The Dawn of Recollection [REVISED]

In the hushed twilight of the royal chambers, the figure of King Aelar the Evergale lay motionless upon his bed, swathed in silken sheets that whispered of long, watchful nights.

The air was thick with the scent of healing herbs and the muted echoes of incantations that had been chanted over his inert form.

For two long years, the king had been suspended in a deep slumber from the pains that had driven him to the brink of the ethereal realm.

His wounds had been both of the flesh and of the mind. The battles he had fought were etched not only upon the land but upon his very soul.

The silence of the chamber was broken by a subtle shift—a gentle stir in the pattern of his breathing. It was as if the whispered prayers of his people had finally traversed the divide, reaching through the veils of slumber to coax their king back from the precipice of the unknown.

King Aelar's eyelids began to flutter. The green of his eyes, once vibrant as the verdant fields of his realm, now gleamed with a fragile light, hinting at the internal struggle that had raged within him while his body lay dormant.

As his gaze slowly came into focus, the faintest quiver of his lips bespoke the effort of a man reclaiming his place in the world of the living.

His chest rose with a more profound intention, drawing in the sanctified air of the chamber that had been his sanctuary. Each breath peeling away the layers of darkness that had settled in his heart. A soft groan escaped him.

As awareness anchored him back to the tangible, the memories of what had led to his prolonged absence cascaded through his mind—a maelstrom of valor, loss, and the heavy burden of a crown.

"My king!" The exclamation came from a young man dressed in the ornate garb of priesthood, gold and black threads interwoven that signified his holy station. His hands, firmly clasping Aelar's, became conduits for the flow of healing magic that emanated from his very touch. "You've returned to us," he murmured, his voice trembling with waves of relief.

Strands of his blond, braided hair had come undone, framing a face marked by fatigue, while his golden eyes betrayed the sheer exhaustion.

At the opposite side of the bed, a man dressed in the sharp, formal attire of a scholar exhaled deeply, his breath carrying the weight of many sleepless nights. As the sigh left him, the ambient glow of protective spells he maintained began to fade.

"Gavrel... the Shadowbane," King Aelar's voice was a mere breath, yet it was enough to acknowledge the priest's unwavering presence. His eyes, still regaining their former clarity, shifted to the scholarly figure. "...and Myrick the Oathkeeper," he recognized the man of learning. Aelar's brow furrowed slightly, "Forgive the fog that clouds my mind—it has not yet lifted fully."

"It does not weigh upon us, sire." Myrick declared with a reassuring yet firm tone, gently letting go of the king's hand.

"For how many suns and moons have I been lost to this world?" he asked, each word barely more than a breath, yet laden with the urgency of a ruler severed from his realm. His vivid green eyes sought theirs, flickering with the effort to stay open, to stay present.

"Two full turns of the seasons, Your Grace," Gavrel's response was measured, his tone suffused with a solemnity born of long-held concern. "The kingdom has lain in waiting, the silence of your absence heavy upon its heart," he continued, the furrow of his brow deepening.

"In all this time, you have lain motionless, silent as the statues that grace the Silent Garden, giving no hint of the dreams that might dwell within." His words hung in the air.

"Forgive me, for I have neglected my duties for too long," Aelar murmured, attempting to rise from the bed. His elbows buckled, and a wave of weakness overtook him. His strength sapped by his protracted slumber.

Myrick and Gavrel sprang into action, their hands quickly but gently supporting the king's back. With their assistance, Aelar succeeded in propping himself against the headboard.

He brought his fingers to his temples, massaging in slow circles in an effort to dispel the lingering grogginess that clouded his mind.

"Once more, I urge you, my King: it is of no consequence," Myrick responded, his voice conveying a blend of gentleness and firmness, akin to a chastisement wrapped in velvet. "Your edicts have guided the realm through these past two seasons in your absence. The kingdom understands—the people understand—that even a sovereign may need respite."

"Furthermore," Gavrel interjected, "your wellbeing remains the cornerstone upon which this kingdom rests. As its sole ruler, your fall would herald the crumbling of our very foundations. Consider this period not as negligence, but as a necessary reprieve for the sake of your recuperation, my king." The priest's words tumbled forth, a cascade of concern, and Aelar could sense the tremor in his hand.

"I understand," Aelar conceded with a nod of acknowledgment. A faint smile traced his lips, an echo of the strength he once wielded effortlessly. "I owe you both a debt of gratitude."

The intimate moment was punctuated by the sound of footsteps approaching, the distinct clink of armor growing nearer until it paused just beyond the chamber door. A light knock followed.

"Draven the Nightshield, at your service," came a gruff, deep voice from the other side of the threshold. Myrick rose from his position beside the bed and opened the door to reveal a towering figure clad in black metal armor.

The man, known as Draven, stood there, his short brown hair bearing the evidence of exertion, damp with sweat. His brown eyes, a mirror to his hair, sparkled with an unmistakable gleam of joy at the sight of his king's awakening.

Draven's typically stern countenance softened, blossoming into a smile that radiated relief and warmth—his rugged features now touched by a gentle sincerity. He moved briskly to the bedside, his armor's clink subdued by the solemnity of the moment.

With a practiced grace, he knelt, bowing his head in a gesture of deep reverence toward his sovereign.

"You cannot fathom the breadth of my joy at witnessing your eyes embrace the light of the world once more," he exclaimed, his voice a rich timbre of emotion that filled the room, echoing the collective relief and happiness of all present.

"You honor me too generously, Draven," the king replied, the faintest trace of a smile gracing his lips. His voice barely rose above a murmur yet carried the warmth of deep appreciation. "Yet, it seems we are one companion short." His keen eyes, still regaining their former sharpness, scanned the room.

Aelar's gaze danced from corner to corner, the unspoken question hanging in the air like a note waiting to find its place in the melody.

The response came not with footsteps but with a whisper of movement, as if the very shadows themselves had given voice. "I am here, my king," emerged a young man, his skin kissed by the sun and clad in the dark garments befitting a shadow guard. His black hair, sleek and unyielding, framed a face veiled by a mask that concealed his features.

"Kael, my vigilant shadow," Aelar greeted with a nod, his voice carrying a mix of curiosity and fondness. "What compels you to meld with the background thus?" he inquired, his eyes softening at the sight of his concealed companion.

Kael, bound by his own silence, offered no reply.

"It is because he must have shed tears of relief at your awakening, my liege," Gavrel interjected, his tone light and teasing, breaking the heavy curtain of solemnity that had fallen over the room.

"I do not!" The protest came swift and spirited from Kael, his youthful voice tinged with embarrassment. "I am Kael the Wraithstalker, and I do not succumb to tears!" he asserted, his cheeks and ears betraying his emotions with a telltale flush, even beneath the cover of his mask.

"My duty was to guard, to ensure no threat would dare approach while you recovered!" His defense, fierce yet flustered, spoke volumes of his dedication—and the affection he bore for his king.

Aelar's laughter echoed through the chamber, a resonant sound that seemed to sweep away the remnants of worry that had lingered in the air. His vitality seemed to be rekindled in the presence of his trusted aides, each familiar face a balm to his spirit.

"I must express my deepest gratitude to all of you, for your vigilance while I lay dormant as a fallen tree," he said, his head bowing not from any sense of shame, but from the profound sense of gratitude that welled up within him.

The companions around him stirred in mild disarray, with Myrick, the scholarly advisor, reaching out to steady the king by his shoulders. "My king, please, such gestures are unnecessary," he implored, his voice quivering with a feigned alarm. "Should any outside these walls witness this, they may well believe we've coerced you!" His words, veiled in jest, were aimed to lighten the mood, to remind his sovereign of his position.

In a swift motion borne of instinct, Draven lunged for the window, his gauntleted hands hastening to close the shutters with a resounding clang. The very notion of anyone witnessing their revered king in such a vulnerable posture sent a ripple of panic through the knight's stalwart frame.

His armored hand then found its way to his chest, pressing against the cold, hard metal as if to quell the tumultuous drumming of his heart beneath.

"My king, your gesture nearly sent my heart into disarray!" Draven exclaimed, his voice laced with equal parts of relief and lingering alarm.

"Haha, very well, very well," Aelar conceded with a chuckle, his mirth soothing the frayed nerves of his companions. "But never doubt that my gratitude towards each of you is as boundless as the skies." Gavrel exhaled a long-held breath of relief, his posture relaxing as the king acknowledged their collective concern.

In the following moments, a reverent hush filled the chamber. Time seemed to slow, the only movement is the subtle rise and fall of the king's chest as he prepared to rise.

With deliberate movement, Aelar swung his legs over the side of the bed, feet seeking the familiar comfort of the carpeted floor.

Draven and Kael tensed, their senses heightened, ready to spring forward should their sovereign falter. Gavrel and Myrick remained close by the bedside, their eyes tracking Aelar's every movement.

"Fill me in on the state of our realm during my convalescence," Aelar commanded, his voice steady, signaling his intent to rise. His hand extended, a silent appeal for assistance, which Gavrel immediately honored, stepping forward to offer the support the king required.

Together, they made their way to the study table, a symbol of the king's duty and service to his people.

Without missing a beat, Draven moved the sturdy armchair into place, anticipating where the king would choose to sit.

The king eased himself into his favorite armchair, a sense of longing washing over him as he missed the familiar caress of the velvet beneath his hands. With a grateful nod, he thanked Draven, who acknowledged the gesture with a respectful bow before he turned to stand sentinel at the door.

A hushed rustling, like a whispered secret, filled the room as Kael melded with the darkness, his form becoming one with the room's shadow.

Myrick advanced to the edge of the table, his expression etched with lines of concern. "Your Majesty, are you certain you are well enough to proceed? The matters of the kingdom can surely wait until the morrow," he suggested, his voice heavy with the weight of his worry for the king's health.

Aelar's gaze, however, was drawn to the white jade quill on his table, a symbol a deeper, more personal significance that filled his eyes with a sudden melancholy. "Rest assured, Myrick. Engaging in the kingdom's business will cause me no harm. I vow to take all necessary care and not overextend myself," Aelar replied, his voice carrying the resonance of a sovereign, even as his eyes betrayed a flicker of sorrow.

Gavrel's observant eyes shifted between the king and Myrick, understanding the balance between concern and duty. With a respectful nod, he offered his own contribution to Aelar's recovery.

"Then I shall prepare some restorative potions to aid in the replenishment of your stamina, my king," he declared with a deferential bow, his promise hanging in the air as he withdrew, his steps leading him to the sanctuary of the herb garden where his skills would create remedies to aid his liege.

===================

King Aelar's attention was drawn to the unopened letters that lay scattered across his desk—a collection of sealed confessions and contemplations, each envelope holding a moment of his past where he transferred his thoughts and burdens onto parchment.

It was his unique method of coping, a silent conversation with himself preserved in ink and paper.

Lifting his gaze from these silent guardians of his inner musings, Aelar observed Myrick, who was now returned into the confines of the royal chamber. Scrolls and tomes cradled in his arms.

"I have compiled the latest reports on the kingdom's affairs, Your Majesty. Would you like me to review them with you now?" Myrick inquired, his voice steady.

Aelar responded with an affirmative nod, granting Myrick the audience he sought.

The resilience of Stormhold through the bitter winter was the first proof to the king's strategic acumen, and Myrick relayed the news with a hint of pride in his voice.

"Thanks to your foresight in fortifying their defenses and garrisons, Stormhold has withstood the season's severity. Moreover, they've cultivated a new vegetable, a gift from their unique terroir. The town's chief requests permission to trade this product in the Evergale markets," Myrick read from the parchment, his eyes scanning the meticulous script.

"A new vegetable?" Aelar mused with a spark of curiosity. "That is indeed intriguing. I shall make arrangements to visit Stormhold to see this for myself. Inform the chief that his request is to be put on hold until I have assessed the situation personally," the king commanded, his mind already navigating the implications of this agricultural development.

Myrick nodded in understanding, making a mental note of the king's wishes before moving on to the next item of business. He unfurled a second scroll, each movement precise and deliberate.

"Now, for Valoraire," Myrick announced, transitioning to the next report.

"Ah, Valoraire, the crown jewel of trade," Aelar remarked, his voice tinged with a fondness for the bustling metropolis. "Tell me, have the trade winds been favorable in my absence?"

Myrick's response carried an assurance that eased the atmosphere in the chamber. "Indeed, the city flourishes, Your Majesty. Your decrees have steered Valoraire towards prosperity. The merchants continue to trade with a conscientious approach, upholding the ethical standards you've championed," he conveyed the heartening update.

Aelar's face softened, a subtle smile gracing his features. It was a ruler's greatest reward to hear of his people's thriving under his governance, a balm to the heart when the body could not be on the front lines.

Silverpine's predicament shifted the tone of the reports, introducing a note of urgency amidst the accounts of prosperity.

"The people of Silverpine have faced the scourge of banditry of late. However, the neighboring Cresthill has extended a hand of solidarity, and together, they've mounted a defense against these incursions. Nevertheless, it necessitates our attention to bring a lasting resolution," Myrick stated, his voice carrying the gravity of concern as he presented the third scroll before the king.

Aelar considered the matter, his strategic mind already mapping out a response. "We shall dispatch a scout and a contingent of knights as a provisional response," he decreed, his voice firm with command. With a subtle gesture, he summoned Kael from the ethereal realm of shadows where he kept vigilant watch.

Kael, attuned to the king's will, appeared at Aelar's side. "Kael, dispatch one of your shadow guards to gather intelligence on the bandits. I want a thorough reconnaissance—spare no detail," Aelar instructed, his order cutting through the air with the precision of a well-forged blade.

"At once, my king," Kael affirmed, his presence fading as swiftly as it had appeared, a silent specter off to enact the king's will.

Myrick's observant gaze caught the subtle signs of fatigue etched into the king's brow—a ruler's relentless drive often betrayed by the body's honest toll.

"Do you require a respite, Your Majesty?" the scholar inquired, the lines of Aelar's forehead prompting his concern.

Aelar dismissed the notion with a gentle shake of his head, his resolve unwavering. "No, I am well. Let us proceed," he asserted, signaling his readiness to attend to the continued affairs of his realm.

Acknowledging the king's determination, Myrick unfurled the next scroll. "Briarvale is in full swing with preparations for the Rose Festival. They have cultivated an abundance of their celebrated roses and are eager to send a selection to the castle. Meanwhile, the elves of Moonridge express deep concern for your well-being and offer the aid of their healers," the scholar reported, his voice carrying a note of warmth from the distant well-wishes.

The king paused to contemplate the gestures from his people. "As the festival draws near, allow the roses from Briarvale entry to the castle. Their fragrance will surely enliven our halls," Aelar decreed, a hint of anticipation in his tone.

"And convey my heartfelt thanks to the elves of Moonridge, but assure them that their kind thoughts alone provide a balm to my spirit. There is no need for their healers to make the journey; their goodwill is a remedy in itself," he responded, his gratitude genuine and his refusal of their offer, gracious.

Myrick's tone grew somber as he read the final report, a stark contrast to the previous accounts of festivals and goodwill.

"Galeport encounters troubling times. Their fishermen reel in empty nets, with fish stocks dwindling alarmingly. Moreover," he paused, underscoring the gravity of the next piece of news, "an ominous presence looms offshore. What began as a mere blot upon the water has grown to the girth of a vessel, its slow, relentless approach stirring unease among the people."

Aelar pondered the situation, his fingers thoughtfully stroking his chin. "I surmise the fishermen are reluctant to brave the waters with such an enigma lurking beneath the waves?"

"Indeed, Your Majesty. With their livelihood at stake, they've resorted to trade with the traveling merchants. Should this state of affairs persist, the specter of hunger looms over Galeport," Myrick elaborated, his grip tightening around the scroll as if to brace against the dire news it conveyed.

Concern etched deeply upon his brow, Aelar inquired with an undercurrent of urgency, "How long has this been going on?" His thoughts were with the people of Galeport, whose well-being hung precariously in the balance.

Myrick responded, the gravity of the situation reflected in his voice, "Four weeks, my king. They have been enduring since it began."

The gravity of the situation pulled a concerned murmur from Aelar. "Four weeks is too long for any town to endure such hardship," he said, each syllable underscored by the weight of his concern.

"We will set forth for Galeport posthaste to evaluate the circumstances with our own eyes," Aelar announced, his voice steady with the command of a king ready to face the trials of his people.

"If we find their plight to be as severe as we fear, then provisions from the castle's larder will be sent at once," he continued his swift commitment to action. "This aid will be but a temporary measure to provide relief, as we need to unravel the mystery of the shadow that darkens their waters."

"Understood, my king," Myrick intoned, bowing respectfully before he began to gather the scattered scrolls from the table.

A gentle knock interrupted the solemn atmosphere, and the room's attention shifted as Gavrel entered, permitted by Draven's silent acquiescence at the door.

"My lord, may I suggest a moment of respite?" Gavrel offered, his hand presenting a vial filled with an elixir that glowed like a captured sunset. "Here is a draught concocted from the rare golden ginseng and the delicate petals of the moonflower."

Aelar raised his eyes, a mix of weariness and intrigue in his gaze. "Ginseng with moonflower? A most intriguing blend. Your mastery of the alchemical arts is as commendable as it is mystifying, Gavrel. Let us hope its flavor is as beneficial as its intended effect."

A muffled chortle echoed from the doorway, where Draven stood with the stoic posture of a seasoned warrior. "My memory serves well the last concoction you prepared, priest. The king's expression was most amusingly sour."

From the windowsill, Kael chimed in, having just returned from his duties, unable to suppress his amusement. "Truly, it was a display more befitting the antics of court jesters than the composure of our sovereign."

With a slightly embarrassed cough, Aelar sought to reassure his courtiers. "I shall do my very best to maintain my composure, then." he asserted with a light-hearted tone, a low chuckle escaping him as he took the potion from Gavrel, his demeanor reflecting a readiness to be surprised.

He sipped the concoction slowly, allowing himself to fully experience the flavor.

To his delight, the potion was sweet with a comforting warmth that gently eased the tension in his throat.

"A pleasant surprise, indeed," he confessed, his face illuminated by a sincere smile. "Your expertise appears to advance with each new preparation, Gavrel."

Gavrel responded with a modest bow, his eyes shimmering with a hint of pride at the commendation. "My purpose is to serve you well, Your Grace. It is my firm belief that a king should not be made to endure hardship, whether from ailment or the cure itself." His words echoed the dedication of a healer.

As the soft glow of candlelight danced playfully across the chamber walls, the somber undertones of their earlier discourse were replaced by the familiar warmth of fellowship. 

Aelar, leaned back against the sturdy oak table, the lines of worry on his face smoothing out as he felt the day's burdens lift.

"Pray, indulge me," he started, the hint of mischief creeping into his tone, "in our preoccupation with the realm's tribulations, have we let slip the remembrance of our merriments? What news of the Midsummer Festival? Have our streets grown silent, absent of mirth and melody?"

A wry smile played on Myrick's lips as he carefully placed the last scroll to one side, his movements deliberate. "The festival flourished in color and exuberance, my liege. Yet, I must admit, the wine seemed somewhat lacking in its usual sweetness, bereft of the king's company."

Kael, as lithe in movement as he was deadly in battle, alighted from his perch by the window and approached the gathering. "And the dance, Sire, it too missed its usual luster. It appears our people's steps falter when their sovereign is not there to guide the festivity." His tone was light, but the underlying truth of his words spoke to the bond between the king and his subjects—a rhythm disrupted in Aelar's absence.

The chamber resonated with Gavrel's laughter, a sound as pure and uplifting as a choir's hymn wove through the air.

"Verily," the priest proclaimed, still chuckling, "the bards have taken to crafting verses of the absence of King Aelar the Lightfooted. Tales of your legendary footwork have transcended the realm of history."

Draven, found his own visage cracking as he added his voice to the burgeoning joviality, a grin breaking through his usually unyielding expression. "And let us not overlook the jousting tourney. There, I fought valiantly to maintain our monarch's honor. Although, I must concede, it serves but as a meager stand-in for the king's own prowess."

Amidst the banter of his companions, Aelar's own laughter joined in, a harmonious note that seemed to briefly lift the mantle of sovereignty from his frame, allowing the man beneath to breathe and bask in the camaraderie.

"Well then," he declared, his voice rich with anticipation, "this forthcoming Midsummer Festival shall witness a revival of joy and revelry, the likes of which our kingdom has missed. But before we indulge in the pleasure of dance and song, we have a duty to Galeport that beckons." His statement, though lighthearted, carried the undercurrent of a king who never forgot his duty, even in moments of levity.