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.

The God got his answer the next moment, as a surprised 'whoop' sounded above him, followed by a yelp and a rustle of leaves.

Oh.

His anticipation deflated.

A red-haired young woman, the hero apparently, was dangling from the vines like a baboon. Her bare-toothed grimace as she struggled to grasp a ledge further enforced his belief that humans had, in truth, descended from apes. Perhaps this one was a bit behind in that race of evolution.

"Er--" he began, stretching his arms out to catch her mid-fall in case she lost her grip.

Before he could do much in the way of assistance however, she managed to climb down in a series of strange yet swift acrobatics, but lost her footing at the last step-- landing in a heap at his feet, leaves and twigs caught in her bushy hair.

Graceful indeed.

"Apologies for the inconvenience." He offered her a hand.

"Much-needed," she said, gathering her limbs, "I nearly broke my neck up there."

Millions of mortals in this land, and I got this... specimen. Splendid.

But his mind changed then, when he finally had a good look at her.

Waves of wild, coppery hair framing a mischievous face, a glint of gold in deep, brown eyes, sun-bronzed cheeks dotted with faint freckles; a sight for sore eyes indeed, but it brought him naught but dread.

An uncanny feeling of familiarity hit him like a mailed fist-- a face known, yet somehow of a stranger's.

Even though this was his first encounter with her, he was sure he knew those eyes from a time long past, for he had seen the northern lights and frosty stars reflected in them, he remembered running his fingers through those wavy locks of hair every time he kissed...

Then realisation struck him, much harsher than Father's slaps and twice as ruthless.

...Dresius.

Dresius was dead, no, worse than dead. This mortal, she had his soul trapped within herself. His immortal soul.

She was no ordinary mortal, but a monster. A Vasaen-- one of those undead abominations created from necromancy who were raising hell across the land of Stormvale, against whom his Chosen Warriors were fighting a battle on the plains right at this moment.

Xenro lurched away soon as she reached for the hand he'd offered. No.

"No..." His fingers grasped the sword on his back, "this can't be."

"Lord Xenro?"

She was bewildered, just as confused as those mortal souls in the Celestial Realm looked-- right before he killed them. And for the first time in his life, he actually wanted to do it. To rip her apart-- to set Dresius free from this misery. Was it not the right thing to do?

She just saved my life. Set me free from the abyss.

Xenro hated how his grip trembled on his sword. Despite the bestial rage pulsing through his veins, his resolve crumbled upon seeing the forlorn look on her face. She looked as though she was tired of life. Making no move to defend herself, the mortal reared back to sit on a rock, free for him to cut down with a swift swing of his blade.

Run, you monster!

Run for your life. Or give me a reason to kill you. Do something vile. Lunge at me, fangs and talons bared.

Alas, she had no fangs to be flashed, nor talons to sink into his flesh-- all she had was a heart-wrenching look on her face, which-- by destiny's cruel jest-- resembled Dresius enough to slacken his grip on his sword.

In her he sensed something different. Vasaeni were essentially corpses raised by necromancy, dead bodies governed by their own immortal souls.

Yet she was a living, breathing mortal, with her own soul intact, co-existing with Dresius'. She'd scraped her arm in a few places, possibly during the climb-- and the blood congealed in the minor wounds were red, not black. Neither did the wounds heal, like a typical Vasaen. She has to be an anomaly, in that case.

Xenro took a step back, a headache rising to assail his newfound senses.

✦✧✦✧

The azure glow emitting from the runes in the statue faded into the night, but the God had no desire of sparing his cursed abode another glance.

People of the village might look upon it with awe, they might gaze longingly up at the sculpted stone, the swaying vines, the hanging moss adorning the head like a great green crown and feel a God's grace soothe their souls.

Yet to Xenro, it was naught but a cramped realm of torture. In there, his eyes could see nothing but darkness, all his limbs numb and frozen, his throat clenched shut.

And oh, the pleading voices of the worshippers that never left him alone.

"My child has been down with fever for weeks, Lord. Have mercy."

"I'm done for, Lord! Barely seedlings, and already blighted-- acres of crops, ruined. And I've three mouths to feed! Better I hang myself."

"Two winters this year! God, grant us protection."

He could not so much as lift a finger in their aid.

Thus eventually, the God quit listening.

His gold and sapphire circlet sat heavy on his aching head tonight.

Dresius was dead, and he-- a God of War no less, had been able to do nothing. Instead, in his dying moments, when blood ran fast from his lover's wounds and consciousness faded, Xenro had begged him for help instead. He had been blind, mind too clouded in that rock prison to sense something was terribly wrong when Dresius's presence began to slip away from him.

Heaving a sigh, Xenro swung his gaze toward the mortal, or rather, the very strange sort of Vasaen he couldn't figure out.

Other than dramatically reciting some Miadelian proverb he did not quite understand, she had uttered not a word. Now she lay curled up on a rock, eyes up at the sky, searching for answers just like he.

What sorts of things has one to go through to become this nonchalant? He had nearly loosed his sword on her, and she did not so much as flinch.

Sliding his sword back into his scabbard, he strode to her side. He couldn't tarry here long, after all. As soon as he was done with her, he would resume his quest to the Autumnwind plains and enter the fray. Someone needed to command the Chosen Warriors, now that Dresius was no more.

How much time has been since I have been imprisoned here?

Before he could speak, she sat up and raised her eyes to his.

"Dresius fought well, Lord Xenro," she said. "I have seen...visions."

"An echo of his memories, no more," said Xenro, taking a seat beside her upon a moss-covered rock. “As happens when two souls coexist within one vessel.”

A crease formed between her brows. "But now he has fallen silent, unlike when I had been searching for ways to free you."

"That is the way it should be. Memories of the Mortal Realm fade after death. Although there are certain things that can hold you back. Unfulfilled desires, yearnings."

"Dresius vowed to set you free."

Xenro gave her a nod, hoping against hope his voice would not break as he spoke. "He has fulfilled his last promise-- by your hands. And thus severed the last of the strings still holding him back to the world of the living."

She let out a long breath, holding her hands over his chest. "He's still in there, isn't he?"

In her eyes were more terror than sorrow-- fear of losing her own identity. He did not know why, but he could see her as a monster no longer.

"You're still... your own self." Xenro searched around in his mind to fetch something that would help her make sense of this condition, assure her that she was not going to lose herself. "In my time among the mortals, I have learnt a few things. I have heard tales that there exist extraordinarily skilled healers in distant lands, who can carve out the still-beating heart of one mortal and plant it in another to save their life. Now think of it in this way: the new heart in that man belongs to someone else. But does the man become that someone else?"

She shook her head. "The heart does not think. It doesn't have a sense of self."

"Neither does an immortal soul who has severed all its bonds with the living. He's there, much in the way of a planted heart. You remain yourself."

Xenro's heart ached, uttering those words. He wished it was not true, that within her somewhere, Dresius was still conscious, listening to every word he spoke.

The relief flooding her face soothed him just a little. Now he really must get going.

"Now, mortal. About your reward--"

"Ah, don't go reminding me of my mortality in every sentence. It's sort of rude. How would you like it if I called you confused-local-deity?" she said.

The audacity! Xenro's eyes twitched. "I was about to give you a reward. But I see you wish to get cursed instead."

"If you can fit more misfortune in this humble life of mine, that is," she answered, a crooked grin gracing her lips as she watched him in her upside down vision, head thrown back on the edge of the rock she'd been laying upon, hair hanging like the brush of a broomstick.

"The name's Clearstrike. Farren Clearstrike. Mind you, I'm also thinking of taking an honorary title at this point."

"Ah, so you mortals waltz about with three or four names, and all the folks of this village could come up with for me was 'The Unnamed'? Am I but a jest to you?"

"Is that why you never answered our prayers?"

"In case it has escaped your notice, I was trapped here," he said, then after some contemplation, he came up with a swear word not too harsh. "...You moron!"

"One of my friends calls me that quite a lot. And to think, I'm on the run because I saved his butt from an assassin," said Farren. "The Council Mages are after my life. Although I imagine one of them is dead. All this mess for a dagger, that looks a bit like your sword, my Lord."

"Hold up--" said Xenro, struggling to process too much information at once. "--huh--what? Who?"

"Just a normal day in Kinallen, O ever-confused local deity. Now gimme my reward."

"Call me that again and I will personally kick you into Draedona's realm."

"I know a fella who'd be delighted to accept that reward-- such a cynical soul he has," said Farren, "but not me, for I'd love to live a good few years in this miserable world. Besides, you ain't gonna do no harm to me, lord. Of that I'm sure."

Seems like the mortal has found her feet, as soon as I sheathed my blade.

He strode over and leaned close, eye-to-eye with her upside-down face. "And what, pray tell, makes you certain that I would not obliterate you on the spot?"

"Because Dresius' soul still resides with mine."

Her eyes narrowed, a mischievous smile gracing her face as she struck her sword on his weakest link. His fingers longed to curl around his sword-grip.

Yet she held his gaze with the firm resolve of one who dealt with threats worse than this on a daily basis. One who has dealt with a God before.

Then the sinister look dissipated, a hearty grin gleaming to replace it. "I also got that honorable warrior look about me, eh? You like that, don't you?"

"Outward looks are but superficial. You possess none of his grace, nor his dignity!" said Xenro. "I could blindfold myself and snap that neck of yours with little remorse."

"Freaky, but we've only just met, so let's keep a rein on things for now, shall we?" She snickered as she got to her feet, shaking leaves out of her hair-- then smirked, seeing his face.

"How inappropriate!" said Xenro, face flaming hot, "have you no shame, insolent mortal?"

Farren's grin only widened. "Didn't expect you to get that one, really. So you have learnt quite a few things about mortals indeed."

✦✧✦✧

Being immortal, the young God had found, was not a delightful thing-- especially when it came to catching feelings, for it could only end in torment. Yet the one perk was that he had had plenty of time and tries to figure out his...what the mortals termed as type.

It seemed no matter what the era, he always fell for the cheeky bastards, time and again. Dresius, whatever Xenro might claim outwardly, had been just the same. And the ones before his time-- and the ones before them were no exceptions.

And here stood another one, with the soul of his beloved in her heart, his smile on her lips, the very same copper curls framing her face, the same deep-set eyes gazing at him as though from beyond the boundary between life and death. Dresius, from another life. From another reality, where no tragedy tore them apart.

No. I am not leaping down this cliff.

Xenro put a halt to his thoughts, stopping himself from feeding this deadly delusion. She was no one but herself, and he would do better to remember that.

Before he could speak, there sounded a small crack a few dozen paces away from them, and a ball of billowing black smoke popped into existence.

A hooded figure sauntered out of the eye-watering smoke, black robes rippling in its wake.

"Finally!" shrieked Lord Atruer before anyone could speak-- and Xenro had a distinct feeling he had rehearsed this speech several times: "the moment has come! The brothers reunite, just like the prophecy foretold! The winds cease to howl, the snowstorms die down, for the King of Winter has finally-- finally, found his dear brother, Xenro--"

"Hold on there, dear sir," said Farren, "what on earth are you talking about? Edis didn't do shite. I am the one who helped Lord Xenro."

Atruer halted his premade speech and took off his hood, which had been covering half his face and eyes-- ominous enough to suit his image, yet rather impractical. In fact, he had been directing his speech slightly to the left from where Xenro and Farren stood dumbfounded.

He gawked at Xenro, then at Farren, a befuddled expression on his pale face as he processed what just happened.

"Damnit, lass," he said after several moments of awkward silence, "you just ruined what could've been an fulfillment of an epic tale-- and most importantly, my mood."