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[columns][center][item=grave dust][/center][nextcol][color=transparent]..[/color][nextcol][color=#977B6D][font=garamond][size=7][size=4][b]the king is dead, long live the king[/b][/size][/size][/font][/color]
[size=2]written by Disillusionist / special thanks to Enriana
[color=#9494A9]5,291 words[/color][/size][/columns]
[color=#8F7D8B][i]Origenes lay in the darkness, and his life flashed before his eyes. The floor beneath him, rough-hewn and sandpapery, had grown slick with his blood. And cold...it was so cold. Bright lights danced around him, drifting back and forth like curious fish, and over it all he could hear[/i] the other’s[i] voice taunting him.
He had learned to shut out the words some time ago. If he looked at the world through half-closed eyes and let his mind drift, he could almost believe he was back at the Facility. And once again he was a child...[/i][/color]
[color=#545365]The [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/drs/2122600]Runecatcher Facility[/url] brought together researchers from around Sornieth — and the Runecatchers themselves. The dragons of this latter group looked, to all intents and purposes, like common Pearlcatchers. There was some debate about what they really were, though, for while the skin of many dragons bore runes much like the ones Runecatchers had, the Runecatchers were special in that invoking their runes unleashed power — with varying results. One Runecatcher might find themselves possessed of the ability to manipulate time; another might discover that they could suddenly speak to birds and beasts. What made the runes dangerous, however, was how unpredictable they were. No one knew what magic runes would call up, not until they were invoked — and at times, the results could be fatal.
The Facility housed many Runecatchers, and there, researchers could study the magic generated by invoked runes. There were also special enclosures where youngsters could invoke their magic without (hopefully) injuring themselves or other dragons. Origenes still had vague memories of being in one such room. He squinted at the dark, ink-like markings on his hide. Though he couldn’t even read yet, something in the runes spoke to him, and he found his jaws moving, saying the sounds they held....
He faltered as the symbols writhed across his skin, seeming too ooze languorously. So caught up was he that he didn’t hear the groan of rivets loosening, the rumble of various metal objects as they strained towards him — like compass needles pointing north. And then an alarm blared, and his concentration was broken. Things settled down. His [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=30497843]father[/url] came inside to pick him up, saying, “That’s enough for today, Ori,” and he was led back out, past scores of scientists scribbling furiously in their notebooks.
Origenes had been born in the Facility. While his mother, [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=30135929]Hecate[/url], was a creator of illusions, his father’s magic played a more supportive role, enhancing Hecate’s illusions, making them more lifelike — yet at the same time decreasing her control over them. It seemed Origenes had inherited some of his father’s magic; it was later determined that he, too, had the ability to affect other dragons’ abilities. He could enhance them, enfeeble them, or even disrupt them. The problem was that he didn’t seem to have much control over what [i]exactly[/i] happened.
“Here. Try this one.” Aether held out a metal spoon. Young Origenes squinted at it, and suddenly the spoon was yanked out of his father’s grasp, flying straight towards him. He yelped and instinctively turned away — it hit his side with a metallic [i]ping![/i] and stuck there as if glued. He twisted around to look at it, poking and prodding with his claws. He lifted the spoon away and let go, and it glommed onto him again.
Aether laughed at his son’s antics. “Maybe these?” He held out a box of ball bearings. They flew into the air and stuck all over Origenes, and suddenly there were small metal spheres all over him, rolling around on his skin every time he moved. He and Aether stared at each other, and they began to laugh at how ludicrous the young Runecatcher looked. “It’s pimples! I have pimples!” Origenes squealed, rolling around on the floor.
“Yes, you do, it’s horrendous!” Aether pulled a face. The researcher who’d been standing nearby approached with a pocket knife, and calmly Aether turned, grasped the Spiral’s forearm. “I think we’ll continue our studies without sharp objects, thanks,” he stated. His voice wasn’t loud or angry, and the smile remained on his face, but Origenes remembered that moment very well. He could recall his father’s tone and expression with more clarity than other incidents, including when he inadvertently exploded some machines brought in from the Shifting Expanse.
Those machines were the first indication he had that there were other lands abroad. Most of his early lessons were dedicated to discovering and controlling his magic, but now he realized he wanted to learn [i]more[/i]. When he asked about the land those strange, sparking machines had come from, the researchers were happy to answer. They showered him with books, pamphlets, and stories about the Shifting Expanse. His parents attempted to give him a more well-rounded view of the world, starting by telling him about the Sunbeam Ruins that surrounded the Facility, but the Shifting Expanse was Origenes’ first love, and he spent many happy days sprawled in his room, reading all he could about it.
This didn’t change much as he grew older: Those visions of endlessly shifting dunes, an unfettered sky, and storm clouds rolling overhead called to him in a way the lab and its surrounds never could. He finished his lessons and left the Facility as a young adult, and no one was really surprised when he soon joined a surveyors’ caravan bound for the desert. His magical abilities proved to be very helpful to the other dragons, and he spent several fascinating weeks with them, studying the land and testing it for any resources it might hold. The surveyors completed their mission, and he returned home with his payment and a sack full of interesting rocks. The rocks were the foundation of his collection, the first of many bits of junk — or hidden treasure — he would bring back from his travels.
It wasn’t long before he left the Facility again. He journeyed to the same destination, returned home...and then he would leave again. His stays at the Facility grew shorter and farther apart until he was generally known as a rootless vagabond, happy to explore the world. It seemed to be more than that, however — keener dragons, looking at him, understood that he wasn’t just wandering aimlessly. He was looking for something...and he would know what it was only when he saw it.[/color]
[url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2257922][img]https://i.imgur.com/PRyH9lP.png[/img][/url]
[color=#545365]One day, an earthquake struck the Shifting Expanse. It was not devastating, as it occurred in a sparsely-inhabited corner of the desert, but it had staggering repercussions for Origenes. Some days after the quake, he received word from his contacts: a band of Serthis had been exploring the region and had discovered that a tomb had risen from the sand. If it had ever been surrounded by other structures, there was no evidence of them — they were probably still buried deep beneath the ground. The tomb itself wasn’t very impressive; it was a low, blocky building, the corner of which was jutting up from the ground. An entrance was partly visible — with some digging, it would be possible to squeeze inside.
Origenes was ecstatic. As far as he knew, no one else had been told of this discovery. All the ruins he’d visited so far had already been picked clean and thoroughly studied. No mystery at all...But now he had a chance to make his own findings!
The Serthis agreed to assist him. The next morning, accompanied by two guides, he tramped over the dunes. The guides pointed the tomb out to him: It wasn’t much, just a bit of rock poking out of the ground. But Origenes could see the dark opening that led inside. He and his companions scraped the sand away, and they stared into the sepulchral darkness, wondering what lay within. “I’ll go first,” Origenes offered. The Serthis were only too glad to agree.
The corridor was made of stone and fairly narrow. The walls and floor bore no markings, but still Origenes' heart raced within him. Just the size of the place told him that this was no draconic tomb. This might have belonged to ancient Beastclans...or even a forgotten race of the Second Age.
“Who d’you think is resting here?” one of the Serthis asked. Origenes looked over his shoulder at them. “It’s hard to say. Without any inscriptions, I guess it could be anyone. Maybe a soldier or a well-off commoner. Someone with enough money for a tomb, but relatively unimportant.”
“Money’s always important,” the other Serthis joked, a sharp-fanged smile shining on her face. She and her companion chuckled heartily. Their laughter echoed through the corridor, bouncing off the walls....Origenes’ ear twitched. He turned forward again.
“I think there’s a room just ahead,” he said. The Serthis were suddenly alert; they joined Origenes, lanterns held high.
The corridor ended at a small, rectangular room. It was made of the same rough stone as the rest of the tomb — and in the middle, equally rough, dusty, and unremarkable, was a stone sarcophagus.
“So there [i]is[/i] someone here....Now that we’ve confirmed it, it’s probably best to go back,” one of the Serthis murmured. He reached down and cautiously loosened his knife in its sheath.
“It’s undisturbed,” Origenes breathed, missing the point entirely. His golden eyes shone with excitement. “This is...It’s a great discovery!”
“Shula’s right. There are no treasures or relics here. It’s just an empty hole in the ground. Best to leave these kinds of places alone. The poor didn’t have much in life — let them have their peace in death.”
Origenes turned to look at his companions. He seemed a bit injured. “I’m not going to touch anything. But I [i]would[/i] like to get a better look.”
The Serthis exchanged wary glances. And then the lady shrugged. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. But we must pay our respects before we leave.”
Despite her stern tone, Origenes was glad for the advice. All the tombs he’d visited so far had been cleaned out, their remains moved to safer locations. He’d just poked around those places, oohed and aahed at the tomb decorations, and then gone away again. Apparently visiting an unplundered tomb entailed more care. He did wonder about the best way to pay respects, though: The sarcophagus wasn’t large, and its shape hinted at a non-draconic occupant. Would invoking the Eleven’s blessings even be appropriate here?
Nondescript walls, nondescript ceilings and floor...At last Origenes walked up to the bier. The sides of it were blank and unadorned — but as he leaned over it, he saw designs etched onto the sarcophagus lid. Representations of robes, a face...and a crown?
“This is no commoner’s tomb — it belongs to a king!” he gasped. His voice rang through the room, the echoes bouncing off the walls: [i]a king...a king...a king...[/i]
Something was wrong. The echoes...they weren’t growing fainter. They were becoming louder. [i]Deeper.[/i] And then with a sickening lurch of fear, Origenes and the Serthis realized the words were being overlaid with a greater, darker voice.
“[i]A king...a king...[b]a king[/b][/i]...”
Suddenly the room was ablaze with white light. Origenes and the Serthis cried out and cowered in terror. They peeked through their fingers, and as their vision adjusted, they now saw that the room had changed. Although it was still made of crude stone blocks, these were now covered by a skin of white light. Strange markings danced within the light, crawling over the stone.
“This isn’t right! Helena, we have to go!” Shula was screaming. He and Helena gestured wildly at Origenes. The Pearlcatcher started towards them — only to find himself jerked up short. He looked down: The magic was under his feet, too, and the runes had pooled around him, crawling up over his paws. Holding him in place as if he were stuck in a tarpit. Most of them remained anchored around his feet, but a steady stream of them was marching up over his skin, and where they touched him, he felt an odd, numbing tingle. Numbing...[i]He was being paralyzed.[/i]
“Get out of here!” he screamed at Shula and Helena, just as the first of those markings reached his ear. And with them, a voice—
“[i]Welcome back...[/i]King.”
A terrible groan thundered through the room. Suddenly, with an earsplitting crash, a block of stone landed next to Origenes, narrowly missing him. He looked up in terror. The ceiling was moving, slowly beginning to buckle down. The rocks would fall, crushing him, and there was something else just beyond them. Something that gleamed...
Origenes redoubled his efforts to break loose. Beneath the film of hostile magic, his own runes shimmered. Magic welled up within him as his fear escalated. But there was a thrill of hope as well — if he panicked enough (and he certainly was panicking now!) his magic would be able to disrupt this spell. Then he could break loose...he hoped.
[i]And there![/i] With a great tearing noise, Origenes ripped one foreleg from the floor. An angry hiss sounded in his ear, barely drowned out by Shula’s and Helena’s screams. He managed to dodge one stone, then another; he ripped both hind legs loose....
Shula’s shriek reached fever pitch: “A SWORD! Origenes, [i]there’s a sword above you[/i]!”
And there was. The lower, false ceiling had fallen away, revealing a gleaming blade that had been concealed behind the stones. It must’ve been enchanted — it was clearly old, but it was still very, very sharp.
Origenes ripped his last leg loose. He darted backwards—
His magic, his own blessed, infuriating, contrary magic doomed him this time. It freed him from the glowing snares — but it also called the sword to him. The point angled slightly to follow him, and then it came down, right between his shoulder blades.
It drove into the stones with supernatural force as the light reached blinding intensity. Shula and Helena fled, screaming all the while. They didn’t try to reach him, but then, why should they? They had seen the sword go completely through Origenes, and in their experience, nobody could survive that.
Yet he had. And now the question was: For how long?[/color]
[url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2257922][img]https://i.imgur.com/PRyH9lP.png[/img][/url]
[color=#545365]No light reached the surface of the desert from the inside of the tomb. The sand shivered slightly and then settled down, settled down....
No more rocks fell. The loft that lay beyond them was as nondescript as the rest of the tomb. The magic skin that crawled over everything tensed up, clumping in certain points, and then it gently broke apart, individual pieces coalescing into floating balls of light. One drifted near Origenes’ nose. He blinked through tears, trying to focus on it; shapes appeared to move within the light, but then the orb drifted away before he could make them out.
Other orbs swirled together. More and more, forming a vague shape...a faint column of glowing light. Not a dragon. Maybe...?
“[i]I greet you, King...though once again you come as an intruder.[/i]” The words whispered through Origenes’ mind. They seemed to come from all around him, and the orbs of light drifted close, dancing past like dandelion seeds on the wind.
“[i]I knew from the beginning that you would find this tomb. Even in death, there is no peace from you.[/i]”
Origenes groaned. He was sprawled flat on the floor, the sword still piercing his back and chest. Through sheer luck — or perhaps his own magnetic magic — it had not struck any vital organs. His heart was still beating, lungs still regulating air...and blood was flowing out of him, pooling upon the floor. Yes, he was still alive. But perhaps not for much longer.
“Who...are you?” he managed to gasp. He felt he was owed that much, at least.
“[i]You do not know me?[/i]” Suddenly the atmosphere changed. Where it had been calm mere seconds ago, suddenly the air was alive, almost crackling with anticipation. The figure glided closer, contorting grotesquely downwards so that its head, if it had one, was next to Origenes’ ear.
“[i]How fitting that you are forgotten here and now, Great King, even by your current incarnation,[/i]” the voice hissed. “[i]Once in a bygone era we ruled over countless subjects. We wore crowns and robes of gilt, and the luxuries of this world were ours. We signed peace treaties. They did not last long....You always wanted more.[/i]”
Many of the orbs were crowding closer now. Again, in their radiance, Origenes fancied he could see shapes. Suggestions of movement...palm trees waving in the wind. Ships with broad white sails. And stone buildings rising from the sand: not rude, low, blocky things, but structures of pale stone, towering over the desert dunes.
“[i]We exchanged our crowns for helmets and our robes for armor. We put down the treaties and took up arms, and then we went to war. You...were the victor.[/i]” It obviously hurt the spirit to say it; his voice became quiet and slow. Origenes almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“[i]You struck me down, and had it not been for my devoted generals, you would have had my corpse desecrated as proof of your victory. But my soldiers bore me away before that could happen. We were losing the war. But we would not grant you that satisfaction.[/i]
“[i]I was taken to the remotest point of my kingdom, where the war had not yet reached. Healers tried to save me, but there was no hope. At last, I called a soothsayer. She read the signs and told me that countless years afterwards, you would come to me again.[/i]” A deep note of satisfaction stole into that voice. “[i]And then I would have my revenge.[/i]”
“But I...don’t...know you!” Origenes protested. He actually wanted to say, “That wasn’t me!” but now he wasn’t sure. Was it the blood loss talking, or something else? Even when he closed his eyes, the images remained. A feeling that ran deeper than nostalgia, tying him to this place, always calling him back to the desert. And the strange sensation of disappointment: Whenever he visited ruins from the Second Age, he went in knowing that they were empty. And yet he was always looking for something, [i]anything[/i], he could take back with him. Not even to study or to donate to a museum, just to take back, to claim, to own. He always—
He remembered the spirit’s words with a terrible chill: [i]You always wanted more.[/i]
The spirit hissed sibilantly, “[i]It is fitting that you have forgotten yourself — but I would have you remember again, for my satisfaction.[/i]” Origenes could almost see the smile on his face. Vicious, mirthless and cold. “[i]I would like to see the recognition dawn in your eyes, the understanding that here, you meet an ignominious end — as once I met mine.[/i]”
“No, I don’t remember...I...” Origenes struggled to turn his head away, but the light was growing brighter and brighter, filling his vision. It leaked in even through his closed eyelids, and strange things stirred, deep beneath the layers of his mind...[/color]
[color=#8F7D8B][i]The sun beat down, magnifying the pale sand’s brilliance a hundredfold. In the distance, beyond the shimmering heatwaves, dark masses surged across the ground. They came together with a sound like distant thunder, and though it wasn’t clear, something whispered to Origenes — or the being who would [/i]become[i] Origenes — that he was watching a great battle.
Words, just behind his shoulder. Someone was speaking. The language he could no longer understand, yet his mind took those alien sounds and gave them meaning. Confidence...surety of victory. He felt a smile snake over his face.
Far below him, in the valley, the dark masses pulled away from each other. Where minutes before there had only been a flat white plain, now it was dark with dead bodies and blood.
An eye-blink, as his memories flitted past things he could no longer remember...then they stopped when he heard his name. His old name. His kingly name.
A report of victory: His foe was somewhere in that valley, dead, or nearly dead, after an unsuccessful attempt to rally his troops. He felt his fingers twitch. Finally, his target was within reach. He’d grasp it like an eagle descending upon its prey...
Another voice came. He turned, squinting into the sunlight as somebody approached him. Words rumbled up from his heart; he was saying that he would go down into the valley now — alone, if necessary.
And the words the other said to him, cool and unruffled, were, “It does not behoove a king to travel unprotected.”[/i][/color]
[color=#545365]Deep within the tomb, Origenes echoed, “Unpro...tected...?”
“[i]Yes[/i],” hissed the spirit. His own hand stretched forward, towards Origenes’ eyes....
A tremor. Curtains of dust drifted down from the ceiling. The luminous hand was snatched back.
Origenes peeked through his eyelids again. All around him, the walls were rippling, the curtains of light peeling back as if blown by a phantom wind. A rectangular darkness gaped in them: the passage down which he and the Serthis had come.
It was shadowed — but not for long. Light was approaching from the other side.[/color]
[url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2257922][img]https://i.imgur.com/PRyH9lP.png[/img][/url]
[color=#8F7D8B][i]The king looked down from the mountaintop. The remnants of his foe’s army were in disarray, fleeing in the wake of their leader’s death. They would be torn into tatters, driven into the endless expanse of the desert. Only death awaited them there — but surely some of them would prefer it to judgment at his hands. He was not a merciful sovereign.
Few could stand tall beneath his glare — and one of them did so now, calmly explaining how unbecoming it was for a king to traverse the battlefield alone. The king bristled — was he not the victor? Could he not display his power now, over his fallen foes?
“Skulking alone on a battlefield, in the aftermath of a battle, is more fitting for a jackal,” the guard replied. “Let us accompany you with all the pomp and glory a ruler of your prowess deserves.”
The face and tone were impassive, but he admired the artfulness of those words — and more besides. “Let me be guided by your battleworn wisdom...Lady.” And again, he smiled.[/i][/color]
[url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2257922][img]https://i.imgur.com/PRyH9lP.png[/img][/url]
[color=#545365]The [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=31549106]Guardian[/url] came down the passage with her head held low. But here in the chamber she had more room, and her eyes flashed as she raised her gaze. Pale eyes, as luminous as the magic dancing around her paws. Magic...markings...[i]runes[/i].
She was a stranger, said the conscious part of Origenes’ mind. He’d never seen her before, and her eyes told him that she’d been hatched in a far-off land. Yet something about her...was familiar. It wasn’t the color of her scales or the shape of her crests, but something that ran deeper, the sense of [i]presence[/i] about her. It was like hearing a childhood lullaby sung anew by a different bard, and the truth of it struck his soul deeper than any chord ever could, as deeply as the memories pulled up by the spectral king.
“[i]How are you here?[/i]”
It was that same king speaking. His voice was now thin with dismay.
“[i]You...why...How is this...?[/i]”
But the Guardian was paying no attention to him. Her eyes were instead pinned on Origenes. A great weight seemed to fly off her shoulders as she straightened up noticeably. In a deep voice, she rumbled, “I have found my Charge.”
And again, those words — [i]It does not behoove a king to travel unprotected.[/i][/color]
[url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2257922][img]https://i.imgur.com/PRyH9lP.png[/img][/url]
[color=#8F7D8B][i]The bodies lay twisted and still, slowly stiffening in the unrelenting sun. There was no movement, save for scraps of cloth fluttering in the wind. The king looked round at the destruction, and he was pleased.
He expected his satisfaction to be mirrored on his guards’ faces, so he was surprised when one of them stared at him in horror. No, not at him...[/i]beyond[i] him. She stepped up to his side, as she always did, making ready to draw her blade....
The arrow struck: a soft, dull [/i]thud[i] that carried more impact than any thunderbolt. She was falling, falling...and then the world turned red. The deep, angry red of his rage as he rushed the archer who’d dared to fire. Everything vanished beneath a wave of red — so many enraged blows, stabs and slashes and kicks — everything was red, red, red...
It took some time for the red to subside, but when it did, the world was much less brighter than it had been before.
[/i]It does not behoove a king to travel unprotected.[i]
This one did now. He had to.
There were celebrations when he returned to his capital, but the cheers rang hollowly in his ears. For the first time in his life, he had an inkling of how his foes might feel. He had lost an army’s worth of men in that one warrior.
As for his bitter foe, there was no corpse to be reclaimed. He had been spirited away by his own protectors. Indeed, a king never travels alone. But someday, by fate or bad luck, he would be — just as the king who would become Origenes now was. Then, finally, revenge could be served.[/i]
But the question now was: Whose revenge?[/color]
[url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2257922][img]https://i.imgur.com/PRyH9lP.png[/img][/url]
[color=#545365]“You will not approach my Charge.” The Guardian’s voice was so deep, it shook more dust from the ceiling. She was standing by Origenes now, and she reached out to carefully pick him up.
The spirit hissed and extended a hand, fingers curving like claws. But the Guardian growled, and her own runes flashed blinding bright. The spirit was knocked away.
He twisted sinuously before he hit the wall, and suddenly he was surging towards them again, growing brighter and brighter as he neared. He screamed in desperate rage, clawing the air to tatters....
The next blast of light filled the room. This time, it was accompanied by a cold so deep it took Origenes’ breath away. He actually [i]heard[/i] it, minute crystals of ice driving into the light upon the walls. The crystals clumped together, sprouted into frost flowers — and tore the spell apart.
As quickly as it had come, the light faded. Origenes opened his eyes to see the motes of paleness darting around the room, jittering haphazardly, all control and coordination gone.
The spirit had come to a halt nearby. His substance — what remained of it — had been damaged, too. He now seemed like wisps of smoke fighting to cling together, rather than the pillar of light he’d been mere seconds ago.
“[i]So...it ends here.[/i]”
“You will not approach my Charge,” the Guardian repeated tonelessly. Her words brooked no more argument. The spirit, however, no longer cared about her. Instead, he addressed Origenes: “[i]Were you at least satisfied with what you wrested from me? All the glory, all the wealth...Was it worth our struggle?[/i]”
“I don’t know...I don’t remember.” Origenes coughed. Without knowing why, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
The spirit seemed to consider these words. He hung in the air for several moments, silent and unmoving.
“[i]In being forgotten, at least, we are equal,[/i]” he hissed — and forever, at last, he disappeared.
The spell began to fade. Lights dimmed, the room swam out of focus. Through the haze, Origenes saw the Guardian lower her head. She loosed a long, low cry.
The sound carried out through the tunnel: There was a flutter of wings, and they heard another voice calling. An older [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=26994079]Skydancer[/url] scampered out of the darkness, her pale eyes wide with consternation.
“Ashes, why did you—” She broke off with a little scream of horror. “[i]Goodness[/i]! This poor drake...What has...?!”
“He is my Charge. There was a...” Now that the spirit and his spells were gone, everybody’s minds seemed to be clearing. The Guardian, Ashes, was blinking slowly, seeming a bit befuddled. She had lifted Origenes up, and she readied to pull out the sword.
The Skydancer cursed. “Wait for me to prepare a healing spell first. Then take out the sword...and we must be ready to fly as fast as we can. I can stanch the bleeding, but he will need urgent care.
“Young sir, are you ready?” This to Origenes. He looked at the older dragoness and nodded feebly.
“This will hurt,” she warned. She held out her forepaws, which were now brimming with healing magic. The Guardian grasped the sword hilt, and she [i]pulled—[/i][/color]
[url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2257922][img]https://i.imgur.com/PRyH9lP.png[/img][/url]
[color=#545365]The next few days were a blur. Origenes seemed to remember that there was nearly always light around him, however. Sunshine reflecting off the sand dunes, lanterns burning throughout the night; and while he slept, his dreams were of shimmering marble columns and pristine white walls....
One day, he realized he wasn’t dreaming anymore. He raised his head slowly, looking out the window at distant white buildings. The Sunbeam Ruins.
His pearl was in its satchel beside him. It was a bit scuffed, but otherwise whole. He held it for a time before looking around the room. Those strange dreams tumbled through his head....
Dreams? Or [i]memories[/i]? The thick bandages wrapped around his torso suggested the latter. But how much of it had been real?
“Our scavengers found you out in the desert. They said something about an empty tomb, a ghost and broken spells,” the [url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=19148364]Chief Healer[/url] growled later on. She seemed to disapprove of the whole business.
Origenes carefully asked her, “Did I say...anything...in my sleep?”
“No. You were groaning too much to speak. Not that it’s surprising, with a wound that serious. You ought to ask the ones who found you. It was they who arranged for you to be brought back here.”
[i]Ashes.[/i] Origenes remembered the Guardian’s name, her smoke-colored scales. Runes spangling her body, as white as his were dark.
She entered the infirmary to check on him. Origenes was happy to see her; he appreciated the gesture, and furthermore...
“I had not encountered spirits before that day. I wasn’t sure how to react,” she explained later on, after the introductions. In the background, Pyrea moved around the infirmary, unobtrusively rearranging her supplies.
“Neither had I. I have to say I wasn’t expecting someone so hostile. Stories always talk about how ghosts rattle chains and shout ‘Boo!’ at you. This one...Well, they really gave me a run for my life.” Origenes laughed weakly at the pun. Pyrea turned to fix him with a disapproving glare, but Ashes was more thoughtful.
She bent closer to him. “The things he said...They were such strange things.”
“I’m not entirely sure I understood him, either.”
“It was such a bright room...and in the light, I caught...[i]flashes[/i]. Not bright bits of light, but rather...”
“Yes...I think I know what you mean.”
[i]Towering cities, distant dunes. The muffled roar of clashing swords and armor, bodies falling onto the sand. And red, a deep red, after something precious had been taken away...[/i]
“Where do you come from, Ashes?” Origenes asked quietly. “Have you been to the Shifting Expanse before?”
“My mentor and I have scavenged there often. But that was the first time I’d encountered something so strange.”
“Is scavenging the only reason you went there?”
“All Guardians must have a Charge,” she said stoutly. “But now that I have found you...I don’t know. Perhaps I will scavenge a little less.”
Origenes raised his head. “I would be happy to travel and explore further with you, Ashes. Why, that was what I was doing before I met you. I have been—”
“Yes, clearly you need a Guardian to keep you out of trouble,” she interrupted, and now he detected a sardonic note in her voice. He wasn’t offended, though — far from it. He couldn’t help laughing instead, for this, too, carried a familiarity that surpassed even the ages.
[i]It does not behoove a king[/i], current or former, [i]to travel unprotected[/i], after all.[/color]
[center][font=gabriola][size=6][color=#977B6D]T[/color][color=#9B806B]h[/color][color=#A08469]e[/color][color=#A48968]n[/color][color=#A88E66] [/color] [color=#AD9264]w[/color][color=#B19762]h[/color][color=#B59C61]o[/color][color=#BAA05F] [/color] [color=#BEA55D]w[/color][color=#B7A05E]a[/color][color=#AF9A5F]s[/color][color=#A89560] [/color] [color=#A09061]k[/color][color=#998A61]i[/color][color=#918562]n[/color][color=#8A7F63]g[/color][color=#827A64]?[/color]
[b][color=#77493F]W[/color][color=#7A504A]h[/color][color=#7E5855]o[/color][color=#815F60] [/color] [color=#85676A]w[/color][color=#886E75]a[/color][color=#8C7680]s[/color][color=#8F7D8B] [/color] [color=#857685]n[/color][color=#7B6F7E]o[/color][color=#726878]t[/color][color=#686172] [/color] [color=#5E5A6B]t[/color][color=#545365]h[/color][color=#5A5860]e[/color][color=#605D5C] [/color] [color=#666257]k[/color][color=#6D6853]i[/color][color=#736D4E]n[/color][color=#79724A]g[/color][color=#7F7745]?[/color][/b][/size][/font][/center]
[right][font=garamond]~ [url=https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sumerian_King_List#Dynasty_of_Akkad]Sumerian King List[/url][color=transparent]____________________[/right]
[right][font=Copperplate Gothic Light][color=#977B6D][size=5][b]~ The End[/b][/color][/size][/font][/right]
[size=2][color=#9494A9][b]Credits:[/b] Special thanks to [i]Enriana[/i] for information about Origenes' parents and the facility, as well as for creating and sharing the Runecatcher subspecies.[/color][/size]
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[center][color=#BBBABF][size=1][b]PREV.[/b][/size] [size=2][url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2323941/17#post_32803926]Dragon[/url] | [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2323941/1#post_2323941]Contents[/url] • Characters [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2323941/1#post_30507351]A-M[/url] [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2323941/1#post_30507353]N-Z[/url] • [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2323941/1#post_30507362]Stories Pt. 3[/url] | [/size][size=1][b]NEXT[/b][/size] [size=2][url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2323941/19#post_34811359]Dragon[/url][/color][/size][/center]
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the king is dead, long live the king
written by Disillusionist / special thanks to Enriana
5,291 words
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Origenes lay in the darkness, and his life flashed before his eyes. The floor beneath him, rough-hewn and sandpapery, had grown slick with his blood. And cold...it was so cold. Bright lights danced around him, drifting back and forth like curious fish, and over it all he could hear the other’s voice taunting him.
He had learned to shut out the words some time ago. If he looked at the world through half-closed eyes and let his mind drift, he could almost believe he was back at the Facility. And once again he was a child...
The Runecatcher Facility brought together researchers from around Sornieth — and the Runecatchers themselves. The dragons of this latter group looked, to all intents and purposes, like common Pearlcatchers. There was some debate about what they really were, though, for while the skin of many dragons bore runes much like the ones Runecatchers had, the Runecatchers were special in that invoking their runes unleashed power — with varying results. One Runecatcher might find themselves possessed of the ability to manipulate time; another might discover that they could suddenly speak to birds and beasts. What made the runes dangerous, however, was how unpredictable they were. No one knew what magic runes would call up, not until they were invoked — and at times, the results could be fatal.
The Facility housed many Runecatchers, and there, researchers could study the magic generated by invoked runes. There were also special enclosures where youngsters could invoke their magic without (hopefully) injuring themselves or other dragons. Origenes still had vague memories of being in one such room. He squinted at the dark, ink-like markings on his hide. Though he couldn’t even read yet, something in the runes spoke to him, and he found his jaws moving, saying the sounds they held....
He faltered as the symbols writhed across his skin, seeming too ooze languorously. So caught up was he that he didn’t hear the groan of rivets loosening, the rumble of various metal objects as they strained towards him — like compass needles pointing north. And then an alarm blared, and his concentration was broken. Things settled down. His father came inside to pick him up, saying, “That’s enough for today, Ori,” and he was led back out, past scores of scientists scribbling furiously in their notebooks.
Origenes had been born in the Facility. While his mother, Hecate, was a creator of illusions, his father’s magic played a more supportive role, enhancing Hecate’s illusions, making them more lifelike — yet at the same time decreasing her control over them. It seemed Origenes had inherited some of his father’s magic; it was later determined that he, too, had the ability to affect other dragons’ abilities. He could enhance them, enfeeble them, or even disrupt them. The problem was that he didn’t seem to have much control over what exactly happened.
“Here. Try this one.” Aether held out a metal spoon. Young Origenes squinted at it, and suddenly the spoon was yanked out of his father’s grasp, flying straight towards him. He yelped and instinctively turned away — it hit his side with a metallic ping! and stuck there as if glued. He twisted around to look at it, poking and prodding with his claws. He lifted the spoon away and let go, and it glommed onto him again.
Aether laughed at his son’s antics. “Maybe these?” He held out a box of ball bearings. They flew into the air and stuck all over Origenes, and suddenly there were small metal spheres all over him, rolling around on his skin every time he moved. He and Aether stared at each other, and they began to laugh at how ludicrous the young Runecatcher looked. “It’s pimples! I have pimples!” Origenes squealed, rolling around on the floor.
“Yes, you do, it’s horrendous!” Aether pulled a face. The researcher who’d been standing nearby approached with a pocket knife, and calmly Aether turned, grasped the Spiral’s forearm. “I think we’ll continue our studies without sharp objects, thanks,” he stated. His voice wasn’t loud or angry, and the smile remained on his face, but Origenes remembered that moment very well. He could recall his father’s tone and expression with more clarity than other incidents, including when he inadvertently exploded some machines brought in from the Shifting Expanse.
Those machines were the first indication he had that there were other lands abroad. Most of his early lessons were dedicated to discovering and controlling his magic, but now he realized he wanted to learn more. When he asked about the land those strange, sparking machines had come from, the researchers were happy to answer. They showered him with books, pamphlets, and stories about the Shifting Expanse. His parents attempted to give him a more well-rounded view of the world, starting by telling him about the Sunbeam Ruins that surrounded the Facility, but the Shifting Expanse was Origenes’ first love, and he spent many happy days sprawled in his room, reading all he could about it.
This didn’t change much as he grew older: Those visions of endlessly shifting dunes, an unfettered sky, and storm clouds rolling overhead called to him in a way the lab and its surrounds never could. He finished his lessons and left the Facility as a young adult, and no one was really surprised when he soon joined a surveyors’ caravan bound for the desert. His magical abilities proved to be very helpful to the other dragons, and he spent several fascinating weeks with them, studying the land and testing it for any resources it might hold. The surveyors completed their mission, and he returned home with his payment and a sack full of interesting rocks. The rocks were the foundation of his collection, the first of many bits of junk — or hidden treasure — he would bring back from his travels.
It wasn’t long before he left the Facility again. He journeyed to the same destination, returned home...and then he would leave again. His stays at the Facility grew shorter and farther apart until he was generally known as a rootless vagabond, happy to explore the world. It seemed to be more than that, however — keener dragons, looking at him, understood that he wasn’t just wandering aimlessly. He was looking for something...and he would know what it was only when he saw it.
One day, an earthquake struck the Shifting Expanse. It was not devastating, as it occurred in a sparsely-inhabited corner of the desert, but it had staggering repercussions for Origenes. Some days after the quake, he received word from his contacts: a band of Serthis had been exploring the region and had discovered that a tomb had risen from the sand. If it had ever been surrounded by other structures, there was no evidence of them — they were probably still buried deep beneath the ground. The tomb itself wasn’t very impressive; it was a low, blocky building, the corner of which was jutting up from the ground. An entrance was partly visible — with some digging, it would be possible to squeeze inside.
Origenes was ecstatic. As far as he knew, no one else had been told of this discovery. All the ruins he’d visited so far had already been picked clean and thoroughly studied. No mystery at all...But now he had a chance to make his own findings!
The Serthis agreed to assist him. The next morning, accompanied by two guides, he tramped over the dunes. The guides pointed the tomb out to him: It wasn’t much, just a bit of rock poking out of the ground. But Origenes could see the dark opening that led inside. He and his companions scraped the sand away, and they stared into the sepulchral darkness, wondering what lay within. “I’ll go first,” Origenes offered. The Serthis were only too glad to agree.
The corridor was made of stone and fairly narrow. The walls and floor bore no markings, but still Origenes' heart raced within him. Just the size of the place told him that this was no draconic tomb. This might have belonged to ancient Beastclans...or even a forgotten race of the Second Age.
“Who d’you think is resting here?” one of the Serthis asked. Origenes looked over his shoulder at them. “It’s hard to say. Without any inscriptions, I guess it could be anyone. Maybe a soldier or a well-off commoner. Someone with enough money for a tomb, but relatively unimportant.”
“Money’s always important,” the other Serthis joked, a sharp-fanged smile shining on her face. She and her companion chuckled heartily. Their laughter echoed through the corridor, bouncing off the walls....Origenes’ ear twitched. He turned forward again.
“I think there’s a room just ahead,” he said. The Serthis were suddenly alert; they joined Origenes, lanterns held high.
The corridor ended at a small, rectangular room. It was made of the same rough stone as the rest of the tomb — and in the middle, equally rough, dusty, and unremarkable, was a stone sarcophagus.
“So there is someone here....Now that we’ve confirmed it, it’s probably best to go back,” one of the Serthis murmured. He reached down and cautiously loosened his knife in its sheath.
“It’s undisturbed,” Origenes breathed, missing the point entirely. His golden eyes shone with excitement. “This is...It’s a great discovery!”
“Shula’s right. There are no treasures or relics here. It’s just an empty hole in the ground. Best to leave these kinds of places alone. The poor didn’t have much in life — let them have their peace in death.”
Origenes turned to look at his companions. He seemed a bit injured. “I’m not going to touch anything. But I would like to get a better look.”
The Serthis exchanged wary glances. And then the lady shrugged. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. But we must pay our respects before we leave.”
Despite her stern tone, Origenes was glad for the advice. All the tombs he’d visited so far had been cleaned out, their remains moved to safer locations. He’d just poked around those places, oohed and aahed at the tomb decorations, and then gone away again. Apparently visiting an unplundered tomb entailed more care. He did wonder about the best way to pay respects, though: The sarcophagus wasn’t large, and its shape hinted at a non-draconic occupant. Would invoking the Eleven’s blessings even be appropriate here?
Nondescript walls, nondescript ceilings and floor...At last Origenes walked up to the bier. The sides of it were blank and unadorned — but as he leaned over it, he saw designs etched onto the sarcophagus lid. Representations of robes, a face...and a crown?
“This is no commoner’s tomb — it belongs to a king!” he gasped. His voice rang through the room, the echoes bouncing off the walls: a king...a king...a king...
Something was wrong. The echoes...they weren’t growing fainter. They were becoming louder. Deeper. And then with a sickening lurch of fear, Origenes and the Serthis realized the words were being overlaid with a greater, darker voice.
“A king...a king...a king...”
Suddenly the room was ablaze with white light. Origenes and the Serthis cried out and cowered in terror. They peeked through their fingers, and as their vision adjusted, they now saw that the room had changed. Although it was still made of crude stone blocks, these were now covered by a skin of white light. Strange markings danced within the light, crawling over the stone.
“This isn’t right! Helena, we have to go!” Shula was screaming. He and Helena gestured wildly at Origenes. The Pearlcatcher started towards them — only to find himself jerked up short. He looked down: The magic was under his feet, too, and the runes had pooled around him, crawling up over his paws. Holding him in place as if he were stuck in a tarpit. Most of them remained anchored around his feet, but a steady stream of them was marching up over his skin, and where they touched him, he felt an odd, numbing tingle. Numbing...He was being paralyzed.
“Get out of here!” he screamed at Shula and Helena, just as the first of those markings reached his ear. And with them, a voice—
“Welcome back...King.”
A terrible groan thundered through the room. Suddenly, with an earsplitting crash, a block of stone landed next to Origenes, narrowly missing him. He looked up in terror. The ceiling was moving, slowly beginning to buckle down. The rocks would fall, crushing him, and there was something else just beyond them. Something that gleamed...
Origenes redoubled his efforts to break loose. Beneath the film of hostile magic, his own runes shimmered. Magic welled up within him as his fear escalated. But there was a thrill of hope as well — if he panicked enough (and he certainly was panicking now!) his magic would be able to disrupt this spell. Then he could break loose...he hoped.
And there! With a great tearing noise, Origenes ripped one foreleg from the floor. An angry hiss sounded in his ear, barely drowned out by Shula’s and Helena’s screams. He managed to dodge one stone, then another; he ripped both hind legs loose....
Shula’s shriek reached fever pitch: “A SWORD! Origenes, there’s a sword above you!”
And there was. The lower, false ceiling had fallen away, revealing a gleaming blade that had been concealed behind the stones. It must’ve been enchanted — it was clearly old, but it was still very, very sharp.
Origenes ripped his last leg loose. He darted backwards—
His magic, his own blessed, infuriating, contrary magic doomed him this time. It freed him from the glowing snares — but it also called the sword to him. The point angled slightly to follow him, and then it came down, right between his shoulder blades.
It drove into the stones with supernatural force as the light reached blinding intensity. Shula and Helena fled, screaming all the while. They didn’t try to reach him, but then, why should they? They had seen the sword go completely through Origenes, and in their experience, nobody could survive that.
Yet he had. And now the question was: For how long?
No light reached the surface of the desert from the inside of the tomb. The sand shivered slightly and then settled down, settled down....
No more rocks fell. The loft that lay beyond them was as nondescript as the rest of the tomb. The magic skin that crawled over everything tensed up, clumping in certain points, and then it gently broke apart, individual pieces coalescing into floating balls of light. One drifted near Origenes’ nose. He blinked through tears, trying to focus on it; shapes appeared to move within the light, but then the orb drifted away before he could make them out.
Other orbs swirled together. More and more, forming a vague shape...a faint column of glowing light. Not a dragon. Maybe...?
“I greet you, King...though once again you come as an intruder.” The words whispered through Origenes’ mind. They seemed to come from all around him, and the orbs of light drifted close, dancing past like dandelion seeds on the wind.
“I knew from the beginning that you would find this tomb. Even in death, there is no peace from you.”
Origenes groaned. He was sprawled flat on the floor, the sword still piercing his back and chest. Through sheer luck — or perhaps his own magnetic magic — it had not struck any vital organs. His heart was still beating, lungs still regulating air...and blood was flowing out of him, pooling upon the floor. Yes, he was still alive. But perhaps not for much longer.
“Who...are you?” he managed to gasp. He felt he was owed that much, at least.
“You do not know me?” Suddenly the atmosphere changed. Where it had been calm mere seconds ago, suddenly the air was alive, almost crackling with anticipation. The figure glided closer, contorting grotesquely downwards so that its head, if it had one, was next to Origenes’ ear.
“How fitting that you are forgotten here and now, Great King, even by your current incarnation,” the voice hissed. “Once in a bygone era we ruled over countless subjects. We wore crowns and robes of gilt, and the luxuries of this world were ours. We signed peace treaties. They did not last long....You always wanted more.”
Many of the orbs were crowding closer now. Again, in their radiance, Origenes fancied he could see shapes. Suggestions of movement...palm trees waving in the wind. Ships with broad white sails. And stone buildings rising from the sand: not rude, low, blocky things, but structures of pale stone, towering over the desert dunes.
“We exchanged our crowns for helmets and our robes for armor. We put down the treaties and took up arms, and then we went to war. You...were the victor.” It obviously hurt the spirit to say it; his voice became quiet and slow. Origenes almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
“You struck me down, and had it not been for my devoted generals, you would have had my corpse desecrated as proof of your victory. But my soldiers bore me away before that could happen. We were losing the war. But we would not grant you that satisfaction.
“I was taken to the remotest point of my kingdom, where the war had not yet reached. Healers tried to save me, but there was no hope. At last, I called a soothsayer. She read the signs and told me that countless years afterwards, you would come to me again.” A deep note of satisfaction stole into that voice. “And then I would have my revenge.”
“But I...don’t...know you!” Origenes protested. He actually wanted to say, “That wasn’t me!” but now he wasn’t sure. Was it the blood loss talking, or something else? Even when he closed his eyes, the images remained. A feeling that ran deeper than nostalgia, tying him to this place, always calling him back to the desert. And the strange sensation of disappointment: Whenever he visited ruins from the Second Age, he went in knowing that they were empty. And yet he was always looking for something, anything, he could take back with him. Not even to study or to donate to a museum, just to take back, to claim, to own. He always—
He remembered the spirit’s words with a terrible chill: You always wanted more.
The spirit hissed sibilantly, “It is fitting that you have forgotten yourself — but I would have you remember again, for my satisfaction.” Origenes could almost see the smile on his face. Vicious, mirthless and cold. “I would like to see the recognition dawn in your eyes, the understanding that here, you meet an ignominious end — as once I met mine.”
“No, I don’t remember...I...” Origenes struggled to turn his head away, but the light was growing brighter and brighter, filling his vision. It leaked in even through his closed eyelids, and strange things stirred, deep beneath the layers of his mind...
The sun beat down, magnifying the pale sand’s brilliance a hundredfold. In the distance, beyond the shimmering heatwaves, dark masses surged across the ground. They came together with a sound like distant thunder, and though it wasn’t clear, something whispered to Origenes — or the being who would become Origenes — that he was watching a great battle.
Words, just behind his shoulder. Someone was speaking. The language he could no longer understand, yet his mind took those alien sounds and gave them meaning. Confidence...surety of victory. He felt a smile snake over his face.
Far below him, in the valley, the dark masses pulled away from each other. Where minutes before there had only been a flat white plain, now it was dark with dead bodies and blood.
An eye-blink, as his memories flitted past things he could no longer remember...then they stopped when he heard his name. His old name. His kingly name.
A report of victory: His foe was somewhere in that valley, dead, or nearly dead, after an unsuccessful attempt to rally his troops. He felt his fingers twitch. Finally, his target was within reach. He’d grasp it like an eagle descending upon its prey...
Another voice came. He turned, squinting into the sunlight as somebody approached him. Words rumbled up from his heart; he was saying that he would go down into the valley now — alone, if necessary.
And the words the other said to him, cool and unruffled, were, “It does not behoove a king to travel unprotected.”
Deep within the tomb, Origenes echoed, “Unpro...tected...?”
“Yes,” hissed the spirit. His own hand stretched forward, towards Origenes’ eyes....
A tremor. Curtains of dust drifted down from the ceiling. The luminous hand was snatched back.
Origenes peeked through his eyelids again. All around him, the walls were rippling, the curtains of light peeling back as if blown by a phantom wind. A rectangular darkness gaped in them: the passage down which he and the Serthis had come.
It was shadowed — but not for long. Light was approaching from the other side.
The king looked down from the mountaintop. The remnants of his foe’s army were in disarray, fleeing in the wake of their leader’s death. They would be torn into tatters, driven into the endless expanse of the desert. Only death awaited them there — but surely some of them would prefer it to judgment at his hands. He was not a merciful sovereign.
Few could stand tall beneath his glare — and one of them did so now, calmly explaining how unbecoming it was for a king to traverse the battlefield alone. The king bristled — was he not the victor? Could he not display his power now, over his fallen foes?
“Skulking alone on a battlefield, in the aftermath of a battle, is more fitting for a jackal,” the guard replied. “Let us accompany you with all the pomp and glory a ruler of your prowess deserves.”
The face and tone were impassive, but he admired the artfulness of those words — and more besides. “Let me be guided by your battleworn wisdom...Lady.” And again, he smiled.
The Guardian came down the passage with her head held low. But here in the chamber she had more room, and her eyes flashed as she raised her gaze. Pale eyes, as luminous as the magic dancing around her paws. Magic...markings...runes.
She was a stranger, said the conscious part of Origenes’ mind. He’d never seen her before, and her eyes told him that she’d been hatched in a far-off land. Yet something about her...was familiar. It wasn’t the color of her scales or the shape of her crests, but something that ran deeper, the sense of presence about her. It was like hearing a childhood lullaby sung anew by a different bard, and the truth of it struck his soul deeper than any chord ever could, as deeply as the memories pulled up by the spectral king.
“How are you here?”
It was that same king speaking. His voice was now thin with dismay.
“You...why...How is this...?”
But the Guardian was paying no attention to him. Her eyes were instead pinned on Origenes. A great weight seemed to fly off her shoulders as she straightened up noticeably. In a deep voice, she rumbled, “I have found my Charge.”
And again, those words — It does not behoove a king to travel unprotected.
The bodies lay twisted and still, slowly stiffening in the unrelenting sun. There was no movement, save for scraps of cloth fluttering in the wind. The king looked round at the destruction, and he was pleased.
He expected his satisfaction to be mirrored on his guards’ faces, so he was surprised when one of them stared at him in horror. No, not at him...beyond him. She stepped up to his side, as she always did, making ready to draw her blade....
The arrow struck: a soft, dull thud that carried more impact than any thunderbolt. She was falling, falling...and then the world turned red. The deep, angry red of his rage as he rushed the archer who’d dared to fire. Everything vanished beneath a wave of red — so many enraged blows, stabs and slashes and kicks — everything was red, red, red...
It took some time for the red to subside, but when it did, the world was much less brighter than it had been before.
It does not behoove a king to travel unprotected.
This one did now. He had to.
There were celebrations when he returned to his capital, but the cheers rang hollowly in his ears. For the first time in his life, he had an inkling of how his foes might feel. He had lost an army’s worth of men in that one warrior.
As for his bitter foe, there was no corpse to be reclaimed. He had been spirited away by his own protectors. Indeed, a king never travels alone. But someday, by fate or bad luck, he would be — just as the king who would become Origenes now was. Then, finally, revenge could be served.
But the question now was: Whose revenge?
“You will not approach my Charge.” The Guardian’s voice was so deep, it shook more dust from the ceiling. She was standing by Origenes now, and she reached out to carefully pick him up.
The spirit hissed and extended a hand, fingers curving like claws. But the Guardian growled, and her own runes flashed blinding bright. The spirit was knocked away.
He twisted sinuously before he hit the wall, and suddenly he was surging towards them again, growing brighter and brighter as he neared. He screamed in desperate rage, clawing the air to tatters....
The next blast of light filled the room. This time, it was accompanied by a cold so deep it took Origenes’ breath away. He actually heard it, minute crystals of ice driving into the light upon the walls. The crystals clumped together, sprouted into frost flowers — and tore the spell apart.
As quickly as it had come, the light faded. Origenes opened his eyes to see the motes of paleness darting around the room, jittering haphazardly, all control and coordination gone.
The spirit had come to a halt nearby. His substance — what remained of it — had been damaged, too. He now seemed like wisps of smoke fighting to cling together, rather than the pillar of light he’d been mere seconds ago.
“So...it ends here.”
“You will not approach my Charge,” the Guardian repeated tonelessly. Her words brooked no more argument. The spirit, however, no longer cared about her. Instead, he addressed Origenes: “Were you at least satisfied with what you wrested from me? All the glory, all the wealth...Was it worth our struggle?”
“I don’t know...I don’t remember.” Origenes coughed. Without knowing why, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”
The spirit seemed to consider these words. He hung in the air for several moments, silent and unmoving.
“In being forgotten, at least, we are equal,” he hissed — and forever, at last, he disappeared.
The spell began to fade. Lights dimmed, the room swam out of focus. Through the haze, Origenes saw the Guardian lower her head. She loosed a long, low cry.
The sound carried out through the tunnel: There was a flutter of wings, and they heard another voice calling. An older Skydancer scampered out of the darkness, her pale eyes wide with consternation.
“Ashes, why did you—” She broke off with a little scream of horror. “Goodness! This poor drake...What has...?!”
“He is my Charge. There was a...” Now that the spirit and his spells were gone, everybody’s minds seemed to be clearing. The Guardian, Ashes, was blinking slowly, seeming a bit befuddled. She had lifted Origenes up, and she readied to pull out the sword.
The Skydancer cursed. “Wait for me to prepare a healing spell first. Then take out the sword...and we must be ready to fly as fast as we can. I can stanch the bleeding, but he will need urgent care.
“Young sir, are you ready?” This to Origenes. He looked at the older dragoness and nodded feebly.
“This will hurt,” she warned. She held out her forepaws, which were now brimming with healing magic. The Guardian grasped the sword hilt, and she pulled—
The next few days were a blur. Origenes seemed to remember that there was nearly always light around him, however. Sunshine reflecting off the sand dunes, lanterns burning throughout the night; and while he slept, his dreams were of shimmering marble columns and pristine white walls....
One day, he realized he wasn’t dreaming anymore. He raised his head slowly, looking out the window at distant white buildings. The Sunbeam Ruins.
His pearl was in its satchel beside him. It was a bit scuffed, but otherwise whole. He held it for a time before looking around the room. Those strange dreams tumbled through his head....
Dreams? Or memories? The thick bandages wrapped around his torso suggested the latter. But how much of it had been real?
“Our scavengers found you out in the desert. They said something about an empty tomb, a ghost and broken spells,” the Chief Healer growled later on. She seemed to disapprove of the whole business.
Origenes carefully asked her, “Did I say...anything...in my sleep?”
“No. You were groaning too much to speak. Not that it’s surprising, with a wound that serious. You ought to ask the ones who found you. It was they who arranged for you to be brought back here.”
Ashes. Origenes remembered the Guardian’s name, her smoke-colored scales. Runes spangling her body, as white as his were dark.
She entered the infirmary to check on him. Origenes was happy to see her; he appreciated the gesture, and furthermore...
“I had not encountered spirits before that day. I wasn’t sure how to react,” she explained later on, after the introductions. In the background, Pyrea moved around the infirmary, unobtrusively rearranging her supplies.
“Neither had I. I have to say I wasn’t expecting someone so hostile. Stories always talk about how ghosts rattle chains and shout ‘Boo!’ at you. This one...Well, they really gave me a run for my life.” Origenes laughed weakly at the pun. Pyrea turned to fix him with a disapproving glare, but Ashes was more thoughtful.
She bent closer to him. “The things he said...They were such strange things.”
“I’m not entirely sure I understood him, either.”
“It was such a bright room...and in the light, I caught...flashes. Not bright bits of light, but rather...”
“Yes...I think I know what you mean.”
Towering cities, distant dunes. The muffled roar of clashing swords and armor, bodies falling onto the sand. And red, a deep red, after something precious had been taken away...
“Where do you come from, Ashes?” Origenes asked quietly. “Have you been to the Shifting Expanse before?”
“My mentor and I have scavenged there often. But that was the first time I’d encountered something so strange.”
“Is scavenging the only reason you went there?”
“All Guardians must have a Charge,” she said stoutly. “But now that I have found you...I don’t know. Perhaps I will scavenge a little less.”
Origenes raised his head. “I would be happy to travel and explore further with you, Ashes. Why, that was what I was doing before I met you. I have been—”
“Yes, clearly you need a Guardian to keep you out of trouble,” she interrupted, and now he detected a sardonic note in her voice. He wasn’t offended, though — far from it. He couldn’t help laughing instead, for this, too, carried a familiarity that surpassed even the ages.
It does not behoove a king, current or former, to travel unprotected, after all.
Then who was king?
Who was not the king?
~ The End
Credits: Special thanks to Enriana for information about Origenes' parents and the facility, as well as for creating and sharing the Runecatcher subspecies.
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[columns][center][item=morganite][/center][nextcol][color=transparent]..[/color][nextcol][color=#61AB89][font=garamond][size=7][size=4][b]private storms[/b][/size][/size][/font][/color]
[size=2]written by Disillusionist / [color=#CC6F6F][b]TW: abusive relationship[/b][/color]
[color=#9494A9]3,340 words[/color][/size][/columns]
[color=#9C4975]Camillus evinced no strong talents or ambitions as a child. It was his family who decided that he would follow in the footsteps of his relatives, working as an appraiser of art and antiques. So he was sent to the Southern Icefield, where he would work alongside those great cataloguers and collectors of history, learning the value of old objects and putting prices to them.
Camillus hailed from the Viridian Labyrinth, and to his young eyes, the Southern Icefield was a place of alien beauty. Always before he had been phlegmatic, almost apathetic — now he felt the first stirrings of awe within him. He found himself inspired by the clear frigidity of ice crystals, the pure whiteness of snow. With clumsy claws — and, later, growing confidence — he tried his hand at making jewelry, simple crafts influenced by the artifacts he studied. Although he was not spectacularly talented, he was able to sell some of them for a modest price.
His ambition was piqued. Was it possible that he had a future as more than just a stuffy old appraiser? By then he was nearing the end of his studies, and arrangements were made for him to head home afterwards. If there was more to his future than appraising antiques, he would have to find out later rather than sooner. Then perhaps...
The day of departure came. There had been a storm the day before, but the ship was fleet, her[/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=33548824] captain [/url][color=#9C4975]confident. And Camillus was anxious to be home. He paced back and forth belowdecks, shivering in his furs. It was only when he heard the commotion from above that he clambered topside to join the crew.
There had been rumors that the storm had wrecked some ships. Perhaps this was one of the survivors: a bedraggled[/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=32947835] Skydancer [/url][color=#9C4975]found clinging, unconscious, to a slab of ice floating in the frigid sea. The crew murmured suspiciously as they brought her aboard, though, and Camillus saw why: She was dressed in rough-looking furs, including a cloak that covered most of her face. She didn't look like a wholesome or honorable dragoness.
"A pirate?" some of the sailors asked. Others hissed, "A raider, a wrecker." — perchance washed out to sea when the storm had smashed the coast.
"A castaway." The Captain's pronouncement quieted them all. They looked at the Imperial with skeptical eyes, but did not gainsay her.
And so the Skydancer came aboard as a patient. She was not a tractable one: When she awoke some hours later, she snarled and bit, speaking in a guttural dialect, probably one used by the wilder tribes of the Southern Icefield. The[/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=34329036] surgeon [/url][color=#9C4975]on board was a stalwart Guardian, but even she found herself hard-pressed to care for the patient when her assistants began making themselves scarce.
In desperation one day she cast her eye around — and she saw Camillus hovering curiously by the door. "You there, perhaps you could assist me," she said to him. "Perhaps she will not feel as threatened by one smaller than herself."
Quiet, retiring Camillus was never one to refuse. He stepped forward. Although the rogue Skydancer did calm down, she did not become [i]civil[/i]. Once her words were deciphered, she professed not to remember anything about herself — or else she would not tell. The surgeon noted that she had indeed received a concussion; whether this was responsible for her amnesia, her viciousness, or both, or neither was entirely up to debate. She remained a sullen, unpleasant creature, and only Camillus, the surgeon, and the Captain dared to speak with her — Camillus with more eagerness as the days passed. He had found himself drawn to the wildness and frigid beauty of the Southern Icefield when he'd first arrived there, and this untamed Skydancer seemed to embody those qualities. He decided he wanted to get to know her better. Surely as she got used to him, their relationship would improve; maybe they could even become friends....
The ship sailed on. The surgeon and the Captain noted the inordinate amount of time the passengers were spending with each other, and they did not approve. By then, the patient had acquired a name: [i]Floe[/i], after the slab of ice she'd been clinging to. It was a fitting name, too, for no matter how warmly and kindly Camillus treated her, she never thawed. The surgeon grunted and turned away. Her work was finished; what happened after was none of her concern. But the Captain sighed and looked on with pity. She had been fortunate enough to find a love that was good and true — but she did not think Camillus would be as lucky.[/color]
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/p556sald781qozi/lightmid.png[/img][/center]
[color=#9C4975]When the Viridian Labyrinth appeared on the horizon, Camillus made a momentous decision. He hoped to take Floe back to his home clan. Perhaps in time, she would grow to appreciate him, maybe even love him....He relayed his plan to the Captain, asking her if she would keep Floe on her ship while he went to speak with his family. Then he went away, his heart beating hard, clutching a crystal he had infused with a hologram of his beloved. He would show it to his family; maybe they would fall in love with her, too, as he had done....
They were wary of his decision at first. And as they listened, their unease changed to outrage. "We are respectable drakes," Camillus' grandsire declared, "and we will not have you marrying some nameless vagrant from the Southern Icefield! Look at those eyes, Camillus." He gestured at the hologram, his fins quivering with suppressed rage. "Were you not trained to spot her type? That's a berserker if I ever saw one!"
Camillus recalled the sailors' suspicious whispers, the frowns of the surgeon and the Captain. He recalled, too, how Floe would growl and strike at him.... "No, she is ill," he protested, as he had protested to others many times before. Making excuses. Downplaying the situation... "She'll get better, I'm sure she will!"
His family was not fooled. They implored him to see how unstable Floe was, that he could not change her. But Camillus would not see, and now he would not hear. At dusk he returned to the ship, his wings and fins drooping despondently.
He asked for passage aboard the ship again, and the Captain, surprised, asked him why. "Anywhere," he answered dully, "for my family will not have her and me be together."
The Captain took pity on him again. "It is late in the year," she said, "and I am about to return home. My clan is in the Sunbeam Ruins, and we have spare rooms for your and your...companion. Perhaps you could spend some time there while you think things over." She went on to assure him that he didn't need to worry about payment: He had his skills as an appraiser and could be of use to the clan. He and Floe could ride out the winter together and perhaps they could ask around the Sunbeam Ruins...maybe find a way to treat her...if, indeed, her behavior was due to an injury....
Camillus spoke with Floe about it: "It's a temporary place...but a place for us, nonetheless. Perhaps when the weather turns warmer we can strike out on our own, seek another clan...."
She only sniffed and turned away. Camillus' misgivings grew, but he felt that it was too late to back out now. The Captain's offer was likely to be the only one he'd receive in a long time. He agreed to return to the Ruins with her and work together with her clan.[/color]
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/p556sald781qozi/lightmid.png[/img][/center]
[color=#9C4975]The Captain’s name was Mara, and she and her crew were welcomed by the Disillusionists. After the crew had all been paid and taken their leave, attention turned to Camillus and Floe. The Skydancer had improved — though not much. Although she had learned to communicate more clearly, her ferocity had not abated one whit. Even just standing, she was as taut as a drawn knife — and as obviously capable of quick violence.
Camillus had changed a bit, too. He had learned to speak up more often, though sadly he tended to do so only for the sake of his companion, and not really for himself. With some input from Mara, he explained why he could no longer return to his family and what services he wanted to offer to the clan.
“Of course you may both stay,” said[/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=25521457] Veritas[/url][color=#9C4975], one of the clan leaders. She was not a naturally eloquent dragon, and her training seemed to have momentarily deserted her. She eyed Floe dubiously, but said not another word.
The clan dispersed on various errands. Later on, there would be an informal gathering to welcome Camillus and Floe to the lair, but until then, the dragons were free. One of the housekeepers appeared, advising him that he and Floe now had to choose their rooms and settle in. Camillus supposed that choosing a room would be easy; it was a large lair. But settling in...He hoped it wouldn’t take too long.[/color]
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/p556sald781qozi/lightmid.png[/img][/center]
[color=#9C4975]He tried so hard. Sometimes, even now, it still hurts him to remember it....
He could never seem to do anything right. His new clan might have been able to help mitigate the situation, but shortly after moving in, Floe decided that the lair was too crowded; there were too many dragons, too much noise. So they found a private den outside the clan’s territory, and there they took up residence. Camillus dutifully reported to the Disillusionists’ lair for his work each day, and at first, it seemed all was well. Indeed, Floe seemed more at ease once she had a den to call her own. Sometimes she was even playful with Camillus — almost affectionate. Almost.
He remembers the first time she struck him. He couldn’t even remember what the disagreement was about — which could actually be said for nearly all the times they argued. What he does remember best is the blood welling up from the scratches on his arm, and looking in bewilderment up at his beloved. Before he could see her eyes, she was bowing her head, declaring that she hadn’t meant it; it had been a mistake. He, with his soft and tender heart, had forgiven her immediately.
It was too easy: an apology, and some words of reassurance...The peace would descend again. And it would stay. Until the next time...
They eventually had children together. Their hatchlings were beautiful, fair children with touches of green, as hopeful as fresh buds peeking through frost. Most of them eagerly heeded the Lightweaver’s call to serve, but a few found homes in other clans. Camillus loved them deeply, whatever their vocations were, but Floe was disdainful of those who shied away from combat. “Soft, frail things,” she growled at one point. The hatchlings shrank from her, instinctively hiding beneath their father’s wings. The Fae could barely shield them, and he definitely couldn’t stop the words that came next: “Weak and mewling. Just like your father...”
Camillus always did his best to shield their children from such hurtful words, and as a result, he ended up bearing the brunt of his volatile mate’s fury. When the children were old enough, they always left, and then he would be alone with Floe again.
Camillus never spoke of the trials he faced at home, but word got out all the same. Faced with suspicion from other dragons — or perhaps for other inscrutable reasons of her own — Floe took to wandering away from the lair. Her favorite haunts were tidepools and lonesome cliffs by the coast, and though chances of encountering other dragons were slim, she occasionally did meet somebody. These meetings were not usually pleasant — Camillus began to hear of how she picked fights with or attacked other dragons.
It had been many years since she had been plucked from the offshore waters of the Southern Icefield; he could no longer claim that her behavior was due to disorientation and illness. The Disillusionists, who had never lost sight of their two troubled clanmates, began discussing options for removing Floe, perhaps admitting her into an asylum or sending her away for treatment. They did reach out to Camillus, but he only retreated from them, saying that nothing was wrong; it was nothing they couldn’t handle together. “We are doing well,” he always protested. “It isn’t affecting my work in the slightest, and see, our children have grown to be successful dragons in their own right! It’s not a problem you should be concerned with.”
He was lying. They all knew it; it was just that he needed to [i]accept[/i] it. But he never did. Instead, his hand was forced.
Floe arrived home one afternoon. It was a bit earlier than usual; she had been driven away from the sea by a gathering storm. Camillus immediately saw that there’d been trouble; there was a telltale glint in her eyes.
“You’ve come back early. Did something happen?” he inquired. And then more tentatively, when she didn’t answer: “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing.” Though her speech was now easier to understand, Floe still retained her rough accent — or perhaps her voice was simply a perpetual snarl. She sprawled in front of the fireplace and tugged her furs tighter around herself. As she did, Camillus noticed a bruise on her upper forelimb.
He leaned forward in concern. “What happened to you? Did you fall? I’ll get some medicine —”
“[i]Be quiet[/i]!” The shout came suddenly as Floe rose to her feet. Camillus immediately backed away, but she was already moving, her claws extended. “You’re talking, always talking. Did I ask you to speak? [i]Did I[/i]?”
He knew what was coming next. He could only cover his head with his arms and wait for it to be over.
A group of passing fishers, also hurrying away from the storm, heard the commotion. They knocked on the door and called out, asking if everything was all right. Inside the den, Floe turned, her eyes blazing. She shoved Camillus aside and then bounded out through the back door.
And he chased after her. The wind was already picking up, dark clouds swirling ominously overhead. Camillus flinched away instinctively, and Floe slipped away from him, her furs flapping around her, wings spreading as she gathered air.
“It’s not safe! Come back!” He clung to the doorframe, fighting against the wind. “[i]Come back[/i]!”
She didn’t come back. It was the last time he ever saw her, and his last memory was of her soaring away into the darkness, her back turned resolutely towards him.[/color]
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/p556sald781qozi/lightmid.png[/img][/center]
[color=#9C4975]It was some hours before the storm passed. Afterwards, efforts were made to find Floe, but there was no sign of her, or if there was, nobody came forward with the information. Other unfortunate dragons had been lost on that same night, and it was eventually assumed that she had joined those other missing souls.
Camillus was broken by her desertion. When other dragons came to call, he lacked the strength to offer the same explanations or protests as before, and they were now able to enter the den and take a closer look at him. One of the Disillusionists’ hatchling[/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=25503114] caretakers [/url][color=#9C4975]gently lifted his chin, trying to get a response from him. He nearly flinched back when he saw she was another Skydancer — but she was as pearlescent as he was, and her eyes were kind. That warmth...He’d never seen it in his mate’s gaze. His numb shell began to crack, and finally he could weep, leaning into the matron’s feathered wings.
Camillus was taken back to the Disillusionists’ lair. His clan was able to take better care of him now, treating his injuries, seeing that he ate and slept regularly. His body recovered soon enough; it would take his heart longer to heal. In his mind, he had failed to give his mate everything she’d needed; that was why she’d always been so critical, why she’d eventually left him. Camillus, mediocre and average Camillus, had been a failure as a mate and a father.
There was one thing he could do well, or so his clan declared to him: They still needed his skills as an appraiser. He was a huge help to the clan’s craftsdrakes and inventorists; they wanted him to continue working for them. Would he do it?
With a heavy sigh, he went back to work. He was given an apartment of his own, where he could receive customers and store things that were for sale.
He immersed himself in his work. It did help, most of the time. He received strange artifacts from equally mysterious lands, and for long moments, he could lose himself in the wonder of them, of examining and cataloguing and calculating. He began to take small pride in his store and always made sure things were carefully organized, displayed to be as aesthetically pleasing as possible, the better to attract customers....
One mannequin gave him pause. It was meant to stand in a tailor’s shop, and it took the form of a graceful Skydancer frozen in mid-leap, waiting to be clothed.
By then, it had been many months since Floe had disappeared. Camillus was still deeply scarred by what he’d gone through, however: Could he have done things differently? What had he done wrong? Should he have tried harder? [i]Could[/i] he had tried harder?
He made some effort to dress the mannequin, using necklaces and bracelets he had made himself. When he had no work to do and his mind began sinking again, he turned to his old hobby of handcrafting jewelry. It gave him something else to work on, something to worry about, that temporarily eclipsed his greater grievances....
He finished dressing the mannequin and then stepped back with a sigh. Outside, it had begun to rain. He could see shapes moving; probably customers....He settled back behind the counter and tried to compose himself.
It was only his lairmates: [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=34898612]Aloysius[/url][color=#9C4975] the Fire Snapper and [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=33029109]Faustino[/url][color=#9C4975], Captain Mara’s mate. Probably coming in just to chat, maybe try to entice him to go out drinking or eating with them. Camillus wasn’t really in the mood.
“Not too busy today, are you, Camillus?” asked the Snapper. Camillus couldn’t hold back a sigh — there it was again, the all-too-obvious invitation.
“We could use your help with something,” Aloysius continued. Camillus’ first thought was that they needed him to appraise something for them, probably something they wanted to use in their projects. It turned out to be a lot different, though.
“We could use someone of your expertise, especially with the finer points of metalworking,” Aloysius said. He was speaking more eagerly now, his orange eyes ablaze with excitement. Beside him, Faustino nodded his fearsome head. “And it’s not like you have anything better to d—”
Camillus ignored the Imperial’s strangled yelp as Aloysius’ foot smashed his toes. He knew full well what Faust had been about to say. [i]It’s not like you have anything better to do.[/i]
Hadn’t that always been right? Mediocre and retiring Camillus — even his appraisal business was at a standstill. If he said “no”, then that would be the end of it. Aloysius and Faustino would lumber out into the rain, leaving him alone to stare at the cluttered room....
The mannequin still stood next to the counter. Faustino had complimented its jewelry, but Camillus only felt cold when he looked at it again. Suddenly the thought of being alone in the room with it...It filled him with dread. It was a sadly familiar feeling.
So he looked at the larger dragons instead. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. What do we have to do?” he asked. Aloysius and Faustino leaned forward, and he listened as they began to speak. Something about a bet, a lot of gems, and building an [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2323941/24#post_34811494]automaton[/url]...[/color]
[right][font=Copperplate Gothic Light][color=#61AB89][size=5][b]~ The End[/b][/color][/size][/font][/right]
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private storms
written by Disillusionist / TW: abusive relationship
3,340 words
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Camillus evinced no strong talents or ambitions as a child. It was his family who decided that he would follow in the footsteps of his relatives, working as an appraiser of art and antiques. So he was sent to the Southern Icefield, where he would work alongside those great cataloguers and collectors of history, learning the value of old objects and putting prices to them.
Camillus hailed from the Viridian Labyrinth, and to his young eyes, the Southern Icefield was a place of alien beauty. Always before he had been phlegmatic, almost apathetic — now he felt the first stirrings of awe within him. He found himself inspired by the clear frigidity of ice crystals, the pure whiteness of snow. With clumsy claws — and, later, growing confidence — he tried his hand at making jewelry, simple crafts influenced by the artifacts he studied. Although he was not spectacularly talented, he was able to sell some of them for a modest price.
His ambition was piqued. Was it possible that he had a future as more than just a stuffy old appraiser? By then he was nearing the end of his studies, and arrangements were made for him to head home afterwards. If there was more to his future than appraising antiques, he would have to find out later rather than sooner. Then perhaps...
The day of departure came. There had been a storm the day before, but the ship was fleet, her captain confident. And Camillus was anxious to be home. He paced back and forth belowdecks, shivering in his furs. It was only when he heard the commotion from above that he clambered topside to join the crew.
There had been rumors that the storm had wrecked some ships. Perhaps this was one of the survivors: a bedraggled Skydancer found clinging, unconscious, to a slab of ice floating in the frigid sea. The crew murmured suspiciously as they brought her aboard, though, and Camillus saw why: She was dressed in rough-looking furs, including a cloak that covered most of her face. She didn't look like a wholesome or honorable dragoness.
"A pirate?" some of the sailors asked. Others hissed, "A raider, a wrecker." — perchance washed out to sea when the storm had smashed the coast.
"A castaway." The Captain's pronouncement quieted them all. They looked at the Imperial with skeptical eyes, but did not gainsay her.
And so the Skydancer came aboard as a patient. She was not a tractable one: When she awoke some hours later, she snarled and bit, speaking in a guttural dialect, probably one used by the wilder tribes of the Southern Icefield. The surgeon on board was a stalwart Guardian, but even she found herself hard-pressed to care for the patient when her assistants began making themselves scarce.
In desperation one day she cast her eye around — and she saw Camillus hovering curiously by the door. "You there, perhaps you could assist me," she said to him. "Perhaps she will not feel as threatened by one smaller than herself."
Quiet, retiring Camillus was never one to refuse. He stepped forward. Although the rogue Skydancer did calm down, she did not become civil. Once her words were deciphered, she professed not to remember anything about herself — or else she would not tell. The surgeon noted that she had indeed received a concussion; whether this was responsible for her amnesia, her viciousness, or both, or neither was entirely up to debate. She remained a sullen, unpleasant creature, and only Camillus, the surgeon, and the Captain dared to speak with her — Camillus with more eagerness as the days passed. He had found himself drawn to the wildness and frigid beauty of the Southern Icefield when he'd first arrived there, and this untamed Skydancer seemed to embody those qualities. He decided he wanted to get to know her better. Surely as she got used to him, their relationship would improve; maybe they could even become friends....
The ship sailed on. The surgeon and the Captain noted the inordinate amount of time the passengers were spending with each other, and they did not approve. By then, the patient had acquired a name: Floe, after the slab of ice she'd been clinging to. It was a fitting name, too, for no matter how warmly and kindly Camillus treated her, she never thawed. The surgeon grunted and turned away. Her work was finished; what happened after was none of her concern. But the Captain sighed and looked on with pity. She had been fortunate enough to find a love that was good and true — but she did not think Camillus would be as lucky.
When the Viridian Labyrinth appeared on the horizon, Camillus made a momentous decision. He hoped to take Floe back to his home clan. Perhaps in time, she would grow to appreciate him, maybe even love him....He relayed his plan to the Captain, asking her if she would keep Floe on her ship while he went to speak with his family. Then he went away, his heart beating hard, clutching a crystal he had infused with a hologram of his beloved. He would show it to his family; maybe they would fall in love with her, too, as he had done....
They were wary of his decision at first. And as they listened, their unease changed to outrage. "We are respectable drakes," Camillus' grandsire declared, "and we will not have you marrying some nameless vagrant from the Southern Icefield! Look at those eyes, Camillus." He gestured at the hologram, his fins quivering with suppressed rage. "Were you not trained to spot her type? That's a berserker if I ever saw one!"
Camillus recalled the sailors' suspicious whispers, the frowns of the surgeon and the Captain. He recalled, too, how Floe would growl and strike at him.... "No, she is ill," he protested, as he had protested to others many times before. Making excuses. Downplaying the situation... "She'll get better, I'm sure she will!"
His family was not fooled. They implored him to see how unstable Floe was, that he could not change her. But Camillus would not see, and now he would not hear. At dusk he returned to the ship, his wings and fins drooping despondently.
He asked for passage aboard the ship again, and the Captain, surprised, asked him why. "Anywhere," he answered dully, "for my family will not have her and me be together."
The Captain took pity on him again. "It is late in the year," she said, "and I am about to return home. My clan is in the Sunbeam Ruins, and we have spare rooms for your and your...companion. Perhaps you could spend some time there while you think things over." She went on to assure him that he didn't need to worry about payment: He had his skills as an appraiser and could be of use to the clan. He and Floe could ride out the winter together and perhaps they could ask around the Sunbeam Ruins...maybe find a way to treat her...if, indeed, her behavior was due to an injury....
Camillus spoke with Floe about it: "It's a temporary place...but a place for us, nonetheless. Perhaps when the weather turns warmer we can strike out on our own, seek another clan...."
She only sniffed and turned away. Camillus' misgivings grew, but he felt that it was too late to back out now. The Captain's offer was likely to be the only one he'd receive in a long time. He agreed to return to the Ruins with her and work together with her clan.
The Captain’s name was Mara, and she and her crew were welcomed by the Disillusionists. After the crew had all been paid and taken their leave, attention turned to Camillus and Floe. The Skydancer had improved — though not much. Although she had learned to communicate more clearly, her ferocity had not abated one whit. Even just standing, she was as taut as a drawn knife — and as obviously capable of quick violence.
Camillus had changed a bit, too. He had learned to speak up more often, though sadly he tended to do so only for the sake of his companion, and not really for himself. With some input from Mara, he explained why he could no longer return to his family and what services he wanted to offer to the clan.
“Of course you may both stay,” said Veritas, one of the clan leaders. She was not a naturally eloquent dragon, and her training seemed to have momentarily deserted her. She eyed Floe dubiously, but said not another word.
The clan dispersed on various errands. Later on, there would be an informal gathering to welcome Camillus and Floe to the lair, but until then, the dragons were free. One of the housekeepers appeared, advising him that he and Floe now had to choose their rooms and settle in. Camillus supposed that choosing a room would be easy; it was a large lair. But settling in...He hoped it wouldn’t take too long.
He tried so hard. Sometimes, even now, it still hurts him to remember it....
He could never seem to do anything right. His new clan might have been able to help mitigate the situation, but shortly after moving in, Floe decided that the lair was too crowded; there were too many dragons, too much noise. So they found a private den outside the clan’s territory, and there they took up residence. Camillus dutifully reported to the Disillusionists’ lair for his work each day, and at first, it seemed all was well. Indeed, Floe seemed more at ease once she had a den to call her own. Sometimes she was even playful with Camillus — almost affectionate. Almost.
He remembers the first time she struck him. He couldn’t even remember what the disagreement was about — which could actually be said for nearly all the times they argued. What he does remember best is the blood welling up from the scratches on his arm, and looking in bewilderment up at his beloved. Before he could see her eyes, she was bowing her head, declaring that she hadn’t meant it; it had been a mistake. He, with his soft and tender heart, had forgiven her immediately.
It was too easy: an apology, and some words of reassurance...The peace would descend again. And it would stay. Until the next time...
They eventually had children together. Their hatchlings were beautiful, fair children with touches of green, as hopeful as fresh buds peeking through frost. Most of them eagerly heeded the Lightweaver’s call to serve, but a few found homes in other clans. Camillus loved them deeply, whatever their vocations were, but Floe was disdainful of those who shied away from combat. “Soft, frail things,” she growled at one point. The hatchlings shrank from her, instinctively hiding beneath their father’s wings. The Fae could barely shield them, and he definitely couldn’t stop the words that came next: “Weak and mewling. Just like your father...”
Camillus always did his best to shield their children from such hurtful words, and as a result, he ended up bearing the brunt of his volatile mate’s fury. When the children were old enough, they always left, and then he would be alone with Floe again.
Camillus never spoke of the trials he faced at home, but word got out all the same. Faced with suspicion from other dragons — or perhaps for other inscrutable reasons of her own — Floe took to wandering away from the lair. Her favorite haunts were tidepools and lonesome cliffs by the coast, and though chances of encountering other dragons were slim, she occasionally did meet somebody. These meetings were not usually pleasant — Camillus began to hear of how she picked fights with or attacked other dragons.
It had been many years since she had been plucked from the offshore waters of the Southern Icefield; he could no longer claim that her behavior was due to disorientation and illness. The Disillusionists, who had never lost sight of their two troubled clanmates, began discussing options for removing Floe, perhaps admitting her into an asylum or sending her away for treatment. They did reach out to Camillus, but he only retreated from them, saying that nothing was wrong; it was nothing they couldn’t handle together. “We are doing well,” he always protested. “It isn’t affecting my work in the slightest, and see, our children have grown to be successful dragons in their own right! It’s not a problem you should be concerned with.”
He was lying. They all knew it; it was just that he needed to accept it. But he never did. Instead, his hand was forced.
Floe arrived home one afternoon. It was a bit earlier than usual; she had been driven away from the sea by a gathering storm. Camillus immediately saw that there’d been trouble; there was a telltale glint in her eyes.
“You’ve come back early. Did something happen?” he inquired. And then more tentatively, when she didn’t answer: “What’s wrong?”
“It’s nothing.” Though her speech was now easier to understand, Floe still retained her rough accent — or perhaps her voice was simply a perpetual snarl. She sprawled in front of the fireplace and tugged her furs tighter around herself. As she did, Camillus noticed a bruise on her upper forelimb.
He leaned forward in concern. “What happened to you? Did you fall? I’ll get some medicine —”
“Be quiet!” The shout came suddenly as Floe rose to her feet. Camillus immediately backed away, but she was already moving, her claws extended. “You’re talking, always talking. Did I ask you to speak? Did I?”
He knew what was coming next. He could only cover his head with his arms and wait for it to be over.
A group of passing fishers, also hurrying away from the storm, heard the commotion. They knocked on the door and called out, asking if everything was all right. Inside the den, Floe turned, her eyes blazing. She shoved Camillus aside and then bounded out through the back door.
And he chased after her. The wind was already picking up, dark clouds swirling ominously overhead. Camillus flinched away instinctively, and Floe slipped away from him, her furs flapping around her, wings spreading as she gathered air.
“It’s not safe! Come back!” He clung to the doorframe, fighting against the wind. “Come back!”
She didn’t come back. It was the last time he ever saw her, and his last memory was of her soaring away into the darkness, her back turned resolutely towards him.
It was some hours before the storm passed. Afterwards, efforts were made to find Floe, but there was no sign of her, or if there was, nobody came forward with the information. Other unfortunate dragons had been lost on that same night, and it was eventually assumed that she had joined those other missing souls.
Camillus was broken by her desertion. When other dragons came to call, he lacked the strength to offer the same explanations or protests as before, and they were now able to enter the den and take a closer look at him. One of the Disillusionists’ hatchling caretakers gently lifted his chin, trying to get a response from him. He nearly flinched back when he saw she was another Skydancer — but she was as pearlescent as he was, and her eyes were kind. That warmth...He’d never seen it in his mate’s gaze. His numb shell began to crack, and finally he could weep, leaning into the matron’s feathered wings.
Camillus was taken back to the Disillusionists’ lair. His clan was able to take better care of him now, treating his injuries, seeing that he ate and slept regularly. His body recovered soon enough; it would take his heart longer to heal. In his mind, he had failed to give his mate everything she’d needed; that was why she’d always been so critical, why she’d eventually left him. Camillus, mediocre and average Camillus, had been a failure as a mate and a father.
There was one thing he could do well, or so his clan declared to him: They still needed his skills as an appraiser. He was a huge help to the clan’s craftsdrakes and inventorists; they wanted him to continue working for them. Would he do it?
With a heavy sigh, he went back to work. He was given an apartment of his own, where he could receive customers and store things that were for sale.
He immersed himself in his work. It did help, most of the time. He received strange artifacts from equally mysterious lands, and for long moments, he could lose himself in the wonder of them, of examining and cataloguing and calculating. He began to take small pride in his store and always made sure things were carefully organized, displayed to be as aesthetically pleasing as possible, the better to attract customers....
One mannequin gave him pause. It was meant to stand in a tailor’s shop, and it took the form of a graceful Skydancer frozen in mid-leap, waiting to be clothed.
By then, it had been many months since Floe had disappeared. Camillus was still deeply scarred by what he’d gone through, however: Could he have done things differently? What had he done wrong? Should he have tried harder? Could he had tried harder?
He made some effort to dress the mannequin, using necklaces and bracelets he had made himself. When he had no work to do and his mind began sinking again, he turned to his old hobby of handcrafting jewelry. It gave him something else to work on, something to worry about, that temporarily eclipsed his greater grievances....
He finished dressing the mannequin and then stepped back with a sigh. Outside, it had begun to rain. He could see shapes moving; probably customers....He settled back behind the counter and tried to compose himself.
It was only his lairmates: Aloysius the Fire Snapper and Faustino, Captain Mara’s mate. Probably coming in just to chat, maybe try to entice him to go out drinking or eating with them. Camillus wasn’t really in the mood.
“Not too busy today, are you, Camillus?” asked the Snapper. Camillus couldn’t hold back a sigh — there it was again, the all-too-obvious invitation.
“We could use your help with something,” Aloysius continued. Camillus’ first thought was that they needed him to appraise something for them, probably something they wanted to use in their projects. It turned out to be a lot different, though.
“We could use someone of your expertise, especially with the finer points of metalworking,” Aloysius said. He was speaking more eagerly now, his orange eyes ablaze with excitement. Beside him, Faustino nodded his fearsome head. “And it’s not like you have anything better to d—”
Camillus ignored the Imperial’s strangled yelp as Aloysius’ foot smashed his toes. He knew full well what Faust had been about to say. It’s not like you have anything better to do.
Hadn’t that always been right? Mediocre and retiring Camillus — even his appraisal business was at a standstill. If he said “no”, then that would be the end of it. Aloysius and Faustino would lumber out into the rain, leaving him alone to stare at the cluttered room....
The mannequin still stood next to the counter. Faustino had complimented its jewelry, but Camillus only felt cold when he looked at it again. Suddenly the thought of being alone in the room with it...It filled him with dread. It was a sadly familiar feeling.
So he looked at the larger dragons instead. “I suppose it couldn’t hurt. What do we have to do?” he asked. Aloysius and Faustino leaned forward, and he listened as they began to speak. Something about a bet, a lot of gems, and building an automaton...
~ The End
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[columns][center][item=copper gear][/center][nextcol][color=transparent]..[/color][nextcol][color=#FF5500][font=garamond][size=7][size=4][b]wheel of fortune[/b][/size][/size][/font][/color]
[size=2]written by Disillusionist
special thanks to Alixe
[color=#9494A9]1,715 words[/color][/size][/columns]
[color=#1D2224]When the hatchling broke out of his egg, he first heard a gasp, a sigh of wonder and anticipation. He felt like gasping, too—the first thing he saw was a ring of vast faces looking him over expectantly. He almost choked when a wheel of colors was shoved next to him. A female voice asked, “Carrot?”
The wheel spun and stopped. “Carrot!” boomed the [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=32175364]Imperial[/url][color=#1D2224] who held it. It was then that the hatchling noticed they were looking at the patches of color on his scales: bright orange, like fire or the sunset or...
“CARROT, ?????? YEEEEEEEAAAAHHH!!!” bellowed a [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=31033001]Guardian[/url][color=#1D2224] who towered over him. The other drakes applauded politely, but the hatchling just stared, a bit of yolk dripping from his chin, because in between those words, he had heard a [i]sound[/i]. Or no, wait...
It was [i]music[/i]. An angelic chord, struck by unseen harpists in the heavens, before he even knew what angels or harps were or that heavens even existed. The little hatchling stared up at her in awe.
The egg that had been sitting next to him also hatched, and the same color-wheel ceremony was performed. This was met by a resounding cheer from another dragon and applause from the other spectators. The Carrot hatchling, meanwhile, was gently placed next to the enormous black Guardian. She was giddy with elation and nearly squashed him a few times, and she couldn’t seem to stop staring at him with the same disbelieving gratitude reserved for those who win a jackpot with only one ticket...which, as it turned out, was exactly the case.
And then the event was over and it was time to go home. The hatchling looked up as a [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=31882169]Coatl[/url][color=#1D2224] lady bent over him, her fine silks brushing his cheek. She tied a ribbon, equally soft, around his iron-dark neck. The tag attached to it was inscribed with the name [i]Dyeus[/i].
So that was his name: [i]Dyeus[/i]. The black Guardian eyed it for a second, and her jaws champed as she tried to pronounce it under her breath. It didn’t seem to occur to her that she could just ask the hatchling’s parents for confirmation. Instead, what she said was, “You guys wouldn’t mind if I changed this, would ya?”
“Not at all,” the Coatl lady said with a sniff. Despite those words, she didn’t seem particularly happy. Her mate swaggered up to her side. “I am sure that one with an eye for beauty such as yourself will choose a perfectly respectable name,” he rumbled, half to the Guardian, half to the Coatl.
The Guardian shrugged, her massive shoulders heaving like a wave. “Of course! I’ll choose something that suits him. Hmm...Lucky little guy....”
And that was how Dyeus took leave of his parents. They loaded him into a basket with well-wrapped battlestones and delicious bundles of seafood. The Guardian wore it strapped against her side, under the shade of her wing, and Dyeus peered out and back as he and the others left the lair. His parents looked after them, their dark faces stoic—at least for a while. A flicker of deep regret chased over Theia’s face, and Hyperion bent low and drew a wing around her. Then the Guardian stepped around a crumbling stone wall, and they were gone.[/color]
[center][img]https://dl.dropboxusercontent.com/s/h2a6qdrv941w282/2-fire.png[/img][/center]
[color=#1D2224]The Guardian lumbered onward, purposeful and strong, and Dyeus started to get motion sickness after a while. He scratched uneasily around the basket.
His carrier peered back at him. “Hey, hey! We’re almost home. It’s not so far away from your lair; you can visit your mom and dad any time. So. I’m Laurant. Uhh, how d’you pronounce your name? —OK, we gotta figure that out....”
They soon reached a large lair, an enormous, round building with many portals along the sides. The guard on duty was a pale, rosy-eyed Imperial. He eyed Laurant warily as she approached. “Miss Laurant,” he greeted her. He sighed and snaked his head around, his eyes pinned on the basket. Dyeus leaned back with a peep.
“What’s this?”
“Oh.” Laurant’s tail began to twitch. “Well, uh...I just picked him up from another lair, y’know?”
[/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=26537209]Alberge[/url][color=#1D2224] looked gravely at her. “Do your parents know?”
“Yeah, yeah, they do.”
The Imperial stood aside to let her pass. As Laurant scuttled inside with her precious burden, she muttered, “Well, I mean, they’ll know soon enough.”
It is a credit to Laurant (though not much) that despite her subterfuge, she really did look for her parents first. She asked around, and various dragons oohed and aahed over Dyeus and tried to tickle his chin. He wasn’t sure if he liked that much. Eventually, Laurant was directed to the Vault, where her [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=25521457]mother[/url][color=#1D2224] was examining the clan’s inventory. (It looked as though her [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=25521458]father[/url][color=#1D2224] was away on business at the moment.)
The Vault door was shut, and standing on guard was a deep-blue Ridgeback, somewhat less excitable than his clanmates. He greeted Laurant placidly and then looked down at the basket.
“Hullo, [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=26947253]Kisharaq[/url][color=#1D2224],” Laurant sighed. “I, uh, got this kid from another clan.” She seemed sheepish about the whole thing now. She removed the basket and placed it in front of him, and Dyeus crawled onto the floor.
Kisharaq grinned at her. “You here to talk to your mother about him?”
“I sort of have to. Dad’s not around.” Laurant’s fins flattened. “You think she’ll let me keep him?”
“Now, now, Laurant, you know that all new members have to undergo vetting by your parents first. He’s very young, though, so they likely won’t turn him away. Uhh, did you tell them you were leaving to pick him up?”
“That’s part of the problem.” Laurant’s fins drooped further.
“Fins up, girl. And [i]fin[/i]ish what you start.” Kisharaq heaved the Vault door open. The Guardian slunk inside. Dyeus caught a glimpse of two bright dragons talking together, something about their treasure hoard, before Kisharaq shut the door.
“Sorry about that. Can’t let strangers in, and strictly speaking, you’re a stranger. Though maybe not for long....We don’t usually turn away hatchlings. Wait, how old are you? Can you talk? ...Eh, maybe you just don’t want to. But I guess you’ll be OK.”
As Kisharaq’s rumble died away, the two of them became aware of a commotion behind the door. There was a low female voice speaking perkily and calmly, interspersed by louder words from Laurant: “WHAT! No [i]way[/i]! ...OK, but...Come on, Mom! ...Ooooooaaaaawww, [i]Mom[/i]!”
“Hmm, hmm, hmmm...” Kisharaq hummed. Thoughtfully, he removed some objects from a nearby alcove: another enormous basket, filled with equally enormous orbs of yarn and lengthy knitting needles. The yarn balls alone were almost as big as Dyeus. As he watched, Kisharaq quietly began knitting, and there was no other sound except for Laurant complaining about something or other and the soft [i]clank, clank[/i] of the needles. They were each about as long as Dyeus and looked more like spears.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh...” Kisharaq blinked. “You can talk!”
“Yes,” Dyeus answered. He had a soft, piping voice. Kisharaq bent towards him and held out the piece he’d been working on, measuring it against the Imperial’s body.
“Almost there...I’ll make it extra-stretchy so you’ll grow into it.” To Dyeus, he answered, “I’m 99.99% sure you’re staying now. You’re gonna need some clothes. I’ll ask [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=26565626]Roxley[/url][color=#1D2224] to help out; she’s better at this stuff than I am.”
Dyeus nodded. He sat down and watched as the Ridgeback continued to knit, a sweater appearing, link by link, between the needles and claws. It was an image that would stay with him for the rest of his life, even more than the moment of his hatching, the turning of the wheel, and the sound of the heavens opening every time Laurant swore.
Eventually, the vault door opened with a ponderous creak. Laurant slouched out, looking somewhat disgruntled. She looked down at Dyeus as if he’d suddenly grown a particularly unpleasant appendage.
“Well, kid,” she sighed heavily, “I gotta take care of you.”
“You mean by yourself?” Kisharaq inquired. Laurant gave him a reproachful glare, and he laughed again in response.
“What a cute little boy he is!” Dyeus turned to look up at the two dragons who’d followed Laurant out of the vault. The nearer one was a [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=25197371]Ridgeback[/url][color=#1D2224] with a boldly blotched hide. She bent towards him and tickled his chin with one of her vicious-looking claws. The dragon standing beside her was a Guardian, almost blinding in her brightness. She gave Dyeus a serene, vaguely amused look and spoke in the cheerful voice he’d heard earlier: “That he is, Hemera. Laurant will be in charge of him from now on. Hmm...Lunchtime’s right about now, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, yes. [/color][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=24999387]Adrastos[/url][color=#1D2224] should be back with the fish by now. You’ll fit right in, little one.” The Ridgeback stroked Dyeus’ cheek with a claw, and then she lumbered away. As he turned to watch her go, he saw that Laurant was holding the basket out to him. “Climb inside,” she grunted. “It’s been a long day, and you need a bath. You’ll be nice and shiny-clean....Oh, by the way, this is my mother, Veritas.” She swung the basket around, and Dyeus found himself staring cross-eyed at the white Guardian.
Good manners prevailed. While in his egg, he’d heard enough of the outside world and had picked up quite a vocabulary, thanks to his own grandiose parents. “Grandmother Veritas?” he asked.
Laurant jumped, surprised at the sound of his voice. A pained expression chased over Veritas’ features. “Just ‘Veritas’, please, little boy,” she said with a wave of her paw. This time, it was Laurant who bellowed with laughter.[/color]
[right][font=Copperplate Gothic Light][color=#FF5500][size=5][b]~ The End[/b][/color][/size][/font][/right]
[size=2][color=#9494A9][b]Credits:[/b] Thanks to [i]Alixe[/i] for allowing Faust's parents to be included and for providing background info on their clan.[/color][/size]
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wheel of fortune
written by Disillusionist
special thanks to Alixe
1,715 words
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When the hatchling broke out of his egg, he first heard a gasp, a sigh of wonder and anticipation. He felt like gasping, too—the first thing he saw was a ring of vast faces looking him over expectantly. He almost choked when a wheel of colors was shoved next to him. A female voice asked, “Carrot?”
The wheel spun and stopped. “Carrot!” boomed the Imperial who held it. It was then that the hatchling noticed they were looking at the patches of color on his scales: bright orange, like fire or the sunset or...
“CARROT, ?????? YEEEEEEEAAAAHHH!!!” bellowed a Guardian who towered over him. The other drakes applauded politely, but the hatchling just stared, a bit of yolk dripping from his chin, because in between those words, he had heard a sound. Or no, wait...
It was music. An angelic chord, struck by unseen harpists in the heavens, before he even knew what angels or harps were or that heavens even existed. The little hatchling stared up at her in awe.
The egg that had been sitting next to him also hatched, and the same color-wheel ceremony was performed. This was met by a resounding cheer from another dragon and applause from the other spectators. The Carrot hatchling, meanwhile, was gently placed next to the enormous black Guardian. She was giddy with elation and nearly squashed him a few times, and she couldn’t seem to stop staring at him with the same disbelieving gratitude reserved for those who win a jackpot with only one ticket...which, as it turned out, was exactly the case.
And then the event was over and it was time to go home. The hatchling looked up as a Coatl lady bent over him, her fine silks brushing his cheek. She tied a ribbon, equally soft, around his iron-dark neck. The tag attached to it was inscribed with the name Dyeus.
So that was his name: Dyeus. The black Guardian eyed it for a second, and her jaws champed as she tried to pronounce it under her breath. It didn’t seem to occur to her that she could just ask the hatchling’s parents for confirmation. Instead, what she said was, “You guys wouldn’t mind if I changed this, would ya?”
“Not at all,” the Coatl lady said with a sniff. Despite those words, she didn’t seem particularly happy. Her mate swaggered up to her side. “I am sure that one with an eye for beauty such as yourself will choose a perfectly respectable name,” he rumbled, half to the Guardian, half to the Coatl.
The Guardian shrugged, her massive shoulders heaving like a wave. “Of course! I’ll choose something that suits him. Hmm...Lucky little guy....”
And that was how Dyeus took leave of his parents. They loaded him into a basket with well-wrapped battlestones and delicious bundles of seafood. The Guardian wore it strapped against her side, under the shade of her wing, and Dyeus peered out and back as he and the others left the lair. His parents looked after them, their dark faces stoic—at least for a while. A flicker of deep regret chased over Theia’s face, and Hyperion bent low and drew a wing around her. Then the Guardian stepped around a crumbling stone wall, and they were gone.
The Guardian lumbered onward, purposeful and strong, and Dyeus started to get motion sickness after a while. He scratched uneasily around the basket.
His carrier peered back at him. “Hey, hey! We’re almost home. It’s not so far away from your lair; you can visit your mom and dad any time. So. I’m Laurant. Uhh, how d’you pronounce your name? —OK, we gotta figure that out....”
They soon reached a large lair, an enormous, round building with many portals along the sides. The guard on duty was a pale, rosy-eyed Imperial. He eyed Laurant warily as she approached. “Miss Laurant,” he greeted her. He sighed and snaked his head around, his eyes pinned on the basket. Dyeus leaned back with a peep.
“What’s this?”
“Oh.” Laurant’s tail began to twitch. “Well, uh...I just picked him up from another lair, y’know?”
Alberge looked gravely at her. “Do your parents know?”
“Yeah, yeah, they do.”
The Imperial stood aside to let her pass. As Laurant scuttled inside with her precious burden, she muttered, “Well, I mean, they’ll know soon enough.”
It is a credit to Laurant (though not much) that despite her subterfuge, she really did look for her parents first. She asked around, and various dragons oohed and aahed over Dyeus and tried to tickle his chin. He wasn’t sure if he liked that much. Eventually, Laurant was directed to the Vault, where her mother was examining the clan’s inventory. (It looked as though her father was away on business at the moment.)
The Vault door was shut, and standing on guard was a deep-blue Ridgeback, somewhat less excitable than his clanmates. He greeted Laurant placidly and then looked down at the basket.
“Hullo, Kisharaq,” Laurant sighed. “I, uh, got this kid from another clan.” She seemed sheepish about the whole thing now. She removed the basket and placed it in front of him, and Dyeus crawled onto the floor.
Kisharaq grinned at her. “You here to talk to your mother about him?”
“I sort of have to. Dad’s not around.” Laurant’s fins flattened. “You think she’ll let me keep him?”
“Now, now, Laurant, you know that all new members have to undergo vetting by your parents first. He’s very young, though, so they likely won’t turn him away. Uhh, did you tell them you were leaving to pick him up?”
“That’s part of the problem.” Laurant’s fins drooped further.
“Fins up, girl. And finish what you start.” Kisharaq heaved the Vault door open. The Guardian slunk inside. Dyeus caught a glimpse of two bright dragons talking together, something about their treasure hoard, before Kisharaq shut the door.
“Sorry about that. Can’t let strangers in, and strictly speaking, you’re a stranger. Though maybe not for long....We don’t usually turn away hatchlings. Wait, how old are you? Can you talk? ...Eh, maybe you just don’t want to. But I guess you’ll be OK.”
As Kisharaq’s rumble died away, the two of them became aware of a commotion behind the door. There was a low female voice speaking perkily and calmly, interspersed by louder words from Laurant: “WHAT! No way! ...OK, but...Come on, Mom! ...Ooooooaaaaawww, Mom!”
“Hmm, hmm, hmmm...” Kisharaq hummed. Thoughtfully, he removed some objects from a nearby alcove: another enormous basket, filled with equally enormous orbs of yarn and lengthy knitting needles. The yarn balls alone were almost as big as Dyeus. As he watched, Kisharaq quietly began knitting, and there was no other sound except for Laurant complaining about something or other and the soft clank, clank of the needles. They were each about as long as Dyeus and looked more like spears.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh...” Kisharaq blinked. “You can talk!”
“Yes,” Dyeus answered. He had a soft, piping voice. Kisharaq bent towards him and held out the piece he’d been working on, measuring it against the Imperial’s body.
“Almost there...I’ll make it extra-stretchy so you’ll grow into it.” To Dyeus, he answered, “I’m 99.99% sure you’re staying now. You’re gonna need some clothes. I’ll ask Roxley to help out; she’s better at this stuff than I am.”
Dyeus nodded. He sat down and watched as the Ridgeback continued to knit, a sweater appearing, link by link, between the needles and claws. It was an image that would stay with him for the rest of his life, even more than the moment of his hatching, the turning of the wheel, and the sound of the heavens opening every time Laurant swore.
Eventually, the vault door opened with a ponderous creak. Laurant slouched out, looking somewhat disgruntled. She looked down at Dyeus as if he’d suddenly grown a particularly unpleasant appendage.
“Well, kid,” she sighed heavily, “I gotta take care of you.”
“You mean by yourself?” Kisharaq inquired. Laurant gave him a reproachful glare, and he laughed again in response.
“What a cute little boy he is!” Dyeus turned to look up at the two dragons who’d followed Laurant out of the vault. The nearer one was a Ridgeback with a boldly blotched hide. She bent towards him and tickled his chin with one of her vicious-looking claws. The dragon standing beside her was a Guardian, almost blinding in her brightness. She gave Dyeus a serene, vaguely amused look and spoke in the cheerful voice he’d heard earlier: “That he is, Hemera. Laurant will be in charge of him from now on. Hmm...Lunchtime’s right about now, wouldn’t you say?”
“Oh, yes. Adrastos should be back with the fish by now. You’ll fit right in, little one.” The Ridgeback stroked Dyeus’ cheek with a claw, and then she lumbered away. As he turned to watch her go, he saw that Laurant was holding the basket out to him. “Climb inside,” she grunted. “It’s been a long day, and you need a bath. You’ll be nice and shiny-clean....Oh, by the way, this is my mother, Veritas.” She swung the basket around, and Dyeus found himself staring cross-eyed at the white Guardian.
Good manners prevailed. While in his egg, he’d heard enough of the outside world and had picked up quite a vocabulary, thanks to his own grandiose parents. “Grandmother Veritas?” he asked.
Laurant jumped, surprised at the sound of his voice. A pained expression chased over Veritas’ features. “Just ‘Veritas’, please, little boy,” she said with a wave of her paw. This time, it was Laurant who bellowed with laughter.
~ The End
Credits: Thanks to Alixe for allowing Faust's parents to be included and for providing background info on their clan.
