Móri has not lived what can be called a normal life, not by any description. He has seen and experienced things that would drive most people mad, and never truly expected to find anyone who would understand it – or him. And now he has an entire family, and friends as well, and it is a blessing beyond his wildest dreams.
That is why the pain of losing them all is almost unbearable.
He holds on to the hope that they are safe beyond the gates as he makes his way to find his son. He holds on to the knowledge that Dolg is immortal and cannot be killed as he casts the spell that keeps him safe and alive as he is impaled and buried. He holds on to his love and his hope for the next two hundred and fifty years as he drifts in and out of consciousness.
Tiril. Dolg. Taran. Wilding. Theresa. Erling…
Who is that?
There is a presence nearby, a familiar feeling of magic and power, yet strange and unknown.
Who are you?
This is someone who can help him, he knows that much.
Hurry, please! I need to find my son… hurry!
It seems only a short while later when he feels the power again, even stronger now. Close, so close, coming even closer as the burden on top of him is lessened stone by stone. The rush of blood and cold air as he is uncovered.
A voice, faint and strange to his ears. Asking him to move, something so easy once, done without thought. Now it takes long painful seconds, his limbs aching and on fire as he struggles to move a single finger. There is a tension in the air, a thrumming of power and life, a sense of compassion. Voices above him, a cessation of pain that he hadn’t even noticed as the stones pressed into his face. The cool air, and gentle warm hands.
Finally, he opens his eyes.
“Hi,” someone says kindly. “Welcome back to the world!”
But the world Móri returns to is far from the world he left behind.