Writing Championships #3

Orange Ornaments

Prompt: Wasn't fire supposed to be warm?

Waking up, he stretched his arms wide, relishing the unusually cold jungle breeze against his face.

He was Etho, Ice King. He ruled over his little corner of the jungle, able to spread ice through one of the warmest climates in the server. It made him powerful, beloved, and he knew it.

His subjects loved him, and he loved them. He knew he would do anything for the parrots and pandas and ocelots who lived here, relying on him for a chill in the smothering humidity of the rainforest.

Etho walked over his wooden bridge towards the armory, preparing for his weekly hunting session. Grabbing his axe, bow, arrows, and firework rockets, he equipped the elytra hanging on the wall and flew off, towards the plains he knew were full of mindless animals and mobs, ready to be hunted.

Soaring high above the rolling fields, he shot a couple of animals before landing to gather the bodies. These were not wasted lives. Etho knew that over the week, he would eat most of the meat and feed the rest to the ocelots he cared for. That didn't stop him from always feeling a pang of guilt whenever he took a life.

This time, however, the pang stayed. It stayed, and it was always so cold. So cold. A couple of seconds later, however, the coldness left, leaving only a faint memory of the brief chilling sensation. Etho dismissed it, forgetting almost immediately that it happened at all.

On the flight back, lugging the stiff bodies of the animals, Etho thought. About what, you ask?

Everything.

And yet, somehow, absolutely nothing.

The cold numbed his thoughts. But he didn't mind at all.

---

Ice would help him in the end.

It was a good business. A lot of the Hermits wanted it.

So he toiled away, day after day to get more and more of it, despite feeling cold all the time. He didn't know why.

But he ignored it. He slowly grew accustomed to it, the cold wasn't that bad anyway. He let it spread, it was his way of life.

It was just something he would have to get used to.

~~~

Etho loved the ice.

It fascinated him, its blue tendrils hopping along his arm.

Like a friend, whispering to him, shocking him a little bit.

He let it grow.

He wanted to be beautiful like the ice.

He accepted the cold as it filled his veins.

It made him feel alive.

But it slowed him down. Everything seemed slower somehow.

Ice overtook his jungle, the animals becoming part of the ice, his friend. His cats froze over, fur crystallizing, eyes closing over.

But that was fine. He didn't feel the pang of killing animals.

His feelings were numb under the ice.

He wanted to be alone anyway.

Anything for the ice.

~~~

The ice was coming closer.

Growing everyday.

Even for the Ice King, it was too much to handle.

He had used it every day, not even caring about the consequences.

Well, he should have.

They all kept telling him that. He never listened to their pleas, their cries. Their questions, their concerns.

He locked himself away.

No one came anymore. He had pushed them all away too much.

Now he wished he hadn't.

His hands, turning blue.

Frost forming in his hair, making the white appear silver.

World, going dark. This was not good.

This is not good.

Etho couldn't feel.

He wanted to feel.

Why couldn't he feel?

He wanted to feel Stress's warm hugs and the warm tea against his face, he wanted to feel Mumbo's fresh cookies.

Why didn't he notice this before? How come he didn't realize how much he missed hugs.

Oh god, he missed hugs and warmth.

But now it was too late, it was too cold.

His chest hardened, heart beat slowly slowing until a gentle beat, luring, luring, luring.

Luring him to give up.

His eyelids wouldn't move. Branches of eccentric blue spread across his arms and his veins, crystallizing in swirls.

At a time, he would've called the blue beautiful.

But now he just missed the great blue sky.

He wanted to go back, he needed to go back. He wanted to take all of his choices back. He wanted to turn back time somehow, fix everything that he had done. He wanted to apologize to who, he didn't know. He just wanted to do something to change what he had done to himself.

He stumbled, shards of ice sharpening in his throat as he tried to breath in.

He struggled to keep his eyes open as he tried to move his stiff legs that felt like lead over to some wood, the last wood he had left. Everything had been overtaken with ice.

His hands shook, unnaturally pale and lifeless as his thumb slipped, trying to rub the flint and steel together, to create any spark, any bit of warmth.

He just wanted warm. He needed to get warm.

He hated being cold.

He really hated being cold.

He gasped in relief as the fire finally sprung alight, flaming against the wood. The fire sprung up, orange and yellow and red and beautiful.

Now that was beautiful. Fire was beautiful. Not ice.

Why hadn't he noticed?

He put out his trembling hands, desperate to drink up the warmth, feel it in his veins again.

But nothing.

It was just cold. He was just cold.

Wasn't fire supposed to be warm?