4.4.25 - The Unmelting Ice of Frozen Joy pt 8

4.4.25 - The Unmelting Ice of Frozen Joy pt 8

Chapter 8: The Last Drop of Loquata

[Image: The trio descending the snowy slope of Mount Sheydlandia, the glowing fruit and unmelting ice secured in their bags.]

The mountain wind whispered behind them, trailing memories of frost, fire, and the flicker of a frozen betrayal.

As they descended Mount Sheydlandia, Zsolista kept her hand pressed gently against the satchel where the Loquata Fruit and Unmelting Ice glowed faintly—two impossibly rare treasures, warm against the cold.

But their minds were heavier than their bags.

Zsolista:
“Why wouldn’t the Faeri King want to help someone like Elsanna… if her need was real?”

Baby:
“Why did she have to trick us?”

Boka:
“And why didn’t anyone tell us the fruit had a limit?! Boka-boka~!”

The snow fell silently, but their questions rang louder than any storm. Each step down the mountain felt heavier, not from fatigue, but from the weight of what they had seen—and what they had spared. The wind no longer hissed behind them. It listened.

There was only one place to find answers.

They returned to the forest.

But it had changed.

Once-vibrant trees now slouched like old bones, their leaves stiffened by worry. The colors that once shimmered in every moss patch and fern curl were now muted, cloaked in a gentle gray. The air hung heavy, not lifeless, but expectant. The life they had protected still lingered—but dimly, like a lantern nearing its last drop of oil.

The Faeri King’s hovel remained—part home, part ruin. The roof was stitched with ivy. Smoke curled from a crooked chimney like a tired ribbon. Beyond it, ancient ruins curled along the cave’s edge like sleeping stones, waiting for something worth waking for.

They entered quietly, boots soft on the root-tangled floor, their breaths quiet but unshaken.

Zsolista:
“We have the fruit. But… Elsanna used it again. And vanished.”

The Faeri King’s eyes dimmed.

[Image: A cracked throne surrounded by forest folk, with the King standing somberly in the center.]

Faeri King Rizzoff:
“Then it has been used twice. We have only one use left. It must go to the forest. If not… the seed inside will sleep for another thousand years.”

The room erupted.

Mush, a mushroom-bodied villager, sprang up, spongy arms flailing with urgency, his cap twitching as spores puffed out in panic.

Mush:
“Your life is forfeit if you do this, my King! Heal slowly! Lead us! If you leave, who will guard us when the frost returns? Who will speak to the trees when they forget our names?”

Others joined in—a weeping ivy nymph clutched her vines; a root-dwelling squirrel slammed its tiny fist; even the elder beetles clattered their wings in anxious rhythm. Cries of protest filled the air. Emotions cracked like ice on thawing ponds. The ground itself seemed to groan with divided feeling.

But the King raised a hand, and the chamber silenced.

His gaze moved not with sorrow, but with ancient calm. As if he had seen this moment in a dream long ago, and had made peace with its arrival.

Rizzoff:
“If the seed is not planted in life, it will never bloom again. You may find another king. But you will not find another Loquata.”

He bowed his head.

Rizzoff:
“I will live until the next bloom. Then, you must choose your new protector.”

It was not just wise.

It was love.

Bittersweet cheering followed—tears, yes, but also pride. The forest had known sorrow. It had known silence. But now, it remembered joy. The wind carried songs older than language, humming through branches like a mother remembering her child’s name. Even the oldest trees, those that had once wept amber, now rustled with cautious hope.

[Image: The forest folk embracing the King, vines and petals fluttering around them.]

One by one, the villagers embraced him. Moss children clung to his leg. Squirrels leapt onto his shoulders. Foxes cried quietly in the corners.

Zsolista stood nearby, still.

Then—her eyes widened.

Zsolista (whispering):
“If there are three drops… One for the forest. One for the king… then…”

She turned.
“What’s the last one for?”

Rizzoff looked into the fire.

Rizzoff:
“It is for a single soul. One who needs it most. We send it far—when we can. The final drop flows only for those who love without condition. It seeks them.

We do not always know their name. Sometimes, it finds a child with a broken heart. Sometimes, a dreamer about to forget their dream. The drop chooses, not because it is told, but because it remembers who kindness belongs to.”

Zsolista’s gaze turned toward the sky.

Zsolista:
“That’s why Elsanna couldn’t use it. She wanted love. But the fruit only listens to those who already have it.”

Rizzoff:
“…Which means more trouble may follow.”

That night, the cave filled with light and song.

[Image: A glowing campfire under twisted forest roots, with forest folk and animal spirits gathered around, laughing and singing with the trio.]

Mushrooms danced on tables. Fireflies played instruments. One of the dox painted Baby’s cheeks with glowing moss (she looked stunning).

The forest celebrated—not just the fruit’s return, but the heart that had carried it home.

Beneath the stars, Zsolista toasted the Bag of Wonderment.

Zsolista:
“To ice, to flowers, to friendship, and dessert!”

Boka grinned.
“Boka-boka~ To tasty endings!”

Baby nodded.
“It’s-a-baby~ Forever.”

Before the trio left, the King pulled them close.

Rizzoff:
“In one hundred years, the Loquata will bloom again. Come back, then. Witness the crowning of your forest’s new protector.”

They promised.

But deep down, they knew: the journey wasn’t over.

Not yet.

Somewhere out there, Elsanna was still searching. The sister still slept in a cradle of glimmering frost, her dream not yet finished. And the final drop still waited—quiet, unseen, tucked deep inside the fruit like a promise the world had not yet earned. It pulsed not with urgency, but with patience. It would wait a hundred years if it must. Or one tear. Or one act of impossible kindness.

But first—

Zsolista (smiling):
“We still have a dessert to make.”

She held up the Unmelting Ice, its surface glimmering like a frozen star. Baby cradled the Flower of Eternal Compassion with the care of someone holding sunlight in their palms. Boka rubbed his tummy with dramatic flair, already imagining the flavors.

They stood in a perfect triangle, light from the forest fire catching the shimmer of their artifacts. It wasn’t just a recipe. It was a reunion. A tribute. A gift to the Queen—and to themselves.

The recipe was ready.

And somewhere far away, the Queen Mother’s coronation feast awaited its final, magical dish—a dessert born of trial, love, and legend.

 

                                        Chapters for Unmelting Ice of Frozen Joy

Chapter 1 of 8: The Unmelting Ice of Frozen Joy

Chapter 2 of 8: The Slobbery Squirrel Stampede

Chapter 3 of 8: The Loquata of Desire and Fire

Chapter 4 of 8: The Curse of Forest King Rizzoff

Chapter 5 of 8: The Castle of the Frozen Mountain

Chapter 6 of 8: The Heart of the Frozen Castle

Chapter 7 of 8: The Choice Beneath the Ice

Chapter 8 of 8: The Last Drop of Loquata

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