Gladekeeper’s Call - The Vessel and The Burden

Lancelot stood confused, in a place he didn’t know. Home was far away, a place to be from, not to go back to, so he had continued to wander. He did not feel alone, or rather, felt no more alone than he had ever felt. Sent with no escort, not even farewell, expected to make his way or die. They cared not which.

He knew he was being Called. He knew he was on Search, even now, but he could discern no direction. Could not take one step, without feeling as if he was no further nor closer, to his destination than he was before he moved. It had been so, even as a hatchling. Even in the egg, he seemed to know, someone or something was there.

But a dragon could not have himself as his charge. A Search had to lead somewhere. It made no sense, that the unerring arrow that pointed the way for every living guardian, the ache inside that pulled them, that made following it the only happiness that mattered, could point simultaneously in every direction and none; could even point within. So he kept going, and hoped his wild compass, spinning without reason, would find the thing it could point to.

———

“You look tired. Come with me and be welcome, here.” The rumble of one of his own kind, a comfort to the weary.

The creature swung its heavy head towards him, and Lancelot retreated in shock. The face looked like it was melting into the Guardian’s beard, like some disease had taken it. He didn’t realise he spoke the word aloud.

“Plague…”

The elder blinked, and turned his face aside, into the fading afternoon light. Lancelot discovered that the deformed face that had frightened him, was in truth simply a trick of coloration, and was as well-formed as any Guardian’s. But his reassurance was short-lived, as one after the other, strange green eyes began to ripple open over the Guardian’s face, and across his flank and even his tail, each one looking at him, through him, beyond him as if they saw his very beginning, everything he had ever done or ever would. That, was more terrifying than the first strangeness had been.

“Of Plague, yes, but of Nature born, as you can see.” The voice was gentle, from one clearly used to frightening others, and as clearly not wishing to. “My name is Ophanim. I am Sentinel of this place, and only do the duty I am Called to. Do not be afraid, young one, to be *seen*. I do not seek your harm, but only your good. Come, before you collapse, entirely.”

The Guardian turned, and walked away, still watching him, clearly seeing in a full circle from horizon to horizon. The young starswept youngling followed. How could he not? He was too tired and hungry to run. And where could he go, where this one could not see?

————

Lancelot had never seen so many gathered around him. His home clan was large, but his clan mates were solitary and self-sufficient, and not only saw no need for grouping but avoided it.

Looking at him was not unexpected, almost every sentient being he had come across always looked. Stared, as if at a something strange and wondrous, that always made him want to look to see what else they must be looking at.

And this time, he looked back, in equal amazement. Dragons of every type he’d even heard of, eyes of every flight that lived. Most amazing of all, oddly, was their small leader, a Tundra unlike any he had imagined.

Unadorned, except for a pair of spectacles, his midnight coat of fur with azure ruff looked as much like the night sky as his did - if the night had no stars. But it was his manner that was arresting to the young one. Unlike the unforgiving Alhazred, the terrifying Starsong, the storm that was Nightgnash. He did not know what name to put to his expression, indeed any of the expressions that gazed back at him, and the not knowing was the most frightening thing of all. Only the stalking mirrors, who always looked as if tearing you apart was the only way they wanted to get to know you, were anything like what was normal for him.

They were obviously conversing with each other, made all the more obvious when someone had to translate into another’s tongue. The bright-feathered short-haunched ones spoke nothing he could understand, and the tiny things that flit between them were so many fast-ticking clocks.

Distracted, it took him a moment to realize the Clan-lord was speaking to him. It felt like coming into the middle of a conversation, none of which he had any clue of. And odder still, the way one dragon would cease and another begin, smoothly, as if they knew each other and shared one mind in many voices. He tried to follow, wishing he had had more sleep, and more food, even as he vaguely remembered gorging from their stores, and taking someone’s sweet-smelling bed. How long ago had that been?

“You are not the first or only dragon to serve as a vial of power for the service of the gods. Like that son of Ice, lent to the Warden for a time for his strengthening, so that he could become a fitting vessel for Lightning’s Gift.”

“You too, are a vessel, young one, get of a clan of gods. You were born of those with no patience for weakness, among those who rule with fearsome power. Their unforgiving harshness has its purpose, to forge a being unbreakable through pressure. You are made of the purity of vacuum and starstuff.”

“ A living diamond, but with a heart of flesh, able to Search out what your clan could not give you. You are not alone in that. You are not the only dragon of your clan to use a strength formed in adversity, to seek a higher path than their forbears could know.”

Words, that tumbled over him. What were they saying he even was?

“Will I succeed?” The trembling in Lancelot’s voice moved the elder many-eyed Guardian, and as if in answer, the long trail of striking eyes rippled closed from tail upwards, until only two remained. Unreadable, filled with emotions that the youngling would have to learn to recognize, but that scared him and eased him in ways that he didn’t understand. Compassion, deep sorrow, deep joy.

“That is not for you to know, lest the end be marred in the knowing.” It struck Lancelot then, the terrible burden of knowing the past and future, of knowing the fate of all those that this imposing dragon was Sentinel over. Not so imposing after all, as Lancelot could clearly see the aching vulnerability there. Saw it, knew it, because he felt it.

But he asked again, as he had asked any Guardian who seemed wise enough to have an answer. None had answered him yet. And this one had too! Must answer him! He knew the Many-Eyed must have seen it.

“What is it, then, that I must guard? Where is my charge?”

A hesitation. The ones gathered there seemed to draw closer, to each other, and to him. They meant something by it. The many-eyed seemed unused to being the spokesman, and the starswept one felt odd at the subtle gestures that rippled through the crowd towards the Sentinel and him. It felt like being filled with food, and sleeping in a warm bed. Was this - comfort?

“It is within you. In the darkness between the stars. And everywhere on Sornieth, in the wisps and smokes in the hidden places, waiting for you to find and gather them. It is called The Shade.”

Lancelot shrank back, horrified. He knew the legends, from the First Age onward. This - this could not be! He knew then, beyond doubt. His talons brushed against the silver that traced a pattern against his head and neck. It had never before this, felt so much like the lid of a vial.

“But how? How can I do this?” He cried in an anguish not even his home clan had prepared him
for. “To hold that...that... thing, that spans the dark between galaxies?”

Then fear lit his eyes, at the sudden thought. His voice was very small when he spoke again.

“If I already have this thing or part of it, within me...Why don’t you want to destroy me, instead?”

A Ridgeback leaned forward, the curcuit tracing his hide glowing as if with electricity. “I did not even wish to destroy my friend Libra, when he came to us half-eaten by the Nemesis within *him*. There were not enough stars in him to hold the devourer back for long, but you?” Black Kyril looked at him in wonder. “You are more full of stars than anything we have seen before, and the strongest of your kind we know - “

“I am not strong! How can you say that?” The frightened youngster cried. “And why would I want to Guard - to protect - such a horrible thing? Why is *that* my charge??” Lancelot broke down, sobbing bitterly, unable to fathom why anyone would not loathe a being who protected such evil. How he could not loathe himself, for doing it.

“Please...please… not me…”

The voice of the Clan-lord was warm, warmer than the fur that suddenly enveloped him.

“You will not hold your burden alone. That is why the All-Father of your clan, the Arcanist himself, has sent you here. Understand what is happening, with us.”

Lancelot shook, not believing he could do this. He would break, he would fail them, and Sornieth would fall to ruin because of him.

Ophanim spoke again, more sure of his new role. All-Seer, All-Rememberer. “The gods had found that a shield against the unremitting evil was not enough. Arcanist himself broke it. IceWarden and Stormcatcher learned as well, that no weapon of destruction could burn it all from the world, or the universe beyond it. But you, are neither shield nor weapon. You will be the vessel, who will contain great evil, not with the strength of a flawless shell of stars, but the strength that has bound all the Called to your service. Those who face the darkness without fear, and will to live for others’ sake. Stay with us, Lancelot the Innocent, and let us *all* hold your burden with you, and join your Search to heal the world.”

Lancelot could only see darkness ahead of him. Could he trust these strangers to see more?


(Origin lair Schingiuire)