Convergence (The Dragon Within Saga Book 1)

by Roberto Vecchi

  Unbeknownst to him, his new found friend, after they parted from the day’s events, did not seek the shelter of his home. Rather, the dog would follow him, if only by scent, to the orphanage and proceed to sit outside well into the night. On several occasions, the dog was chased away by the owner while all the children slept. However many times The Beast tried, he was unsuccessful at connecting the large stick he held in his massive hands with the dog’s head. Yet he would issue several vows of harm each night. Motivated by nothing more than an expression of hate that had evolved into habit; the beast’s actions toward the dog were in no way indicative of the dog’s behavior. Quite the opposite, in fact. The more the dog remained peaceful, silent, and respectful (if an animal consciously knows it’s being respectful), the more and more The Beast’s hate was allowed to steep.

  This day began the same as every day. He completed his morning’s chores as he had done every day for the totality of his remembered life. He walked out of the back door to the orphanage just like every day for the past several months, but that is where the comparisons end and the contrasts begin. Unlike every other day, the dog was seated quietly just outside. Not expecting a change in the routine, the boy stumbled directly into it, lost his balance, took three awkward steps while vainly trying to regain it, and landed hard on the ground with his breath forcefully expelled from his lungs in a loud grunt.

  Because the beast did not appreciate any sounds louder than his at any moment, he came rushing out of the door to see who had earned his anger. When he saw the dog walk tenderly up to the boy who was obviously recovering from a fall, all the vows he had made toward the animal had come rushing back and turned his slowly simmering anger to a full blown forest fire of hate induced rage. Fueled by the winds of understanding, he now knew it was the boy who was responsible for the appearance of the dog. It was the boy who was responsible for all those times he caught the dog begging for food. And it was the boy who was responsible for betraying him, yet again, and indulging in something he was unable to attain – happiness.

  Abruptly his plan formed for revenge and punishment. He could not catch the dog, but he could catch the boy. He glanced to the right and found the shovel left there by one of his tenants who failed to put it away. He picked it up and began slowly walking toward the unaware couple. Somehow aware of The Beast’s intent, the dog ended his playful licking and backed away from the boy while turning to face the oncoming fire. A low and slow growl carrying with it the sole intention of protection rolled from the guttural throat of the dog.

  “Two for one!” said the beast as he continued to walk toward the dog, gripping the shovel in both hands.

  The dog’s growl deepened and when it could deepen no more, with bared teeth, it issued three warning barks, again, containing all the intent of protection and conviction. The beast, in an effort to scare the animal, because that is all it was, just a stupid animal, banged the head of the shovel on the ground to mimic the three warning barks he had just heard.

  When the two were only steps apart, the dog lowered to the ground and grew frighteningly silent. The beast did the same. The whole scene was horrifyingly intense for the young boy, still reeling from having his breath forced from him. He felt the burning heat grow in his lungs as he gasped for the strength giving air that would allow him to aid his friend. Yet he saw the look in The Beast’s eyes. Hate. Rage. Nothing more. And he knew the dog would not prevail because the only thing able to stand against hate was hate itself. And there was none within his friend.

  With lightning speed the dog lunged for The Beast’s front arm holding the shovel closest to the spade. Contact. The boy saw his dog bite into The Beast’s arm just below the elbow and start vigorously shaking his head back and forth attempting to tear it from the socket. As the shovel dropped, hope rose. From within, a sharp but brief light of hope spiked as his dog was successful in its attack. But that hope was not meant to last just as all good things are meant to be dissolved in the inevitability of hate serving as a vessel for the propagation of misery and pain.

  With one fantastic blow, harnessing all of the hate and rage within him, The Beast unleashed a crushing fist against the side of the dog’s head. What was first seen as a successful attack from his dog was now viewed as it was, a successful trap. As the jaws of the dog dislodged from flesh leaving a gruesome wound, it fell to the ground injured and unable to continue the battle. Lying motionless except for its quick and shallow breathing, the dog looked lovingly at the boy, who was now paralyzed with fear. For the boy knew what as to follow.

  Slowly the beast picked up the shovel and walked over to the fallen animal. “Again boy? Again? Have you not grown tired of this?” The shovel raised and fell, and the once life filled eyes of the dog were made vacant. As if driving the mighty mountain spikes of the dwarves to imbed and lock his fate in place, the beast raised the shovel three more times. And three more times it descended upon the fallen dog, each in unison with a single word, “You! Cannot! Win!”

  Four times the shovel struck the dog, and four times it plunged a deeper pain within him, and four times he uttered a single word, “Stop!” But he knew he was not really speaking to The Beast. He was crying out to whatever powers there be greater than he that would take mercy upon his small frame and life and end the pain. Each descending thud of the shovel produced within him a greater depth of desperation, until finally, as the beast tossed the shovel aside, his whole existence was reduced to a dependency upon whatever would answer his pleas.

  Little one. Little one who I’ve watched for years upon years. Little one who I’ve helped for years upon years, I can help you now, again, as I have before. I can help you, but you must allow me. Will you allow it?

  While immersed within his pain filled, desperately broken state of mind, he did not question what he had heard. He didn’t care. All he wanted was help. All he wanted was to be rid of the bottomless hole of hopelessness.

  Little one. Little one who has felt so much pain. Little one who should not feel the way he does. I can help you little one. I can help you, but you must allow it. Will you allow me?

  Slowly being pulled from his sobbing descent into self-absorbed pity by the gentle nudging of the voice, his awareness gained enough ground to audibly answer, “Who are you?”

  I am He Who Helped You Stand. I am He Who Helped You walk. I am He Who Cares. You know me little one. I am the gentle force who has cared for you long before you knew. I am he who will care for you long after you cannot. I am He Who Brings You Truth. Will you let me help you now, as I have before? Will you allow it?

  “What…What will you do?”

  I will deliver upon you an end. I will deliver upon you a beginning. I will bring you from the death you are living. And I will present to you a life beyond what you can believe. Will you allow it?

  So desperate had he become to end any and all emotional ties to pain that this discussion was superfluous. He knew, even before he heard The Voice, he was prepared to give anything, to do anything, to become anything, if it meant changing his identity and changing the condition of his fated existence. So it came as no surprise to him when he heard the weak, hopeful “Yes” emerge from his lips. Borne deep within that single utterance was a profound and complete understanding of resignation. He had resigned his claim to his life and no longer depended upon his own singular influence to be the guide leading him through the dark forest.

  With his head resting against the ground, and his eyes becoming muddy from the tear soaked, dusty road beneath him, he felt something begin deep inside, beyond the physical aspects of his gut. With his eyes closed, he could almost see a small fountain bubbling over with a dark liquid emanating from somewhere in the blackness. Yet, it was still off in the distance and he could not completely comprehend its purpose. But he knew it was there for him. So further into the all-consuming blackness he peered. Past the swirling pseudo colors and past the fading memories of his hopeless childhood he progressed, step after mental step,
until he found himself standing a few small mental paces away.

  Drink.

  He watched for a moment as the dark liquid bubbled up in the center of a seemingly formless basin. He could not tangibly see the collecting structure, but its reality was solid nonetheless. So too was the reality of the dark, thick liquid. He gazed to see within it as one would while attempting to see the fish under the choppy surface of a small lake before deciding where to best drop the lure.

  Drink

  While there was nothing to see, there was everything to feel. Power, hate, rage, action, revenge all emanated from the dark liquid. They were all things he secretly, and not so secretly, desired. But ever more so than these, he desired to be something different than he was.

  Drink

  Tired was he of being the small, sickly boy who allowed everything and caused nothing except the fated desolation resulting from simply being him. How he longed to possess the power necessary to complete the visions dancing within his soul. And he saw that this liquid, this source of power, possessed everything he desired. It possessed hope.

  Drink

  Cupping the tiny fingers of his mind, he stretched them towards the fountain. The closer he came, the more the liquid seemed to jump into them the way a dying fish tries to jump to what it believes will be life giving water.

  Drink

  He slowly and gently pierced the surface and found it refreshingly cool to the touch. As his fingers contacted the viscous liquid, it instantly calmed and became a glassy smooth surface. But unlike any other liquid, this one offered no reflection.

  Drink

  As he pulled his hands out of the water, slowly raising them to his lips, he felt both exhilarated and calmed the way one does when a promise is being fulfilled. As the liquid crawled past his lips, down into the recesses of his mind, and deeper yet to his soul, he found the strength to rise up to his hands and knees.

  He again submerged his mentally cupped hands into the liquid. He felt more power and more strength develop within. Yet, in the distance, from a source outside himself, he felt pride, joy and success flow to him as if a teacher who had long studied with a student a subject that was initially beyond the student’s abilities, just witnessed the student pass a test.

  As he rose from the support of all four of his limbs, he felt a great energy sustaining him from the connection he had established with the fountain. Through this connection, the tears stopped, the pain ceased, and his focus has sharpened. With powerfully driven strides, he walked to the still opened door of the orphanage with a singular intent. As he did, the fountain built upon emotions he worked years and years to forget. Each dust trodden step across the endless road of his life was magnified through the lenses of hate, anger, and revenge to a focus of intense, white hot rage. All the pain resulting from the death of the old man, the beating of his friend, and now the death of the dog, was collected and stored like the waters of a great, three-pronged river held at bay by a dam of vengeance until that dam possessed enough liquid to wipe out the city beneath.

  As he stepped inside the door, his presence within the moment and existence within the world seem to grow. He felt more solid as if his muscles and bones had been infused with extra density. His senses, drawing upon the ever-flowing dark liquid in the fountain, sharpened. He did not know how, but he could see where The Beast was inside the orphanage. He extended his senses. He heard The Beast’s beating heart and could feel the blood being pumped through the awful man’s veins as tiny ripples form in a pond and lap against the shore. He could hear every movement in his joints. But more than that, he could see his soul. Dark, hollow, and charred, it radiated much of the same energy as the fountain. But The Beast’s soul lacked the power and purity within the dark liquid now freely flowing within the boy.

  “Are we going to do this again, boy?” sounded the deep, radiating voice of the beast.

  But the words remained all but imperceptible because the pulse of The Beast's heart and blood was all he could hear. He heard and smiled.

  “What is that boy? You dare to smile? Do you not remember?” said The Beast as he turned to square his massive shoulders against the diminutive shape.

  Though he was aware of the sounds being produced by the coordinated efforts of the beast’s lungs and facial musculature, his focus was squarely upon his intent of ending, forever, such sounds. His smile deepened.

  “Fine, boy. But this is where it ends!” the beast stated as he slowly reached for the knife strapped to his boot. “I must admit, I never thought this day would come. When a small, shriveled, worthless boy found the courage or stupidity to fight me,” he said as he tossed the knife from hand to hand, slowly closing the distance. “Or maybe your miserable life has finally gotten to you and you just wanna die.”

  In a fluid step to the left with a counter step to the right, the beast lashed out with a fierce and swift knife strike aimed at the boys left shoulder. Matching his steps, yet with more speed, the boy, filled with the dark liquid found the power within his small frame to effortlessly dodge the strike by stepping backward with his left foot in a half circle and spinning away. So unexpectedly was the boy’s speed and subsequent evasion, that the beast became unbalanced and stumbled two steps forward. Had it not been for the countertop, he would have fallen to the ground.

  In contrast to the out of control, large figure now regaining his fighting countenance, the boy remained stoic in every way except for his smile. “It looks like someone has learned a couple tricks,” said The Beast as he regained his balance and turned to face the boy again.

  Attack. Instead of leading with a small step aimed at deception, the beast took two lunging strides straight forward. Using the full advantage of his massive size, he sought to pin the boy between himself and the wall. Once he closed the gap, he aimed a vicious downward thrust at the boy's exposed neck. This time there was no evasion. There was only the force of the man’s rage and hate pitted squarely against the force of the dark fluid now freely and effortlessly flowing through the entirety of the small body. With a calmness betraying every visual aspect of the current scene, the boy stepped back with his right leg to brace, raised his left hand to catch the descending knife, and planted his right palm firmly against the beast’s surging chest.

  Contact and stillness. Standing more than a foot taller, and comprised of well beyond three times the boy’s weight, one would have thought, if observing the fight from an open window, that the large man was attempting some form of dance instruction, or any other explanation because there was no physical justification for how the boy had stopped him in his tracks. Suspended in a pause of deep contemplation for perhaps the first time in his life, the beast lowered the weapons of hate and rage and did the only thing he could in this moment. He stared in amazement directly into the boy’s eyes. Peering deeply, he searched for some rationality to explain the impossible. What he found gave him one answer; fear.

  With a subtle, forward step of his extended right leg, the boy turned slightly to gather himself without losing the contact established with his right palm. But whereas before, he would have gathered only his small musculature, now he gathered the dark liquid and its accompanying power within the center of who he had become. The power responded. Freely and rapidly it collected in anticipation of its eventual release. Within a split second's pause of his coiled posture, having quickly adapted to the sensation and familiarity of the dark liquid residing within, he felt the same connection to his immediate surroundings. There, in the air, in the emotions of the beast, and in the objects of his adjoining existence, he felt more of the connection he had established with the dark fountain. He did not understand how at the time, but he followed these connections until they each lead him to smaller versions of the dark fountain. Closing his eyes, he connected again and again and again. Indulging in the ecstasy of being filled by power so dark, so beautiful, he became lost in its imbuing and momentarily forgot the focused intent of his rage as well as and all things
relevant to his current endeavor. All that mattered was the power, the dark liquid, and the freedom.

  And then, release. Almost imperceptibly, the boy uncoiled and unleashed the full onslaught devastation of all the power he contained. He gave in to its desire of being released to an end of singular destruction and focus. If the kinetic power displayed was any indication of the potential reservoir amassed within the boy, it belied his physical stature. For the beast was blown right through the side wall of the orphanage. The large and now lifeless beast landed in a limp pool of blood, flesh, and finality. Before The Beast’s lifeless body landed not a pace away from where he had beaten the old man to death, the young boy’s eyes blurred and the room spun. And then, darkness.

  Shios (Home).

  She momentarily stopped hanging her laundry and glanced to the distance because she thought she heard her son’s voice calling out to her. Indeed, what she heard was correct as she saw him wildly running toward her. He often did this when returning from one of his numerous hunting trips with his father. He was never able to contain his excitement from being successful at tracking and correctly identifying another type of animal, or from successfully hitting multiple targets with his bow and arrow. The first time he returned in such a frenzied state of joy and pride was three years ago. He had just completed his first hunting trip where he competently tracked and shot a small rabbit. Guided by his father no doubt, but still jubilant over his success, he ran the three hundred or so yards from the edge of the woods to the front door and almost took it off the hinges even at the young age of seven.

  Today, however, judging by his speed and boisterous yelling, he must have done something extraordinary because his exuberance was vivid. Each and every time she observed him running home to extoll his pride at completing his father’s directions, she felt an overwhelming joy, not just with her son’s growth, but with the Fates for placing her with a man who truly had the ability to parent and inspire their son and daughter. As he approached, still at an impressive speed for a ten year old, she noticed a slight difference in his running. It was not entirely driven by jubilant excitement as it had been time and time again; instead it was less controlled, more animal, and more desperate as if driven by a simple, primal emotion rather than the complexities of parental approval.