Symptoms of Divine Burnout
Caspian wanted nothing more than to sleep through the victory he’d earned the city after decades of war, but even a storm mage couldn’t fend off the nightmares that thundered through him. He pulled himself from bed, drew back the heavy curtains, and breathed in the scent of freshly cooked street waffles wafting in through the windows, wishing it might take the acrid taste of metal off his tongue.
Calloused hands gripped the curtains tightly as he stared at the vendors below. He took in slow, measured breaths, the nightmares still clawing to be free.
He backed away from the window, gazing at the glinting key on his nightstand. He should be grateful for this house. For all the city had done for him after…he shook his head, shocking himself as he ran a hand through staticky hair.
He went to the stone basin and splashed cold water on his face. He’d never expected to have a bronze cast mirror in a home he’d call his own, but now, staring at stormy gray eyes and dark hair needing a trim, he couldn’t say if it was all worth it.
His stomach growled, and his pantry was empty after he had declined the staff that his queens had so generously offered him. He had just wanted to be alone. But now, a week after they awarded him this house, he was out of food, and the belly that had grown used to being full was hollow.
The streets of Tor Deren were already filling as Caspian made his way to the market. Colorful banners fluttered in the breeze, proclaiming the city’s recent victory and celebrations. He hunched his shoulders and pulled his cloak close, trying to make his broad, muscular arms smaller as he navigated the crowd.
“Fresh strawberries! Get your victory waffles!” a vendor shouted cheerfully.
Caspian approached the stall, ready to clean it out as he fished for coins in his pocket.
The man’s eyes widened as he caught Caspian’s gaze. “The Stormrider! Please, take what you want. Wow, the hero of Tor Deren right here in front of me.”
Caspian’s jaw clenched. “I’m no hero,” he said, his voice low, but he still took the waffle with a nod. As he turned away, he spotted others who’d already recognized him.
“… lost his entire battalion, poor soul…”
“…have you heard he took on fifteen Frostbreakers single-handedly?”
A tightness closed in on Caspian’s chest. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. He rushed away, dropping his food and finding refuge in an alley behind the market. Leaning against a cool stone wall, he shut his eyes and focused. Breathe in, out, in, out.
Laughter cut through his concentration. His eyes snapped open, and he spotted a group of young children just beyond the alley, waving a toy around. With the pull of a cord, the thing spun high into the air—a little storm maker. Toys made a game from something Caspian was all too familiar with.
Blue sparks surrounded it, and a tiny dark cloud formed above them. The toy gently glided to the ground, and all the kids stood still. As it landed near the feet of two boys, a lightning bolt shot up into the cloud. The boys yelped, clutching their ankles, as the others laughed.
The world tilted, and Caspian was back on the battlefield, the scent of storms filling his nostrils. He wasn’t safe. No one was. Lightning arced between his fingertips, a power waiting to sear through anyone stupid enough to face him. The sky darkened, aching for him to use it. The walls of the market were gone. He was in an open field, and bodies lay around him.
He gave in just a little, and the electricity filled him.
No one could hurt him.
“No,” Caspian grunted, pulling himself back. He clenched his fists, the power straining against his joints. He had to get out of here. Had to get back home.
The home that had been gifted to him.
Memories resurfaced, and he was transported to the throne room, seated high in the towers of Tor Deren, looking down on the city. The queens stared at him from high-backed seats, pride on their faces for a victory at a price they’d never know.
The elder of the queens spoke, looking at her wife with a nod before saying, “We can never repay what you sacrificed, Sir Caspian Stormrider. But you have brought us a glorious victory, and with it, your time of war has ended.”
The younger queen leaned in, her eyes sharp. “You’ve earned your rest. The crown is in your debt.”
He, rest? In an empty home while others continue the fight? How could they—
A sudden blare of trumpets sounded, shattering his memory. He was on the battlefield. No, he was in the alley. He gripped the key in his pocket and breathed.
He was in the alley.
He blinked and looked to the sky, tracing the darkening clouds overhead. His clouds called him.
Caspian stumbled out of the alley, away from the parade that took over the market square. His gaze landed on a weathered sign hanging above a navy blue door: The Stormy Sky. He needed something—anything to calm him.
Stale ale and smoke filled the air that circulated in the dim, wood-paneled interior. Only a handful of patrons even bothered to glance up before quickly averting their gazes. Good. Safe. Caspian slumped into a corner booth, sparks still dancing over his trembling fingers.
An old, slender barkeep approached, sliding a mug of strong ale across the table without a word as Caspian tossed him a coin worth well over the price.
The man grabbed the coin and nodded. “Rough morning?”
Caspian grunted in response, wrapping his hands around the mug. “You could say that. Just keep them coming, and you’ll get more of those.”
The barkeep started wiping down the table next to him with a rag. “You know, there’s a big festival going on. I’m sure someone like you could get better ale out there.”
“Not looking to talk,” Caspian muttered, taking a long swig of ale.
The barkeep shrugged. “Fair enough. But you should know I’m a good listener. And I’ve seen plenty of war, too. Sometimes, keeping it all inside can really tear you up.”
As the barkeep swung his rag over his shoulder and headed back behind the bar, Caspian caught sight of a man seated there. He sat oddly, almost too rigidly. As luck would have it, the man turned and caught Caspian’s eye.
Caspian’s breath hitched, bile mixing with ale. The stranger’s eyes flickered blue with Storm. But how…there were no more Stormriders. Not here, at least. Not anymore.
As the man rose and approached his table, the air pressure in the tavern dropped.
The man slid into the booth across from Caspian, their skin crackling with little sparks that left behind burn marks. Around them, the tavern darkened, and the other patrons froze in mid-motion as if time itself feared this man.
“My little Stormrider,” the stranger intoned, his voice jovial. “You can’t continue to ignore me.”
Caspian didn’t know this man, not his face, at least. But no one knew his face, not really. This was the Storm. The fear that curled around his heart. The glee that left his fingers and tore through others.
“Father of Storms,” Caspian whispered.
“Yes,” the man said. “I have something for you.”
Screams filled Caspian’s ears as memories bubbled to the surface. He balled his hands into fists. “No. I’ve given enough.”
The man smiled, tilting his head as he laughed, skin blistering around his lips. “A storm is coming, and I’ll need you to weather it.”
Weather it? The war should be over. Instead, it carries on. It always carries on.
Caspian’s rage was white hot inside him, beaming down on the chasm of guilt that tore at him every day. Sparks jolted out of him, exploding his glass and burning the table.
“I lost everything!” The words felt as though they were ripped from his throat. His tears burned. “My soldiers, my friends, my…my love.” He let the memory in—a warrior like him, with eyes of blue and a smile that could melt glaciers. “I have no one!”
He pulled on the energy, the electricity begging for release. His vision blurred, and the tavern warped.
The man across from him frowned, staring at a table between them.
He met Caspian’s eyes and smiled. “Not yet, I see. Well, in time, I suppose.”
The man clapped his hands, then crumbled to ash.
Caspian vibrated with a tempest unlike anything he’d held before. Who knows how far the destruction would carry if he let it go?
Would he even care?
Would it matter?
Would it—
The tavern vanished, and Caspian fell onto a bed of sharp pine needles, staring at the towering trees above him.
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So the Father of Storms crashes Caspian's drink, says a storm is coming, then just crumbles to ash. What do you think he actually wants from him?