The Exiled King | ✔

Chapter 9 - The King Returns

Reassimilation with his body was a slow and painful process. He'd lived in a corner of his own mind for well over a year at this point, watching and waiting.

Nicon let out a soft groan. His whole body felt like it was on fire, recovering from the battering and mana drain it had experienced under Gialan's control. The god had not been careful with his body, but Nicon knew that there had been no other option. He'd been there and witnessed everything from the fight to the revelation to the creator god's descent.

Now, his body was rapidly catching up to all the damage it had sustained, and the prolonged mana drain—which brought with it the agony of all hells. Never had Nicon wanted to punch a god as much as now, when he lay paralysed and in pain.

He let out a string of colourful curses under his breath as another wave of fire washed over every nerve in him, thankful that the god had at least repaired the physical damage to his body before dropping him off who knew where. He'd be dead otherwise.

Nicon opened his eyes slowly, then shut them quickly as the sunlight caused them to burn and tear up. He couldn't move, but as he gradually regained his senses, he smelled grass and the distinct scent of winter—cold, sometimes stinging to the nose, but instinctively nostalgic nonetheless—but heard nothing but silence. He lay on his back on the ground and felt what he assumed were blades of grass against the back of his neck and along his hands that felt cold to the touch.

Just how much time had passed since Gialan had borrowed his body?!

He took deep, slow breaths as the pain began to ebb away and instead he focused on the memories.

And there were many.

Glimpses of a world no mortal should see and the dangerous fight against Garyth Herus. The awakening of the keyguard and subsequent defeat of the wizard king. Those momentous words that Garyth Herus uttered at his death and the creator god's descent.

Gingerly, Nicon sat up slowly, the grass rustling as he moved, and opened his eyes.

What in the Abyss?! Nicon thought, horrified at the sight that greeted his eyes.

True to his deductions, he was in a forest—one that he now recognised to be native to southern Silvardor and likely not far from Ni'aad.

Each elvenpine tree was covered in a glistening layer of ice, from the bottom of the large tree trunks to every last pine needle. The grass beneath his hands cracked as he ran his fingers through the delicate frozen blades and permeating throughout the frozen landscape was a chilling silence.

Nicon got to his feet, wobbling slightly, but standing strong. He took a few awkward steps as he readjusted to his body, the brittle grass crunching at his every step.

Sunlight glinted off what he first thought was a frozen rock, until he got closer and stooped down to pick up the object. With a sinking feeling in his heart, Nicon realized why the forest was silent as he cradled the frozen body of a small shrew.

He looked around again, this time noticing a number of small ice chunks scattered on the ground. He carefully lowered the frozen shrew to the ground and moved over to the ice lumps and grimaced. Nicon reached down and grabbed one of the larger pieces and saw a wing that was outstretched. Clearly, the bird had been flying when it had been frozen and had plummeted to the ground and shattered into pieces.

"Ic aum reca ai Ether deseuam," He muttered a quick prayer for the unfortunate animals of the forest quietly before casting a quick glance up at the sun to orient himself, then turning and walking under the shade of a thicker cluster of trees. With a graceful step, Nicon let his shadows engulf him and the next step he took out of his shadows landed him in an alley in Ni'aad.

With a heavy heart, Nicon beheld the horrifying sight before him. Like eerily beautiful statues, the elves of Ni'aad were frozen where they stood. A glittering ice statue of a woman with her arms raised, gathering a clean linen from her clothes line, an old man sitting on the porch of another home with an icy pipe at his frozen lips, watching a group of children run past. Frozen in mid-stride, most of the frozen children had toppled and Nicon's heart ached as he saw one such ice sculpture shattered into many small pieces.

Again, he whispered the ritual prayer for the dead, hoping their end was painless, as he made his way through the town, carefully avoiding the icy statues. The intact ones, he held onto the faint hope that they could perhaps be resurrected if the icy veil that blanketed Silvardor was lifted. To that end, Nicon determinedly made his way to the winter palace, where it was clear that the ice had originated. Where the majority of Silvardor was covered only in a relatively thin sheet of ice, the winter palace had massive icy spikes protruding from the open windows and doorways in particularly dark ice.

Nicon conjured a little of his shadows under his feet to steady himself as traversed across the slippery ice in search of the person he knew was responsible for this carnage. The hallways were a mess of broken ice shards and deadly spikes protruding from all sides. Nicon hated to think of how many innocent lives met their end at the icy onslaught.

At last he found Aranel and the frozen sculpture of Taeriel, whose face was set with deep fear in his expression and his form was twisted, as if he'd tried to free himself of the ice that inevitably covered him. The room was full of deadly spikes and it looked like something of a miracle that Taeriel had remained intact. Aranel was curled up on the frozen bed, cocooned in many thin sheets of ice, his eyes shut as though he was sleeping.

"Aranel!" Nicon yelled, slowly making his way to Aranel's bedside.

The boy did not stir, so Nicon gritted his teeth and punched a hole through the cocoon. Pain blossomed where his fist met the fragile ice and his knuckles were cut open, but he ignored it and tore apart the rest of the cocoon. He reached inside and shook the winter king roughly.

"What have you done, Aranel Aegivyl?!" Nicon shouted.

When Aranel still didn't react, Nicon frowned and hesitated a moment, then used his shadows to probe Aranel's mind.

"Aranel, wake up! Wake up and Fix. Your. Mess!" Nicon hissed, quickly withdrawing his powers lest he scramble Aranel's mind for good.

At last, there was a slight twitch of Aranel's face and fingers, then his hazy eyes slowly opened.

<--<< >>-->

In a place far, far from Dargon, another kind of conversation occurred. Aeliyas and Gialan had some choice words for Haert—words they'd not dared to utter until they witnessed Pelos' plea for time. If their brother could grovel for their worlds, the least they could do was stand up for what they believed in.

"The worlds are more than just... playthings to be toyed with and discarded at will. We have given them life and we want to take responsibility for them!" Aeliyas said carefully.

"Mortals are strange creatures. Too attached to one another," Haert remarked, ignoring her words and peering at the situation on Dargon.

A moment passed and Haert looked at the siblings quietly, then his expression shifted into something resembling a frown and he said, "Some of the power... has returned."

They all knew the significance of those words.

Nothing was destroyed, but something had changed—and that something had returned a portion of the powers back to their rightful owner.

Perhaps the worlds didn't need to be destroyed for Haert's powers to return. Perhaps they didn't reside in the fabric of the worlds themselves, but in something else entirely...

Aeliyas peered at the viewing pond to confirm her suspicions.

A small smile formed on her face.