by Dan Avera
And then she looked down at her hand. Panic seized her at the sight of what had once been her palm, now a twisting spider's web of shining scars that looked as though someone had dribbled melted wax across her skin. It should have been a relief to see that the back of her hand was mostly unblemished, but it was not; she tried unsuccessfully to stifle a cry that turned quickly into a sob, and her breath came in rapid, choking gasps.
“What—how—?” She tried to close her fingers but found that they stopped halfway, and when she ran her other thumb across the scar she felt nothing. Another sob escaped her throat. Was the rest of her body just as damaged as her hand? What in the name of the Void had happened to her?
Will seized her hand then, covering it with his own, and drew her into another embrace, holding her tightly. The gesture was so unexpected and uncharacteristic that for a moment Clare could only sit frozen in that position.
“It's alright,” Will said, but the forced calm in his voice belied the anxiety just beneath the surface. “You're going to be fine. Does it still hurt?”
He spoke as though she were a child, and she realized that he must not have had much practice in comforting the wounded. She appreciated the gesture, though, and shook her head against his shoulder, ashamed as hot tears stained his shirt.
“Just scared?” he asked, and she nodded. “You're safe now,” he said, stroking her hair. She wondered what had happened to make him so forward. “You don't have to be afraid anymore.”
“I'm s-sorry,” she stammered into his neck, her voice hitching awkwardly. She tried to regain her composure, not wanting Will to see her so.
“Don't be,” he said. “Let it out.”
Eventually, she was able to quiet herself, and she simply sat there, leaning against Will with her good hand around his neck and her face against his chest. A distant part of her mind registered the fact that, despite being completely disturbed at the lack of memory to go along with her injury, she was very much enjoying being held by him.
“Better now?” Will asked softly, and in answer she pulled away. An awkward moment followed in which each seemed reluctant to let go of the other, but soon she was sitting on the ground next to him.
“What happened?” she asked hoarsely after a period of silence. Her gaze roved down to her hand, and she ran her thumb across her scarred palm again.
“You don't remember?” he asked, and she shook her head. He was quiet for a moment until she looked up to meet his troubled gaze. “Well...you saved me.” He nervously rubbed the back of his neck. “Again.”
He brushed the backs of his fingers against her stomach, startling her. “That was from Pestilence, the yaru-boy-thing,” he murmured, and she lifted her shirt slightly, exposing a long, thin scar on her abdomen. Then he touched her maimed palm, gently as though afraid to hurt her. “And that was from—from me.” He whispered the last and looked away.
“I can only remember bits and pieces,” she said. “I remember the yaru attack, but...Pestilence...?” Something jarred her memory then, and images flashed through her mind. “Wait—I can remember a man in black robes...” Her eyes took on a distant look. “And...and pain. I can remember pain. And fire—so much fire. Did they burn the city?”
Will's face fell. “No,” he whispered, unable to meet her gaze, “but I nearly did. I almost died twice that night. The first time you distracted Pestilence when he would have killed me.” A single tear ran down his cheek, and Clare was reminded of the small wooden flute he had found. What could he have done for him to show so much raw emotion? “The second time,” he continued, “I...Serah said I awakened. I am the Dragon King. I almost killed myself. But you pulled me back and stopped me.”
Memory slammed into her then, and images whisked through her mind like flashes of lightning—how she had crawled across the ground, the horrible pain in her torso, the unbearable heat scorching the air around her, and then the feeling of her flesh burning as she grasped his hand and begged him to stop.
“I won't let you die. Come back to me.”
“I'm so sorry,” he was saying. “Clare—please forgive me. I never meant to—”
She kissed him. It was short and soft, and on his cheek rather than his lips as she would have liked. She tasted salt from his tear, and the short stubble that had sprung up across his face rasped against her skin. It took an immense amount of willpower to pull away, but it had the desired effect of shutting him up. She leaned against him and wrapped her arm around his waist.
“I was the one who took your hand,” she said. “And I did it of my own free will. I'm just glad you're still alive.”
He laughed then, and the tension broke. He mimicked her gesture, though more awkwardly, and his hand did a nervous little jump when it touched her. “Can you stand?” he asked, pulling away much too quickly for her liking and rising to his feet.
“I think so,” she said. “Where's Grim?”
“Off in the forest somewhere, probably playing with the locals. Strange, that. He really seems to have taken a liking to them, especially the children. But he should come if you call him.” He held out his hand with a smile. “Come on—there's someone I'd like you to meet.”
She reached up to him, and then a man's voice spoke from behind her.
“We are already here.” The voice was low and pleasant, and strangely she found herself sinking into a deep calm. She craned her neck around to see Serah standing with a bare-chested man she had never met before, but who looked oddly familiar. She felt she knew him, but that couldn't be—she was sure she would remember hair such as his, and the kindly eyes that had seen more than their share of both happiness and tragedy. They were wise eyes—ancient eyes. This man was much older than he looked.
“Hello,” said the man, smiling down at Clare. “My name is Feothon. This is my forest. I trust you are feeling better?”
For a moment all she could do was stare at him. Everything about him told a tale of graceful perfection—the way he moved, the way he talked, even the way he smiled. And yet the youthful vigor that radiated from the way he held himself belied the age within his eyes, and his accent was strange—like a tavern fiddle, it almost made her want to dance.
This had to be another Titan.
“You're...old,” she murmured, and then her cheeks reddened; it was all she could think to say. Serah cocked an eyebrow at her, but the man took her completely by surprise with a booming, jovial laugh.
“Why, yes!” he chuckled. “I most certainly am. One thousand seven hundred and forty-two years old, to be exact.” He walked over and knelt down next to her, a sincere smile upon his face. “Forty-three in six months and seven days.”
Clare gaped. “You still know exactly how old you are even after all this time?”
“He is the Lord of the Forest, the god of life,” said Serah. “He can feel another's age just as surely as you can feel the wind on your skin.”
“Really?” asked Clare, astonished.
In answer Feothon pointed at Serah. “Seven hundred sixty-five years, eight months exactly.” His finger moved to Will. “Thirty-eight years, one month, and three days.” And then he pointed at Clare. He opened his mouth to speak, but faltered. His smile changed to an expression of mild confusion, and he raised one eyebrow. “And you...I've no idea.” He closed his eyes and whispered, “I can feel your life force before me, but...'tis muddled. Hidden. Like a wisp of fog that breaks apart when I try to grasp it.”
His eyes opened slowly, and on his face Clare saw...realization? Understanding? She couldn't be sure. “Ah,” he breathed, so softly that she barely heard it.
“Wait, what do you mean you can't...feel her?” Will asked. “Feothon?”
But the Titan stood without a word, the grandfatherly smile back on his face and all traces of whatever had been there before gone like so much smoke. He extended his hand and lifted Clare easily to her feet as though she weighed nothing. “Are you able to walk?” he asked, and after briefly testing her legs—and finding that, thoug
h shaky, her muscles were largely fit for duty—she nodded.
She let go of his hand and took an experimental step forward. Her body felt...strange. Like a ball of dough that had been stretched and kneaded into an altogether new shape, and then had the process repeated several more times. It was an unpleasant feeling, to say the least. “What happened to me?” she asked, absently running her good fingers over the scar on her palm.
“You almost died,” said Feothon, and out of the corner of her eye Clare saw Will look away, ashamed. She wanted to tell him she didn't blame him—how could she, when it wasn't his fault?—but she had no idea what to say. Perhaps later, in a more private setting, she could get him to stop feeling guilty.
“The plants told me what shape you were in,” Feothon continued. “The sword had done tremendous damage to your organs, and it broke through one of your ribs. Obviously you know about the burn. The air around Will should have killed you, hot as it was, but I think subconsciously he was protecting you from harm as best he could.” For the span of a blink, that look of understanding flitted across his face again, but it was gone in the next instant and Clare was left wondering if she had even seen it at all. She put it out of her mind and focused instead on the man's words.
“Thank you,” she said to Will, and smiled at him. But once again his eyes were downcast, his face a mask of shame, and the smile died on her lips.
“I really am surprised that you made it this far,” Feothon continued. “You lost a great deal of blood.”
“So...why am I alive, then?” Clare asked.
Feothon knelt and gently ran his finger around the petals of a wildflower, which leaned into his touch like a cat. Clare's eyes widened. “This forest has power,” said the Titan. “The plants here can heal any ailment, save death itself. When Will brought you here, they sensed that you were close to death and covered you in a protective cocoon, filling you with their energy. 'Tis because of them that you still live.”
Clare knelt down next to him and tentatively reached out to the flower. She touched its petals, surprised when it nuzzled her as it had Feothon. “Um...thank you,” she said softly. “For...for saving me.” The petals close briefly around her fingertip, tickling her, and she giggled. A moment later she withdrew her finger. For reasons that would forever remain unknown to her, her eyes suddenly burned and hot tears traced tiny paths down her cheeks. “It's...beautiful,” she whispered. She dried her eyes as she stood, laughing softly at herself. “Sorry,” she mumbled, and laughed again.
“This place has that effect on people,” Feothon said with a smile.
They held each other's gaze for a moment, and Clare lost herself in his eyes. She saw so many things there; love, for one. Pure, radiant love for everything he saw. And there was that ever-present kindness. But there was sadness, too—it was veiled, half-hidden behind an opaque shield that let only a little of his feelings through, but it was there. Seventeen hundred years old, she thought. He must have buried more loved ones than I could ever even fathom having.
“Feothon,” said a soft voice, startling Clare from her reverie, and she turned to see a pretty, red-haired woman in a knee-length dress made entirely of maple leaves. Like Clare's, her eyes were a dazzling emerald green. She was also pregnant, judging by the slight but unmistakable bulge in her belly.
“Ah,” said Feothon softly, and Clare saw the love in his eyes blossom and bloom to something a hundred times greater than the look he gave the rest of the world. The Titan reached out a hand to the new arrival and she stepped forward and took it, a shy smile on her face. “Will and Clare, I would like you to meet my heart's keeper,” he said with a smile. “This is Asper. Asper, Will and Clare.” He indicated the former and the latter with his free hand.
“I am honored,” Asper replied in the same strange accent as the Titan. “The Dragon King is one of Feothon's favorite subjects. To finally meet the man behind the legend is...incredible.” She did a small curtsy.
“Ah—please, that isn't necessary,” Will stammered uncomfortably. “I'm hardly a legend.” Clare stifled a laugh and he shot her a glare.
“And you,” said Asper, looking at Clare, “I have also heard much about.” She let go of Feothon's hand and cupped Clare's cheek, bringing her face close. She planted three soft kisses on Clare's cheeks and forehead before pulling away, leaving a slightly stunned Clare to gape in confusion. “For a mere human to have performed the deeds that you have...” Asper murmured softly, and then she inclined her head and bent to one knee. “You are an inspiration to us mortals. May we all live as you do.”
Clare grasped the woman's arm and pulled her up, perhaps a bit too quickly. “Please, don't,” she said, embarrassed, and now it was Will's turn to chuckle. “I don't deserve that. There's no reason for you to kneel in front of me.”
Asper smiled warmly and stepped back toward Feothon, who put his arm around her waist and drew her close to him. She leaned her head on his shoulder with a smile.
“Wait, you're mortal?” Will blurted before shutting his mouth quickly, and Asper looked down at her feet, sadness passing fleetingly across her face.
“Yes,” said Feothon, and Clare was reminded of the loss in his gaze. “While I will live forever, Asper will wither and die. Such is the way of all things. I have had many wives, and they have borne me many children. Someday when I die, my spirit will pass on to one of those children and Forod shall live again.” He ran a tender hand down Asper's hair. “I look forward to my time in the Void, though, where I will see my loved ones again.”
“But...how do you...you're almost two thousand years old,” said Will quietly. “How can you stand losing so many of the people you love?”
Feothon smiled. “I love each one more than the last. And I love my children with all my heart. 'Tis love that fuels me, Will.” He looked up into the blackness above and breathed a sigh that was not entirely a contented one. “'Tis the most powerful force in all the realms. 'Tis what allows us Titans to continue living when all we care about dies around us.”
Will shook his head, unable to respond, and Clare felt her heart go out to both the Lord of the Forest and his wife.
And then a thought suddenly occurred to her, and she looked out of the corner of her eye at Will—Will, who she had grown to love in such a short time. Will, who she had nearly died for, and for whom she would do so again without hesitation.
Will, the Dragon King, who would live forever...while she grew old and faded away.
She looked away, suddenly finding it very difficult to breathe.
“They are here,” Serah said then, breaking the silence that had fallen over them.
“Who?” Will asked.
Serah gave him a small smile. “The rest of your family.”
Clare had been unconscious when Will had pulled her through the portal before, and when two rings of yellow light traced themselves seemingly out of thin air her eyes widened and her breath caught in her chest. She scrambled frantically backward as the rings filled themselves with soft golden-yellow, casting an ethereal glow across the ground that shifted and whirled like the sun seen from below the surface of the sea. And then she watched in awe as two dark shapes took form from within the churning depths of the portals, their shadowy bodies slowly taking on definition as they neared their destination. They gradually became more solid until, with a deep whumpf of energy and a flash of light, two new people stood before her.
One was undoubtedly a Northman; tall and muscular, he towered over those before him. His sun-colored hair framed a fearsome face inset with stormy-blue eyes, and his long braided beard reached almost to his waist. He was clothed in oiled mail and leather, his feet covered in tall furred boots that still carried traces of snow from wherever he had come. Upon his back he wore the brown-furred skin of some massive beast like a cape, and he carried in one hand a poleaxe as tall as he was. He glared at those around him as though daring them to make a false move.
Standing in stark contrast to his left was a dark-haired
, dark-skinned woman; Clare recognized the unmistakable coloring of an inhabitant of the Western Isles. The woman wore a perpetual mischievous smile, and more often than not that smile was all that was visible from beneath the brim of her battered tricorn hat. Her hair was braided with beads and feathers, and she was garbed in plain, weathered clothes befitting a sailor, her raiment completed by a shortsword swinging from a leather belt around her waist. Her feet were clad in tall black leather boots that seemed uncharacteristically clean and well-cared for when compared to the rest of her garb.
“Lady of the Sky,” said the Northman in a thickly-accented voice that rumbled like thunder, and he inclined his head to Serah. He repeated the motion to Feothon. “Lord of the Forest.”
“Vulf, in the name of the Void, how many times must I tell you that you may address us by name?” Serah said exasperatedly. “You are as bad as Jhai and Zizo.”
“Where they be?” said the dark woman, looking around with a grin. Her Islander accent was so strong that Clare had a difficult time understanding her. “Is been a long time since I seen them. I can't remember what they look like.”
“They are busy, Caleeta,” Serah said quickly. “They are helping the refugees settle. Please do not disturb them.”
The Islander grinned wickedly. “Of course, Serah. Wouldn't dream of such a thing.”
Will cleared his throat then, and in a small voice asked, “So, are these—?” He stopped talking abruptly when both the Islander woman and the Northman knelt before him and inclined their heads. “Er...oh...”
“My king,” the Northman growled, “I am humbled in your presence. My name is Vulfgar Brekksnim. I am both servant and consort to the Lady of the Mountain, but I am yours to command.”
“Oh, for the love of...” Clare heard Will mutter softly.