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Despite what one may think, it's not easy to trap a powerful soul in one place.
Skilled as the King of the Dead may be, he simply cannot contain what was never meant to be kept still in the first place.
.. His revival wasn't some sudden phenomenon of gaining consciousness, like many may assume. It was a slow, careful thing of piecing together pieces that slipped through the cracks.
It would never have been enough, if not for Metta. His survival was crucial, as the anchor that held everything together, as dark that invited more dark in.
None of his children were particularly competent or capable. They did what they were supposed to and they filled their role, and this one was always meant to help Him.
No matter what he may think, he was never truly alone. He was there, pulling him along a path, straying him away from anything that may cause him to fault before it was due time.
As such, it was more of a slow build up of emotions and thoughts, all of which concentrated at a point, being amplified by anchors, being strung back together.
But the first time it was enough to spew words was when that child walked into his grave. Barring nothing but the creatures that will ultimately be their downfall.
It was always rather idiotic of humans to allow such lack of discipline and care to kill them, though perhaps He's being too lenient with their intelligent capabilities.
Soft footsteps followed by loud clapping of flat feet, followed by heavy walking, followed by the flapping of wings. Heart, by claw, by fang, by talon, if the humans already dared to steal from Him, the least they could do is have the capacity to do it correctly.
Creatures who once held their heads down and followed orders now became disobedient blunt rebels with none the bite to match the bark. It was annoying and buzzing and bright, and it was severally disappointing.
He knew how to beckon to sharpen the teeth, He knew how to make them dig into the flesh and not around it.
But not yet.
Last time, it seemed His warning wasn't enough to scare them away, but this time it will be. This time, the rats huddled together for warmth and it will be their downfall.
He is not dumb, not even in this state, not even as He feels one of his own parts get sniffled out like a barely lit flame, He can sense it in the air. The disgusting, nauseating feeling of spring.
It annoyed Him. It made His pit want to lash out and snuff out and drag down the broken treacherous being in the area, but He doesn't yet.
He's yet incomplete.. And she, as much as it pained him to even consider, had a roll to play. False hope crushed under the weight and sheer amount of despair.
... She cannot hold on for too long, He saw this previously, at the last crusade of this kind. Once she beckles, it'll be that much easier to crush whatever hope they have left. This time, He'll be sure it will stick.
She has far outlived her usefulness, anyway.
He is not shocked that He feels an anchor fall, but it doesn't make Him any less agitated. All of them have become softened by simply being next to the vermin and it was showing.
Still, he feels himself grow more, he feels the needlessly delicate human floors He is standing on, and he can now feel the harsh storm outside, howling for Him and what's to come.
The child seems more determined when they cross paths and He spews truth at them, they simply run further up with more determination than ever, but He can feel the cracks.
He can hear the staggered chirping and breathing, the worried and weaker energy, Spring has started shifting to fall, and soon..
The winds grow harsher, simply less constrained by its disgustingly mortal shape. A waste, if nothing else. But it was still as sharp and as turned as ever, and not even time could stop it.
He shifts through the walls and climbs up to shadow the moon, to cover and taint what has been His and His alone.
At this top, it seems like some of the vermin try to advance before their ringleader. As foolish as the child may be, those disrupting the formation are far worse.
The ground quaked as if in agreement with Him, and the storm starts to lighten the sky and deafen the cries below. He almost didn't notice the thundering energy being free from everything else that came into focus.
The child stands proud, in front of Him and what will finally set Him free.
The sky and ground laugh along with Him, the wind picking up, the fire igniting below.
Slowly, one by one, his energy is merged yet again. He's one with the depths of the sea, the eye of the storm, the ignitor, the Ill omen.
Shade by shade, He comes together, piece by piece. He stands before the the shaking vermin below.
The child's face shows a crack of doubt, the sky stills, there is a brief pass where Autumn falls to Winter, and in that moment -
- His last weaving pieces come together around the point, and He is whole again.