It has been six summers since Prince Crevith fell into a stream. Though he lived, the prince could not be awakened no matter the medicine or magic tried. Until one storm-wracked night he awakens. His family is jubilant, until he acts belligerent in ways the prince never was, desperate to go east. -- Deathshead419
The Prince had been twelve when a terrible accident resulted in his almost being lost to the frigid, rushing waters. He was lucky to be pulled out alive. The healers had done their best, but Prince Crevith remained insensate. Magic could make him swallow, so his body could be sustained. Magic could make his body move, so he would not waste away while he recovered.
If... he recovered.
Magic could only do so much. One of the things it could not do was return a will to consciousness. The healers and assorted caregivers did their best, but the ultimate strategy was to wait and hope for the best. The best Clerics appealed to the gods. The best Druids tried to influence Crevith's healing. The best Sanguimancers and Necromancers moved his flesh around in complete privacy, so that none would be disturbed.
The Queen Lythia had watched them move her son around once, and had nightmares for seven months following what she witnessed. It wasn't that it was grotesque, it was that the sight was disturbing and alarming to an extreme degree.
She spent hours by her son's side. Holding his hand. Talking to him. Praying that he would open his eyes. King Kiavo did the same whenever his duties allowed him. They did it for six years.
Then one pitch-black and storm-tossed night, Prince Crevith opened his eyes.
Queen Lythia screamed with joy, tears spilling down her cheeks as she lunged to embrace him. "You're back. Thank the gods you came back to us."
Crevith spent a handful of minutes getting his voice to work, and said, "East."
"I've fretted over this moment and you welcome my tears with 'East'?" said the Queen.
"I have to go East."
"Well, we can fund an expedition. You just now rose from your sickbed, my lovely. After the celebration regarding your recovery, we can arrange some retainers and--"
"No celebration. No time!" Crevith stood up, pacing around the room. The people who had cared for his body had done their work well. He barely noticed it, the work was that good. "I have to go East. It's calling me. If you don't help me, I'm going on my own."
"Not even a day to have a decent meal?"
"Now, mother," he said.
Because she loved him, she sent the word out. Because Prince Crevith was threatening to leave in his nightshirt, the staff raced to scrounge whatever he needed. Including the healers, retainers, and sundry staff.
Whatever lay East, she prayed he would find it safely.
Until one of the Druids returned to her castle on shapeshifted wings. "I must warn you, your majesty," she said. "The Prince has been acting strangely since he set out. More strangely than you might expect of a twelve-year-old in an adult's body. He is unlike the boy we knew in every way."
"What? How?"
"He is cruel and callous. He hasn't asked after anyone since he awoke. Dogs hate him on sight, cats run away from him, and birds stop singing when he gets too near." The Druid lowered her voice to a whisper, "The boy you knew had no love of hunting, but this man... aims to injure his quarry. Not kill it outright. I have watched him standing over his hunt as it struggled, not giving it mercy until he knew he was being watched." She took a shaking breath. "Whatever is in your son's body... it is not your son."
[Photo by Sourav Bhaduri on Unsplash]
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