A Song in the Winter
#1 of Stories
A story to vent the feelings of a day.
The dragoness did not know the length of time that had passed, since she had stopped moving.
The cold had long since numbed her limbs, ice creeping up from the rocks below until her limbs had stopped moving. The shrieking wind had died down, leaving only a whisper of delicate snowflakes.
Why am I still awake...
Her thoughts were sluggish, and as if in reply her heart lurched slowly. Even now, after all this time, her body fought to live despite her mind.
Why am I still alive...
Covered in snow, her once brilliant crimson and ebony scales were hidden from view. Some might have gone so far as to compare her to a ruby dipped in ink. Now however, she could feel the wounds covering her being kissed by the delicate cold. A shattered gem.
Why can't I let go...
She had been asleep until now. Despite her wishes, life seemed to go on; dragons were notorious for their hardiness after all.
Why can't-
"Help!"
She was startled slightly by the sound. A voice that struggled to make itself heard over the perfect silence of a wintery forest, reaching her ears despite the ice and snow that covered her. A part of her might have sprung into action at one point.
"Somebody!"
Echoing, the voice was slowly starting to reawaken an old struggle. The struggle angered her; had she not had enough pain inflicted upon her? Why was this voice tormenting her?
A single crack appeared in the ice covering her.
"The Northern lands have been a place of peace for generations! You worry too much."
While true, Ayr couldn't help but be skeptical. He was a truth seeker, one whom had taken a vow to understand reality no matter their personal feelings or pre-conceived notions. Despite being much younger than his father, he felt he often had to push him to face the truth.
"I know father. But there is clear evidence that someone has been attacking villages recently."
The news had traveled quickly of villages completely destroyed, with no evidence left of the perpetrators besides the grisly remains of villagers. The wounds bore the hallmarks of bladed weapons, removing the possibility it had been one of the dangerous creatures that inhabited the wilderness.
"Who would attack us? We're not affiliated with any of the major powers. We're poor, days out of the way of any path one of those kingdoms or empires would take to reach each other. Worst case, it's a wandering group of bandits, and they never stay around long after doing something like this."
Ayr's father was an old veteran who had escaped the constant warring of the outside world and raised him here, as far away as he could get from most dangers. He was also quite recalcitrant when he had made up his mind, and he had returned to carving a piece of wood as a signal that the conversation was over.
"Fine, don't listen. I'm going to go cut some firewood."
His only response was a grunt, followed by a sound of disapproval. Not for Ayr, but for a mistake his father had made in the carving.
To Ayr, the outdoors were a place he could escape when frustrations between him, his father, or the other villagers had grown to great. The land they lived in was often covered in a white blanket of cold and snow that kept most indoors this time of year, much to his relief. He found it difficult to interact with others, but books, physical exertion, and silence did much to calm him.
"Ah, there you are."
After a few moments of trekking through snow, he had found his book stash. The first one drawn from within was the 'Testament to Truth', the book his father had given to him and made him swear upon. Many of his best memories were of his father praising him for taking to the teachings so quickly.
The other books however, were a bit more ominous.
"Life after Death, Tapping the Leylines, Bindings of Blood.."
Ayr absently read the titles aloud, checking to make sure they were all there. If his father knew he was reading these, he would have a heart attack. After hearing of the recent attacks however, Ayr knew they would provide a potent form of self-defense.
"Help!"
A cry from the village interrupted Ayr's musings, painting the forest with a sense desperation. His heart sank as he heard it, and he bolted back toward the village with book bag in tow.
"Somebody!"
Eyes wide, he barely managed to keep from tumbling down a hillside as he made his way back. The sound of screams grew suddenly louder as Ayr streaked into the village that had always been his home. The sight that was suddenly before him struck the breath from his chest.
His father, holding the same sword that hung above their hearth since before Ayr was born, was buried to the hilt into one of Ayr's childhood friends.
No. No. No.
His mind was malfunctioning. There was no way what he saw could be real. He had finally lost his mind, like the villagers always said he would. Strained laughter escaped him.
"Oh, father, I'm seeing things. You wouldn't believe it."
His father turned toward him, eyes black.
"Your eyes changed color, how can that be real, right?"
A villager screamed at Ayr to run.
"I'm playing tricks on myself again dad, I might need another dose of that medicinal root old lady Rose always gives us."
Almost in slow motion, his father hefted the sword and brought it forward in a piercing motion. Part of Ayr wanted badly to run, to avoid the blow, but another part of him couldn't comprehend a world where he would have to run from his beloved father.
"I can't wait to hear more about truth seekin- hnng.."
His father's sword buried itself into Ayr, breaking both his body and any concept that what was happening wasn't real. Red spread from the wound into the woolen clothing he wore.
"Consider this my thanks."
The voice that issued from his father was inhuman, and had Ayr not been in excruciating pain already, the sound of it would have made him flinch. Pulling out the sword, his father turned back toward the rest of the villagers. Ayr clenched the wound, which had clearly not been meant to kill him. It was a physical mockery, just as its words had been a verbal mockery.
My.. my thanks..
Ayr was in shock, unable to comprehend the situation. Instead, fear finally gripped him, and he fled into the forest. The sound of strained breathing, of footsteps crunching snow, of the slowly fading screams in the village behind him all fell on deaf ears.
There was one sound that finally stopped him dead in his tracks.
Singing.
More screams reached the dragoness' ears, and raising her ire further. The more awake she became, the more old memories intruded along with consciousness. When she had come to this place there hadn't been another intelligent being for a day's flight, yet now it echoed with their frantic shouting.
Another crack appeared in the ice that had entombed her, but she paid it no heed. Instead, she decided to enact an incantation that would silence her resting place. Opening her jaws, she shattered the impedance of ice preventing her from doing so. Slurred and slow, her voice broke into pained singing.
"Let this tired child rest, quiet winter..."
She didn't notice the person that had entered the clearing where she sat frozen in ice, her mind muddled by long sleep and struggling to focus on the spell. He slowly stumbled toward her.
"Slow the beating of my heart, for its too lou-"
The dragoness stopped abruptly, in response to a distinct sensation she had felt before; the presence of another living being. Her head now freed, she looked down.
Curled up against her was a trembling young man, injured but alive. He reminded her of a hatchling who had had a particularly bad dream, running to its parent for comfort. While she knew not the cause, she felt his pain.
In that moment, all the anger and self-destructiveness she felt toward herself melted away. A slow, snow covered wing creaked forward as if of its own volition, sheltering the human hatchling.
"Quell the fire we use to burn one another."
Completing the spell, the terrible sounds of the village slowly receded and the two were left in solitude.