The Great War: Chapter 49
A gift of ice
The scrawled images on the walls of the dark and drafty hallway make Mathew uneasy. Doubts plague his mind with ease as he follows the royal with his stiff body crying out for more rest. Those cushions he slept on the night prior were all he needed to help ease the aching. He’s never slept on anything more comfortable than them in his life, at least so far.
Then, finally, a door appears from the shadows, and Samuel finally stops and turns to Mathew.
“In here is a dais,” he says, gesturing to the door. “Step on it whenever you’re ready.”
“And what will happen?” Mathew can’t help but ask.
The royal presses his lips together, contemplating his answer for a brief moment. The darkness of the hallway is just enough to hide his eyes in its shade.
“You’ll see,” he replies at last.
Cautiously, Mathew enters the sunken room, the door slamming shut behind him. Though despite the lack of light, Mathew is still surprised to see that the dais remains in clear view.
He stands on the short set of stone stairs to gather himself, letting his eyes adjust to the circular chamber. Its walls are carved with a series of figures, animals and creatures of all shapes and sized, each interacting with one another in an expertly-carved mural of stone. The back of his mind prickles with old memories as he notes a flowing band that appears to be some sort of fabric worming its way around the entire mural, each individual figure wrapped in its grasp. Besides the fabric, stood large and imposing above all the beings around it, directly opposite the doorway, is the shape of a dragon.
This isn’t just any mural, he now realizes. He can practically hear his mother’s voice in his ears recite a tale as old as time itself: The Pantheon of Shadows, the one hundred children to the Spirit, once guided the Astrians with both their order and chaos. But they all disappeared one cycle, without so much as a word or reason, leaving the Astrians to forge their own futures all alone.
Even though it’s etched from stone, the dragon’s carved eyes seem to burn with intense hatred and rage as they bore into Mathew, making his breath catch in his throat. His hand strays to his side, only to find an empty scabbard wrapped around his waist still. Though what would he do with his blade, other than try and scratch the harmless stone walls?
He tears his eyes away from the mural and steps cautiously onto the rune-covered dais in the chamber’s center. As his feet plant themselves firmly on its surface, he’s almost saddened at the lack of fanfare, expecting some sort of bright glow or flash of light to indicate something happening. Instead, a cold draft of air washes over his body, the darkness growing longer with each passing moment. Living on Gardall, the cold never bothered him too much, but this time he can’t help but release a small shiver as the hairs on his arms and legs bristle.
We meet at last, a voice hums suddenly. Alarmed, Mathew spins around to face the speaker, his body tensing in preparation for a fight. The door to the chamber is gone, replaced by a wall of black void and a figure standing not far from the dais. His eyes manage to register the figure being that of his sister first, and his body relaxes once more, only for his heart to jump and squeeze as he wonders how and why his sister is even here in the first place. She, however, smiles calmly in the face of Mathew’s storm of confusion.
“Who? What?” tumble from his mouth.
The figure lets out a small giggle - stars, this being even sounds like Anya - and waves an elegant hand dismissively. Calm yourself, warrior of the sea. Your sister is safe, and so are you.
Mathew stands in silence, finally allowing himself to process the being before him. No, this isn’t Anya; the being’s lips never part yet their words are crystal clear, and an aura of great power radiates from their kind yet confident stance. It’s the same sort of cold yet distance force that he felt back on the Island Destroyer. This couldn’t be the Spirit of Shadow…
His heart can’t help but ache with disappointment. The Spirit went through so much to bring Mathew to the island alive and thinks of him as some brave warrior. “I am no warrior. I even lost my sword.”
A weapon does not always a warrior need, the Spirit replies. He spreads His arms wide, and a powerful gust of icy air batter’s Mathew’s body. I chose you for your tenacity and honor. It is no coincidence Lorn came to you when he did; Asandra has always been aware of your importance, too.
No doubt about it, with all that had gone down that fateful night.
“Does this mean that She targeted my family?” he can’t help but ask.
That I cannot say, Korodon answers. Her intentions are Hers alone to know and for you to interpret for yourself.
But for right now, you are here. Mathew, child of ice and snow, I grant you a gift befitting of your desires. Korodon extends a single finger and points it towards Mathew’s chest. Where it points, a bloom of coldness he’s never felt before grows and spreads across his body. The shock of the chill makes him cry out in pain, collapsing to his knees in an instant as it continues to worm down his arms and legs, wrapping his head with its deathly frost and making it squeeze and pound. His magic swirls with agitation, wanting desperately to burst forth and coat the world around him with its might.
He doesn’t know how long he spends at the great Spirit’s feet, nor how long the pain continues to throb in every bone in his body, but gradually the edge of the sharp cold softens. A small ounce of warmth trickles back into him, or perhaps he is simply settling into his new body temperature. His eyes squeezed shut and blurry with agony open to the world once more.
He very quickly notices that his skin is now a glittering icy blue.
He can’t help but suck in a surprise and panicked breath as he raises his hands to his face, inspecting them with trembling fingers. They’re smooth and glossy like ice in the bright light of the cycle, yet can still bend and move as if it were his actual skin.
A weapon does not always a warrior need, the Spirit repeats His earlier phrase, for often times they turn themselves into their most deadliest weapon of all.
Mathew raises his head to look up at the Spirit, only to find the Spirit to be gone, taking the deep darkness with Him. The room the dais resides in no longer feels cold or drafty, even as he feels the sensation of air rushing over his blue body. He stands, his feet heavy in his boots, which soften the thump of ice hitting stone.
He continues to flex his fingers in amazement, still trying to make sense of them. What did the Spirit do to him, exactly? Why did He turn his body blue?
The door to the room opens, catching Mathew off guard. He jumps as he hears Samuel’s concerned voice ring from the doorway, “Is everything alright?” Though the royal’s eyes also widen with surprise as he registers the sight before him. “So you spoke with Him, then?”
“A-Aye,” Mathew can only bring himself to breathe.
“You didn’t break the dais, did you?”
“No…?” But to be sure he would serve no threat to the dais’ integrity, Mathew slowly and carefully shuffles off to the side of the room. Still, with each step he takes, his boot softens his heavy footsteps. Each time he lifts his leg, it feels as if he’s lifting a block of ice along with it.
Samuel lets out a relieved breath upon seeing the dais without any cracks or dents. Then he turns to Mathew and says, “I know you probably want to get used to your new gift, but there’s a lot that must be done this cycle. Come. There’s much to fill you in on.”
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