by Lorena
The worst thing would have to be the people’s faces—the mingled looks of terror and despair on those whose child had been chosen and relief, joy, and pity on those who had been spared. I had seen them all—twelve times a year for six years—I had seen them all.
They are—were—my subjects—people who depended on my family’s benevolence and my father’s wisdom and sense of justice. In us they had placed their trust and loyalty—unwavering and blind to the very end. They were unschooled, ignorant, their dependence on us very much child-like to the point of absurdity at times. But they did not know any better. Their innocence had spared them the bitterness of the truth, and the burden fell on us—those of us close enough to my father to know his deeper desires and intentions—to bear the weight of the complete incongruence of his words, his actions, and his heart.
I had long wondered why I was always spared the misfortune of being chosen. Twelve times in a year, I was placed on equal footing as my peers—standing on the platform with the rest of my family while one of my father’s ministers would pull out a black wooden chip from the chest, watching and waiting with bated breath for the next victim’s death warrant to be proclaimed before the entire kingdom.
For six years—since I was thirteen—my name had never been called. Month after month, year after year, I had to stand by in nervous anticipation before falling into a state of shocked relief and overwhelming sadness and pity for the poor family whose child had been chosen for the sacrifice.
“Bronwyn, daughter of Cuthbert,” the minister would say, his voice falling heavily on the terrified mob before us.
A general gasp would ripple through the crowd as parents, brothers, and sisters turned to each other and hold each other tightly, prayers of thanks on their lips for being granted mercy this time around. In the meantime, Bronwyn and her family erupted in desperate tears, holding each other close as well but for completely different reasons. The drawing of Bronwyn’s lot would signal her final day spent in her family’s company. From this point, she was escorted to one of the castle towers, where she was cleaned and dressed in white as though a young bride, a garland of wildflowers perched almost mockingly on her head. She was then carried off by horse with an impressive escort to the cliffs just beyond our kingdom’s borders. There, on a gigantic boulder that had been split in two by lightning, she was shackled and then abandoned—to wait for her “groom,” who was expected to make his appearance at the expected hour.
The groom was a dragon, her wedding-bed a pyre.
Early the following morning, my father’s soldiers would return to the cliffs to confirm the sacrifice and come back to us with tokens of Bronwyn’s demise—a tattered piece of fabric, a stray flower, a ring—anything that used to belong to her was produced, partly burnt and, in some cases, smeared with blood.
The kingdom then mourned, the dragon left us in peace for another month, and all went back to normal. Men and sons labored, wives gave birth, daughters cooked and cleaned.
I, on the other hand, would never find any vestige of normalcy in my existence. For six years, I walked my father’s hallways, weighed down by memories of the sight of my subjects’ helpless terror and their children’s stoic resignation to their fate. They never had much, my people. They were miserably poor, barely managing to survive on whatever meager income they had managed to earn from their labors. And for them to be subjected to this grisly lottery in order to pacify a monster that had haunted our lands for as long as anyone could remember—that was, in my eyes, one step gone too far. Misery piled atop misery—no one deserved it, especially these poor wretches, who had done nothing wrong to warrant this punishment.
I waited for my turn. Fool that I was, I believed in my father just as my people believed in him. Time and again I was spared death, but no one questioned. No one dared, I suppose. I was the crown prince—the heir to the throne—the people’s next leader. Perhaps in their uneducated and blinded eyes, the gods had chosen to keep me safe, thereby grounding into themselves further the belief that my existence was preordained. I could not—should not—die.
For their sakes.
And for their children’s—and their children’s children.
I suppose it was also preordained that I would begin to entertain suspicions when my nineteenth year came. I was quiet enough—not given to spontaneous conversation or ready mingling with others. And that made it easy for me to spy on those close to me in spite of the treacherous nature of the whole thing. I waited and observed, withdrawing into less conspicuous corners and shadows until my presence was no longer felt (nor was it missed).
And from there, I began to notice hints—a word or two casually dropped between my father and one of his trusted aides—that alerted me to things that I had never thought were possible.
Hints of a trust so readily betrayed—not so much between subjects and liege, but between father and son. Quiet reassurances from one man to another, whispered demands from liege to servant.
“The crown prince is safe?”
“Yes, your majesty.”
I held my tongue as I strained my ears and sharpened my eyes more. Disbelief and perhaps denial kept me from acting sooner. But all the same, the day finally came for me to prove my suspicions and to lay my mind to rest.
It was the week before the next lottery.
Visiting diplomats had arrived, and the castle was kept busy. My father was hardly seen, and so were his ministers. I was charged by all to keep my distance for the time being and to immerse myself in my usual activities with which to pass the time. These diplomatic visits always portended idle hours on my part, being much too young and inexperienced (at least in their eyes) to be allowed a moment in the company of foreign delegates.
So I explored.
Waiting for the right moment when all attention was firmly fixed on the nurturing and development of diplomatic relations, I found my way to my father’s private chambers. A door connected it to another smaller, more private room, and there the chest was kept. It did not prove too difficult to find a copy of the key—I myself had one, coming into my possession solely by accident—when a careless servant had dropped it in his haste several months ago. I never surrendered it and kept it close in the expectation of finding some good use for it one day.
I entered the room and locked the door behind me, falling immediately to my knees before the chest. The pile of black wooden chips, on which was scrawled the names of every boy and girl between thirteen and twenty-one in crude, white letters, seemed formidable to see. Indeed, even I began to doubt my instincts and rationalized what I could of the situation. The lots in the chest seemed thick and endless in spite of the fact that my kingdom had always been a small one, with the general population dwindling not so much because of the lottery, but because of other natural calamities. All the same, I thought that it was most likely that the wooden chip bearing my name was hopelessly lost in the collection, and that for six straight years it had managed to keep out of the way of probing hands.
A gnawing desire to know the truth goaded me on, however, and I was soon digging my way through the lots.
The process was long and laborious. My arms ached, my back screamed for relief, and my head throbbed, but I refused to stop. I pulled out each and every one of those chips, reading the names to myself and searching desperately for mine.
It never materialized.
I reached the bottom of the chest and had plucked out the final lot, and my name remained missing, the truth of my fortune hitting me between the eyes and causing my stomach to turn.
I was spared death only because I was never part of the lottery in the first place. The chip bearing my name had never existed in spite of reassurances from both my father and his closest aides. Our people had been made into sniveling, wide-eyed dupes by the very people they thought to be worthy of their trust. I was made into a fool by my own father and the people whom I had long considered friends and allies.
I do not remember how long I sat there, raging tearfully and staring at the scattered pile of wooden chips that surrounded me. I was pampered. Worthless. Made to look like an idiot before all those who knew me without once lifting a finger to deserve it. I was saved from a fate whose risk I thought to be evenly distributed among my peers and I. Saved by the flouting of a law ordained by the very same man who found it in himself to dismiss it so easily without so much as a stirring in his conscience.
I thought of all those who died before me—most of whom I had known since childhood. I knew their parents and their families and even had the honor of being welcomed in their tiny, run-down cottages, eager to serve their next leader with whatever measly portions they could afford to spare. I had become close friends with a handful and had wept at their deaths. Their faces were now forever seared in my memory, imprinting themselves further by the horrible deception I had just unmasked.
So I sat there, struggling to contain my rage and grief, lost in thought—then presently returned all the chips inside their container and left the room with my mind heavy with schemes and my heart swelling with the desire to right what had long been wrong.
The diplomats remained for a while, allowing me ample time to put my scheme into action. In the silence and the blackened cover of the night, I stole away from my room and ran out to the place where I knew my father had gotten the wood chips. That was not too difficult to do, the wood chips being nothing more than bits of bark chopped off trees that were destined for the hearth. I gathered all I could night after night, collecting them in my cloak and carrying them back to my room, where I went about the tedious task of sorting out the wood chips or breaking down the larger pieces in order to create a uniform enough collection.
Then I wrote my name on every single one of them.
I thought of every friend killed with every piece I labeled in white chalk.
Images of Bronwyn, Othilia, Alchfrith, Cyneric, Durwyn, and many others flooded my mind’s eye with every “Trowa, son of Awiergan” I scrawled on the crumbling bark. With every piece I labeled, I felt one death avenged. With every piece I labeled, I saw less and less of my life past the coming week until nothing filled my mind but a dark, hollow void. And yet, I felt comforted. Soothed.
It took some doing, and it was certainly not an easy task to accomplish, but when the time was right, I returned to my father’s chambers and emptied out the chest, replacing all the lots with the ones I had made, making sure to throw the original names into the fire that I had started in my room.
Then it was all a matter of waiting.
The diplomats left, heavy with food and wine, contented with cloying praises and empty promises heaped on their heads by those who knew best how to handle foreign relations. Treatises were signed, connections and alliances solidified, and yet for all these, not one could offer any means of relieving us of the dragon’s plague, all of them being just as backward and superstitious and weak as my own kingdom. Or perhaps none of them simply wanted to extend their help. My father’s ambitions lay in expansion, not in protection, after all, and he had never hidden that fact. I suppose that explained, a great deal, our vulnerability against forces such as the beast that haunted us.
The day of the lottery arrived, and as before, we all gathered before my father’s castle, with the royal family standing proudly on the elevated platform and looking out with condescending pity at the huddled, soiled masses. The sky was gray and dull, the clouds that hung overhead serving as a thick, depressing canopy that did not offer a break anywhere for the sun’s light to shine through, no matter how faint. I could barely stifle a smile when the chest was unlocked and one of my father’s ministers stepped forward to do the honors.
He dug his hand inside, making a show of moving the lots about, mixing them up and perhaps thinking that he was somehow dictating people’s chances of being chosen. I waited silently, my eyes fixed on my subjects and taking in the endless sea of weathered, care-worn faces and tattered, soiled rags. Every crease on their sunburnt skin justified my deception, and I silently exulted for their sakes.
The minister presently pulled out a lot and stared at the name on it, falling silent for a moment.
“Well?” my father demanded from where he sat, in the middle of the platform, looking every bit the majestic, god-like figure he was made to be. “Who is it?”
The man seemed to tremble before everyone, raising his eyes and looking as though he preferred to be cut down with a sword right then and there, instead of sharing what information he had. Another prodding from my father—one marked by growing irritation—loosened his tongue.
“Trowa, son of Awiergan,” he stammered.
The silence that met that declaration was, to say the least, terrifying. It was cold and hollow—completely lifeless. I half-expected myself to be sucked into the deafening void and so shifted a little nervously on my feet.
“Are you sure?” my father finally asked, his voice falling to a hoarse whisper. He had turned pale—white, almost. His hands gripped the armrests, his knuckles standing in stark relief against his aging skin. I could tell that he was simply aching to leap to his feet, push the man aside, and tear through the lots himself. The shock and the desperation and disbelief that lit his eyes when our gazes met sent a terrible thrill of delight coursing through my veins. I returned his look with one of calm derision. I watched his eyes widen and realization slowly make itself known in the way he wordlessly moved his mouth in a vain attempt at expressing his shock. He understood that I had discovered his duplicity, and there was nothing he could do to save me.
What was there, after all? The people would tear him to pieces, king or no king, if he were to demand another lottery. What justification would he have? What would he tell those who had lost their children to the monthly sacrifice? Was it not his own edict that the crown prince would be on equal footing as all the other young people where the lottery was concerned? They would learn the truth—if not from him then from me. And they would not be a happy crowd.
We stared at each other in silence for what seemed to be an eternity, neither of us flinching, our connection broken only when he finally spoke in a voice that trembled and hissed through clenched teeth.
“The prince it is then,” he said, turning away to face his people and weakly drawing himself up with whatever pride was left in him.
I did not receive the same displays of grief from my own family. Nobility never allowed their emotions to show, after all. Whatever passions we felt were always subdued, repressed into quieter, more dignified expressions of joy, anger, sadness, and terror. I turned to my mother and my sister and found them regarding me with perfectly controlled faces. And for a brief moment I did not even know if they truly felt anything for me, and I must admit to feeling a touch of resentment toward them and jealousy toward my poorer counterparts and their spontaneous bursts of emotion.
I could only bow before them and allow myself to be escorted away by shocked and reluctant guards.
Like my deceased predecessors, I was led to the tower room, where I was cleaned and dipped in aromatic water before being dressed as a bridegroom. Then I was led away.
There must have been a crowd that lined the streets where I was escorted—I do not remember. Most likely. I honestly could not say what it was I saw or heard or felt during those moments of preparation. Things seemed to drift before my eyes as though in a dream—images and sounds and tactile sensations seemed distant and so far removed from the moment that I began to wonder if I was simply imagining all this. I am sure that I must have moved mechanically and without thought as I was ushered here and there. What I do remember is not speaking a word throughout the entire thing.
I was led to the boulder, and there I was chained. It was not the most comfortable position as the monstrous piece of stone against which I was shackled leaned back a little so that I was almost resting against it, but the metal cuffs that were chained to the rock dangled above me so that I had my arms raised above my head, rendering me even more vulnerable to whatever might come my way. I could not imagine those poor girls, who were slighter of build and shorter than I am—how they must have suffered through the discomfort of practically hanging down by their wrists. All I could say that I was grateful that their deaths came swift and sure.
My escorts abandoned me with quiet words of regret and grief, which I tried to assuage with as much dignity as I could muster at the moment. I offered them some comfort, charging them to look after my mother and my sister before blessing them and their families.
I was soon alone. The rock faced the edge of the cliff, where I understood the dragon made its appearance at a precise time of the day. The monster must live somewhere near the bottom of the canyon—perhaps inside the cliff walls. Nobody ever managed to discover that. I tried to find out for myself several times, but my father’s patrols had caught me attempting to sneak past the borders and brought me back to the castle, where I was soundly admonished to keep to my place and where I spent the rest of the day being told what to do just to stay out of everyone’s way.
As I waited, I rested my eyes on the panorama before me.
Just beyond the cliff’s edge lay a vast expanse of land—untouched, rugged, majestic in its wildness. Distant mountains rose out of heavy mists as though to meet the sky, their rocky, jagged tips powdered in snow that seemed to catch the sun’s rays and reflect them in flashes of blinding light. The clouds had, at this point, broken, allowing light to pierce through the usual gloom that defined the land, and I counted myself blessed enough to be witness to the grandeur before me. The mountains seemed to stretch on forever, no matter where I looked, providing me with an odd sense of comfort at the thought of finality and permanence and infinity. My friends had seen all this. Their final moment alive was spent in quiet contemplation of the stark silhouettes that spread themselves before them. Their hearts were calmed by the comforting silence of the world around them. I was grateful for at least that point.
So I lost myself in my environment, closing my eyes to rest while I waited. And I have no idea how long I stayed that way—it must have been several minutes or even hours. All I knew—all I understood—was being gently roused from my sleep and almost crying out from the pain of cramped and stretched muscles.
I opened my eyes and found myself staring at a knight.
A young one—about my age. He looked as though he had just been through a recent battle or at least had been wandering the lands for some time. He held his helm against himself with one hand and a tall spear in another, and I saw that his armor was stained and dulled, dented in a few places and muddy in others. His hair, which was naturally of a pale shade of gold, was also dulled with dust from his travels. Some strands, being moistened with sweat, clung to his skin in little gold-brown patches. His face was also smeared with dust streaked with sweat. His cloak, along with his surcoat, were torn, faded, and lightly soiled with dried mud. An equally stained and dulled broadsword hung on his left hip. Several feet away, under the shade of a small thicket, stood his horse—a majestic gray animal that seemed to radiate raw power with every small movement and twitch of its muscular form—which was also heavily soiled and looking rather grateful for the respite.
I stared at him in some surprise for several seconds, unable to form a coherent enough response to his presence.
“Who put you here?” he finally asked, breaking the heavy stillness with a voice that spoke to me of a mind more inclined to quieter pursuits. I found the contrast jarring but certainly not objectionable. It was—oddly fitting.
“My people did,” I replied, shifting a little to ease the strain in my arms and listening to the chains clatter against the stone. “You can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous.”
“Why did your people put you here? Are you being punished?”
“No, I…” I had to pause and reconsider, my mind suddenly unraveling. In truth, after all, I was being punished. I was punishing myself for my friends’ deaths. For my father’s greed. So I simply stated a fact. “I’m to be a sacrifice.”
“To what?”
“A plague—a dragon.”
He waited for a second or two, the picture of utmost patience in spite of obvious signs of weariness. Looking up at me with eyes that defied the soiled countenance that housed them, he fixed me with a gaze of brilliant blue—reflecting a light of subdued curiosity and a hint of an older man’s expectation. It felt as though he knew what I was about to say—as though he were simply listening to me to confirm his suspicions, a habit, I suppose, that was created and shaped by time spent on the road, wandering far and wide and being exposed to all sorts of situations and to human nature in its maddening range of noble and detestable whims—an older man’s mind, heart, and spirit in a young boy’s body. Returning his look and feeling that growing gulf between us in terms of experience, I began to feel horribly insubstantial and terribly ineffectual. Suddenly my purpose seemed foolish, selfish, and downright laughable—though I was certain that none of my family or my subjects laughed.
I, for my part, almost burst out laughing in complete contempt of myself—the pampered, sheltered, helpless prince, who, even on the verge of completing an act of sacrifice, was still as naïve and foolish as before in spite of all prior convictions of justice and honor.
So I told my would-be rescuer about the dragon and its curse on my kingdom and my people’s weakness and soldiers’ ineffectiveness in defeating the menace. Of my father’s final declaration of a law, when all seemed hopeless, that he was bound to break—a law that reflected the true weakness of those who had long considered themselves a good deal wiser and better than their inferiors. I told him everything and, in doing so, felt an overwhelming sense of shame that I was sure made itself known in the way my face warmed up in spite of the sudden rise of the winds around us.
Without speaking another word, he stepped forward and came up to me, studying me for a moment before setting his weapon aside and reaching up to feel the shackles that encircled my wrists. The angled surface of the rock forced him to press himself lightly against me in order to reach the rusted metal.
“You can’t free me,” I said, my words coming out in a choked half-whisper. He smelled of dirt and sun and sweat, the bitter, salty scent commingling with what I assumed to be his natural essence, a subtle, intoxicating musk of flesh somewhat heated by exertion. I had to swallow hard but could not find it in myself to turn my face away.
“These chains are old,” he said. I found myself turning to press my face subtly against his shoulder. “A sword stroke would do it.”
“Would it?”
“Yes. Your cuffs, though…” Here he lightly tugged at the manacles. “We’ll have to find a blacksmith who can work through the lock.”
He stepped away and collected his weapon, and I found myself suddenly cold and exposed and, for a fleeting moment, utterly confused.
“You can’t stay,” I said, feeling a shifting of the winds and blinking away the stray hair that whipped across my face as I spoke. I could sense something in the air—there was a stench that rose with the winds’ currents. “Unless you want to die, you can’t stay here with me. Save your heroics for someone else.”
The knight simply cocked his head, periodically lifting a gloved hand to push wildly flailing strands of dirt-caked hair from his face. He cracked a slight, almost sympathetic smile.
“I’m bound by my oath to protect,” he simply said, his voice barely heard in the swirling of air around us. I anxiously glanced around but found nothing amiss. “If it’s justice you want, you won’t find it in a monster’s belly.”
“This is stupidity on your part!” I hissed, tugging at my shackles and feeling the rusted metal scratch my skin. “Leave! Now!”
His smile broadened. “Stupidity? Oh, and this isn’t?” He pointed at my bound wrists and ignored the outraged sound that issued from me as he suddenly paused, stiffening, as though listening for something. Then he nodded almost absently, stepping forward to lean his spear against the rock and placing his helm over his head, his eyes meeting mine just before they were obscured by the tarnished cylindrical cover. For the briefest moment, I thought I saw them sparkle cheerfully amid the shadows and the dirt. “I’d be happy to engage you in a debate over who deserves what fate, your highness, but at the moment, my duty supercedes yours. Had you not been chained, I wouldn’t dare overstep my bounds and defy you. At the moment, however, you’re at a rather—huge—disadvantage, and I’m better off ignoring whatever questions or protests you might have.”
The winds picked up speed until it felt as though we were caught in the middle of a swirling funnel. I could barely keep my eyes open, while my hair and clothes whipped around me in a fury, threatening to tear themselves off my body. The chains above me rattled as I felt my bound hands get pulled and tugged against their constraints by the raging movement around me, the metal bands tearing at my skin, the roughness of the rock scraping my knuckles. Before me, the knight managed to keep his balance by digging his spear into the ground and bracing himself against it as he turned his back to me to face the yawning chasm before us.
The wind howled, and I thought that I was going to be driven mad from the frightful screeching that filled my ears. I cringed for a bit, unable to protect myself, before I finally realized that the howling that was tearing through my system was not that of the wind’s. Along with the swirling air that enveloped us, the frightful shrieking in the air grew more and more pronounced until it was clear to my shattered senses that the noises came from the belly of the very beast that had now come to claim me.
I managed to crack open my eyes in time to catch sight of the knight standing before me, his cloak and surcoat flapping wildly as he braced himself against the winds. He did not move away from his position, his figure looking much too small and fragile against the rugged landscape that scowled at him from the distance. And for the briefest moment, I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of protectiveness toward him as a voice started to scream from the back of my mind, urging me to pull him back and take him far, far away from this dreadful place.
He’s too young, it hissed in my ears. He’ll die because of you.
“No,” I gasped, tugging angrily at the chains that held me. “I couldn’t help it—it’s not my fault—I didn’t ask him to come!”
The winds picked up for yet another second before the cursed monster appeared, flying into view from the canyon below. The knight before me staggered back a few steps in surprise at the sudden apparition. I watched, horrified, at the beast as it hovered above, looking down on us with bulging yellow eyes (its pupils nothing more than angry black slits that sliced down the center of each eyeball). Its scales glinted in the sun in discordant flashes of green and yellow, the texture both smooth and roughened, its claws curling into savage arcs with deadly, sharp points. Its wings stretched out from side to side like monstrous bats’ wings of gold and green, flapping almost awkwardly because of their sheer size.
He’ll die because of you! the voice insisted.
“No!” I cried out, and the monster opened its jaws, baring its teeth and snake-like tongue, and let loose another unnatural scream that froze my blood. “I didn’t ask him to come!”
The knight—as though nothing were happening—strode casually forward, gripping his spear with both hands as he watched his nemesis hover before him, howling its rage, slime dripping from its jaws. The boy looked too small—too small. He was not even armed properly. The whole thing almost seemed absurd. And yet there he was, facing certain death with all the air of superiority that perhaps any warrior, who was ridiculously sure of himself, possessed.
A torrent of curses poured out of my mouth as I jerked and tugged violently at my shackles. “Don’t do this!” I cried out, my voice sounding too thin and vague in my ears.
It’s your fault.
“No! I didn’t know that he’d come! It’s not…”
Your fault.
“No! I didn’t ask him to save me! I didn’t ask him to…”
And neither did your friends—did they?
I paused, blinking away the tears that had gathered. The dragon flapped its scaly wings, lifting itself up higher, its eyes still fixed on the boy in front of me.
They didn’t ask you to come. They didn’t ask you to save them.
The monster screeched one more time before hurtling back down, shooting through the air like a massive, repulsive arrow that glinted in the sun. It opened its jaws and bared its teeth, and red fire issued forth from its throat, leaving a trail of gray mist behind. The knight paused and waited near the edge of the cliff.
You couldn’t help what had happened to them. It’s not your burden to bear.
“It’s my father who killed them,” I whispered.
It was chance and chance alone. What guarantee do you have of being chosen had your lot been there since the beginning? Would you still sacrifice yourself for them if your name hadn’t been pulled?
A loud, guttural hiss. The dragon roared as it tried to snap its jaws on the seemingly vulnerable figure that awaited it by the cliff’s edge. The knight immediately braced himself, turning his upper body for leverage before striking at the right moment.
I held my breath then involuntarily cried, “The heart! Strike at the heart!” when I realized that he seemed to be aiming at a part of the monster that would not guarantee an easier battle. I remained unheeded, however.
Gripping the spear securely in both hands, he heaved and drove the spear’s point into the dragon’s mouth, burying it deeply inside its throat. A scream of pain followed, and I thought I felt the ground beneath me tremble as it snapped its head back, howling in pain, its jaws wide open. The knight had let go of his spear, leaving it embedded inside the monster’s throat and watching it disintegrate from the fire that continued to shoot out of the creature’s mouth in bright red bursts. He stumbled back as a wing beat against him, knocking him down while the beast reared up and thrashed about in mid-air, shaking its head sharply in an effort to dislodge the burning spear.
I was aghast. “Fool,” I hissed. “How would that help?” A spear. He had attacked with a weak, ineffectual weapon against a force that was obviously too great for him.
The boy lost no time. Even after landing hard on his back, he still managed to roll himself over and stagger to his feet, unsheathing his sword (the only weapon left to him) as he struggled to pull himself upright. I could tell, with a painfully constricting heart, that he was exhausted. I was furious at myself and my helplessness.
Will your sacrifice bring them back?
“No,” I whispered, slumping against the rock as I watched the battle with an anxiety that crippled me. “Nothing will.”
Will your death stop this monster?
“No.”
Then let him avenge in your name.
I could only fall silent and struggle to subdue the wild pounding of my heart against my chest. My eyes were inexorably fixed on the knight’s soiled and metallic figure ahead, misty with unshed tears of anger and shame.
I watched him grip his massive sword with both hands, his body taut and almost trembling from the extremity of the tension—as though tightly coiled to the point of shattering. It would not take much for that coil to release itself in one sudden explosion of power.
A faint shower of ash flew out of the dragon’s mouth as the spear was finally consumed. It once again threw its head back, letting forth another terrible cry that filled the chasm before rising up for leverage and then flying back down, still screaming its rage and pain. I did note, however, that no fire issued out of its jaws now. Having been injured in the very place where the flames formed, it had been crippled and made slightly more vulnerable against the knight’s attacks.
I stared on in amazement. The knight—that slight, travel-weary, and foolish boy—took advantage of his disadvantage against the monster—and won himself a greater chance at victory.
The monster dove down, whipping its head forward as though it were at the end of a lash, opening its injured jaw wide open. The knight waited just at the precise moment when slime-covered and bloodied teeth reached out for him, suddenly diving down and rolling with an agility that astonished me until he was under the beast’s body. Then he swung his sword in a wide, almost desperate arc, cutting a large gash on the scale-covered juncture where the monster’s neck and chest met. I could even hear the sickening sound of blade tearing through scale and skin amid the din.
The dragon, taken aback by the sudden move, roared once again, but this time it crashed on the ground before me, writhing in pain while blood began to flow from the new wound. It had not expected this resistance. For six full years, it had never once encountered a determined effort at thwarting its desires. It had clearly allowed its defenses to stagnate.
I could not help but smile as I watched it thrash about, screaming.
“That, you demon, was for Eadwyn.” My mind flooded with memories of a boy—the son of my father’s own groom and a close friend in my childhood—smaller and weaker than I was, who, at fourteen, had been offered as a sacrifice to this detestable thing.
The knight had lost his sword when he scrambled out of the beast’s way as it crashed on the cliff’s edge, and he was now running off for it as it lay on the ground several yards from them. The dragon paused as it heard him hurry off, burdened by the awkward armor he wore, and was momentarily distracted from its injuries. It would catch him before he even reached his weapon.
“Here!” I screamed, rattling the chains. “Here!”
The monster turned its head. Its eyes settled on me, and it growled.
“I’m here,” I continued to shout as I tried to make as much noise as I could. “Come take me.”
It snarled, shaking its head a little, before raising itself up to slither up to me. A dank, repulsive trail formed as it moved, and I felt my stomach turn from the rising stench that came from the sickening mixture of slime and blood. I forced myself to meet its furious, hateful stare as low rumblings gurgled from its bleeding throat. It presently stopped before me, now distracted by the easy possibility of a meal. Its jaws were a few feet away, and as it smelled me, I could feel the moist heat that came out of its nostrils. I steeled myself against its looming, terrifying form and hoped that the knight had reached his sword safely.
And in a grotesque parody of a dog eagerly finding favor in its beloved master’s hands, the dragon alternately growled and hissed as its tongue snaked out, running its wet, forked tip up and down my body, covering me with its repulsive fluid. I could barely suppress a small moan of disgust as I turned my head when its rough surface scraped up from my chest to my neck. I shivered from the contact and vainly pressed myself against the rock on my back. The monster continued its exploration as its tongue shifted direction and slid down my body, and I was practically shaking from the violently suppressed urge to cry out in protest, but my need to offer myself in such a degrading, repugnant fashion overrode all natural responses that I might have to stop it.
I turned, sickened, just when the monster retracted its tongue and began to open its jaws. I saw the teeth that had torn my friends and peers into ribbons. I saw, for the briefest, most fleeting moment, the ghastly throat that had swallowed them. Then all semblance of control left me, and I screamed my rage.
The dragon suddenly reared up, shrieking at the sky, and for a second I thought that it was somehow mimicking me. But it violently turned, its wings pulling up with a jerk, though it did not attempt to fly.
A small figure bolted before me, running with sword in hand from one side of the monster to the other, raising his weapon high just as the wings came down and slashing a large, jagged tear across the thin, leathery skin that comprised it. It was then when I realized that the other wing had been similarly disabled, and it was the knight’s offensive maneuver that had pulled the beast so quickly and so unexpectedly away from me.
The dragon’s howls rose higher in both tone and pitch. It could not escape now.
“For Elwine and for Willan,” I barely managed to say.
It was now a battle between equals, and I watched, with horrified and almost insane fascination, the massive, injured bulk of green and gold monstrosity let loose its rage on its smaller opponent. It reared and lunged almost clumsily now, the burden of its wounds obviously keeping it from taking a more effective offense. The knight leapt and ran, jumped and rolled, exerting every ounce of whatever available energy he had left to confuse, jar, and cripple his opponent further. Every now and then he would swing his sword and cut another wound at another part of the monster’s body, and I saw that he was still aiming for those that afforded the dragon all sense of mobility. The legs and the shoulders as well as the hips were stabbed and cut, allowing him plenty of time to be on the defensive as he continued to tire out the creature.
He would take the occasional blow of an awkwardly swung limb or wing, but his determination offered him the push to recover in spite of his increasing slowness. The fatigue was too great.
I felt my spirit infuse itself in his, and with every bloody stroke of the sword, it was as though I myself were doing it. And so I reveled in the fight. Primitive responses to my rage and the rage that goaded both combatants on imbibed me with a terrible frenzy that I had never before known, and I was trembling in my shackles as I spat out name after name of every victim with each hissing of the knight’s sword as it flew in wide, desperate arcs in the air.
Alodia, daughter of Wallace.
A stab in the flank.
Synne, daughter of Bestandan.
A cut across the shoulder.
Boniface, son of Fugol.
A slice at the jaw.
Aglaeca, son of Yrre.
The dragon continued to fight, snapping its jaws and roaring at the winds. It rolled, thrashed, writhed, lunged, and slithered, its movements growing more and more clumsy and distracted. And after what seemed like an eternity, it received another mortal wound on its chest, and it threw its head back, gurgling its fury. The knight immediately pulled his sword out and stumbled wearily back a few paces, setting himself before his enemy just so, then he shifted the sword in his hands and raised his arms, holding the weapon as though it were a massive dagger. He was panting and gasping from his exertions, and it seemed that he barely had the strength left to deliver the final blow.
With a loud cry, he stumbled forward and threw himself against the beast, using his entire body as he buried his sword in the beast’s heart, pushing and pushing until only the hilt was left, and he was pressed against the scaly surface.
I felt time stop at that moment. I watched as they remained fixed where they stood, with the monster partly reared up, the knight against its chest in a bizarre attitude of a loving embrace. Then it was over.
The monster struggled one final time, lifting itself up in tattered wings before rolling and falling off the edge of the cliff, its death cries filling the chasm and fading off in the distance.
The silence that followed descended on us rather heavily, and neither of us moved for several seconds afterwards. I listened, with numbed senses, as the wind once again rose up around us, purging the bloodstained air of its hideous elements.
I watched the champion fall to his knees, dropping his sword to the ground. There he stayed with his head bowed and his body heaving with weary gasps, all his weight being held up by mail-covered hands planted firmly on the grass beneath him. I leaned against the rock, feeling complete exhaustion overpower me—though it certainly had nothing to do with any physical exertions on my part, I think it had most to do with the emotional storm that had recently defined my heart, mind, and spirit. I was sweating, and the wetness lavished on me by that repulsive tongue made my clothes cling to my body, cooling my skin and making me shudder from disgust at the sensation and the stench that began to rise up with every blow of the wind.
I closed my eyes and offered silent prayers to my friends. I blessed my people and my family.
With eyes newly opened to bitter truths, I felt at a loss, unable to decide whether or not I ought to return. The obligation that faced me as the next king oppressed my shaken spirits. There was so much change that needed to be done. The effects of so many years of ineffective leadership needed to be purged, the people’s faith and confidence in their own abilities to govern their lives under better rules, restored. How would I face my father? With his chosen ministers and aides no better than he, how would I expect to bring about the changes necessary for the kingdom to prosper the way that it should?
I heard the sudden clanging of steel against stone, and my arms, so lately cramped in their awkward position above my head, fell to my sides. I opened my eyes to find myself staring levelly at the knight, who had now taken off his helm to expose his youthful, muddied, and bruised countenance to my gaze. He smiled wanly, his eyes still bright amid all the darker reminders of his oaths as a protector of the oppressed. I saw that his sword now sported a notch on its blade.
I now felt myself irrevocably bound to him. I owed him much more than I could ever express. For all my shortcomings and frailties, I swore then that I would, in my turn, be his protector. He seemed to have read my thoughts as his smile broadened a little, an air of embarrassment suddenly on him.
“It’s my duty to serve,” he said. Those were the only words that passed between us at that moment, and I did not think that we needed any more. I simply stepped forward and wrapped my arms around him in a tight, relieved embrace. I felt him slump wearily against me, and I gratefully accepted the burden of his weight. I held him up and silently urged him to place himself in my hands, and I think that he understood me well enough.
I do not recall how long we stood there, holding each other tightly, ignoring all rules of decorum or those that separated ranks and dictated our set place in the tapestry that wove us all together. Call it arrogance, call it a foolish presumption—but at that moment, I never believed any of those damned rules to apply to us.
It had been a dozen years since.
My kingdom is small still, but it is prospering nicely. On taking over my father’s place, I had turned everything upside-down, discarding forty-odd years of his rule and struggling to rebuild my people’s lives. We have temporarily cut ourselves from the outside world and bent all our thoughts on building up our wealth and security. It was difficult, and several times in the course of my rule, I felt the painful, overwhelming desire to give up, but I was bound by my duty to my people—and to my long-lost friends. I suppose it was really for their sakes that I had worked myself to the point of collapse. I felt it a small compensation, given the enormity of their loss, but I suppose it would have to do.
Quatre thought it so. He is still my protector, and I his. He has helped me through the long, arduous years of change and has grown to be my closest, most trusted aide. My friend. My lover.
Several times in the course of my rule, I silently blessed the day when chance dictated the direction of his steps and human nature for my impetuous, foolish whims.
I still do.
Notes:
The following is taken from “The Golden Legend or Lives of the Saints.” Compiled by Jacobus de Voragine, Archbishop of Genoa, 1275.
“Here followeth the Life of S. George Martyr.
“S. George was a knight and born in Cappadocia. On a time he came in to the province of Libya, to a city which is said Silene. And by this city was a stagne or a pond like a sea, wherein was a dragon which envenomed all the country. And on a time the people were assembled for to slay him, and when they saw him they fled. And when he came nigh the city he venomed the people with his breath, and therefore the people of the city gave to him every day two sheep for to feed him, because he should do no harm to the people, and when the sheep failed there was taken a man and a sheep. Then was an ordinance made in the town that there should be taken the children and young people of them of the town by lot, and every each one as it fell, were he gentle or poor, should be delivered when the lot fell on him or her. So it happed that many of them of the town were then delivered, insomuch that the lot fell upon the king’s daughter, whereof the king was sorry, and said unto the people: For the love of the gods take gold and silver and all that I have, and let me have my daughter. They said: How sir! ye have made and ordained the law, and our children be now dead, and ye would do the contrary. Your daughter shall be given, or else we shall burn you and your house.
“When the king saw he might no more do, he began to weep, and said to his daughter: Now shall I never see thine espousals. Then returned he to the people and demanded eight days' respite, and they granted it to him. And when the eight days were passed they came to him and said: Thou seest that the city perisheth: Then did the king do array his daughter like as she should be wedded, and embraced her, kissed her and gave her his benediction, and after, led her to the place where the dragon was.
“When she was there S. George passed by, and when he saw the lady he demanded the lady what she made there and she said: Go ye your way fair young man, that ye perish not also. Then said he: Tell to me what have ye and why weep ye, and doubt ye of nothing. When she saw that he would know, she said to him how she was delivered to the dragon. Then said S. George: Fair daughter, doubt ye no thing hereof for I shall help thee in the name of Jesu Christ. She said: For God’s sake, good knight, go your way, and abide not with me, for ye may not deliver me. Thus as they spake together the dragon appeared and came running to them, and S. George was upon his horse, and drew out his sword and garnished him with the sign of the cross, and rode hardily against the dragon which came towards him, and smote him with his spear and hurt him sore and threw him to the ground. And after said to the maid: Deliver to me your girdle, and bind it about the neck of the dragon and be not afeard. When she had done so the dragon followed her as it had been a meek beast and debonair. Then she led him into the city, and the people fled by mountains and valleys, and said: Alas! alas! we shall be all dead. Then S. George said to them: Ne doubt ye no thing, without more, believe ye in God, Jesu Christ, and do ye to be baptized and I shall slay the dragon. Then the king was baptized and all his people, and S. George slew the dragon and smote off his head, and commanded that he should be thrown in the fields, and they took four carts with oxen that drew him out of the city.
“Then were there well fifteen thousand men baptized, without women and children, and the king did do make a church there of our Lady and of S. George, in the which yet sourdeth a fountain of living water, which healeth sick people that drink thereof. After this the king offered to S. George as much money as there might be numbered, but he refused all and commanded that it should be given to poor people for God’s sake; and enjoined the king four things, that is, that he should have charge of the churches, and that he should honour the priests and hear their service diligently, and that he should have pity on the poor people, and after, kissed the king and departed.”