The King of the Underworld

I was the king of the underworld, a title not easily earned, and one far more difficult to shed. Long ago, in the age when men cowered beneath the gaze of wolves and sea-salt drenched their bones, I ruled the frozen shores. My kingdom stretched from the fjords to the dark forests, my subjects trembling beneath my iron rule. Their blood nourished the land, but as with all things bound to flesh, my dominion crumbled under the weight of mortality. Yet, even in death, I remained.

The world believed I had passed into myth, that I had returned to the soil like the rest of the nameless dead. Fools. I am a Draugr, a creature bound to neither the earth nor the heavens. When I died, the ancient rites were performed—rites which should have locked my soul beneath stone and seal. They believed they could hold me, contain me, but they knew not what it meant to bury a king of the underworld.

In the depths, I was not imprisoned. I was crowned.

The soil was my throne, the roots of old trees my twisted veins. The worms whispered secrets to me, ancient things older than men, older even than gods. I learned from them the ways of creeping beneath the skin of the living world, unseen yet ever present. I became the wind that howled through the long halls of the living, the shadow that lingered just beyond the fire’s reach. My hunger grew not for food nor drink, but for something deeper—for remembrance, for the taste of fear, for the souls that still dared to walk my world above.

Time slipped like black ichor through a wound that never healed. My flesh, rotten and bloated, was too bound to the underworld to fade away. I am not like the living dead of tales, shuffling mindlessly across fields. No, I am something far worse—a thinking thing, conscious of the prison of eternity.

Then came the night when the stars whispered. Oh, how they glowed through the cracks of the earth’s skin, pale sentinels watching over the slow decay of all things. And through that silver light, I was stirred. Some fool had opened the barrow, disturbed the seals. Perhaps it was greed, for there was treasure buried with me, relics of the days when I wore the crown of flesh. Perhaps it was curiosity, for man has always sought to understand what they cannot.

They found more than they had bargained for.

My eyes, long since clouded, saw them not. I had no need for sight. I felt them, heard their blood pulsing hot beneath fragile skin, smelled their living breath. The scent of life was intoxicating after so many years in the dark. It pulled me from the depths of my slumber. I rose, stiff and slow, my bones creaking like the timbers of an ancient ship.

There were three of them—men, soft and unguarded. One had entered my tomb first, his torch casting flickering shadows across the chamber. He didn’t see me at first, of course. To the living, the Draugr is nothing more than a story, a thing to scare children. His mistake was assuming I was part of the ruin.

As I moved, his torch sputtered, casting light across my corpse. The scream that followed was sweet music, a sound I had not heard in centuries. His companions rushed forward, but it was already too late. The underworld claims all who dare trespass, and in me, the underworld had sent its king.

Their fear was a banquet. With each step they took back, each cry, I could feel the strength returning to my limbs. My fingers twitched, my jaw creaked open, and the ancient hunger surged. My body may be dead, but my will was as sharp as ever.

The first man fell, his legs twisted beneath him as he stumbled in panic. I reached out and felt the rush of heat from his flesh. He flailed, but I was stronger. With one swift motion, I crushed his throat, silencing his useless screams. His soul lingered for a moment, trapped in that fragile body, before I devoured it. The taste of fear, the essence of his life, it surged through me, and I wanted more.

The others fled, but I knew the way. I was one with the earth, one with the night. As they ran, I stalked them, letting the cold air carry their terror to me. It was intoxicating. The ground beneath their feet was mine. The stones they tripped over, the trees that snagged at their clothes, they were my servants. There was no escape.

By dawn, they were gone—nothing left but the hollowed husks of men who had once dared enter my domain. And I, I stood at the mouth of the tomb, staring into a world I had not touched in eons. The sun barely broke the horizon, but already the world felt smaller, weaker, than it had in my reign.

I knew then that my hunger would not be sated with these few souls. The world had forgotten me, but I had not forgotten it. I would walk once more in the land of the living. The underworld had sent me back, crowned me in death, and I would take what was mine.

I am the Draugr king. And I have returned.

You might be interested in exploring the themes of power and mythology reflected in “The King of the Underworld.” Speaking of ancient rulers, you can delve into the fascinating world of Draugr, the undead beings from Norse mythology that embody a similar sense of dominance even in death. If you’re intrigued by the concept of journeying between realms, check out Underworld, which discusses various interpretations of the afterlife across different cultures. Additionally, the role of myths in shaping human understanding and culture is explored extensively, offering insight into how these stories influence our perception of power and legacy. Each of these links expands on the captivating elements woven into the narrative of the Draugr king, providing a broader context for your reading experience.