Cold, the light was cold. He lay upon the obsidian slab and stared into the eternal night with its myriad stars. The small exoplanet, a rogue bit of debris lost without a star hurtling through the void would be his tomb, his prison. A forgotten place with no tie to any future home or possible discovery beyond an infinitesimal happenchance which, he knew, the old gods would see to it that it would never happen—not until they wanted him back. There was some warmth there, some comfort. They had not destroyed him, only put him on ice for later.
On Ice
Tale Told 