The journey down the mountain was a descent into delirium. Valerius drifted in a fractured, liminal state, tethered to the living world only by the rhythmic, swaying gait of his horse and the unrelenting chorus of pain that was his own body. He was vaguely aware of the moon tracing its silver path across the sky and giving way to the bruised purple of pre-dawn. He felt the air gradually lose its razor-sharp, high-altitude bite, becoming thicker, heavier, filled with the scent of pine and damp earth as they descended into the timberline.
Boreas was his silent, steadfast guardian. The great warhorse moved with an uncanny intelligence, navigating the treacherous, snow-covered paths with a slow, deliberate surety, as if keenly aware of the fragile state of its master. Every jolt, every stumble on a loose rock that would have been trivial on any other journey, sent a wave of fresh agony through Valerius's body, threatening to cast him from consciousness entirely. During these moments, his hand, slick with his own half-frozen blood, would spasm, his fingers clenching around the small pouch at his belt. He would focus on the hard, smooth shape of the memory stone within, clinging to the quiet, stark beauty of the star-filled peak—the memory of survival—as a drowning man clings to a piece of driftwood. It was his only anchor in a sea of pain.
His thoughts were a chaotic swirl of fragmented images. He saw the pulsing purple heart of the codex, then the warm, concerned green of Elara's eyes. He saw the crumbling spires of his lost kingdom and the roaring bonfire of Oakhaven's grief. He felt the phantom touch of Isolde's hand and the solid, real weight of the memory stone. Past and present, love and duty, failure and a victory that felt indistinguishable from defeat all bled together in a feverish, incoherent tapestry. He had won, but the man who had climbed the mountain no longer existed. This broken shell returning was someone, something, else.
It was just as the sky was beginning to bleed with the first pale grey of dawn that a figure emerged from the treeline ahead. Valerius was too far gone to register it as a threat or a friend. It was just a shape in the gloom. But Boreas stopped, letting out a low, rumbling sound deep in its chest.
"By the old gods…" Gregor's voice cut through the morning mist, thick with disbelief and shock.
He had been leading the morning patrol, his face grim with the weary vigilance that had become his new normal. He had expected to find tracks, perhaps signs of some new creature emerging from the disturbed mountain. He had not expected to find the battlemage himself, slumped over his horse like a sack of grain, pale as death and stained with his own blood.
Gregor rushed forward, his men close behind. He reached up and gently touched Valerius's shoulder. There was no response. He laid a hand on Valerius's neck, searching for a pulse. He found one, but it was faint and thready. He looked at the man's face, haggard and drawn, aged a decade in two days. He saw the dried blood, the shallow, ragged breathing. He saw the complete and utter absence of the terrifying, arctic power that had once radiated from him. This was not the formidable, intimidating sorcerer who had left Oakhaven. This was a man who was dying.
"Bran! Ride ahead! Tell Elara to prepare the hall—all the hot water she can get, every bandage, every healing draught she has!" Gregor barked, his voice charged with an urgency that sent the younger guard sprinting back towards the village. "Finn, help me get him down. Gently, now. Gently."
Getting Valerius off the horse was a delicate, agonizing operation. He was dead weight, his body limp and unresponsive. As they moved him, a low groan of pure agony escaped his lips, a sound so wretched it made the hardened guards flinch. They finally laid him on a makeshift litter of cloaks and branches, and began the slow, careful journey back to the village. The victorious return of their champion was not a triumphant procession; it was a grim, silent funeral march for a man who was still breathing.
News of his return spread through Oakhaven like wildfire. The villagers emerged from their homes, their faces etched with awe and concern. They saw the state he was in, and a hush fell over the crowd. The hero they had prayed for was as broken as the fortress he had destroyed.
Elara was waiting at the door of the great hall, her face a pale, taut mask of professionalism that did not quite conceal the terror in her eyes. She had turned a side room into a makeshift infirmary, the air thick with the smell of boiling water and antiseptic herbs.
"Get him in here," she commanded, her voice steady despite her trembling hands. "Put him on the cot. Everyone else, out. I need space."
They laid him on the cot, and Elara was a whirlwind of focused activity. With Gregor's reluctant help, they cut away the remnants of his tunic and armor. The sight of his torso, bruised and battered, and the deep, angry gash on his arm, made even the stoic captain's stomach turn. Elara worked with a quiet, desperate intensity. She cleaned the wounds, her touch surprisingly firm and confident. She stitched the gash on his arm with neat, precise movements, her brow furrowed in concentration.
She saved the ankle for last. She unwrapped the crude battlefield dressing and hissed in sympathy. It was badly swollen, discolored with deep purple and black bruises. The bone was not broken, but the ligaments were severely torn.
"Gregor, I need you to hold him down," she said, her voice low. "This is going to hurt."
Valerius had begun to stir, his eyes fluttering, caught in a semi-conscious state. Elara took a deep breath. With a swift, powerful movement that belied her gentle nature, she reset the joint, pulling and twisting until she felt a sickening pop as it slid back into place.
A raw, strangled scream was torn from Valerius's throat. His back arched off the cot, his body convulsing from the sheer, blinding agony. Gregor, a man twice Elara's size, had to use all his strength to hold him down. The scream eventually subsided into a low, continuous moan. Valerius's eyes rolled back in his head, and he mercifully passed out again.
Elara, her face beaded with sweat, worked quickly to bind the ankle with thick compresses soaked in a cooling, pain-numbing poultice. She worked for another hour, cleaning every cut and scrape, applying salves, and forcing a potent, bitter healing draught between his lips. Finally, she covered him with warm furs and stood back, her entire body aching with exhaustion and sympathy.
She looked at the man on the cot. He was a canvas of pain. But he was stable. He was alive.
For the next two days, Valerius did not wake. He was trapped in a deep, healing sleep, punctuated by bouts of fever and nightmare. Elara rarely left his side. She changed his bandages, administered her remedies, and sat with him through the long, quiet nights. During his fevers, he would murmur in his sleep, fragments of words in the old tongue, names she didn't recognize. Isolde. Kael. Sometimes, he would cry out, his hands clenching, as if fighting an unseen foe. During these times, she would simply place a cool cloth on his forehead and speak to him in a low, soothing voice, telling him he was safe, that the battle was over.
On the third morning, the fever broke for good. He awoke to the familiar sight of the low, wooden ceiling and the smell of woodsmoke and herbs. He felt… hollow. The pain was still there, a dull, throbbing bass note beneath everything, but the sharp, shrieking agony was gone. The most profound sensation was the emptiness. He reached inward for his power, for the familiar, comforting chill of the Eternal Blizzard, and found nothing. Not even an echo. It was like reaching for a phantom limb. The cold that had been his shield, his weapon, and his identity for his entire adult life was gone. For the first time, he felt the ambient warmth of the room not as an external force, but as his own state of being. He was no longer winter. He was just… a man. And the feeling was terrifying.
He tried to sit up, and a wave of dizziness and weakness forced him back down.
"Easy." Elara's voice came from the chair beside him. She looked exhausted, but her eyes were clear. "You have been through an ordeal. Your body is mending, but it will take time."
He looked at her, then down at his bandaged arm, his tightly bound ankle. He felt a surge of helpless frustration. "My power…" he rasped, his throat dry.
"It is gone, isn't it?" she said, her voice soft with understanding, not pity. "I could feel it. When I was healing you, there was no… resistance. No innate cold fighting my poultices. There was just you."
He closed his eyes, the confirmation a heavy blow. "I am… nothing."
"You are a man who saved us all," she corrected him fiercely. "You are the man who climbed a cursed mountain twice. You are the man who faced down a god and silenced it. Your power was a tool, Valerius. It was never the measure of who you are. The will that drove you to do all that… that is still there. That is what matters."
He wanted to argue, to tell her she was a naive fool, that without his power he was useless. But he was too weak. And a small, treacherous part of him wanted to believe her.
He felt the small weight of the pouch on his belt, which she had carefully placed on the bedside table. He reached for it with a trembling hand. He opened it and let the memory stone roll into his palm. It was cool and smooth. He closed his eyes, concentrating, and tried to draw forth the memory he had stored within.
He felt a faint echo of it—the silent majesty of the starlit peaks, the feeling of the cold, clean wind, the sense of profound peace after struggle. It was a pale imitation of the real thing, but it was there. A single, quiet moment of stillness that was wholly his. It did not grant him strength or power. It simply… was. A foundation stone. A proof of his choice.
He opened his eyes and looked at the stone, then at Elara. He didn't know how to thank her, how to articulate the complex storm of gratitude, frustration, and fear that churned within him.
So he simply said, "I am thirsty."
A brilliant, relieved smile broke across her tired face. It was the first normal, human request he had made. It was a sign of life beyond the battle. She quickly fetched him a cup of cool water. As he drank, listening to the distant, mundane sounds of village life outside the window, Valerius finally began to understand.
His war with the mountain was over. But his war with himself, the long, arduous journey of learning to be just a man again, had only just begun.