AS THE TIDES of time flow ceaselessly, civilizations rise and recede, and lives encompass both beginnings and endings, as well as birth and demise; the fabric of existence continues to intertwine, and the unending cycle of progression endures. Thus, countless years swept past, observed by the Kingdom of Sil'Avaris, which now teemed with bustling undertakings.
The people of the capital were entwined in their pursuits beneath the radiant emerald glow of the 'day' moon's illuminance. However, distant from the royal capital and its glamorous affairs, nestled on the fringes of the kingdom lay a quiet and forgotten backwater town.
This more than unassuming settlement and the lands around it bore the name of Mirewood; its weathered buildings and cobblestone lanes exuded an atmosphere of simplicity and destitution—a complete antithesis to the gleaming, opulent grayness of the capital, with its illustrious and elusive splendor.
Amidst the multitude of small, make-shift, wooden boxy houses that stood sentinel-like against the backdrop of sprawling crop fields, there emerged a single structure that appeared almost incongruous—distinguished for its size. The cottage-like home transcended the notion of a 'home' and took on the semblance of a mansion, though such an assertion would invite complete disagreement from the nobles.
Nevertheless, it was the nicest structure in the town, with intricate carvings adorning its wooden walls, a handful of quaint gardens enveloping it, and a timeworn oak door that bore witness to the passage of years.
Though, however magnificent the external grandeur of the house, a striking contrast awaited within its walls. The largest room harbored a makeshift bed, surrounded by an accumulation of bottles and plates—an enclave of idleness and upon that bed reclined a boy adorned with all the markers of sloth.
His physique was ample.
His demeanor bore a surly edge.
His mere presence seemed to emit an aura of aversion and disdain.
This boy, bearing the name Cael, embodied the very essence of apathy. Labels like vile, corpulent, and indolent only scratched the surface when trying to depict the extent of the boy's lazy disposition. He lay in a state of slumber, his snores reverberating throughout the chamber, his mind likely wandering in a realm where exertion and ambition held no dominion.
The boy was a proverbial lump in a world where others were compelled to toil.
Cael's chest rose and fell in harmony with the depths of slumber, his thoughts weaving through the fabric of dreams—or perhaps traversing the expanse of his past regrets. Not astonishingly, he remained asleep well past the customary 'dawn', yet if anyone could glimpse into his mind, they would encounter an unusual state.
Amidst his snores and repose, the boy found himself revisiting moments he would have preferred to consign to oblivion—his life's journey. Vividly illuminated within his mind were the mistakes made, the opportunities frittered away, and the relationships strained and shattered—a somber parade of his personal history unfolded before the canvas of his thoughts, akin to an accusatory theater.
Little did Cael know, within his snoring and discontented exterior, lay seeds of potential—like the hidden rooms within the vast mansion he called 'home'. The irony was thick: a mansion of possibilities inhabited by a boy who was imprisoned by his own inertia.
In the distance, the 'day' moon continued its serene voyage across the sky, casting its emerald glow upon the expanse of the Kingdom of Sil'Avaris, where lives were intermingled in pursuits both grand and humble, in wealth and extreme poverty. Such was the case within this realm, where there existed a tapestry woven with threads of opulence and dire need, a reality mirrored within the inhabitants of Mirewood.
This town, steeped in abject poverty, bore witness to life's harshest edges; yet unbeknownst to its denizens, it harbored enigmatic secrets—secrets that, if unveiled, possessed the power to ripple through the entirety of the realm, serving as a reminder that even in the most subdued corners, the potential for transformation and advancement lay dormant, awaiting discovery.
Thus, as the boy—and 'lord' of this barony—slumbered on, a state he had persisted in for days following an unfortunate 'accident', the townspeople all assumed he was yielding to his injuries. A quiet satisfaction permeated the air, as some secretly celebrated the potential demise of the repugnant boy, with a few even beseeching or praying for his passing.
While their wishes might not have been devoid of reason, their aspirations and supplications missed the mark, for the young boy was indeed surrendering—not to his injuries, but to his fate.
- - - - -
LAMENTING WITHIN HIS DREAMS, Cael's slumber was far from peaceful. In the depths of his mind, a storm of memories raged—a relentless tempest that had been brewing since the moment he was exiled to the remote barony on the outskirts of the kingdom; a life diametrically opposed to the riches he had once luxuriated in.
Vile scenes unfurled within his subconscious—a montage of heedless nights, debauched revelries, and dubious companions who reveled in their shared defiance of authority.
Intertwined with the root of such behavior were his recollections of childhood, starting after his failed awakening, a juncture when life took a sharp turn. Bullying evolved into torment, taunts metamorphosed into mental oppression, and desolation morphed into complete abandonment.
These were memories he had endeavored to flee from, concealed deep within the recesses of his mind, where they festered and clawed their way into his dreams—just as they were doing now. Yet, amid the tumult of his banishment and the debauched nights that paved his way there, these memories intertwined with peculiar fragments and vivid imaginative scenes involving winged beings—a reminiscence that appeared to hail from a distinct existence altogether, another life entirely.
But… they resonated with him, as though they were his own?
The turmoil within his dreamscape caused him to toss and turn, his layers of fat shifting uncomfortably as he remained ensnared in a sequence of fleeting images.
Visions of a boy named Lucian streaked through his consciousness, accompanied by a needle-like pricking sensation that coincided with the scenes of the young orphan navigating the streets of the angelic city of Anarith—with a tenacity that felt entirely foreign to him.
The adversities Lucian faced were numerous: scars and bruises, clashes and nights spent fending off the ceaseless deluge of rain, and the days when his own hunger gnawed at him. But through the battles he waged, Lucian ultimately discovered family and love—experiences that Cael… or rather, Felrith, had once cherished.
However, along with the love that Lucian held dear came a heartbreak of a magnitude that surpassed anything Felrith had ever encountered—a betrayal that ignited a fiery rage within him.
This emotion merged with the adversities he had observed in both lives, converging into a tempest of feelings—a tapestry woven from experiences spanning both brightness and darkness.
The fragments of memory continued to surge, flickering briefly into his forefront of thought before dissipating once again, replaced by another.
In an instant, he found himself feasting within an opulent palace, a pampered prince—despised yet a prince nonetheless—engaging in a gluttonous consumption of lavish delicacies and succumbing to his trivial desires, drowning in excessive wines of all kinds.
Then, the scene shifted, and he was amidst the cobblestone streets, scraping for meager scraps, his gaze fixated on a pool of his own blood, the reflection in his eyes embodying an unwavering resolve as he battled for his very survival.
The dissonance between these memories was jarring, and with each passing recollection, the fracture within his mind deepened. Even so, through this tumultuous cacophony, brief moments of clarity emerged—amidst it all, he perspired profusely, his sweat permeating the sheets with a putrid scent, his body twisting and turning in restlessness.
The once-jumbled memories, once remote yet recognizable, started to unfurl and align, akin to threads finding their rightful place on the loom of existence. Felrith began to discern parallels between the two sets of recollections—the arrogance that had compelled him to challenge a fellow noble to a duel, the recklessness that had led him to disparage a visiting ambassador, and the countless nights he had spent in debauchery—engaging in whoring, gambling, drinking, and even abusing his own mother.
These mirrored Lucian's defiant screams before his execution and the liberation he experienced, juxtaposed with the sensation of his skin peeling away from his body and his soul fragmenting. And though the two existences were undeniably distinct, the thread of defiance wove them together—whether rooted in justifiable causes or not, the echoes of rebellion resonated between the two, bridging the gaps within the fractured memories and lives.
As the sets of memories aligned, Felrith sensed his 'dream' altering its course. A surge of vitality overcame him, a sensation that transcended mere dreaminess, becoming palpable in nature. It was a feeling he hadn't experienced since... his failed awakening!
Surging within him, he sensed his mind drifting toward the abyss, wearied by the transformations unfurling within him.
However, for the first time in his wretched existence, he mustered the resolve to cling to consciousness. He bolstered his determination to witness the unfolding events to their conclusion... and indeed, within the ensuing moments, a resounding *CRACK,* resonated within his mind.
Euphoria enveloped him as a liquid force surged through his veins, and he savored the bittersweet blend of pain and pleasure, much like he had during his ill-fated awakening.
At last, as the power ebbed and the sensation subsided, his mind erupted in agony. The two arrays of memories fused, etching themselves onto each other with unrelenting force, amalgamating into an intricate symbiotic spiral.
Amidst the tempest of agony and profound bewilderment, as the memories solidified their hold, he jolted upright in his makeshift bed, his ample chest quivering with the abrupt motion. Ragged gasps wracked his body as he fought to catch his breath—or more precisely, to seize a semblance of tranquility amidst the deluge of emotions and thoughts cascading within him.
The recollections of his former life as Lucian surged forth, awakening him to the reality and embrace of acceptance, as an intuitive understanding that he was once Lucian and now embodied Felrith. However, the most staggering revelation was the overwhelming sense of wholeness that enveloped him, for his soul had seamlessly reunified!
Wide-eyed, Felrith gazed into the obscurity of his room, a paralyzing astonishment taking hold, amplified by the amalgamation of his transmigrated memories and his former life as Lucian. The intricacies of his being had interwoven a mosaic of encounters that eluded easy comprehension, yet he sensed authenticity coursing through him—a fusion of two souls, two identities, congealing into a new entity.
The sensation was strange, yet not unpleasant; instead, it bore a rejuvenating and jubilant quality, akin to finally awakening from a prolonged slumber—a comparison that held a degree of truth. He experienced a sense of familiarity alongside novelty, as if he had reclaimed an inherent completeness that had long eluded him—a sensation that he was always destined for this.
With the reverberations of his once-believed dreams receding, Felrith remained hunched on his bed, his breath ragged and his hands trembling.
Shifting his focus to the window across the room, he observed the emerald-tinted atmosphere ascending, signaling the dawning of a new day—a fresh start, an opportunity to mend what he could in this existence, a possibility for redemption, and perhaps… just perhaps… a prospect to attain the strength needed for retribution and revenge.
The flames of animosity continued to burn within; an inferno that refused to be extinguished. He hadn't let go of his resentment, nor did he ever intend to.
It was just that his attention was now fixated on the way his present existence, and the previous recklessness of old Felrith, had recklessly dismantled the life he longed for and severed ties with the very things he, deep down, yearned for.
Love.
Acceptance.
And a place to call his own.
The ineffectual prince, who was Felrith by name and carried epithets and titles like 'The Bloated Brat'; 'The Loathsome Lord'; 'The Vile Prince'; 'The Unwanted Heir,' and most prominently, 'The Forsaken Prince,' had squandered every opportunity that lay before him.
Fury.
Remorse.
Apprehension.
These emotions surged as his hatred targeted himself. But in the chaotic tangle of his thoughts and feelings, his profound astonishment lingered the most.
He was alive. He was back.
Questions like 'how?' and 'why?' ran rampant, as his gaze remained upon the small window across his room. His breathing became distant, and the world blurred as the shock he initially experienced morphed into a mix of anxiety and fearful expectation.
Numbed to the core, he barely registered when his fat frame compelled him back onto the bed. Where in the next second, he found himself dozing off.
Slumber beckoned him anew...