Dragan
Page 9
In this vision, he appears more proud, less cynical and brooding. It’s from a time before he was forced into banishment, before Variant proved his disloyalty. Thus, I suppose it makes sense that this version of Dragan would appear so hopeful and gratified.
It depresses me to know what Dragan will become, what he is today—angry and sullen. Perhaps the most damage Variant inflicted on Dragan was stripping him of hope.
Regardless, I find I can’t tear my gaze away from Dragan. And, despite this being a vision, I feel the familiar pluck in my lower abdomen that communicates my longing. I feel that same longing when I look at Cambion and when I look at Baron. Each of them is so strong in his own right, so stunning. But I feel that yearning most for Dragan.
I even feel pulled to Variant, for how terrible he is. This surprises me, as Variant is clearly our enemy and he wants me dead, I’m certain. And yet something draws me to his face, with his sculpted arching brows and high cheekbones. His golden-hued skin seems almost dewy in the light that filters in from the stained-glass windows surrounding the room.
The audience fills the room with the buzz of multiple conversations. I can’t make out individual words, but a sense of excitement fills the hall. This is a grand occasion, and the gravity of such an event isn’t lost on the parishioners.
The large double doors at the entrance to the hall thrust open, and through them streams the most heavenly light. This light gives way to men and women, beautifully adorned in ornate armor. The armor is silver and glossy, not a scratch or dent to be seen. Each warrior is an angel, proven by the soft, white feathers that protrude from the hard shells of metal on their backs—a juxtaposition heightened only by the angelic beauty of their faces. They wear their wings openly, proudly. Their skin shines, young and vital, in varying shades of ebony, olive, porcelain, and bronze. They walk in unison, the shifting plates of their armor and chain mail echoing through the otherwise silent room.
Slowly, they split off into two lines and come to occupy the space before the kings, separating the royalty from their constituents.
Then, a woman, with ebony hair and eyes, enters the room. If the crowd had been hushed before, that quiet is nothing compared to the silence now. All attention is riveted on her.
I can’t explain why or how but this woman looks familiar to me. As far as I’m aware, I’ve never laid eyes on her before, yet I’m unable to shake the feeling that she’s known to me, all the same.
She’s tall and slender, elegantly dressed in a shimmering and diaphanous gown of midnight blue. It appears almost black, but its lustrous surface catches the light and momentarily shines with brilliant blues. The colors appear for only a brief moment as she walks and the fabric settles around her ankles. She moves slowly and purposefully, her pointed chin high and her shoulders back.
Her olive skin is pale and glows with vitality, and her eyes are a fierce black. Behind her head, her hair is wrapped tightly in a low and formal bun. Atop the sleek black hair sits a silver tiara, ornamented with emeralds, sapphires and rubies.
She doesn’t look at the crowd around her, only at the kings, who stand still like statues atop their platform. Each of them returns her direct gaze. Her footsteps echo throughout the room, the only noise beyond the occasional sniff or throat clearing.
When the stunning woman finally reaches the marble steps leading to the thrones, she turns to face the audience. For the first time, I notice a table before the angel warriors. Four depart from their ranks and approach the table, where four crowns rest. Each crown is different—crafted in the style of the king to whom it will soon belong. With great significance, the angel soldiers retrieve the crowns from the table and hold them aloft as they approach their kings.
“Today is a momentous occasion.” The woman’s voice rings out clear and loud.
I know it immediately.
It’s the same voice I’ve been hearing in my head since I found myself alone and running from something. I study the beautiful, yet intimidating woman more closely.
Morrigan. The Midnight Queen.
“Before you stand your kings,” she continues. “These men will guide us into a new era: one of peace, balance, safety, and prosperity.” She pauses and walks closer to Baron, offering him a smile which he instantly returns.
“I present to you, Baron, a king of Shadow.”
A female angel walks up to Baron and places a dark crown on his head when he bows. Then, the newly-crowned king steps forward. He’s greeted with thunderous applause. I can’t help but smile to see him standing there.
The Baron I know is a dour, quiet, and menacing man. He’s a man chased by questions he can’t answer, and he trusts no one. But, this man is different. Yes, he’s handsome, just as I know Baron to be, but this Baron is… happy. His eyes scan the room and his chest swells with pride.
Missing are the dark shadows that plague him currently. Even though he’s a man born of shadow, the shadows that chase him now are much darker.
“Next, I present to you,” the woman continues, “Cambion, a king of light.”
The process repeats again. And again, as the woman presents Dragan and finally Variant to their people.
Once the four men each wears his crown, they take their seats and the room erupts into claps and laughter. On either side, trumpeters fill the large hall with the happy sounds of music. The people cheer.
My heart swells and my chest feels full of pride for these men I’ve come to care about.
And Variant…
As I stare at his boyish smile, it seems impossible that this is the same man who wants us dead. He appears just as happy and proud as his brothers. I don’t understand how it’s possible that one day, he will murder Baron, then commit genocide against half his race and steal the power of four, all for himself.
In that moment, he’s simply one of four kings—and he appears to be the happiest of them all.
“Your kings!” says Morrigan as the four men stand and the room’s applause grows even louder.
Then the vision fades to black.
###
My eyes flash open, and I quickly pull my hand away from Baron’s shoulder. I rub at the skin of my palm, which stings like it’s been exposed to a flame. Baron still holds the stone; his eyelids are pressed tightly shut, but the movement beneath them is quick and erratic, like he’s dreaming.
Dragan and Cambion both look suspicious, their eyes squinted in distrust. Immediately, I’m filled with shame.
“You shouldn’t have touched him while he possessed the stone,” Cambion admonishes sternly. The shame I feel worsens. Flumph is the only one who seems unconcerned.
I look back to the vampire, but he’s still deep in the stone’s trance.
“What did you see?” Dragan asks. His body is angled away from me and he avoids eye contact. I stare at the ground, questions flooding me. I can still see the powerful images of the four kings. The pride I held in my chest only moments before has evaporated. Looking at Cambion and Dragan now, I can only feel the cold pressure of their dislike towards me.
I take a deep breath, not knowing how much to share. Putting my shoulders back, I try my best to summon whatever confidence I have left. If these men don’t want to trust me, that’s fine. But trust is a two-way street and at the moment, I have my own questions. As boldly as I can, I say, “Tell me about the midnight queen.”
The men exchange a look I can’t read. Cambion begins to speak but then stops. Dragan’s brows are furrowed in an expression of frustration he wears more often than not.
“What did you see?” he repeats.
“Your coronation,” I reply matter-of-factly.
Dragan and Cambion look back at Baron, who is still stuck in his vision.
“The Midnight Queen is Morrigan,” says Cambion simply. The name stirs something within me, like a half-remembered dream.
“What happened to her?” I ask.
Dragan stares at his feet; his lips are pressed together in what looks like anger.
“Call it what it is,” Dragan growls at Cambion before facing me again. “She abandoned us, her loyal emissaries… What a load of...”
Cambion and I both look at him, and he looks right back at us. We wait for him to finish his sentence, but instead, he leaves the haphazard meeting circle without ceremony and disappears behind the trees. I fight the desire to follow. I know it’s better to leave him alone. I’m probably the last person he wants to see, anyway…
I turn my gaze back over my shoulder to Baron, wishing he would come out of his vision so we could discuss what we both just witnessed. Right now, he seems to be my only ally. I fight the instinct to laugh at the unlikeliness of that scenario.
The soft purr of wings announces Flumph’s arrival as he comes to rest on my shoulder. I suppose I have two allies. But as endearing as the sprite can sometimes be, I doubt he has much to contribute in my search for answers.
Cambion speaks again. “Let’s leave him,” he says, looking over at Baron. “We could both use some rest.”
He’s not wrong; I’m beyond tired but I’m also worried about Baron. “Should we leave him… like that?”
Cambion nods. “He’s in the visionary state, and who knows how long it will last. Regardless, we can’t be the ones to wake him from it.”
I nod and suddenly feel light-headed in my exhaustion. My legs ache in protest of standing and my head thrums with a headache that clouds both my thoughts and sight.
I wonder how long we’ve all been awake—it feels like forever. The last reserves of my energy are gone. I think back to Dragan’s explanation of Succubae in the woods, how I get energy from sex. The thought makes me shudder, because I can feel the truth of his words.
I feel the pull Dragan described—this burning need or desire within me. For every day that passes, the need grows stronger. It scares me, to have this thing within me I didn’t even know existed.
And I still know nothing about my past—my memories, why I hear Morrigan’s voice within my head, why Dragan distrusts me so much...
Am I someone worthy of such scrutiny and dislike? I don’t feel any different than I did before we crossed the River of Souls, and yet I am different. I must be different.
I want to rip the thoughts from my head.
As an angel, I was a creature of light and purity. Now, I don’t know what I am.
Slowly, I make my way over to a patch of ground that hasn’t been covered by the nearly ubiquitous shade of the trees. The spot is warm; leaves fall softly to the ground from the branches above. The whole forest is buzzing with happy life, completely unaware of the thoughts plaguing my mind.
Such is nature.
It exists with firm, unwavering confidence.
As I allow my body to melt into the warmth of the soft, leaf-covered ground, I find myself envious of the trees—only ever witnesses to the trials and tribulations of men. I crave their disinvolvement, their anonymity, their assuredness of self… or, perhaps, no knowledge of self at all. No identity to confuse.
My eyes fold into the comfort of the thought and, before I can even think to protest, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
EIGHT
Eilish
Mortal Realm
When I awaken, I’m lying on the forest floor; the sky around me is now gray and chilled. Night is rapidly approaching. The bird songs and soft melodies of the wood have faded, replaced by an intimidating silence, like we’re all being watched by… something. Gently, I lift my body into a seated position, wincing at the ache in my muscles. Stretching to relieve the stiffness, I scan our patch of forest in search of the rest of my group.
Baron is still holding the Transmutation Stone, his face beneath the shade is cast in shadow and impossible to see. Cambion sits at the base of a nearby tree, gold embers circling his hands as he focuses on something small sitting before him. Dragan is nowhere to be seen.
I rise and approach Cambion, “How long was I out?” I ask, my voice still thick and my overall feeling one of sluggishness.
He looks up at me, as if noticing me for the first time. The embers around his hands disappear and a rock falls from between them, landing with a soft thud.
“Five or six hours?” he asks. His voice is cold and unfriendly. He picks up the stone and throws it against the nearby trunk of a tree before standing. He towers over me in a way that intimidates me. Or maybe it’s his closeness. Either way, my breath catches and I look at Cambion as though I’m seeing him for the first time.
He’s tall and stately, though not as tall or broad as Dragan. And though he’s muscular, his muscles aren’t bulky and overly large like Dragan’s. His hair is dark gold and curls around his pointed ears, matching the tone of his bronze skin, the same hue echoing in his amber eyes.
As Cambion’s fae, there’s a brightness that surrounds him, almost as though he glows.
Without consciously deciding to, I feel myself lean closer to him. It’s my body’s reaction to him—subconscious action not meditated thought. Immediately, I shake off the reaction, scared Cambion will reject me just like he always does. I adjust my posture and take a step back, feeling his eyes on me all the while.
“Where’s Dragan and Flumph?” I ask in a hesitant voice.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.” Then, nodding to Baron, he says, “This is a problem.”
I approach the vampire and study him. He definitely appears as if the stone is taking its toll. His skin is lackluster and gray.
“He’s still in the visionary state,” Cambion explains on an exhale. I’m surprised he’s even bothering talking to me, but then I figure maybe it’s owing to the fact that I’m the only one here.
“Is that bad?” I ask.
He nods. “I was nervous something like this could happen. For all their power, these stones are also dangerous. It’s not uncommon for some to fall victim to the power of the visions, getting lost in the past.”
“You’re saying Baron could get stuck like this forever?” I shake my head at the thought. “Why didn’t you mention this before?”
Cambion shrugs again. “Do you think it would have stopped him?”
I know it wouldn’t have. Baron’s need for answers regarding his past is rivaled only by mine.
Cambion continues, “Knowledge is addicting. Baron may very well choose never to return to consciousness again.”
The weight of the new information settles like an anvil in my stomach and worry blossoms deep within me. I care about Baron, and I don’t want to see anything bad happen to him.
“We can’t let that happen!”
“We might not have much of a say,” Cambion says as he runs his hands through his hair and sighs audibly.
His ambivalence only heighten my response. “We have to wake him up!” I nearly cry out.
I hear a soft crunch and turn to see Dragan emerge from the woods holding an enormous pile of kindling and logs. Flumph enters the scene behind him, dragging a single twig against the ground like it weighs more than he’s capable of carrying.
Dragan’s eyes find Baron and I notice them squint but I’m not sure if his expression is one of worry. He looks at me for a moment, but quickly averts his gaze before dumping the pile of wood and returning to the cover of trees once more. Flumph adds his own twig to the pile and then lies down beside it, panting and wiping the sweat from his brow.
“Whew!” he hollers, his tinny voice slicing through the thin air of the forest.
Cambion’s eyes lazily drift from Flumph to settle on mine once more. “We can’t wake Baron,” he warns, “it’s too dangerous. He has to come out of the visionary plane on his own. He is the one who must make that choice.”
“And if he doesn’t?” I press.
Cambion walks away from me, his long strides stirring up leaves on the ground. He picks up the rock he’d t
hrown earlier and turns it over in his hand. After gazing at it thoughtfully for a moment, he allows it to fall to the ground once more.
“Fuck,” he says under his breath before he continues his walk further into the forest.
I stare at Baron.
The stone is having an effect on him and not a good one. He’s still handsome, of course, but his clean-shaven face is paler than usual. And his hair, cut short to his scalp, doesn’t seem as dark as it usually does. The gray streaks along his temples seem more pronounced somehow. A narrow white scar bisects his thick eyebrows, ending just above his left eye. His eyes are the most unique shade of blue I’ve ever seen—almost violet—and I suddenly yearn to see them again.
His eyes are working furiously beneath the cover of his eyelids, but the rest of his face is soft and relaxed. He holds the stone out in front of him, almost in offering. I’m tempted to touch him again, despite Cambion’s warnings.
But, I want to see what Baron’s seeing, to understand what it is that’s keeping him prisoner in this vision. I can’t tear my eyes from him and it’s with mounting frustration that I observe him. I’m worried—I don’t like the way his eyes shift underneath his eyelids. His mouth twitches every once in a while, and I find myself, again, having to fight the need to touch him, to try to pull him away from whatever vision is keeping him immobile.
I’m distracted by the fact that I’m no longer alone.
Figuring Dragan must have returned, I whip around to ask him how I can assist, but stop in my tracks. It’s not Dragan who stands before me, but a man. Though I haven’t seen him before, I somehow recognize him all the same.
I realize I should be afraid, but instead I feel calm—much calmer than I did mere moments before. I regard the man with interest, but not necessarily fear.
His body is partially obscured by the thick trunk of a tree and fog coalesces around him. He seems to exist as one with his surroundings, exemplified by the fact that it appears his body is merging with the tree behind him. Only to then separate again. I blink in rapid succession, because it feels like my eyes are deceiving me.