Of Gods and Warriors ✓

Chapter 36

Awoke a forsaken God from a realm of stifling darkness.

Down came the walls around him, the sorcerous bindings crumbling to dust and flickered into oblivion his rock prison at a mortal's touch.

For the next few moments, the world around him swam in and out of focus. Then all his senses returned like a rogue wave, and it was overwhelming, after being trapped in numbness for so long. He squinted his eyes against even the gentle moonlight.

Around him, the forest was brimming with life...and sounds and colors. The world was alive. The Apocalypse may not have struck Stormvale yet.

There was still time, he hoped.

Susurration of leaves, insects skittering about, flowing water, the moon's reflection shivering in a gust of wind, and above all, the incessant roar of the waterfall filled his ears.

A stray drop of water landed across his cheeks. Cold.

Snow lay thick over rocks and upon treetops, but the air was cold no more, as though the wrath of the king of winter had been pacified-- rather unexpectedly.

Out of the serene night, a yearning reached out to claw at his heart. A fervent plea, a prayer drifting subconsciously from two selfless souls. Letting the cool air fill his lungs, the newly freed god reached out with his celestial sorcery.

I sense three of them.

A dying young man, with Draedona's ravens perhaps already on their way to fetch his soul. Two healers, one ancient, and the other young-- both giving their all, yet failing. A heartbeat fading ever closer to silence.

If only healing had a patron God. A guardian deity to rely upon.

Ah, I am anything but a God of healing. Scenes of the Celestial Realm flashed before his eyes, how he had slaughtered the mortal souls who had infiltrated the Celestial Realm, how the stench of their blood followed in his wake.

'It is disgraceful for you to feel for mortals, my boy. You are but a weapon,' Father used to say.

Unbeknownst to him, a smile spread across his lips. The good thing about being disowned and exiled was that Father was no longer here to lecture him. And thus, he embraced that disgrace.

Like a breath released ever so gently, free and without restraint, he let his powers flow. What Xenro could offer was not quite healing magic, yet the healers could draw power from his reserves of celestial sorcery.

A sharp pain shot up in his heart at the sudden outflow of magic. Being bound all these years had weakened him, it seemed.

But the young man, his fading heart pulsed into life again.

Yes, yes!

For the first time in many a millennia, he had saved a life instead of taking one. A sense of euphoria stole over him, drowning out all else. Barely one step out of his prison, and he was already breaking His Majesty's rules. I have saved a life.

Xenro had half a mind to turn and shout up at the sky at the top of his lungs. "See this, Father?"

He tried to imagine the look of consternation on Rhilio's face when he would save the land from the hands of the Vasaeni-- and stop the Great War.

He would not let the Apocalypse strike Stormvale. It was time to resume his journey to the Autumnwind plains, and rejoin the march of the Chosen Warriors; he could only hope he was not too late. The army needed him.

But first, he must thank his rescuer-- for everything.

And speaking of which, where were they? His selfless savior, his undefeated hero, living proof that his compassion for mortals was indeed well-placed? His eyes searched his surroundings, waiting for a valiant warrior to emerge.