Chapter - 40
In need of solace, I sought refuge in the depths of my private forest, skipping Winterfell entirely. Thankfully Vaylara understood what I needed, so she let me have the solitude I craved.
My emotions were in disarray. Throughout my time in Westeros, I had engaged in numerous morally questionable deeds.
Within twenty-four hours of my arrival in this familiar world, I had indirectly caused the death of another human being, justifying it as self-defense without a second thought.
In the beginning, I had convinced myself that this realm wasn't my true reality; my fragility barred me from the luxury of risking life and limb in the name of some higher moral code. The specter of death loomed in myriad forms, making the concept of mercy an unaffordable luxury.
Yet, as time passed, such justifications crumbled. I was no longer the feeble entity I once was.
The real source of my turmoil wasn't the remorse over my brazen attempt at that disastrous spell, nor was it the weight of countless lives extinguished in its fiery aftermath that weighed on me. Given the chance, I would have eagerly pitted myself against the island's pirate denizens, besting them with nothing more than the strength of my own hands.
What truly incensed me was the paralysis of my thoughts at the first sign of things going beyond my control—an unexpected twist that left me reeling, utterly unprepared and exposed. It was this vulnerability, this sudden seizing of my faculties when faced with the unforeseen, that ignited a storm of frustration within me.
As I journeyed deeper into self-reflection, an unsettling truth began to crystallize: I had grown complacent, even arrogant. But why? What was the root of this unwelcome transformation?
The answer now seemed glaringly obvious—I had drifted from my original purpose. My relentless quest for power, once driven by a clear objective, had become aimless. My mastery over magic, which had flourished out of sheer curiosity, had indeed made me stronger, but it was a strength born from having too much time on my hands, rather than a necessity.
This shift wasn't inherently detrimental; however, it had a profound effect on my psyche. The primal fear of death, which had once spurred me on, now seemed a distant memory. This fear had been the catalyst for my pursuit of power, pushing me to limits I hadn't dared to explore before. Yet, here I was, having achieved—or perhaps, surpassed—my initial goals, only to find myself adrift in a sea of newfound power, without direction or purpose. This lack of a driving force, this absence of a goal, had unwittingly led me to a state of complacency, leaving me vulnerable to the very arrogance I had once despised.
Engulfed in a sea of contemplation, I was oblivious to the outside world. Thus, the silent breach into my forest went unnoticed, until suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around me from behind, snapping me back to reality.
"Freya? How did you know I was back?" I questioned, caught off guard.
"I didn't, actually. Fenrir led me here," was the gentle response that came.
"What seems to be troubling you?" she probed, her eyes mirroring a deep concern.
"Nothing," I hastily responded, a lie so thin it barely veiled the turmoil within.
Her gaze, however, pierced through my facade with ease.
I could never hold a poker face.
Confronted by her unwavering gaze, my defenses crumbled. "I suppose I'm just a bit lost," I conceded, the words tasting of both defeat and relief. It was an admission that, while difficult, felt necessary—a step towards confronting the disquiet that had taken root within.
"Did something happen at Dragonstone?" Freya's inquiry came laced with worry, her eyes scanning my troubled features for clues.
"No, Dragonstone unfolded just as I had anticipated. The princess was healed without a hitch," I offered, aiming to quell her apprehensions. "It's merely that... an unforeseen event occurred on the return journey, a product of my own hubris."
Freya's gaze intensified, her eyes seeking the unspoken truths lurking behind mine.
"Would you like to talk about it?" she gently asked.
"Not particularly," I confessed, my eyes veering off, hesitant to tread through the murky waters of my reflections.
"Enough about me. What did I miss while I was away?" I redirected, hoping to steer Freya away from my inner turmoil. My plea hung in the air, a silent wish for respite from the introspection that gnawed at me.
Even though she didn't seem to want to let the matter rest, she relented and thankfully did not press the issue. "Nothing much has happened here, But If you were hoping for a quiet couple of days where you could hide away in your forest, I'm going to have to disappoint you. Apparently, a few lords from the far south are coming here seeking an audience with you," she said with a small smile, fully aware of my disdain for such political matters.
I sighed in dread, not looking forward to the nuisances that lay ahead.
Interacting with more nobility was the last thing I wanted right now. On the other hand, I wasn't even sure what I was going to do for a while, as I did not want to experiment with magic again unless I was sure of what I was doing or was far enough away from civilization. Perhaps I would go beyond the wall before I started setting more stuff on fire again.
Freya must have seen the reluctance on my face. "But if you are that against it, I'm sure no one needs to know you're back just yet," she suggested, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
Well, I would happily set aside my existential crisis to deal with at a later date if Freya was implying what I think she is implying.
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After fooling around for a bit while we laid on the bed of my makeshift house, it's hard to label it 'makeshift' any longer.
What began as a humble abode amidst the wilderness had now expanded beyond my initial imaginings, thanks in no small part to the worm I engineered specifically for construction purposes. This creature, a marvel of my own making, consumes dirt and rocks, excreting a substance akin to concrete to fortify the walls of my expanding domain.
The house, impressive as it stands, merely scratches the surface of the expansive subterranean world I've created. A vast network of underground spaces and interconnected tunnels stretches out beneath the earth, a testament to my architectural ambition and the worm's industrious labor.
I didn't really have any idea what I was going to use them for, other than as a lab and some storage, but I'm sure I'll find some use for it eventually.
I noticed Freya shifting her gaze toward me, snapping me out of my reverie.
She seemed to hesitate, gathering her courage before speaking. "There's something important I need to ask you."
Alarm bells rang in my head at her words, though I managed to keep my expression neutral.
She paused momentarily, carefully observing my reaction before she proceeded, "Some of my friends have inquired if you're willing to mentor more apprentices."
The suggestion immediately elicited a sense of unease in me. With the amount of tasks I was already juggling, adopting more responsibilities seemed utterly impractical. However, before I could voice my hesitation, she continued.
"I know you're overwhelmed with your research and various duties," she said, her tone gentle yet sincere. "And I'm conscious that I have much to learn before I can significantly contribute to the field of healing. However, I think if I begin teaching..."
Her words dwindled into silence, her unfinished proposal lingering between us. A shadow of doubt passed over her face as she braced for my potential objections.
"Are you sure? My help might be limited to just writing a few additional books," I warned, my statement laden with caution.
"It's something I want to do," she admitted, her nervousness palpable yet underscored by a surprising determination.
Reflecting on her proposal, I realized it had its merits, considering the long-term benefits. Initially, the thought of having additional apprentices appealed to me, primarily to offload some of the routine work. However, the notion of teaching a large group about complex biology wasn't exactly appealing.
Freya, on the other hand, had the smarts to handle the teaching. She was exceptionally bright, the kind of smart that would have seen her excel in my previous world. So, I was confident she could take on the teaching aspect.
But my vision went beyond just teaching. Ideally, I wanted this to evolve into a teaching hospital that could eventually operate independently, without my constant oversight.
Even with Freya overseeing, for me to trust them with treating my patients under my supervision, they'd need to meet very stringent criteria.
If I pursue this path, I fear I'll be responsible for introducing something profoundly vile into this world.
Entrance Exams
But I remembered something my dad always said: if you're going to do something, do it right.
So with a heavy heart I say, "Okay..."
Her reaction was immediate and full of excitement.
"Thank you, thank you..." she began, but I had to interject.
"But," I cautioned, "I'll outline the general framework for the levels of knowledge and responsibilities, but that's as far as my involvement goes. I'm not good at teaching."
"Don't say that, you're really good at teaching," she countered, her tone tinged with mild confusion."You taught me so well."
"Ahh, that's because you're pretty," I responded with a straight face.
A cascade of emotions danced across her features, morphing from puzzlement to a flush of embarrassment, before crystallizing into indignation.
Then, she playfully began to swat at me, a mock battle ensuing.
"I'm kidding. I mean, certainly, your beauty is undeniable, but the real reason teaching you was so easy is because you're incredibly smart," I hastened to explain.
At first, she looked annoyed, but then her gaze softened, searching mine for a few moments before she cuddled into me and whispered one last thank you.
Ah, life was good, but why did I have this nagging feeling that I was forgetting something important.
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Archmaester Vance Pov
At last, he found sanctuary within the citadel's protective embrace. The respite from the restless nights, where slumber fled the moment his eyes shut, was a profound relief. Yet, he could not afford to succumb to the comfort of safety—not just yet.
His resolve was unyielding: he must ensure the demise of the Cursed Mage as soon as possible.
The initial step was imperative—he had to inform his peers.
"Archmaester Vance, I didn't expect your return so soon," remarked someone upon seeing him.
Without pausing for pleasantries, he disregarded the greeting. With a sense of urgency propelling him, he hastened towards the citadel's summit, where he knew his fellow Archmaesters had convened.
Vance burst into the meeting room, and luckily, a meeting was already in progress. The room went silent, all eyes on him.
"Archmaester Vance, you've returned so soon? And with such urgency, what happened on your mission?" inquired someone, observing his hurried stride.
A wave of discomfort passed through Vance, but it quickly gave way to indignation as he recalled the recent events. "He's a demon, practicing blood magic in secrecy. It's imperative we stop him once and for all, along with anyone associated with him."
He went on to reveal everything he had witnessed upon arriving at that cursed site. Vance detailed the hiring of a mercenary to secure what was needed. He also recounted the chilling sight of the mercenary's return, in a terrifying state, bleeding profusely from every orifice before collapsing lifeless.
A profound silence enveloped the room, the faces of those around him marked by grave concern. This quiet, yet intense response, assured Vance that his fellow Archmaesters fully grasped the severity of the situation.
After a brief but intense deliberation, they came to a unanimous decision.
"The assassination of the White Mage of Winterfell shall be our paramount objective. Considering the threat he poses, we are compelled to act decisively to neutralize him by whatever means available. The practice of magic in a world of learning and knowledge is intolerable. It must be eradicated completely."
"Does anyone propose an alternative approach to handling the mage, or are we in agreement to move forward as originally planned?"
As the Archmaesters took turns presenting their strategies, each proposal proving to be more clever and sinister than the one before, Vance experienced a deep sense of relief flooding through him.
The council's unanimous dedication to swiftly addressing the threat renewed his hope. He began to believe that a peaceful night's sleep, untainted by the specters of his fears, might finally be achievable.
As Vance's spirits were momentarily lifted by the council's swift declaration, he began to notice a slight buzzing. It slowly escalated from a mere annoyance to an ominous cacophony.
"What infernal noise is that?" an Archmaester voiced, echoing the room's growing annoyance.
With apprehension tightening his chest, Vance made his way to the door that opened onto the citadel's uppermost balcony, drawn by the growing tumult outside.
As he thrust the door open, he was confronted with a scene of unspeakable horror.
A vast swarm of locusts engulfed the citadel, their sheer mass obscuring the sun and plunging the day into an eerie, premature dusk.
A chilling realization dawned on Vance: his escape had been no stroke of luck. He had been deliberately released, a pawn manipulated by the mage to uncover his co-conspirators.
There was no doubt in Vance's mind about who had orchestrated this catastrophe.
Overwhelmed by despair, Vance collapsed to his knees, his voice reduced to a mere whisper,
"Seven save us."
As if on cue, the swarm descended, swooping down on the tower with a ferocity that mirrored his own nightmares.
Chaos erupted in the heart of Oldtown, a black cloud that seemed to swallow the city whole. But for Vance, the external pandemonium faded into the background, overshadowed by the immediate battle for survival.
His hands moved frantically, swiping at the air, as he tried to get rid of the relentless swarm of locusts. These pests, driven by some incomprehensible force, seemed to have a personal vendetta against him. And every time he tried to take a breath more of them came at him, cutting off his air supply more.
His movements were frenetic, almost desperate, as he flailed against the air, trying to stop the onslaught of locusts. These minuscule assailants, propelled by an inexplicable force, seemed singularly focused on him, especially his mouth and nose. With every breath Vance attempted, it felt as though the swarm intensified, each locust vying to cut off his lifeline, making air an increasingly scarce commodity.
Breathing became an impossible task. The onset of panic was swift, a rising tide that threatened to drown him from within. His vision began to blur, the edges darkening as if night were falling at an unnatural pace.
He stumbled, his body rebelling, no longer responsive to his commands. Collapsing, the ground rushed up to meet him.
As consciousness waned, his world narrowed to a single point of focus — a pair of haunting, red eyes. Eyes that had stalked the periphery of his nightmares, now materialized in the flesh, presiding over his demise.
And then, as if snuffed out by a cruel gust of wind, everything receded into oblivion.