Zifor

I was dreaming again.

Dreaming of her.

Nine year-old me runs up the rickety stone steps, wind blowing and throwing my dark hair in my face and eyes, momentarily blinding me in short flashes of ink and smoke. Wind taking my baggy clothes and turning them into sails, sending them smacking into my narrow frame.

Running, running faster then I’ve ever run, sprinting up those stairs.

She’s there, my mother.

Her daisy yellow dress flapping and billowing in the wind, whipping around in pale gold and white lace ripples.

“Mother!” I try to yell, only empty air coming out. She turns and sees me, her face breaking out into a wide grin.

“Mother! Please, it’s me, Zifor!” I try to say, though nothing comes out. She’s beautiful, long, wavy locks of black hair, tanned skin, with a lithe build and a narrow face. Her eyes sparkled, silver and white like trapped diamonds, caged in her irises.

“Mother.” I stop on the steps to the cottage’s porch, my hands falling at my sides, the warm breeze tugging on my shirt.

“I told you to go away.” The voice startles me. In these dreams, there was no sound. Not even the wind howled. But this dream was different. The wind was howling and roaring. The whitewash and oak cottage creaked and groaned, and my mother was talking. Nine-year old me was shoved aside by a person from behind me, their hand rough and hard against my shoulder.

“I can’t, Odella. It’s the king’s orders.” The person, a man, says. He stares at me, his bright green eyes flickering like emerald fire. Like mine.

“Then why are you here? Come to torture me with your lies of safety for my child?” Odella snaps, her eyes smoldering. I’ve lived this scene again and again before, I knew what would happen.

What this man would try to do.

It was a few days later, with the man and my mother arguing over something, their voices hushed and muffled. I sat crouched on the edge of the hayloft, peering down, watching the argument, the dusty smell of hay and fresh tiled dirt clinging to me. And because sound worked this time, I knew what was being said.

“I won’t! Your so-called king agreed to wait until he is older!” Odella says, her skirts flashing pure gold in the torchlight.

“Please, Odella. It’s important. Randor needs more Magi. You and your son are needed.”

“Needed as weapons of destruction, you mean.”

“Odella, please. It’s for the best.”

“No. I will not let that . . . man anywhere near my son! Get out, Theodan, you are no longer welcome here.” My mother snaps, gesturing to the dark wood door with one finger. Theodan leaves, and in his wake, my mother settled down in the only chair in the room, holding her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she cried.

“I know you’re listening, Zifor. Come down.” She says.

The scene transformed, turning black and gray and pink all at once, a sinking feeling entering my gut like someone had tied a rope to my lower abdomen and was suspending me from the gallows with it.

The world stopped morphing, and there I was, ten, with my mother laying in her deathbed, as pale as frost, gulping and fighting for every breath. Her black hair, once glowing rich like wet ink, was now a slink shade of gray, pillowed around her head like a fan. I was kneeling next to her bedside, begging her to eat and to keep living. I knew these attempts were futile. No one with Emhic survived the plague. It took the magic in our blood and turned it against us, destroying us from the inside out.

Odella moaned, her mouth parted open, and there I was, sobbing, as my mother drew her last breath.

The scene shifted again, and I was in the daffodil patch, my mother’s corpse wrapped up in a dirty, beige sheet, sitting nestled in a hole I’d dug myself, a pile of loose mud next to it. Hot tears made rivulets down my cheeks, stinging my eyes and blurring my vision. With a grunt, I began to shovel the dirt, the wooden shovel giving me splinters in my palms, burying my mother, Odella, under three and a half feet of dirt, mud, and plant roots. The scene changed yet again.

It was the next day, rain pouring in drops the size of apples, drenching me. I lay curled next to the foot of my mother’s grave, too tired to move. Too pissed off at life to continue living, cold dirt pressing against my body, waiting greedily for me to die. It changed again.

I stood in front of Randor’s throne, two guards on either side of me, the king himself slouched in his gold and ruby throne, one arm hanging off the armrest, the other pinned under his bulb chin.

“Today is a great day. You, Zifor Widowbeak, have decided to join me in my campaign.” Randor’s voice sparked terror in me, igniting my heart with raw, burning hatred and an untamed, primitive fear.

This was the man who would use me for his mad schemes. This was the man who didn’t care who lived or died in order to achieve what he wanted.

Randor was a user. He didn’t do anything but sit on that ugly, gold eyesore of a throne until it and him became one being. One being intent on destroying everything.

Someone tapped my shoulder, saying words that flowed over my ears like water, like someone had shoved me into a pond, and wasn’t letting me come up for air. I gasped, and the world-the dream-went dark.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Something warm and wet rested over my eyes, smelling of lavender and healing herbs. I groaned, trying to remove it, when someone’s hand closed over my wrist, stopping me.

“Leave it.” The voice is male, a little rushed and lithe. Lore.

“Who are you?” I croak. My throat is dry, parched like dried leather left under the sun.

“A friend.” The Lore says. A part of Cerbera must have rubbed off on me, because I almost snapped at him that that was a bullshit answer.

Not a good idea, considering that I had no idea where I was, and who the person with me was. I knew that they were Lore and male, but that was it.

“Here. You need to drink.” Something cold and metal was pressed to my lips. I opened my mouth, letting a warm broth slide in, pouring over my tongue and down my throat. I sat up, pulling the wet cloth off my face, taking in my surroundings.

A Lore with orange skin, dark orange hair, and kind brown eyes sat cross legged next to my shoulder, holding a brown leather wineskin in his large calloused hands.

Next to him, lad out with a blanket covering her from collarbone down was Cerbera, her eyes closed, brows clenched. The corner of a bandage prodded out from her left shoulder, evidence of her wound.

“Who-how?” I say. I’m shirtless, my forearms, ribs, and left thigh wrapped in thick gauze.

“Your friend woke up enough to tell us to take you as well. She needs rest, and so do you.” The Lore says.

“Right.” I scan the branch we’re own, looking for my clothes and belongings.

“Your name is Zifor, right?” The Lore says, standing.

“Yes. Yours?” I stand too, my knees nearly buckling.

“Tavarn. Pleasure to meet you. I apologize for the rough treatment we put you under.”

“O-okay?” I blink. Rough treatment? If it had happened, I didn’t remember.

“Delto went to Ribena to tell the others. Right now, it is you, me, and your friend. Do you know her name?”

“Cerbera?” I ask. Tavarn nods. He’s wearing tight brown leather pants, leather bracers on his forearms, and a vest that left his chest and biceps exposed. Around his neck, he had a black tooth hanging on a cord, along with two beads, a yellow one and a green one.

“Yes. Are you able to climb?” My mind immediately went to the week I’d spent alone in the jungle, hungry and lost. No idea if Cerbera was alive, dead, or captured. Then there had been the wagon. The hunting dogs sent after me. The sharp, agonizing pain of the hounds ripping at my arms, the hot white dagger of it as one sank it tooth in my leg.

“Maybe.” I say. Tavarn frowns, his thick dark orange brows folding over his eyes. He has a hard, angular jaw with a firm nose, high cheekbones, and weathered skin.

“Here is your gear.” He hands it to me, just like Cerbera did. I slip my bloodstained shirt over my head, threading my arms through the sleeves, pulling the helm down to my hips.

“Thanks.” I whisper, putting on my belt and the sad remains of my cloak. Tavarn’s frown deepens when he sees the clock pin.

“May I look at that?” He points to the clasp, a thin layer of worry and curiosity clouding his eyes.

“Sure.” I take it off and hand it to him, the cold rusted metal a stark contrast to Tavarn’s warm skin. He scowls at the cloak clasp, then gasps, murky brown eyes widening.

“How did you get this?” He asks, handing it back to me. I look down at the pin laying cupped in my palm.

“My mother gave it to me.” I run my thumb over the design of the metalwork. It’s a flame in the shape of the Wave symbol, a wave crashing over with the silhouette of a smaller wave inside it.

“Then your mother would be a mage.” Tavarn says.

“She was.” I put it back on, letting the worn metal rest at the base of my throat, a settling weight on my collarbone.

“Oh. My apologies.” Tavarn places one hand on my shoulder, bending over to look into my eyes. He has a small scar in the corner of his right eye, between his eye and his nose.

“Right.” I mumble. Get it over with, Tavarn. Give your condolences then shut up so I can continue to mourn her silently.

“I knew your mother. When I heard of her death, I grieved as if I had lost my own mother. Odella will be missed. In this world and in the next.” Tavarn pulls me into a hug, his arms digging into my shoulder blades, pressing my face into his chest. I can feel his heartbeat, fast and strong, a steady pounding beneath his sternum.

“You guys done bonding? Or is this the afterlife?” The voice is gravely and familiar, like an old friend.

“Cerbera!” I pull out of Tavarn’s embrace and peek over his shoulder. Cerbera’s trying to sit up, her left shoulder covered in rust brown gauze.

“Sure took your time.” She grumbles. I chuckle, going over, not trusting my legs to carry me, and squatting down next to her.

“Just glad you’re alive.” I say.

“Humph. Takes more than an arrow through the shoulder to kill me.” Cerbera scoffs, groaning as she sits up.

“Can you walk?” Tavarn asks.

“Can you can the sense of humor?” Cerbera snaps back.

“If it helps, yes.” Tavarn crosses his arms over his chest, frowning, wrinkling the front of his open jerkin.

“Good.” Cerbera hops to her feet, swaying slightly. I don’t notice what I’m doing until Cerbera flinches, and I realize that I had put my hands on her shoulders. Her heart is like Tavarn’s, fast and strong, pounding like the rumble of stampeding Shur’tyr. Of course it would be. They’re both Lore.

They’re both stronger then me.

The dragon opened her eyes, trying to stop the shivers that traced up her spine, the chills penetrating into her bones and causing her scales to stand on end.

The stone pond greeted her with its black marble and dark gray walls surrounding water that glowed white and pale blue. She didn’t remember why it was here.

That information, as all information she had once held, was gone.

It had vanished, like embers floating off a fire.

So she peered into the pond, seeing herself in it. She didn’t mind her refection. She’d learned to live with it. But it was the scene she saw that sent her heart racing and her hackles rising, a snarl building in her throat. Even now, she could feel the air closing around her, tightening against her ribs, pulling on her wings and tail.

She saw death.

She saw him.

She could feel him.

Feel the snug embrace of the Great Shadow pressing down on her.

“You have come to haunt me, have you not?” She could bear it no longer. The words echoed throughout the cave, ringing into the shadows that painted the walls in thick layers.

She didn’t hear him speak, didn’t need him to, because his silence answered for him. It made her ache for the Wither dragon who had shared kindness. Kindness towards an old she-dragon who had lost her mind.

Kindness to someone who didn’t deserve it, because of what they had done. She turned back to the pond, knowing and dreading what it meant.

An army waged war on a mountain, siege weapons flashing black and gold under an ashy sky. Dragons flocked in massive numbers, their scales bright colors amid the grays and blacks. Among them, a dragon bigger then any she’d ever seen flew, its scales the palest of whites.

The scene shifted, zooming into a boy standing on a bloody russet hill, a sword over his head, his armor glinting blood silver, his hair a tangled mane of copper wire.

It kept changing.

Next to a girl with yellow skin and dark horns, an ax gripped in her hands, mounted on the back of a blue dragon, crimson fire their backdrop.

Another boy, this one with dark red horns, his mouth open. Whether in pain or defiance, the she-dragon knew not.

A girl wielding two silver blades, dancing through her enemies like water flowing over rocks. Oh, how the she-dragon missed the sounds of roaring water. The mist from it hitting her scales, the deep thunder as it rolled into gorges.

A boy.

Another girl.

The images kept morphing. Morphing so fast they began to bled together, a swirl of exotic colors.

Then they stopped, fading to a black shape with silted glowing yellow eyes.

No. NO. This couldn’t be happening.

It sent fresh fear into the dragon, ripping its way all the way into her spade and out to the farthest tips of her wings.

War was coming.

And nothing could stop it.