The black ink flowed freely from an old novel pen with a sharp
nib. The pen was of an age old make that none in the present world
could fathom its age. The pen moved slowly as it scribbled on a lithe
white paper set amongst a huge stack. The hand that held it was fair
and thin. It wrote cursively and with such a grace that would have
dazzled even the neatest writer on the outside world; for the hand
belonged to a man who seemed young to all but in reality, he was older
than any till date even surmised and he worked in huge caves that he
had delved ages ago by his own hands. There were only three round
windows that provided sight to the world yonder and through it, now, a
wind gushed. The wind made his dark curly hair stream across his fair
face, which he slightly brushed aside. The rims of his red tunic moved a
little slightly.

The light from the windows were not enough for one who stayed always on the inside. Why he stayed there? That all knew. He was remembered for his almost bad
history. Unfortunate events, tens of centuries ago, had led him to this
seclusion. He was remembered for losing his entire nation to a cruel
megalomaniac who had always longed to dethrone him from power and had
succeeded in that long war a thousand years earlier from the present
day. The war was mostly political with little display of military
might. He was defiled, defamed and his people began to hate him for what
he had done to them, for by then he was termed a traitor who had
neglected his duties. And he stayed these entire long centuries in the
dark caves delved in the heart of the snowy mountains that rose on the
southern borders of his land. For him it was both a blessing and a
curse. Curse because his enemy grew stronger by the day and had never
subsided till date and a blessing because he was free yet to exact his
revenge upon him who was the darkness personified. But once upon a
time, he was a benevolent king with sharp eyes which could discern
anything from the opponent's mind. Wisdom and strength sat on either
of his brows. And it still does, even in his darkest times.
Three yellow candles shone with the light of gold, set upon L shaped
lamp stands driven deep into the grey walls of his cavern. This cavern
was quite huge. In it there was a bed, a feather bed, a memoir of his
lost city. There was also a small ebony table and a silver chair upon
which he presently sat. The only exit was through a nicely carved stone
door hued with darkish red color.

A knock sounded on this door and it was a light tap, as it were from that of a
small child. His ears responded at once, it were still sharp
for his age. He got up with a sigh and walked towards the door with
long footsteps and light footfalls. He turned aside a silver knob and
the door opened, albeit slowly. But what he saw on his door step
surprised him, as another gush of heavy winds brushed past him.