Nezzar

Part Two: When He Returned

7 Years Later

Nezzar opened his eyes. How much time had passed? Above his head was a canopy of leafy branches. Spreading his hand before his face, he blinked at its appearance. Like gnarly roots, his fingernails had grown long, twisted and curled.

Though disgusted by the appearance, Nezzar remained on his back, focus still above him. Rays of sunlight poured through the patches. For the first time in a long time—though not certain how long—he felt the warmth of the sun. The breeze against his skin.

"My mind is clear." His voice, gruff from misuse, sounded alien in his ears.

Trapped in the cage of his mind, Nezzar had been left with nothing but his thoughts and the voice of another. Though unfamiliar, his body had learned to fear and obey that voice. It mattered little how harshly he resisted, how repulsed and humbled by his unhinged actions he was—nothing broke the shackles that kept his mind bonded.

When his will was beaten, his rage cooled and his ego levelled, another voice came. This gentler, patient voice led him through memories of his life. How justified he had felt in his actions, the pride through which he viewed the world. Though he delivered death to others with detached brutality, he hardly considered that he too shall meet his end one day. He was forced to face his mortality, the fragility of his mind and how vulnerable he was to powers that were far above him—he faced them all. Then the questions came.

Who sits on the eternal throne?

By Whose might was I given the kingdoms?

By Whose command was the shield around my mind removed?

Nezzar released a bitter laugh. His anger had since passed. When the answer first came, that there was a God out there who would single him out and give him glory only to shatter the ground on which he stood, he was furious. And he railed. Raging in the mountains. Ripping at his hair. Slashing at anything within sight. He had been furious until he was not.

Realising that he was unable to escape the prison of his broken mind, dejection, bleeding sorrow and a harsh longing for simple things came. He recalled Amytis. She had been pregnant when he struck her. Wicked possibilities arose and tormented him—whips coated with salt; they flogged his mind relentlessly. He would weep, wail, and beg—plunged in a black sea of anguish where hopelessness and horrors dwelled.

When the madness continued in a harrowing loop and reprieve remained elusive, acceptance was all that remained. And that voice, the voice that asked questions, the voice that brought to remembrance things he never noticed in the first place. How victory had always seemed easy. How he survived when any other person would have died. How easily his enemies submitted. Was it by his might that his life was secured? Did he live this long by his power alone?

Nezzar sighed and surged upright. He was naked. His beard, long and tangled, fell to his thighs, and his hair was a caked mess that looped over his shoulders and down his back.

Catching movement at the corner of his eyes, Nezzar looked to his left.

Mudamir.

Nezzar remained seated, choosing to await his arrival. And he liked it in this shade—this temporary escape. The thought of having to go back to his kingdom was like a mighty boulder hanging over his head. Though he was not one to avoid his responsibilities, there was a fatigue he was yet to shake off—not one of the body but of the mind.

Mudamir stopped a foot away. "Have you learned the truth?"

Lifting his eyes, Nezzar met the dark gaze of the odd messenger. "Yes."