by Ava Kelly
In his darker moments, he believes he might as well be dead already.
“Why are you always sad?”
Startled, Orsie wipes at his cheeks before peeking out of the blanket. It’s the middle of the night, nobody should be here—and indeed, nobody is. He’s imagining things, and he screws his eyes shut with another wave of tears.
“Hey, shh.”
Orsie covers his ears.
“I can feel your sorrow, so please, tell me what to do. Please.”
The heat of his forehead feels like fire against his trembling fingers, and Orsie wishes for his frost back. Wishes the snow wouldn’t make him sick. Wishes for home.
“It’s been snowing for days, everything is brilliant.”
Coolness touches his skin, and Orsie’s body unwinds. He’s still hot, though, so it can’t be real, this feeling.
“Look at the stars, they’re so bright tonight. Wind’s picking up too. You like this, yes? Ah, then I’ll leave the window open for you.”
It is. It’s real, yet not, the words in his head but not in his ears. How is this possible?
“I know what you mean,” comes back with a small laugh. “To think I’m talking to a— But you’re sad, I can feel it, and I think you’re hearing me. Can you? Or I’m the one losing my wits.”
“I can hear you,” Orsie gasps, then coughs loudly. “Where are you? Who are you?”
“Can you hear me? If you can, say something.”
The voice is soft, similar to Orsie’s, too much so. Oh, it doesn’t—it doesn’t work both ways. Orsie senses the words, feels them instead of the sound that would reach his ears.
“Either someone’s there, or this place is playing tricks on me.”
He’s there, Orsie really is, but his assurances fall short. He wonders what is causing this, who could be so powerful as to invade another’s thoughts? What artifact could bridge an unknown distance between Orsie and another being? And why Orsie, specifically?
With a deep inhale, Orsie closes his eyes and shouts a thought of mingled what-who-why toward the voice. He puts his entire force behind it, screams it in his head as hard as he can.
“What?”
The whisper returns, thick with confusion, and Orsie grabs onto that feeling and pushes back.
“You don’t know, like I don’t know. Is that what you’re trying to say?”
Yes, yes! Looks like the other one can receive something. An emotion. Orsie’s breath is harsh, and he coughs around the stinging in his throat. What could be so powerful that can connect to a dra… Orsie swallows, eyes filling again. Of course. His anaskett.
Everything halts at once. His breaths, time, the sounds of the night, his entire being stills with the realization. Someone is talking directly to his dragonsoul.
Whoever it is out there, they’re near the anaskett, speaking to it. It figures Orsie’s words would remain even less perceived than those of the stranger. Orsie doesn’t have magic anymore, so he can’t reach back. He didn’t even know it was possible to have such a connection, but the fact is that dragonsouls do like to hear whispers and stories. They content in the softness of spoken affection.
Instead of speaking out loud, Orsie focuses on the memory of gleaming black, pushes his thoughts toward the connection, sending a confirmation.
“Let’s say you’re really there. Where exactly is there?”
Haumir. Orsie tries, but can’t find a way to express it, and his frustration grows in increments. Instead, he repeats the question, murmured and in his thoughts alike. “Where are you?”
“So maybe you can’t tell me. Or I can’t hear it. How about I tell you where I am?”
Yes, smart. Orsie holds his breath.
“I’m in—” A loud hiss follows. “—right in the middle of the forest. It’s not far from—”
A sharp screech has Orsie clutching at his ears again, immediately followed by silence.
“No,” Orsie rasps. “Come back.” He sits there completely still, listening, between numbness and desperation he doesn’t let himself feel. The whispers remain silent, though, even as Orsie falls asleep.
*
Every spare moment he has, Orsie extends his attention toward his anaskett, even though the connection remains quiet and he’s starting to doubt his senses. Most of all, he wonders who the stranger is and how they came to be so close to his dragonsoul.
It can’t be Nevmis; Orsie can’t imagine her being soft and comforting. Perhaps she has servants and one of them has found Orsie’s anaskett in her castle. Orsie can’t tell, not from such great distance, not without magic. And he’s entirely sure it is already far away from him because he can’t feel its draw either. Enough time has passed since it was taken that Orsie can’t feel any of its lingering presence. His chest has been hollow, but he has managed to ignore the sensation so far. Now that he’s had a glimpse of it, he can’t.
Orsie listens, focuses, listens again. He mentally lists what he knows and all his questions while he grooms the horses. The stables are quieter than the inn.
His anaskett is unharmed, that’s obvious, and in a distant place. A presence other than Nevmis has somehow managed to draw his anaskett’s attention. It seems they did so unwittingly, otherwise they wouldn’t be so uncertain of Orsie’s existence. Also, there must be some safeguards in place protecting the location of the anaskett. It could be either Nevmis’s doing or his own magic protecting it. If the former, maybe Nevmis is toying with him. If the latter… Well, he is pleased his anaskett can care for itself, but this doesn’t help. It could be an entirely different reason.
As for the why? There is a way for dragons to connect through their anasketts, but it’s an ancient tale, and Orsie’s never seen it happen. If the stranger has a dragonsoul… No. Orsie shakes his head. No dragon would sit idly by and harbor a stolen soul. And the thief cannot possibly be another dragon, otherwise Nevmis would’ve brought her revenge on them. Orsie laughs at the thought that a mortal might have been able to defeat Nevmis. Nobody can. Look at what happened to Orsie, to Mother, to all the other dragons that stood in her way. The surviving ones would rather hide than face her, him included. Orsie rubs at his temples, chasing his circling thoughts.
*
The inn shakes under the howls of the snowstorm. The night is late, closer to dawn than sunset, and Orsie is in the kitchen, curled as tightly as possible next to the hearth. Embers are glowing among ashes, granting warmth to the air, so the cold shiver down his spine catches him by surprise. At first he takes it for a draft, but it happens again, enveloping his entire being in comfort instead of the usual hurt winter air brings him these days.
“It stopped snowing. Can you feel it?”
Yes, oh yes. Orsie reaches out.
“I hope you’re seeing this. Moonlight falls over the forest and everything is silver and white. Can you feel it?”
He can, he really can, like he did when he was watching the white landscape from the highest terrace of his home.
“So you do like it.”
For some reason Orsie imagines a smile, overlaid onto the blanket of snow, an open window in the dead of winter, stone halls, and the smell of ice in the air.
“I’m really glad you do.”
This time, Orsie is wary of abruptly interrupting this connection, so he doesn’t try to push questions through. Instead, he listens to the soft words, picking up any detail that might give him an answer. The stranger, however, only talks about mountains and snow and the story of the prince that got lost in the forest. Orsie’s smiling, but it’s joyless, and he pretends his cheeks aren’t wet as he listens.
With each passing day, new whispers are forming in his mind, and Orsie is choking less and less on sorrow. The words aren’t there all the time, but the whole thing feels more as if the stranger is a visitor. They come, they go, they fall asleep. It’s irregular too. A few times the connection flares to life in the middle of a sentence, and Orsie can’t tell if the magic is wavering or if there is another reason. H
e tries a few more times to relay where he is, tries asking questions. Sometimes, the other seems to understand, but just when a reply comes, either silence or noise overwhelms it. Orsie forces himself to be patient. He spends some nights listening, merely basking in moments that feel more like a caress than anything. The hollowness his anaskett left behind is slowly being filled by kind words and tales of trees.
It’s why he’s able to survive the harsh winter.
The whisperer gives him hope and strength. Even if Orsie is still sick, he finds more energy, and the seemingly permanent tremble of his muscles has lessened. Hann says he’s looking healthier, too, but Orsie can’t tell, not in this human body. He believes—needs to believe—that soon he’ll resume his journey.
*
With the melting snow at the end of February, the reality of the world outside breaks through the shell Ark has built around himself. Nestled inside the warmth of the castle, it’s been easy to lose track of time. Between his two companions, Ark has let himself drift away from the harshness outside the walls, even if he has to fight the malice of one and oftentimes ends up seeking solace in the company of the other.
With spring, however, returns a yearning of going. He needs to take his mothers’ ashes to the Sal for burial, but beyond that, he wants to see places, follow roads. And yet, he can’t find the will to push the gates open. Each day, he delays until the next, and the next. It’s only when he receives a shrill promise of eternal imprisonment, laughter echoing for hours throughout the rooms, that he steps onto the road. The first time, he doesn’t stray far, just a walk around the forest to his favorite clearing with his bow. Then farther, and a little bit more, his confidence increasing. It’s funny how the distance seeds a swirl of fear in his gut, that if he’s too far away, something awful will happen. He ignores it.
The first flower of March, a single snowdrop by the creek, brings back memories of childhood and with it a decision to set out for the Sal. It’s time to put his mothers to rest, so he braves Crinidava for supplies. He needs clothes, travel bags, a horse or two.
After he reaches the village—enough rubies to trade and to keep on his person so he doesn’t forget himself again—he sneaks through the streets. Ark avoids all soldiers and tries to stay clear of the places near the garrison. The seamstress calls him a dragonslayer as though she hasn’t known Ark for years, and he huffs at her before paying her a lot more than the order is worth. He’s supposed to return in a few days to get the clothes, so, for now, he makes his way to the stables near the eastern edge. Just outside the village, he reaches the familiar rest post with a tavern too far off to be filled with soldiers. The place is there for travelers and strangers. Ark likes it; he used to come here instead of the taverns near the garrison.
Today, though, the keeper is a bit too reverent in his greetings, and the server calls him “sir” and “Master Dragonslayer.” Like that’s a profession. No, like it’s a reason for pride. Ark scoffs and sips his drink. As he looks around, he discovers he’s being watched, even talked about at another table, where a white-haired man is sitting with a young woman.
“I’m telling you, he’s been here since I was a little boy.”
“That ale is going to your head,” she says, crossing her arms. “I passed through here last summer and there was no dragonslayer. Are you shriveling in your old age?”
It’s peculiar, and Ark listens to the conversation with interest. An hour later, the woman is thoroughly convinced the dragonslayer has been here for eight years, not fifty like the man says. She is adamant, but it’s not the same belief with which she started the argument.
Ark walks to their table, curious and full of questions, but when they see him, they both scuttle to the far ends of the benches, a wariness in their eyes. Ark frowns.
“Do you know my name?” he asks them.
“Master Flitz, sir,” the woman says. “We didn’t mean anything by it, we were just…”
Ark waves her off as he takes a seat, and she snaps her mouth shut too quickly. Really, she doesn’t look the kind to be frightened easily. “And where did I come from?”
The old man raises a finger then, leaning toward Ark but not moving closer. “From Vaiknela,” he says, just over the woman’s confident, “Uzani.”
Ark scratches his cheek in consideration. “Were there any other Flitz around these parts before? Soldiers?” he asks the old man. It’s unlikely he remembers his mothers, but Ark needs confirmation for his suspicions.
All he receives in answer is a shrug before the barkeep shuffles over with another pint for Ark.
“There were some Baurin archers named Flitz,” he says. “Long time ago. But they moved away. Been years, maybe twenty?”
Ark frowns. So he’s been forgotten, just like he asked of the castle. Perhaps “forgotten” is too strong a word. Watching these people, listening to their hushed conversations, it feels more like Ark’s life has been replaced in their memories. Yet nobody seems to remember the same thing, each convincing themselves or others of different pasts that never happened.
A cold shiver runs down his spine, his stomach in knots. Just how far outside the castle does the magic reach? And if it’s capable of such deception, what else would it do?
A while later, as he trudges back into the village, a little boy runs into Ark as he rounds a corner. He can’t be older than ten, a streak of mud on his cheek and pants ripped at the knees. From nearby alleys, laughter and raised children’s voices make their way in muffled echoes.
“Hide and seek?” he asks the kid and receives a nod. That same wariness flashes on the boy’s face as he looks up at Ark, so Ark tries to put on his most pleasant smile. “Do you know who I am?”
“Dragonslayer,” the boy whispers, eyes wide.
“Right. Did I slay a dragon?”
Another nod comes in response.
“And when was that?”
“A dozen years ago,” the kid says, lifting his chin, smug that he knows the answer. “I remember like yesterday, the dragon flew up there”—he points at the sky—“then the dragonslayer came, and it was gone, and everything was at peace and they all celebrated.”
Ark heaves a sigh. The conflicting memory the child holds is confirmation enough that the spell he requested of the castle has spread over Crinidava. He flicks a ruby at the kid before walking away. Somewhere behind, the kids are shrieking, no doubt at the sudden treasure, and that’s— Actually, that’s really satisfying.
Ark pauses, looking at a few of the precious stones in his palm. He gives another to a young mother, then asks more people about himself as he makes his way toward the center.
He’s met with deference everywhere he goes, his stroll suffused with strangeness, as if he’s living inside a dream where his life is different. To top it off, spikes of pleasure, of thrilling exaltation run through his bones every time someone’s eyes alight with amazement at the rubies being gifted. Ark could get used to this.
He’s free of the taunting whispers, he’s admired here, even a little feared, so why does he still want to go back home?
And there it is, his answer. He’s been giving it to himself all along. The castle is home now, and it’s rooted deep inside himself in a way he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to sever. But if he ponders closer, it’s not that bad a place to call home.
Lightness fills his heart by the time he reaches the garrison. Last he was here, these gates separated him from what he holds dear. Now, they are mere wood. He doesn’t stand there for long before Geren appears like a moth to the flame. Unsurprising. What’s different, though, is the way he greets Ark with the same reverence as the others. Geren makes unveiled suggestions that donations to the garrison would be appreciated, but there are no demands this time. He’s almost cowering.
Ark says nothing, listening to him, and after he’s had enough, he turns around. Leaves without a word.
*
Ark has much to consider over the next days. He even asks his incessantly irritating c
ompanion about all this, and between the discontent and the jibes, he manages to extract a few answers. It seems if he really wanted, Ark could remove the spell. In the end, Ark decides it’s better as it is. It doesn’t hurt anyone, and he feels safer hidden.
As he keeps stuffing his pockets with rubies, the malice warns he’ll regret the gifts he makes. But too wonderful a feeling affects him when he gives. Especially when the gift is unexpected. Undesired but welcome. It’s almost enough to put his travels out of his mind.
Almost.
Ark is reminded of his previous plans in the face of another journey. His. Perhaps someday they’ll meet and face the roads together, but for now, he has his own adventure to embark on.
With two horses and plenty of supplies, Ark sets off for the pass on the eastern side of the valley, one that is smoother and more suitable for animals. The beauty of the forest does nothing, though, to alleviate the weight settling in his belly at the thought of leaving his castle behind.
He’s one day away when he feels a sharp stab through his heart. It’s there one moment and gone the next, so Ark doesn’t pay much attention to it. He makes camp in a clearing in a wider portion of the pass. Maybe he needs rest.
Ark places his head on the ground to sleep, but no nightmares follow. Nothing but emptiness, a dire lack of everything, of life, of heartbeat. He wakes with so much dread in his bones that he can barely stand. From somewhere ahead, the sound of a running creek wraps through the trees, and Ark moves toward it. Washing his face with its cool water would be good.
Halfway there, his step doesn’t feel the ground, and he crumbles as if he’s walked into a pit. Ark’s body is heavy, unyielding as he struggles. Like there’s no more life inside.
Like he’s dead. Already buried.
With a shout that frightens even himself, Ark scuttles back through the leaves. His heart flutters in heavy, quick beats, his breaths stuttering between dry lips.
It takes half the day to recover. He tries to walk farther again, knowing what to expect and backtracks before he collapses.
He can’t leave the valley, it seems. Maybe he’ll have luck through one of the other passes, but first he needs rest because this whole thing has drained him. He doesn’t put much hope in that though. Given what he’s seen of the magic and what he knows it can do, he doubts he’ll be able to leave.
