Once again, Blikrot found himself sinking in the treacherous quagmire of memories.

He was resting on his dark throne, his back slowly sliding down its backrest, his right palm covering his face broken by remembrances.

Abraham. His mentor. Then his opponent. Killed by his army, now.

Bakrasur and most of Blikrot's other commanders might not know who Abraham was, but he could never forget. Abraham, the man who had saved young Blikrot from death, who had taken him in and trained him in magic and warfare, who had taught him not to fear dragons, and who had ultimately led the rebellion against King Alfaer.

Well, Blikrot himself had led the rebellion, too, but without the guidance and planning of Abraham, it would not have been successful.

Abraham had found Blikrot roaming the streets like a mad dog, his eyes sunken, his cheeks hollow, the rags he covered himself with rotten and in tatters. Kind as he always was, Abraham had stopped young Blikrot and asked him his name.

Only, Abraham had told him later that he couldn't recall his name. He hadn't been able to speak for days. And then, one day, he had broken his silence, stared at the full moon burning in the skies, and whispered, "Bleak...rrrrottt...bleak....rrrottt". So Abraham had assumed his name was Blikrot. And as Abraham began curing him, he started responding to 'Blikrot'.

But sometimes he thought Blikrot was a strange name, with unnecessary dark undertones. Why would his mother have named him as such? Of course, in his memories, his mother and sister always called him 'Blikrot', but still he doubted, for some reason...

Memories were like chameleons to him, never changing shapes, but always threatening to change their colours.

After training Blikrot as best as he could, Abraham had confided in him his own plans of overthrowing Alfaer. It turned out that Abraham had had enough of Alfaer's blindness to his army's corruption--he believed Heart needed a better emperor.

And so, Blikrot and Abraham had stormed Alfaer's castle a few years later, on the night of the so called celebration of Alfaer's self proclaimed righteousness, with only about a hundred mercenaries. Alfaer's army members were drunk and utterly unprepared, and before they could fashion some sort of resistence, they were scattered. It was Blikrot who ended Alfaer, but it had been Abraham who held Alfaer's hands as he did so.

But things changed soon after. Blikrot became the new king after the coup and the people accepted him with a frightening ease, but Abraham expected him to rule as per his desires. And of course, Blikrot being Blikrot, he manuevered a series of events in such a way that it was proved that Abraham's desires were against the best interests of Heart. Thus, he had been exiled. No one had complained. Not even Abraham.

Now Blikrot blamed himself for his earlier weaknesses. Exile was a puerile punishment. He should have had him executed...but it was too late now. The dumb dog had been just in the right village at just the right time to have helped in the escape of Blikrot's foretold foes.

"KING BLIKROT!" Someone screamed, making him jump. He turned around and saw an attendant.

"What is it?" He asked quietly.

"Sir, the historian is here."

"SO WHY ARE YOU RAISING HELL WITH YOUR BLOODY VOICE?" Blikrot growled, and swiped his right palm through the air. The attendant was lifted off the ground and thrown to the wall.

"Sso..so...sss..." The attendant began, as he struggled up from the floor.

"So you should be DEAD?" Blikrot screamed and threw the attendant to the wall again.

"Sorry," the attendant managed, choking on his own blood. "I have been calling you for the last ten minutes, you were not responding. I thought something wrong..."

"Shut your fuck. And go bring that historian to me."

The attendant bowed, head bleeding profusely, and left. Blikrot waited for the oldest historian of Heart.