The Demon Lord And His Hero

A glass coffin encased in a thick layer of magic infused ice had vapor wafting off its surface. This coffin containing a demon lord's deceased body was stored hundreds of metres underground and protected by multiple spells, each one deadly and precise in its killing function.

Rowan held a lamp as he stood looking down at the icy coffin that held his best friend and soul mate.

Syryn's peaceful expression had remained undisturbed for the year long rest he had been taking inside the cursed coffin. If he opened his eyes, the demon lord would see a spark of insanity in the blue eyes that watched over his dead form.

"Rowan," a male voice called down in panic from somewhere far away. "North Citadel has fallen! We need to leave now!"

The blond man laid his palm above the ice through which he could see Syryn's face. Even he couldn't understand why he kept coming back here again and again. All he knew was that it was a magnet that pulled him no matter how far he went.

"Rowan!"

A tinge of annoyance disturbed the blond's calm. He'd looked at his dead friend so many times that the soul sucking panic he initially used to feel had all but disappeared. A whole year later, the pain of losing Syryn was still as fresh as it had been on that terrible day, and Rowan was dealing with it just as disastrously he was dealing with the invasion. He wasn't an immortal. Rowan had only so much he could give before even he started falling apart at his seams.

___

2 months later, Rowan had returned from a battle that had lasted longer than he'd anticipated. Traxdart's forces had overrun nearly half the human populated kingdoms across the world and it was only getting worse. His demons were infecting the injured soldiers and turning them into one of theirs.

"Rowan, get some sleep first," Qairu told the blond who hadn't had a wink of sleep in three days.

"After," Rowan replied listlessly. Qairu knew what the after meant. The blond wanted to spend some time with Syryn.

"Fine. Don't take too long. Its not like it can run away you know. The coffin doesn't have legs." The priest sometimes wondered what Rowan did as he sat for hours in that cold, dark, and depressing tomb. Was it just meditation?

As a necromancer, he had heard several stories about unhinged necromancers who had lost their marbles and done the unspeakable with the dead. Qairu was sure that Eos would have killed Rowan if the blond did something so.. flavourful, not that he suspected Rowan to be so depraved. The blond had an unhealthy obsession but he was respectful in how he honored the bodies of his fallen comrades.

"I know," Rowan's tired attempt at a smile was appreciated by the corrupt priest. The only reasons humanity still hadn't crumbled completely was because of Rowan and Qairu. The blond was a force equal to ten thousand soldiers on a good day, and a hundred thousand when he was having a bad day. Rowan in a bad mood was an absolute force of devastation in the battle grounds, and Qairu liked it that way. The only downside he could think of to the blond's rampage was how he indiscriminately killed. It was difficult to avoid friendly fire when Rowan was raining holy judgement on the demonic soldiers. Even so, Qairu wished the champion of Eos had a way to avoid destroying his own undead soldiers.

The priest walked with his lich King as they surveyed the number of undead that were left after the battle at North Citadel. Their numbers had been reduced by more than half but Qairu could make plenty more of where they came from. Aside from the dying soldiers who wished to avoid becoming demons and enemies, there were also living and healthy folks who requested to be turned into undead soldiers. Qairu wasn't complaining but even he was disturbed by the state of affairs that prevailed the war torn world.

"Where are their gods and goddesses when you need them?" He asked the lich King. "They prayed and sacrificed when times were good. Now they hide in their homes, dying, and praying to the same gods who are blind and deaf. If they prayed to me, I would at least end their suffering."

"Q, something's gone wrong," a young girl, one of Qairu's best necromancers rushed out and called to him.

Bad news? These days he was having it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner on the daily. Qairu wasn't afraid to hear more bad news. "What?" He replied.

"Its Rowan.. I think he's-" she hesitated.

"He's what?!" Now this could be the only bad news that affected him anymore. Their golden boy had been pushing and pushing himself so hard everyone was expecting him to just keel over and die from a sudden heart attack one of these days.

"He's not well. Rowan came out of the tomb looking like one of our dead ones. I mean he looks really sick, Q."

"Damn it, Windwalker!" The corrupt priest cursed. He should have strapped the man down- not like it was possible. "Take me to him."

____

"What the hell has happened to you, Goldie?" Qairu asked the anti mage. Rowan was seated on a chair appearing as though his soul had left his body. The man's blue eyes were half closed and he looked awake but not present. His apprentice had been right about Rowan looking like the undead. The lamp was on but the home was empty.

Qairu felt goosebumps spread across his skin as the blond's gaze turned to him. "Syryn is gone."

A pin drop silence prevailed as the priest tried to understand the magnitude of bullshit that he was hearing.

"What?!"

Syryn couldn't be gone. Syryn couldn't be gone!!

"Who stole him??"

"I don't know," Rowan replied. He had done everything he could under the circumstances he had. To think that there was someone capable of sneaking in through the defences and making off with Syryn's body disturbed him greatly. An even greater question was why?

"We'll find him, Rowan," Qairu blurted out without thinking. "The culprit couldn't have gone far." It was a diaster unlike any other because Syryn, as dead as he was, was an anchor that bound Rowan to his duty. He had promised Syryn that he would rid the world of Traxdart and his demons. Now that Syryn's corpse was missing, Qairu could not predict what Rowan might do.

"Its time I let go," Rowan tiredly said to the priest. "I'll be alright."

Qairu would have believed it, and he wanted so much to believe it. But Rowan's eyes told him a whole different story.

"Don't you want to find out who took his body and for what purpose?"

The blond leaned his forehead on his steepled fingers. His blond hair had grown long during the war and he had accrued a number of scars including one right across his heart.

"I fear what I might find."

Qairu tried very hard to pretend he couldn't hear the slight shake in Rowan's voice.

"Rowan, what are you afraid of?" The priest asked. Syryn's body had been blessed so that it couldn't be raised to become an undead. Qairu had been part of the night long ceremony that involved a holy priestess who hated his guts. "Tell me you stupid blond-"

"The cursed coffin came from the demons themselves."