by Dane Bagley
Aiden watched Dromreign disappear and then all was silent. At first Aiden was emotionless and dumbfounded, his mind unable to conjure a coherent thought. In all his wildest dreams, in all his plans, his imaginations, expectations, hopes, fears, he never once considered that both he and the dragon would be alive after they met. Yet somehow both he and Dromreign were both alive, if only hanging on to life by a thread. The beast, with belly full, would hibernate for months, even years, all the while healing and strengthening.
Aiden had no such possibilities. He was alone. He was isolated, broken, bruised, immobile, in excruciating pain, with no plan or concept of what he could or should do next. To stay on the ledge that broke his fall would mean a slow, agonizing, horrible death. But even the slightest effort at movement shot such extreme pain that he dared not attempt it.
Slowly his mind returned. He ascertained his breaks, and his gashes, and his contusions. He looked up again, towards the place of battle. There he saw the charred remains of John. Emotions began to fill Aiden. Tears welled and then spilled upon the dry and dusty ground. Aiden cried for John. He cried for Terrence. Aiden cried for Marcus, and the men of Cardsten who called him general. Such death, such destruction, such potential for life and for all things good. Those whom he loved who wanted life, were gone. Yet Dromreign, who only wanted death, lay breathing in the sweet breath of life all the while turning the surrounding air foul. Nothing about that was right; there was nothing that he could do about it.
If Aiden had known he would have wept for Mirinda, for Daxton, for all the others Dromreign had finished off just that morning. Those tears would be saved for another day, a day that would fill his breast with as much sickness as he felt then.
No mortal man should have survived the mountainside in the condition that Aiden was in. Somehow, he did. Aiden set his own bones as soon as he could muster the courage and the strength. He hit a goat with a stone and inched his way towards it. He fed upon its flesh until it was too rotting. It rained just in time for him to avoid complete dehydration. The nights became colder and at times he shivered until the break of day. There was a short phase of fever and delirium with no herbs or medicines to ease it. But this helped the time go by quicker. There was nothing he could do until his arm and legs were mended. Another goat was killed when he reached the point of starvation again. This time his arm and legs held up better as he moved towards it.
Eventually he could climb and down he went. It had taken months to ascend. He didn’t have months to descend. Winter would be upon him, and he would perish from hypothermia, if nothing else. But, if he successfully harnessed gravity, it could be his friend rather than foe. He felt fortunate that the winter came late that year.