Sadness shines in silver eyes

In the ash a blade there lies.

Ferrian opened his eyes to bright sunlight and birds chirping outside his window.

He pushed himself up, confused.

He was lying in a bed in an unfamiliar, yet homely room. It was white-walled, and furnished modestly with a wardrobe, table and chair, and a straw mat on the floor. Outside the narrow window beside him, the fiery colours of a sprawling oak tree played with a gentle breeze.

He looked down at himself in bewilderment. His hands were whole and healthy, and he was dressed in simple cotton clothing.

Tentatively, he put a hand to his chest.

His heart was beating, and his lungs quietly drew in air.

He was not a corpse.

For a breathless, incredulous moment, he wondered if the last couple of months had been a very long, very vivid dream.

Had any of it even happened? The Dragon-wraith? Requar? Grath Ardan? The Freeroamers? His Sword?

Looking around the room, he could not see anything that belonged to him, or anything to indicate what had happened.

I’m supposed to be dead!

He got up slowly. “Dragon?” he whispered to the room.

Silence.

There was no voice inside his head save his own.

He flushed a little, feeling stupid, but disappointed at the same time. Walking over to the wardrobe, he looked inside, but it was empty.

He found some boots at the end of his bed, however, and sat down to pull them on. Then he went to the door and peered out.

The landing was deserted. The entire building was eerily quiet; there were no sounds of anyone bustling about, no murmured conversations.

He walked down the hallway, his boots sounding loud on the worn floorboards, and descended the stairs.

Halfway down, he stopped and looked around. He recognised the white-walled common room: he was in the Hungry Deer tavern, in Forthwhite.

It was empty. There was no one at the bar or the tables…

Except for one man.

He sat at the far end of the room, in a shaft of sunlight streaming through a broken window. A huge crossbow lay on the table in front of him.

He was staring down at his hands clasped before him. His hat had seen better days; it was badly scorched, as was his bow.

Ferrian felt a hollow pit open in his stomach. “Flint?”

Flint did not look up.

Ferrian descended the remainder of the stairs and walked across the room towards him. “What’s going on?”

Flint continued to stare at his hands. “Outside,” he replied simply.

Something in his tone of voice made that pit open wider. Ferrian headed for the door, then burst out of it at a run.

It was a beautiful autumn day, outside. The trees shimmered with vibrant colour. The sky overhead was a hazy blue, streaked with high, wispy clouds. The plains stretched away in all directions, golden in the sun.

Ferrian walked out onto the road, and abruptly stopped.

There was a huge burned patch there; a black, incongruous scar on the landscape.

Fear began to fill up the empty pit inside him.

It had not been a dream.

He looked around himself. The town above him was abandoned. There was no sign of any trigon, just the simple, silent sadness of homes without people.

The tavern sat quietly beneath the shade of the oaks.

And…

Ferrian’s breath caught in his throat.

A figure in a black cloak sat at the base of a tree, facing out towards the plains. His hood was drawn up over his head, hiding his face.

Suddenly, Ferrian couldn’t breathe. “Oh no,” he whispered. “Oh no…” He started to run, but faltered, staggered, and fell to his knees in shock.

Arzath sat before him, wrapped in his cloak, his head lowered. Ferrian’s Sword, with the black dagger embedded in it, lay across his lap.

On the ground in front of him reposed a body shrouded in a white sheet. Orange and yellow autumn leaves speckled it. The Sword of Healing rested amongst them.

The blade was stained with blood.

“He’s dead,” Ferrian breathed, feeling all the blood drain out of him, leaving him light-headed. “How… how can he be dead?”

Arzath said nothing.

“He… he can’t be!” Tears sprang into Ferrian’s eyes. “Why? Why am I still alive?!”

“He gave his life to you,” Arzath whispered.

“But… why?”

“You know… the answer to that.” Arzath’s voice was tremulous. He put a hand to his face, hidden inside his hood.

Ferrian shook his head. He looked down at the shroud, tears spilling down his cheeks. “No,” he said in a small voice, which turned into a sob. “No…”

Requar… Why did you have to die?

Later, Ferrian wandered up through the town alone, along the dusty, sunlit main street. Halfway up, his vision blurred so much he couldn’t see where he was going, and he had to stumble onto a porch and sit down until the gasping sobs subsided.

This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

Then he picked himself up and continued on.

He felt that somehow it was his fault. If he hadn’t asked Requar to use the Sword on him…

But he hadn’t known the Sword could be used in that way: that it could transfer the wielder’s own life force into someone else. Ferrian had only wanted to save the Dragon. He hadn’t cared about his own life…

He swiped the tears away from his face angrily with his sleeve. They kept coming, no matter how hard he tried to stop them.

Requar had been his father, if only for a short time. He had raised Ferrian, or at least tried to. He had wanted to. He had loved Ferrian, and everything he had done had been to protect him.

Ferrian wished he hadn’t realised the truth far too late.

He had wanted to be Requar’s son. He had believed it, and that was why it had been so easy to hate him.

Now he was gone, and Ferrian would never have a chance to get to know him.

It was as though he had been set adrift, with no idea of what to do or where to go.

He reached the top of the hill some time later, as the shadows began to grow long, and stopped, shocked all over again.

The White Dragon was there, curled up in the middle of the clearing on the pile of rubble where the Guard House had once stood. Black, skeletal trees rose up all around her. She was like a giant, glittering gemstone born out of the ash. Her head was tucked under her wing.

Ferrian was astonished. He assumed that if she had survived, she had left, gone back to the snowy peaks above Verlista, perhaps.

He approached her carefully. “Dragon?”

She lifted her head to look at him, then let it sink back to rest on the ground.

She looked as sad as everyone else did.

And suddenly Ferrian realised what else was wrong.

He sat down heavily in the charred dirt. “My Winter is gone.”

The Dragon said nothing, merely regarded him morosely.

“It was a part of me,” he lamented.

“So was he,” the Dragon said, blinking slowly. “So am I.”

Ferrian looked up at her. The Dragon looked back, then her great silver eyes closed. “Not all is lost,” she murmured. “Winter will come again, soon enough.”

That evening, under a deep, clear sky awash with stars, Arzath lit a torch with a spark of magic and set it carefully onto the pyre.

As the flames flared up, casting a bright orange glow onto the plain, Flint stepped forward solemnly and placed his Justifier onto the burning sticks, followed by his quiver of bolts.

Then he backed away and stood beside Ferrian.

Silently, they watched the fire burn high.

Arzath began to pace slowly around the pyre, just at the edge of the light, his right hand extended at his side. Large purple runes glowed to life on the ground, one by one as his black cloak swished past, until he had completed the circle. He continued walking inside the circumference of the spell, his stride unchanging, speaking softly under his breath words that neither Flint or Ferrian could understand.

They sat down on the dry grass of the plains a short distance away, watching the sorcerer pace out his unceasing vigil, a lonely black silhouette against the flames and the night.

“Thanks, kid,” Flint said softly after awhile.

Ferrian wiped his face and glanced up at him. “For what?”

“For slayin’ the Dragon-wraith,” Flint replied. Light from the pyre flickered over a face that was hard and sad and impossibly weary beneath his hat. He gave a shrug. “Just thought someone oughta thank you.”

Ferrian didn’t know what to say. Was a hero just someone who made the right decision, even though they could have easily made the wrong one?

Even though they wanted to make the wrong one?

Eventually, a soft, grey brightness crept around them, and the sun finally crested the distant hills.

But it was an unfamiliar sun. A different day. A changed world.

The runes faded. Arzath stumbled in exhaustion and fell to his knees. Beside him, the pyre had dwindled to smouldering ash.

The only thing left untouched amid the coiling smoke was the Sword of Healing.

Ferrian sat on the edge of his bed, staring at his shadow stretching wraith-like over the straw mat on the floor. Sunlight from the window behind him warmed his back, but he barely noticed it.

His stomach complained about a lack of breakfast, and he felt vaguely irritated. He had gotten used to not eating or sleeping; feeling hungry and tired again was annoying.

He didn’t feel like doing either.

Someone entered his room. By the sound of the footsteps and the lack of a courteous announcement, he guessed he knew who it was.

Ferrian didn’t look up and his visitor didn’t speak.

Finally, the silence grew so thick that Ferrian turned his head, scowling.

Arzath stood just inside the doorway, staring at Ferrian intently. One arm was extended; held out horizontally in his closed, black-gloved fist was a long, sheathed Sword.

Ferrian’s Sword.

Ferrian stared back dispassionately. “I’ve lost my magic,” he stated brusquely, as though the sorcerer ought to be aware of that obvious fact. “I can’t use the Sword any more.”

Arzath said nothing, just continued holding out the blade.

Ferrian looked away.

He felt something bounce onto the bed behind him.

“I am returning to the Valley with Serentyne and my brother’s ashes,” Arzath told him. “I made him a promise.” Ferrian heard him start to leave, then pause. “You can find me there.”

Ferrian continued to stare at his shadow on the floor, listening to Arzath’s footsteps recede down the stairs. After the tavern door banged closed below, he turned and looked at the Sword lying on his bed.

The hilt glittered in the sunshine, studded with diamonds like tiny chips of ice.

Ferrian was sitting at the base of the great old oak out the front of the tavern when a covered wagon rolled up to the town, dust floating along in its wake.

He straightened in surprise as a familiar dark figure soared out of the blue sky, landing on the road. He peered around the trunk of the tree, watching Mekka stride to the door of the tavern.

But Flint had heard the wagon approach, and was already there, leaning on the doorframe. He straightened as Mekka said something to him, glanced anxiously at the wagon, then took off his half-burned hat and shook his head, answering in a lowered tone of voice.

The Angel took an abrupt step backwards. Then he turned away and slammed his fist against the tavern wall, and sunk to the ground.

A woman with curly blonde hair leapt down from the driver’s seat of the wagon and hurried over to Mekka, crouching beside him and glancing up at Flint.

A boy jumped down from the wagon as well, but stayed by the horses.

Ferrian got to his feet and walked over to them, giving Flint a questioning look.

Flint just shook his head, sighing sadly, and headed towards the wagon.

“Mekka?” Ferrian knelt in front of the black-winged Angel.

His head was lowered onto his arms, and he did not respond.

“I’m sure there’s something we can do for them,” the woman tried to reassure Mekka, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t give up hope.”

Mekka said nothing.

She looked at Ferrian, and held out a hand. “Everine.”

He took it sombrely. “Ferrian,” he replied quietly.

“You a friend of his?”

Ferrian nodded.

Everine let out a deep breath. “He needs one.” Gathering her long blue skirt, she got to her feet and went back to her wagon.

“Mekka?” he said again, then reached out and shook the Angel. “Hey.”

Mekka lifted his head. He blinked in surprise. “Ferrian? You’re…”

“Alive?” Ferrian nodded humourlessly. “Yeah.” He moved over to sit beside Mekka. “Are you alright?”

Mekka shook his head in despair. “I came here seeking Lord Requar’s help, but…” he swallowed. “I am too late.”

Ferrian looked at him in worry. “Mekka. Are you…?”

“No,” the Angel replied, seeing his look. “Hawk. And… Carmine.”

Ferrian looked over at the wagon, and his chest constricted in sudden horror as he watched Flint and Everine manoeuvre a wheelchaired figure down the back ramp.

Another woman jumped out of her own accord, and for a heartstopping moment Ferrian was struck by the resemblance to Sirannor. She was slender and much younger, of course, and her hair was bright red. But Gods, those eyes…

Flint tried to take her arm, but she pulled away, glaring at him, and walked towards the tavern on her own. Her hands were tied behind her back.

Ferrian’s gut twisted as he caught sight of the black armour beneath her long coat.

Closing his eyes, he took a long, deep breath.

His hand clenched into a fist.

* * *

The wind carried with it the cold, clear sting of winter as it swept over the mountain rock. Billowing clouds scudded across the sky, sending restless shadows over the peaks and broken remains of two once grand castles: one black, one white.

Arzath’s black cloak snapped and his hair whipped about his face as he knelt on a high, grassy knoll, with a waterfall roaring beneath him. He did not face the view however, but a silver Sword stuck point downwards into the turf underneath the gnarled arms of an ancient pine tree.

Sapphires winked on the hilt in patches of sunlight. Blue eyes that would never see again. Magic that was lost forever.

A life that he had tried so desperately to save, but failed.

The loneliness was unbearable. The valley so empty, and haunted with mistakes.

But he had a promise to keep.

The gemstones on the Sword went dim as a shadow passed overhead.

But it was not a cloud.

A White Dragon sailed gracefully over him, alighting on the cliffs above, as snowy and ancient as the mountain peaks; a magnificent beast of glittering pale glory. She turned to regard him.

Arzath stared back.

A crunch of gravel to his right caused him to turn his head.

Ferrian stood there, grey cloak billowing, pale blond hair tossed recklessly by the wind. His silver eyes were mirrors of determination.

Lifting his own Sword, he thrust it into the ground before him.

“Teach me,” he said.