He had a dream. He knew it was a dream again. He’d had this dream whenever he slept by the banyan tree. Just like before, he clawed his way to the top. He fought till he stood atop a mountain of corpses. And just like before, it shattered when he became the Crowned of the Death Arcana. This time, however, his senses grew hazy when he returned to reality. He ‘saw’ his body, but it wasn’t his anymore. He was nothing more than a wandering soul.
“Is this what you wanted? You can have me now,” Thorin murmured, looking around from a higher view. Quin’s eyes had lost all their light as he fell to his knees before him with not an ounce of strength in him. Clay had collapsed at a distance when he saw Thorin’s state. Even Byram and the Direwolf howled in grief beside his still-warm body.
“No.” The wind carried his mother’s whispers as it brushed past him. “This is the result you’ve accepted,” she said.
“What other choice did I have?” Thorin asked.
“You have choices,” she said. “You just need to look harder.”
“I tried…we tried,” Thorin said. “Nothing worked.”
“Our gift to you was life, my child,” she said with a sigh. “You let it become the reason for your death.”
“What could I have done differently?” Thorin asked. “Did I make a mistake? I was living on borrowed time, and it ran out. That was all there was to it.”
“You carry the heart of a Crowned,” she said. “It gives you life; it gives you strength. Yet, you never truly accepted it. You never made it your own.”
Thorin frowned at those words. Did he really miss something? Could he have avoided his death? Did she truly not want him to become the Crowned Wraith? He ran pushed his mind as hard as he could. His ideas collided, his thoughts erupting into chaos. He took his mother’s words and threw them into the mix. What hadn't he tried yet? What was he overlooking? He’d already tried eating almost every kind of undead they knew of. What he hadn't tried wasn’t something he could target right now.
Wait…my defense.
He’d overlooked his body’s role in all this.
His mother said that he didn’t own the heart yet. That he hadn't made it his own. It meant that his body still perceived the heart as a foreign object. It rejected it. And because of that, it rejected any growth or sustenance meant to keep it alive.
Before Thorin became a Magus, his body was weaker. He was a mere mortal, after all. It couldn’t defend against the Ghosts he ate. So, the heart received its food and survived. Even back then, however, his body had started to rebel against the foreign substance. Which was why he couldn’t eat the Ghosts without writhing in absolute agony. But becoming a Magus boosted his defense, inside and out. Even more so once he completed the rite and became an Arcanist. His body became stronger and capable of resisting the ingestion of the Ghosts better and better. In the end, it completely isolated his heart.
Defeated and killed by my own body’s defense…What a fucking joke…
Clay was right. If they could hunt higher-level undead, Thorin could heal his heart again. But that theory only worked on paper. If they really went up against such an undead, the only end awaiting them would be becoming its food.
What was the solution then? Thorin thought. What if he could bypass his body’s defense altogether? The idea flashed through his mind. His body rejected an outside invasion, but what if he fed the heart from within? Something already marked as his. He had the means to do so. The thought took root in his head and bloomed into certainty. This was it. This was his path to survival. His soul hadn't scattered yet. He could still struggle.
“Vraak!” he yelled, and his shadow seethed. But his soul’s link to his body was faint. “Vraaaak!!!!” He howled again, pouring everything he had into the call. A gust exploded outward, scattering leaves as mist and dust rolled around him. And the white Moonwraith tore itself free from his shadow, roaring to match his cry.
“Go!” Thorin pointed and gave the command. Under the confused and somewhat hopeful gazes of his brothers, Vraak lunged at the undead that Clay had captured. Then he fed.
“Not enough!” Thorin growled. Vraak digested what he ate. There wasn’t anything left to feed him back. “Eat the ashes!” he commanded. And the Moonwraith obeyed.
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His brothers too noticed the change, and their eyes lit up. “Hurry, get more undead!” Clay hollered and rushed out. Quin darted out with his
After several batches, as he ate all the undead along with their ashes, his growth reached its fill. The rest of what he ate took the route of their connection and inched its way towards Thorin. His heart finally sensed what it hungered for and devoured everything that reached it. Because the nourishment came from his Ghost, an entity bound to his soul and blood, his body never recognized it as an intrusion.
Finally, his heart thumped a beat.
It came back from dead, and his soul plunged back into his body. He sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes flying open as he gasped for air. His heart beat again. And then again. Warmth flooded his face as blood rushed through his veins. He was alive. He flexed his fingers and clenched his trembling fists. Though minimal, he had the strength to live again.
Thorin looked up at his brothers, at Byram, and even at the Direwolf, and laughed. “I’m alive,” he said.
Quin exploded with an animalistic roar. Clay joined him, and even the Direwolf howled along. Byram was in tears again. Their ruckus shattered the serenity of the garden. The quiet refuge Thorin had known was gone. Instead, he had his brothers and his companions celebrating his survival.
“This wasn’t the answer.” A breeze carried his mother’s whisper to him again. “But it will do for now. Live, my child. Don’t give up. And make the heart your own.”
Indeed, he still hadn't solved the crux of the issue. His heart was still a foreign object in his chest. Until he truly made it his own, the problem would persist. But that was a concern for tomorrow. Today, he just rejoiced in being able to breathe again.
……
After Thorin explained everything to them over a meal, the dinner table fell into utter silence. But he was still all smiles, gorging on the mountain of meat they’d just grilled, happy to his very core simply to be alive.
He’d stopped struggling before because he thought that was what his mother wanted. No matter what, the heart was her gift. Despite all the nuances around it, the fact was that he lived on borrowed time. If she wanted him to die and become a Wraith, he had no choice but to comply. Not that he could resist her even if he tried. But now that she’d made her stance clear, that she wanted him to live and thrive, Thorin's will reignited. He was going to live with his brothers, regardless of what he had to do for it.
“If you’re not eating, I’ll take it all,” Thorin said, eyeing the barbecued lamb ribs on his brothers’ plates.
“Take it, stuff your face and choke to death,” Clay said and tossed the plate to him.
“More ginger ale,” Thorin said, looking at Quin, his mouth and hands slick with oil, spices, and sauce.
Quin wrinkled his nose at him and poured him another glass. “I regret saving him,” he said.
Thorin laughed and fed some pieces to the Direwolf gnawing a bone at his feet. “I’m not dying anymore,” he said. “Learn to tolerate me forever.”
“How’s your condition?” Clay asked.
“Barely living,” Thorin said. His heart matched his words with another measured beat. “But I now have a way to feed it.”
“Let’s go out and hunt after some rest,” Quin said.
“You two need to stay put,” Thorin said, glancing at the grisly wounds on his brothers. “I’ll go out and hunt with Vraak. I’ll take this fucker.” He nudged the Direwolf with his boot. The bone slipped from his jaws as he snarled at Thorin, then resumed gnawing moments later.
“Things look back on track now,” Byram said, laughing, as he cooked more food. “My boys will be happy to see you too when we go back.”
“Less talking, Byram,” Thorin said, attacking the meat again. “More cooking. Bring me more ribs, make them spicy.”
Byram chuckled. “You really became an obnoxious dick after coming back to life.”
“It’s the privilege of dying once,” Thorin smirked.
“Is Vraak enough for the hunt? Can you get more Ghosts?” Clay asked.
“Yeah, I was thinking about that,” Thorin said, pressing his fingers lightly against his chest. There was no pain. Only a subtle pressure, a reminder that what kept him alive now was not something that could be forgotten.
Somewhere deep within the Death Arcana, a throne long left empty had stirred when his heart fell silent, as though sensing its Crowned at last. With life restored, it settled once more into silence, patient and unyielding.
Thorin was alive. And the throne waited.
?Empty Throne: Scene Illustration