Stripped of the Frost

[Treadwell]

"Abuse of power, Mister Treadwell. A wall of ice in the middle of spring? It's simply too obvious. Too many will suspect. Too many will know."

The voice from behind is soft and lyrical, though it carries a stony harshness to its elven tone. At this, Aloisius Treadwell turns his horse around, no longer facing the shattered and melting ice around the sword on the outskirts of Myrken Wood. There stands a lone elf, frail and thin with long silvery-blond hair and a simple, snug-fitting gray-green shimmering tunic and pair of pants.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You are well aware that we have been watching you, sir, not only in your daily life but also in your yearly visit to the children who might believe in Father Winter. . . our Father Winter, sir, who began, as you well know, as a tradition of the elves."

"Why, errmm, yes, yes. Do tell what the problem is, lad, hmm hmm?"

At that, the elf in question merely raises a hand to the remains of Treadwell's hastily and recently constructed wall.

"That, and any other number of incidents in the past year and a half as you humans name the time. There have been incidents where you have told others apart from your wife, which is something strictly forbidden, there have been times when you have used your gift of the Frost to manipulate the course of nature in both the local weather and local births, and there have been situations where you have been unable to separate yourself from the secret you should be guarding with your life, Aloisius Treadwell. Because of these, we must help you in such separation."

"Wh--whatever are you talking about, sir? I've done nothing wrong, have I? Surely not!"

"Aloisius Horatio Treadwell of Myrken Wood, you have been weighed, and even a man of your girth has been found wanting. You will retain a portion of your toymaking prowess, as some of that has been learned and the rest magically granted, but the rest of your life and your days. . . will be considerably different. May you learn who you truly are once again, old one, and may you learn the consequences of stepping beyond your boundaries."

The elf raises his hands, which begin to glow the same bluish white that Treadwell himself usually shines on bringing forth his wintry magics. There is an excruciating and stabbing cold in the tax collector's chest and arm, and then oblivion. He wakes in bed at home, alone, bathed in sweat, and shivering from the heat of his covers. . . and despite the feverish heat, there is a coldness--an emptiness--within as he lies there shuddering.