almost beautiful. But so much charcoal was pressed into the page that it was all starting to fall off with the slightest motion. Skulker shifted on his shoulder, seeming uncomfortable with the book being open on this page, and Pariah being captivated by it. He shut the book with a loud snap, and put it back in its place, slamming the drawer.
He could take a break from drawing.
10 days until the ceremony
Skulker had been jumpy all day. He'd flinched away when Pariah went to set him on his shoulder, intent on taking him to the library again. He'd laughed and apologized profusely for it, bowing deeply like the maids, even though Pariah hadn't been angry.
The crowning ceremony was soon.
He needed to tell Skulker the truth soon.
It was his ceremony, and he wanted his friend to be there for it, with full knowledge of who he was and was going to become. Not today, though. Skulker seemed off, and it must be nerves having to hide so much more with all the servants rushing around both the Keep and Pariah getting everything ready.
Soon, though.
7 days until the ceremony
'Soon' ended up later than he'd liked. There was so little time before the ceremony. The tailor had pressed him into his new royal garb, rechecked everything no less than four times, and proclaimed his work done. Pariah had stripped out of the slightly too-tight, itchy tunic and long maroon cape and tossed it on his chaise with a little disdain.
In seven days, he would wear that in front of thousands upon thousands of ghosts and finally claim the crown on his head as his. He'd yet to tell Skulker that. Seeing how the date was ever approaching, it was about time he'd get it over with.
Father had a meeting with the many people hosting the ceremony in the dining hall, to get the last details sorted; he wouldn't come near the garden for a long time, if at all. Mother buried herself in her pages more often than not; she wouldn't bother Pariah out here either.
"Skulker," Pariah said.
His friend had been perched on his shoulder, watching him practice his swings dutifully, but when Pariah tucked his sword into its holster at his hip and stepped to sit on the marble bench in front of a bushel of scorched zinnias, burning bright red and yellow, he flew to sit by his side, to which Pariah turned to face him likewise.
Staring down like this, it always made Pariah feel something curl in his chest; he thought it might be protectiveness at this small, helpless creature, but it always felt more intense, like he was angry, though he had never truly been at his only friend.
Something in him that always seemed to be screaming to take Skulker and keep him safe, far away from anyone else. Somehow, day by day, helping him make a lair seemed less and less appealing. Why, when being the king-to-be's friend was inarguably better.
"The ceremony for the crowning," he said. Skulker nodded, tail twitching indiscriminately, seemingly unable to hold still around Pariah lately. "It is my ceremony. My parents are the king and queen–" for now "and I will be taking the throne from them at the ceremony. That's when my crown" he righted the red artifact when it had slipped slightly "will become truly mine and change its form."
Father's looked different before he took the crown, Pariah knew. Mother talked about it once; it being a shimmering gold with diamonds and emeralds before it became his and burst to life with vines, thorns, and silky flowers.
"I–" Skulker stopped there, something not unlike uncertainty tainting his next few words, which he cut off before Pariah could hear properly. He took a deep breath, like he was gathering his courage. "I know. I've known for some time." He seemed tense, like he was expecting to be struck.
"You… know?"
Skulker nodded, something like a startled mouse's squeak coming out unwillingly alongside it. Why didn't you say anything sparked across his tongue, and he almost let it slip out, but even without uttering a single word, Pariah knew it would come out wrong. That was how he'd been feeling lately around everyone. He'd scared a maid to tears two days ago when all he'd meant to do was correct her wrong placement of his sheets.
She should know how to do that properly by now though, and her tears had seemed like quite the overreaction.
He didn't want to frighten Skulker like that, however.
"Alright," he instead said. "Alright. That is–" he choked down a quick laugh, because he had been so worried that Skulker would leave when he found out, and had tried to hide it, yet he'd known for some time and stayed anyway. "Then, you'll still come?"
Skulker stayed silent, which Pariah admittedly didn't understand. A personal invitation from the crown prince; who would turn that down? He remained patient for his friend, however.
"Yes," Skulker eventually said. His confidence when saying I'll be there 12 days ago was gone, replaced by this weak, shaking tone that Pariah could only take to mean he was afraid of being discovered.
Which was understandable; Pariah himself had warned of Father and Mother and the wrath he might suffer if he was discovered.
"Wait on my bed the day of the ceremony," he said. "I'll keep you with me the entire time." No one would dare confront Pariah during the crowning, and Skulker would be right there, albeit hidden, to see everything.
To have him by his side during his crowning, to be watching and admiring the new form his crown would take while Pariah took in the sight of thousands of ghosts bowing before him; it would be something wondrous.
Skulker nodded once tightly, eyes wide and flickering shades of red, and Pariah smiled back down at him, trying to calm his nerves. No one would mess with him and his friend, not after he took the throne.
He'd show Skulker that soon enough.
0 days until the ceremony
Like he had been before, Pariah was fitted into his royal garb—a slightly too-tight black tunic marked with intricate patterns of white flowers much like Father's, overshadowed by a maroon, cotton-lined cloak clasped at his shoulder with a hook with teeth-like ends pointing down to his black leather boots riding to his ankles.
Everything was always just a bit off; it was like no matter how many times the tailors resized their prince, he would grow bigger in the time it took them to adjust the last measurements.
Perhaps he would finally grow tall like Father. Perhaps it was time to take his sword—now shimmering like silver with how well he had polished it yesterday while Skulker slept—and be like him, too. Father commanded a room without having to do much; the best king the Infinite Realms had ever seen, whispered the maids. He'd hated the way they'd said such things while he passed, and they'd scurried off shortly after they caught his distasteful look.
That wouldn't happen anymore. He'd make sure of it.
When the tailor, a feeble, reptilian ghost whose long, scaly tale never stopped swishing around anxiously while in his presence, bowed his head deeply and declared his work done, Pariah turned and walked out, waving a hand as he went in a half-hearted 'thank you' for his work.
Skulker is waiting, Pariah repeated to himself, unable to help a small smile as he floated along the halls decorated with Father's many flowers, bursting with life and happiness, almost as if greeting and bowing to him already.
Not too long from now, just after he'd taken Skulker away from his room, the soon-to-be king would take the throne from Undergrowth, the Ancient of Life, leaving him and his wife to retire in peace knowing their son was going to be great. They would remain in the Keep—it was theirs before Pariah's, and it was Father's lair by conquest—but, perhaps, Pariah mused, that would change.
Maybe one day, it would be his. Not the King's Keep, but his. Pariah's Keep had a nice ring to it.
He phased into his room, ignoring the door entirely.
"Skulker," he called out into the room.
He wasn't waiting on his bed or on Pariah's, but he could be hiding in fear of being found by a maid looking to clean one last time before the ceremony, which he had to go to shortly. He received no response, and there was no little green blob anywhere in sight.
"This is no time to hide." Pariah upturned his pillow, flattened the shirt by his bed, and floated to check the top of his wardrobe. The empty room seemed all too deafening. "Skulker…?"
Just as he started leaking his energy out, searching for Skulker's faint one, his eyes caught on a torn scrap of paper, thick and dusty with black soot, on his sheets, with his nightstand drawer partially open to expose his drawing book. He picked it up, and read the small, shaking writing.
Pariah,
I'm sorry. I can't be there for you today.
Something rotten in Pariah curled, but he pressed on, squinting when the writing seemed more strained. Skulker's hands were always so tiny, it was a miracle he'd managed to write anything at all.
I'm leaving. Please don't search for me. I'm going to make my own lair.
Pariah's biggest failure slammed back into him in that instant. Skulker had nearly been obliterated that day, but Pariah had put him back together, had helped him recover over the coming days. Skulker had even made a joke about him not being a pet with how much he sometimes fussed over the ghost. And this was the kind of gratitude he got. It was like he was being spit in the face. Skulker likely hadn't even known he could accomplish that, with the failure of an attempt being his only example. Yet he decided the chance of failure again was better than Pariah.
The last words sent a wheeze out of his mouth when he finally read them.
Good luck. And goodbye.
Pariah turned the sheet over in his hands, hoping for more, for a true explanation on why Skulker, this weak little blob ghost who he'd showed kindness to in the garden, and who he'd bothered to protect for this long from the king and queen of the Infinite Realms and their many servants, would do something like this.
He wasn't surprised by the tears suddenly pouring from his eyes, spilling onto the floor which he'd kneeled on all too suddenly, but what did strike him harder was how much it hurt. Whatever rotten feeling had appeared in his gut at Skulker's first words now stabbed and burned him alive with a torrent of emotions.
Sadness that he'd somehow gone wrong, had made Skulker think he wasn't worth being around; Pain that he'd be going to this alone, surrounded by soon-to-be loyal followers, a few Ancients he'd never met, and applause from his Mother and Father, but with no one on his shoulder to clap along.
And, somehow the most and yet least surprising, anger. That the crown prince had found this tiny, helpless blob ghost which some would merely consider a snack, saved him time and time again, and yet who betrayed him when he wanted him most. Whom Pariah had gladly called friend yet would leave him this awful note on the most important day of his life, detailing just how much he didn't need Pariah in his life.
Well.
Pariah harshly scrubbed the tears from his eyes, straightened himself, face tight with a creeping bitterness, righted his crown, grabbed the hilt of his sword, and marched out of his room.
He didn't need Skulker either.
The trip to the guest hall was short; he had flown faster than usual, repeating to himself that he truly didn't need his old friend, and ignored those who bowed to him in the hall, whether servant or lingering guest.
He entered the back entrance of the hall, front doors wide open for the thousands of guests currently chatting amongst themselves while listening to the four-eyed ghost playing piano alongside what was supposed to be the gentle strings of the skeletons' orchestra off to the side of the giant ballroom. More than calming, it grated against the inside of Pariah's ears.
Father was waiting behind the red curtains pulled to the side, stage waiting for someone important to step up. "Pariah," he greeted.
Pariah caught Mother's glance from the other side, currently sitting on her indigo, gemstone-covered throne, leaking mist out into the room from up on stage, despite trying to keep it in. She seemed to be staring at his shoulder, frowning. Pariah knew she'd likely already had people bow their greetings to her earlier—those who dared approach Death and kiss her cold hand, anyway—as had Undergrowth, whose throne was sat next to hers.
Pariah had been instructed not to show until after, wherein he'd be crowned and then could join the rest of the Realms as a new ghost. He had just planned on not being alone during that part.
"You have a nice look about you. Fierce, like a true king." Father nodded in approval of the look Pariah was apparently sprouting. 'Fierce' felt a lot like fire in his chest right now. "Are you ready?" It didn't seem much like a question considering some of the shushing going out in the crowd, guests with glasses in their hand urging each other to turn to the stage high above them all.
"Yes, Father." Unlike what seemed like only a few days ago, he meant it. He wouldn't cower in fear of responsibility, or swing his sword like a youngling who didn't know anything but mercy, or idly wish he could simply sit and talk with someone, anyone aside from his parents.
"Good. You know what to do." With that, Undergrowth disappeared into the wood stage then appeared already sitting in his own green-red-yellow flower and black thorn-adorned throne by his wife's side, sitting in the center of the stage. They swiftly locked hands, both giving gentle squeezes for the coming moments.
When the orchestra's music swelled then silenced, the room quieted, and every ghost's eyes turned to the stage.
"Ghosts of the Infinite Realms," Undergrowth swiftly stood and greeted, booming voice dominating the little chatter left. "We are here on this momentous occasion to celebrate and greet my son–" Here, Pariah stepped forward, standing next to the king with pride swelling his aura. "As I step down."
Pariah raised his hand high, and those who already called themselves his followers cheered. Father must have spoken well of him after their duels turned to his favor.
"I have raised him these past 145 years myself. He is my pride and joy, and he will lead you well." The crowd cheered again at Father's confident words, and Pariah himself schooled a small blush off his neutral face at his praise. He wouldn't be seen expressing anything like that in front of the Realms, not now or ever. He'd made that mistake already.
"Ancient of Time, Cronos, Clockwork," Undergrowth called out into the large, packed room. "Please, step forward."
For a moment, the room remained quiet and still. Pariah's eyes scanned the crowd. He'd never met anyone named Clockwork, or read much about the Ancient of Time in Mother's dusty books.
The crowd all too suddenly parted, and a purple-clad ghost with hauntingly familiar red eyes and a timepiece lodged in his chest floated forward, too-stiff smile on his blue face.
He kneeled in front of the stage, one hand on his chest and tall staff resting by his side. Pariah could hear a faint ticking. "My king."
"Raise your head."
He did so, and Pariah couldn't ever recall an Ancient kneeling in front of another.
"As you have done with me, do with my son." Undergrowth gestured at Pariah. "The prophecy, if you will."
The Ancient nodded deeply, and floated up on stage in front of Pariah. He could suddenly feel the weight of his crown bearing down on him in the face of this ghost's overwhelming power. It was so intense he was sure everyone else could feel it, too. But he kept his chin high as Clockwork placed a hand on his head, just in front of his horns and crown.
The Ancient hummed once, and the only sound Pariah could really hear was the faint ticking of both his timepiece and the watches on his wrist and waist.
Something thrummed in Clockwork's chest, like the gong of a bell, all too loud, yet quiet enough that only Pariah could hear it.
"Crown prince of the Infinite Realms, son of Life and Death, Pariah," he began, voice even. "From this day on you will be known as Pariah Dark. You will be an Ancient by Decade's end, the fearsome Ruler of Rage." In the reflection of the Ancient's glass timepiece, Pariah saw the moment his red crown burst into green flames, heat licking at his braided hair. It felt good. He flexed his hands at his side, ring morphing into the form of a bitter, angry skull. He felt stronger. "Your rein will be long, and all the realms will know your name."
The crowd murmured, something about the Ancient's prediction stirring them. Everyone will know his name.
"On the dawn of a new age, young and old, friend and foe, will bond together for a united cause. And you will be at the center of it, Pariah Dark." Clockwork's staff was quickly slammed onto the stage, a harsh thunk reaching every corner of the grand, echoing room. "Pariah Dark will reign high, from this day on.”
The room erupted with cheers as Clockwork's hand dropped and he floated down from the stage. Had he always been frowning so deeply?
Pariah Dark turned to the front of the cheering, the room chanting, "Long live Pariah Dark."
Skulker's note still sat crumpled up on his bedroom floor next to his dried tears, but here, in front of the Infinite Realms itself, Crown of Fire burning brightly atop his hair, he made a declaration to himself.
He will make his rule good, better than his Mother and Father, or any other ruler before them.
He won't need weak ghosts like Skulker holding him back. He won't need art to comfort him, or food to keep him strong. Just him and his Crown of Fire and Ring of Rage.
Pariah Dark will be the greatest king to ever walk the Infinite Realms.
Perhaps other realms, too.
Everyone will see that soon enough.