Heir of Dust and Wind

Chapter 8 - Freedom

This was the end, Trygve thought.

When Trygve's body obeyed Frode's command and changed its form, the pain from it nearly made him fade to the Otherworld instantaneously. 

As if the ancient, festering wounds on his back weren't bad enough, the dagger of Dunstan's assassin sent stabs of burning pain through his battered body with every weak and erratic heartbeat. It had no doubt carried some kind of curse which was now buried inside his chest and was now adding to his agony.

At this moment he craved nothing more than lasting peace, even if that meant being damned to the Otherworld for eternity, finally giving up any dreams of being with him again. 

Yet, while his body and soul longed to let go, he found that he couldn't. The familiar tugging sensation of magic holding him to an oath he had sworn by the stars held him back.

Earlier in the bookshop, he had given his word to the novice that he would explain everything once she was safe. While safety certainly was a relative concept when subjected to the foul moods of Alderman Frode, for the magic that he had bound himself to his presence clearly sufficed.

Even though he had carefully chosen to only swear by the first of the seven stars, universal magic, stubborn and stoic in its nature, refused to let his promise slide.

Struggling to get up, he tried his best to keep his word, but every attempt was crushed by another raging wave of searing pain. Ultimately it made him collapse - again -, the thread of magic the only thing that kept him barely tethered to consciousness.

Just as he felt the thread that held his body and soul captive began to weaken, his injuries winning the battle with magic's compulsion to fulfil his oath, he felt warm, soft hands touching his head. 

The young woman had come to him, sorrow plainly in on her face and in her voice when she softly spoke to him. She seemingly wanted to help but didn't know how to.

As if her words had boosted the magic, it stirred again. Images of the young man he had tried to find earlier, Alistair, floated through his mind. They felt like blurry memories but were clearly not his as he had never encountered him in person.

Over and over, he saw the image of him falling and hitting the ground, audibly cracking his skull. He also got flashes of the woman's hands touching him frantically, her feelings of panic and despair.

The images had to be hers he realised, triggered by his suffering she was now reliving the horrible scenes of the accident. While he still grappled to understand how it was even possible for her to transfer her memories to him, another image flashed in his mind.

Heat and light, seeping from her hands into Alistair and him getting up abruptly right afterwards. Sly as ever, magic had found a way to overcome his weakness and to keep his word.

Mobilising any mental strength he had left, he hoped that his thoughts would travel to the young woman just as hers had come to him. Unable to form coherent sentences, he tried with a name first:

"Alistair".

He sensed her bewilderment clearly and was therefore quite certain she had received the message, but holding on to consciousness seemed more impossible every second. Desperately he tried again, wondering why he put so much effort into it. 

Was it truly magic the magic that kept him from finally reaching for everlasting peace? Or was it the longing for someone long lost that he still refused to let go of? He couldn't say.

Thinking about the incident that she no doubt had only subconsciously shared with him, he thought of how she had helped Alistair, urging her to try the same with him. But the strain of forming coherent thoughts made another wave of fatigue hit him, dragging him closer to the abyss of the Otherworld again. 

Just as he felt himself finally slip away, the thread of magic worn out by his struggle, he could hear her speak:

"Do. Not. Die."

It was as if he had been given a direct command by his master, Trygve thought. Even if he had wanted to, he wouldn't have been able to disobey. Blinding white light shot from the young woman's hands, burning heat seeping into his body, pulsing through his veins.

Electrified, he shot to his feet, screaming at the scorching sensation in every fibre of his body. Like a raging wildfire, her magic gripped every bone, every muscle, and every ligament, burning away the corruption of his wounds. But that peculiar power of hers, something Trygve had never felt before, did more than just hot a hot flame fighting the darkness that the dagger had corrupted him with. Inside him, he felt it transform into something less brutal, something bright and warm. A beacon in the dark.

Yet, the sheer might of it was hard to bear as he felt it knitting together torn flesh and finally making the crippled remains of his wings sprout new bones and skin until he could spread them wide again as far as the limits of Frode's office would allow.

As the fiery power within him started to ebb, it made one final launch through his head, making him screech in pain once more. The magic pushed at something, pressing it through his skull, shattering bone and breaking the skin in its path, only to heal the damage on its way through. Clanging to the ground in front of him were two pale yellow crystals.

Not only had the young woman completely cured him of all his injuries, but she had also freed him of the very thing that gave Frode control over him.

Finally, after over 1000 years of servitude, he was free.

***

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