(Please read Theron 1 before moving on to this book)
A stranger washes ashore on a deserted beach.
With no memory of who or what he is, the only clue he has to his identity--the only thing he recalls from his past life--is a single, solitary name:...
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Once, he was happy.
Carefree and easy going.
Once, he used to laugh. His eyes were irradiant and full of mirth and oh Goddess, was it a sight to behold.
Once, his life was full of color. He saw in only the brightest and most vivid hues. The world was his canvas and he made sure to paint it every day in gratitude and hope.
Once, he had faith.
Once, he had love and compassion.
Once, he was strong and noble, polite and considerate.
Once.
But once is a word only referred to in past tense and we are now light years away from the slightest sense of such a term.
He was excited to tell Cera about the moon goddess. He thought it was a blessing... a gift. Something he could brag about and show off.
It didn't matter that he had slain the last druid that brought forth her wrath.
It didn't matter that her expression was anything but giving.
It didn't matter.
He felt like a god among men.
But with the sharing of information came the coldness of rejection.
"Monster," Cera had called him.
Soon, the colors he spent his life reveling in changed...
Dark, gloomy, and gray.
Everything was gray.
A perpetual storm cloud hung above his head, following him where ever he went.
And there was no escaping the storm.
No shelter from the deluge...
He was drowning in it.
As the years went on, endless and exhausting, all he eventually wanted was to drown... and in the most literal sense.
He stared with empty eyes as his sliced wrists sewed themselves back together.
He glared at the sky, looking up from the bottom of the cliff he had just thrown himself off... his bones snapping back together.
Good as new.
Always good as new.
His eyes welled with frustration and despair as he hung from the rope meant to end his life... all it did was choke the breath from his lungs for over an hour.
He speared himself with the swords of his enemies so many times, it became repetitive, monotonous, and boring. He only sighed now as the holes filled in and the skin mended, leaving no scars... no sign a wound was ever there to begin with.
