Shadows of the Past Take Flight

The clouds hung heavy in the air, dark with storm and pregnant with rain, rendering Blackplane dull and hardly to King Paug’s liking.  Even the wine, normally sweet and thick, tasted thin and bitter on his tongue, as if the atmosphere had tainted its pleasures.  Yet he sat and sipped at his window, as he always did at the end of the day.  A touch of rain was hardly reason to change up his routine; King’s do not bow to such trivial things as the weather.  In fact, there are precious few things a King will bow to, though Paug had reason to believe he would be on his knees soon.

As he stared into the haze, he wondered what had befallen his precious daughter.  The shape of her face was growing dim in his mind, yet her voice, always sharp and clear, remained.  He could hear her shrieking for her freedom when the men first whisked her out of the city in the dead of night; he could not bring himself to face her hatred and say goodbye.  Even the knowledge that he was doing the right thing was small comfort.  No wonder he spent so much time looking after himself: it felt better, which meant it had to be better.

Having lost faith in the wine, Paug turned to the small, ornate box on his end table in search of more immediate betterment.  He opened it to reveal a fine, pink powder, the best Rosedust in the Known Realm, or so he had been lead to believe.  A pinch and a quick sniff provided the desired effect, closing his body in airy fluff and soothing his nerves in warm, steady trickles. 

Feeling sleepy, he looked out the window once again to bid farewell to the gloom, and that’s when he saw it.  It was small at first, something that could quickly be ignored as a dark shade of cloud, a product of the Rosedust, or some other anomaly.  But it moved.  And grew larger.  And its long edges swept up and down in a slow, steady rhythm.  And the rain had suddenly started to fall, as if on cue.  Paug got to his feet and approached the window, steadying himself on the sill, the cold stone delightful against his skin while his guts were hot with fear.  He stared, transfixed, as the shape grew in clarity and stature.  He never imagined death could be so seductive.

A terrible roar that shattered the very drops of rain snapped him out of his stupor.  The winged malice had snuck up on him as he drifted in his stare.  The Rosedust slowed his reactions as the last of the day’s light disappeared behind the great beast as it swept over the tower, sending rain and dirt swirling in a mighty gust as its wings swept it forward.  He cowered in his chair too late, his body already dripping wet, his eyes stinging with dust.  A great, sour stink saturated the room, nearly choking him.  Panic gripped him so tightly he couldn’t move.  Even the sound of the door flying open and a frantic, familiar voice could not rouse him.

“Paug!” shrieked his wife, Phelee.  “He’s come!  Please, we have to go!”

Paug remained curled in his chair, even as Phelee shook him with both hands, her face contorted in fear, jewels rattling desperately.  He could get lost in her eyes, even in that moment; for all her faults and all their sins, those eyes could still save him.  He reached out to her and pulled her close, willing her to be still. 

“Paug!  Paug, no!  Paug!”

She fought with him but he would not budge.  Horns, meanwhile, blared in alarm, echoed by cries of terror.  Another roar shook the very foundations of the palace, silencing all other protests.  The heavy beat of wings sounded, rattling the windows and shingles in their wake.  The world was suddenly all noise and fury.  In time, even Phelee grew still and clutched him back.  Together they stayed in their chair and rocked as the world outside rocked in turn.

When it seemed they might die of fear and bombardment, a heavy blow struck the tower.  As one, the royals looked up to the ceiling and were greeted by the sound of stone and plaster tearing like paper.  In one fail swoop, they were exposed to the elements, their shelter ripped away with lazy contempt.  Rain cascaded down, each dropped kissed with flashes of white as lightning snapped through the clouds.  The wretched stench invaded the tower, capturing them.  All had suddenly gone quiet. 

Then, the rain disappeared.  A great, horned head emerged into their vision, its outline lit up by the sparks in the sky.  Paug and Phelee stared up in terror, strangely desperate to make out features.  As if answering their silent request, it drew closer, the walls crumbling down around it.  Large, luminous white eyes swam out of the shadows, milky and unspoiled by pupils.  The horns swept forward and flanked its broad, angular jaw, itself bristling with teeth.  Its flesh was impossibly black, yet it seemed thin and cracked, as if it had been stretched too thin over the bones.  Vast, deep nostrils completed the picture of a demonic skull, and they nearly pulled the King and Queen out of their seat as the beast drew in a deep breath and opened its maw to speak.

“WHERE IS SHE?” it demanded, its voice ringing in their bones.

Paug and Phelee looked at each other.  Lies, apologies, guesses – everything except defiance crossed their minds.  In the end, there was only one answer.  They exchanged a look of resignation and Paug, ever the good royal, turned to speak on behalf of them both.

“We d-d-don’t know,” he stammered.

The dragon remained utterly still, yet its ghostly eyes, blank though they seemed, betrayed tremendous displeasure.  Then it drew closer, and the whole tower crumbled around them – only the beast’s horns stopped a hail of massive stones from crushing the pathetic captives.  In an act of childlike desperation, they pressed themselves further into the chair, willing it to swallow them up as the mighty snout drew nearer, bringing with it heat and the sting of toxic gas.  Just when it seemed the two would be crushed under the weight of its heavy chin, the dragon stopped and waited, letting the gravity of its presence sink in.

When it spoke next, it was strangely quiet, quieter than Paug and Phelee would have thought possible.  Yet that only made its command more chilling, for it was clear that softness from a beast of such magnitude was a sign not of gentleness, but of cool, solemn assurance that failure would not be tolerated.

“FIND HER.  AND BRING HER TO ME.”

With that, the dragon reared up, retracted itself from the tower, and set about savaging the rest of the palace, leaving Paug and Phelee sweltering, wet, and dreading what would come next.

Solemn Promise, Answered Prayer

The shoreline was alight with fire and blood as the Dragonborn forces cascaded into the city in all their ferocity.  The people of Stonebeach, soldier and commoner alike, met the invaders with all their might but were stopped, turned, and butchered all too easily.  Brother Maxwell watched it unfold through wide and fearful eyes as he stood at a window in the grand hall, his hands shaking as they gripped the windowsill.  His own home was in chaos as servants, friends, and family members ransacked the place and fled the scene, the bonds of blood and service proven all too frail.  Overcome with fear, Maxwell’s knees buckled, sending him to the ground in broken supplication, his hands clasped together.

“My Lord Helm,” he whispered shakily.  “Forgive me my transgressions, my greed, my lust.  As death comes to my door, know that I am sorry, and humbly ask for your mercy.  But if there is a way for me to live – if there is a reason for me to live – know that I will dedicate my every last day, every last moment to your service.  I will make your name great, my Lord Helm.  I will…”

A loud blast rang through the hall, breaking his concentration.  He looked up in terror to see the very ceiling trembling from a great blow, sending dust and bits of plaster raining down.  Instinct kicked in, sending him scrambling away from the window.  A servant careened in, her face pale with fear.

“Cannon fire!” she shrieked.  “They’re firing on the house!”

As if in confirmation, a great, flaming ball burst through the window at that moment, slamming straight into the servant and sending waves of flame pouring across the floor, spurred on by enchanted malice.  The sheer force of the heat sent Maxwell stumbling back against the wall, hands raised in a feeble effort to protect himself. 

“My Lord Helm!” he cried, his voice choked with despair.  “Hear my cry!”

Another blast rocked the house.  Cracks spread through the ceiling as quickly as the fire engulfed the floor.  Maxwell watched, transfixed, as everything began to tumble around him.  Destruction roared in his ears.  Danger rained from the sky.  His mind screamed for action, but his body would not obey.  Knowing that his time had drawn to a close, he shut his eyes tight and waited for the final blow.

The wait seemed to last for ages. 

“My Lord Helm, end it quickly,” he stammered pathetically.

Only then, after speaking those words, did he realize that all had gone quiet.  Certain that the roaring chaos had simply made him deaf, Maxwell cracked an eye open to take in the progress of his demise.  Sure enough, the fire raged and the debris rained down, but nothing drew near to him.  Even the heat seemed to have abated.  The only thing he could feel was a strange and heavy presence hovering above him.

Stunned and still very much afraid, Maxwell turned to look up, and his eyes met a most glorious and terrifying sight.  There, hovering above him, was a tall, imposing figure in brilliant armor.  It had broad, white wings that seemed to spread across the whole room, yet remained unsinged even as the flames licked at the feathers.  Its head was laden with a long, black hood, its face shrouded in impenetrable shadow.  The aura that surrounded it was at once comforting and chilling, as if nothing could overcome this magnificent figure, yet it could also punish even the slightest false move.  In any case, Maxwell understood in the very core of his being that the figure was there for him.

“Run,” came its firm, echoing command.

Maxwell turned toward the main door, which seemed miles away, and found that the flames had been parted.  With one last look at his guardian celestial, he took off running through the pathway.  The fires swept aside as he approached, debris bounced off an invisible shield above his head – even large obstructions seemed to break apart or roll away of their own volition.  In time, he emerged from the house to find the rest of his world in the throes of pandelerium: people running to and fro in search of shelter, some screaming to the skies, some on fire.  He wanted to stop and help but their bodies were too ghostly, their voices too dim, and his guardian only spurred him on.  He ran for what seemed an age, his feet endowed with untold speed, his lungs with otherworldly capacity.  The city became a blur and was gone.  The green woods greeted him but he could not stop to return the favor.  Only when the sky had disappeared under a thick, green canopy did his feet and chest begin to feel the strain.  Fatigue overwhelmed him suddenly, instantly sapping his strength and sending him tumbling into darkness.

Maxwell’s respite was brief, yet still long enough for him to wonder if he was dead all over again.  The smell of dank soil and the tickle of dry leaves on his cheek informed him otherwise.  He picked himself up slowly, his aching muscles urging begging him to be gentle, and took in his surroundings: a small gorge of sorts, littered with plant life, surrounding by large walls of soil threaded with the roots of trees.  Atop one of the walls stood his guardian, wings folded at his side, his hood down to reveal a face of startling masculine beauty, all chiseled features and dark, lustrous hair.  The guardian looked down upon his charge with something approaching affection, as if he had stumbled across a helpless babe in the woods.  Maxwell, in turn, looked up at his savior with reverence, still far too stunned to speak.

“Remember your promise,” the guardian said in that same vast yet intimate voice. 

With that, the wings spread again, and in one great swoop they sent the great celestial soaring into the sky, vanished as suddenly as he had appeared.  Maxwell stared up at the patches of sunlight in the canopy, happy to see the sky and know that someone up there had been looking out for him.  Too exhausted to move or think, he laid his head back down on the soft ground to sleep, departing the waking word with three simple words:

“Thank you, Lord.”