Strangle Of The Waves

Suffocating.

It was as though he were being dragged into the deepest part of the ocean, where light dared not venture and pressure sought to crush the very essence of his being.

Aelar's eyes fluttered open, and they immediately widened in shock at the surreal landscape that unfolded before him. The blue hues of the ocean engulfed his body, a world of cerulean and turquoise that was both mesmerizing and menacing. He attempted to move his hands, to push himself up through the watery shroud, but his limbs were uncooperative, heavy as if laden with the burdens of his kingdom.

The sensation of drowning was imminent and terrifying, a relentless assault on his senses.

But then, a flicker of rational thought cut through the fear. This was not the fabric of reality. It was either a dream, a figment of his overtaxed mind, or he had been unwillingly dragged into another realm. The realization came upon him with the force of a decree: he had to wake up.

He concentrated, trying to marshal his scattered thoughts. His chest heaved in a futile effort to draw breath, and in that struggle, his mind clawed back, seeking the surface, seeking the light of consciousness.

As Aelar struggled against the phantom tides, a shadow began to loom in the murky distance. Growing larger and more distinct, it took form—an immense figure that dominated the oceanic expanse. This was the Sovereign of the Sea, Aquarion, whose presence commanded the waters as a king commands his court.

His form was a seamless blend of man and leviathan. Aquarion's torso was that of a merman, rippling with the powerful musculature of a creature designed to conquer the depths. Yet, he was of no ordinary size; his stature was colossal, dwarfing Aelar's paralyzed form. From the waist down, his body transitioned into the majestic tail of a whale, capable of stirring the seas into furious storms with a single, languid flick.

Aquarion loomed over Aelar, a titan among the waves, and within his ancient, piercing eyes, there swirled a tempest of malice and anger. Those eyes, as deep and fathomless as the ocean itself, bore down upon the immobilized king, and it was clear that this entity harbored a wrath as vast and unyielding as the sea he ruled.

The air—or what passed for air in this submerged nightmare—seemed to grow colder and denser as Aquarion's gaze fixed upon Aelar. The king could sense the raw power that emanated from this being, a force as old as the tides and as relentless as time itself. In the face of such might, Aelar understood that this encounter might be more than a mere dream; it might be a crossing of paths with a being whose realm he had inadvertently breached.

In the shadow of the towering sea sovereign, Aelar's instinct for diplomacy prevailed over his fear. He attempted to open his mouth, to speak, to reason or plead with the colossal Aquarion. But no words could find their way in this liquid abyss. The moment his lips parted, the non-existent air evaded him, and he choked, a reflexive gasp betraying his terrestrial nature.

Aelar snapped his mouth shut just as quickly, a survival instinct kicking in before the ocean could invade his lungs. He realized the futility of his attempt to communicate as he might on land. Here, in the domain of Aquarion, the rules were different, and he would need to find another way to engage with the sovereign without the luxury of speech.

The king's mind raced, seeking solutions, aware that every moment in the presence of this behemoth was a moment his life lay in the balance.

Aquarion's voice resonated not through the water but within Aelar himself, vibrating through his very essence as if the sea had become a conduit for the ancient being's thoughts. It was as if the ocean depths had been given voice, a deep and primordial rumble that seemed to emanate from the very core of existence.

"Tell me, King of Man," the voice of Aquarion boomed from within, each word laced with the icy chill of the deep. "Hast the thought of entreating my strength ever dared to cross thy mortal mind?"

The sovereign's each syllable dripping with malice and the contempt of a deity long forgotten by those who walked on land.

Aelar swallowed a pained gasp, his chest constricting under the raw force of Aquarion's presence. It was as if the sea itself pressed upon him, demanding recognition of its ruler's mighty will.

"Dost thou believe I would aid humans who have forsaken me, who dare to plunder that which belongs to the ocean?" The Sovereign of the Waves' words grew sharper, each one imbued with a biting edge, as he loomed ever closer to Aelar. "Was it not enough that I allowed thee to erect thy kingdoms upon the land in peace, granting thy people sustenance from my domain? And now, thou covet my power as well?"

With the final accusatory question, Aquarion's voice thundered within Aelar, the resonance forcing a grimace onto the face of the king—a visage that usually embodied grace and composure. The accusation struck deep, for Aelar knew his people's history with the sea—a tenuous balance of respect and necessity, at times tipping into exploitation.

Aquarion receded slightly, his gaze intensifying as if to peer into the very essence of Aelar's being. The scrutiny was penetrating, leaving Aelar feeling as though every fragment of his soul was being laid bare before this ancient entity.

"Thy divine power wanes, King of the Land," Aquarion declared, his face a tempest of scorn. "Thou art unfit to rule over these realms." His voice, though still resonant with the power of the deep, carried a dismissive sharpness that cut through the water with ease.

Resentment and fury painted the sea sovereign's visage as he delivered his final verdict. "I shall not extend my aid unto thee, a mere specter of the once illustrious monarch."

With those condemning words, Aquarion brandished his trident—a weapon that seemed to be forged from the very bones of the ocean. With a swift and deliberate motion, he cast it through the water. The trident did not strike Aelar physically, but the force it unleashed was undeniable, a torrent of energy that seized Aelar and expelled him from Aquarion's realm.

The sea around Aelar churned violently, becoming a vortex that rejected his presence. He was sent hurtling through the water, the boundary between realms collapsing around him as he was thrust back into the reality he knew—a world of air and earth, far from the ocean's suffocating depths and the wrathful gaze of its sovereign.

Aelar's return was abrupt, his body convulsing as he gasped for breath, the cold air of his chamber a stark contrast to the water that had filled his senses moments before.

Collapsing under the strain of the inter-realm expulsion, Aelar was bent double, wracked with the agony of his experience. The transition from the oceanic domain of Aquarion back to his own reality was jarring, and his body rebelled against the violent shift. He clutched at his chest, coughing sharply, each spasm a stark reminder of the ordeal he had just endured.

The floor around him was slick with seawater, a tangible testament to the authenticity of the encounter. This was no mere vision conjured by a restless mind. The water was real, as was the peril it represented—a silent confirmation of Aquarion's existence and his formidable power.

Aelar struggled to regain his composure, his breaths gradually evening out as he processed the gravity of Aquarion's words. The Sovereign of the Waves had made his position clear: he would not intervene on behalf of a king he deemed unworthy, a king whose divine essence had waned, leaving him a shadow of his former glory.

Aelar's complexion turned ashen from the intensity of his pain. He desperately needed to recuperate, and quickly. Yet, in his current state, with his divine power far from its peak, he was all too human. The ordeal of being shuttled to and from the ancient entity's realm had exacted a severe toll on his mind and body.

As he teetered on the edge of consciousness, poised to let his body succumb to the merciless pull of gravity, the sound of hastened footsteps echoed outside his chamber.

Myrick, with urgency etched into his features, burst through the door of the king's chamber. Horror painted his face as he beheld his king's hunched form on the floor, amidst a pool of sea water that shimmered with traces of ancient magic.

"My King!" His exclamation was laced with terror, the anxiety in his voice filling the room.

The scholar did not hesitate as he rushed to Aelar's side, offering a careful yet firm hand to support the weakened monarch.

Draven, Gavrel, and Kael entered in a flurry, their breaths labored from the sprint from another part of the palace to the king's chamber. They each took in the scene with wide eyes and heaving chests, the urgency of the situation hanging palpably in the air.

Gavrel was silent, but the fear in his trembling hands was as loud as any cry as he summoned the energies for a healing spell. Soft light cascaded from his fingertips, enveloping Aelar in a warm and soothing glow.

"My King, I sense the presence of ancient magic," Myrick inquired with a cautious reverence, his eyes meeting Aelar's. He gave space for the king to gather his thoughts and strength before responding.

"Save your energy, My King. You need all the rest you can get," Draven chimed in, his voice a low murmur of composed concern. He remained just inside the doorway, not daring to step any closer. Perhaps he feared his own composure would crumble at a closer view of the king's weakened state.

His fists were clenched tight at his sides, embodying the role of a steadfast pillar; he was determined to be a source of strength upon which the king could rely. Draven refused to let himself succumb to grief, choosing instead to present a facade of unwavering support.

Kael, on the other hand, could not mask his emotions as easily. With a suddenness that left the room feeling colder in his absence, he dashed out, vanishing into the shadows that clung to the castle's stone walls.

He could not bear to let the king, or anyone else for that matter, witness the tears that threatened to betray his fears. In his solitude, he would grapple with the sight of his sovereign—so diminished and in pain—away from the eyes that looked to him for guidance and assurance.

_________________

Dawn broke over the realm, casting a new light on the castle and its weary inhabitants. King Aelar had been moved to a different chamber, one free from the lingering dampness and the salty residue of the sea that had invaded his previous quarters. Servants, swift and silent in their work, scurried to the vacated room, tasked with cleaning and restoring it to its former state.

In the room where the king now rested, a warm glow suffused the space, a testament to the tireless efforts of Myrick and Gavrel. Since the earliest light of dawn, they had been weaving spells of healing and protection, their own need for rest set aside in service to their sovereign. The magic they conjured was a tangible thing, a blanket of light and warmth meant to speed their king's recovery.

As the morning hours waned, they anchored themselves in silent vigil, waiting for any sign that their King would stir from his deep recuperative sleep. Their eyes frequently darted to his serene face, seeking the subtlest flutter of eyelids or a change in breathing that would signal his return to consciousness.

But Aelar remained still, ensconced in slumber so profound that it bordered on the otherworldly. Myrick and Gavrel could only hope that this was a healing rest and not the precursor to a prolonged absence of their king's guiding presence.

The thought of parting with Aelar, of losing him to a sleep from which he might not awaken again, was unbearable.