Fafnir, the Worm Dragon
“Urgh…” I groaned silently, trying my best not to give in to the pain.
I laid inside an empty cave with my back to the wall. I didn’t even have the strength to stand, let alone begin healing my ailments – and that’s assuming they could be healed at all.
I knew better.
I’ve led a long, long life, and my time has finally come. And yet, here I am, stubbornly holding out – just to meet with my friend, as promised.
Distant footsteps echoed, and that was enough for my vision to falter momentarily.
“-fnir! Fafnir!” a voice called out, as its owner gently shook my shoulders.
“I am here, old friend! Please answer me!”
Here he was, pleading with me to open my eyes.
My friend.
With what little power I had left, I forced my eyelids open.
“…Sigurd, old friend. You’re a sight for sore eyes.” I chuckled slowly.
Whatever he had to say, I was barely lucid enough to hear – but his desperation got through perfectly clearly. I grabbed his hand as tightly as I could, though I imagine it weaker in strength than even what a child could muster.
“Old friend, listen to me. These… are my last words.”
Sigurd shut his mouth and listened well, all protests dying well within his throat before they could be voiced out.
“You still intend on fighting on your people’s behalf, right, old friend?”
Sigurd nodded vigorously.
“That’s right, old friend. A man by the name of Fredrick Barbarossa emerged amidst the divided Germanic Tribes, pledging to unite us into one nation and to strike at the Romellan oppressors. I believe in his cause and intend to join his ranks.” He said.
“Good, good… A mighty warrior like you is a great boon to any army.” I said.
“A boon that is only complete when paired with a mighty weapon.”
I coughed violently, and blood emerged from my mouth.
“My time is short, old friend. Give me your sword.”
Sigurd’s eyes widened.
“The one you forged for me? Wasn’t it a mighty weapon as is?” He asked.
My bloody smile widened.
“A mighty weapon it may be, but it is not a weapon fit for a hero – at least, not yet.”
With the sword in hand, Sigurd offered me its pommel.
“Wrong side, old friend. Give me its edge.”
Confused, Sigurd did as I asked and oriented its point at me. With greater speed than a peak rank A creature like Sigurd could perceive, I grabbed the sword’s edge by hand and thrust into my chest, with its pommel still held by my friend.
“FAFNIR!” he yelled out, taken entirely by shock and horror.
The world began fading away as I flooded the rest of my mana into this greatsword made entirely from my own scales and bones.
“Forgive me, dear friend, but there is no sense in wasting power you can take.” I said with my dying breaths.
“I hereby bestow upon you the boons of my death, and Gram, the Legendary Sword of Heroes. May they be enough to achieve your dream of a home for your people…”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
***
A random drunk in a Castilian bar
“Have you heard the news, folks?!” A man who stood up on a table yelled out.
“The Legions have crushed the last of the Gallic armies!”
Jeers and cries of anger thundered throughout the tavern, as most of the drunks in this abyss-forsaken tavern chose to shield their ears from the depressing news to the east.
“The Legions march ever onward, promising death and destruction to the rebelling provinces, including ours! They kill the men, do the unspeakable to the women, and enslave the children! If no one stops them, they’ll be the end of us all!” he screamed.
“And yet, take hope, fellow Castilians, because despite what the naysayers may argue, our fight is far from over!”
With that unexpected line, the eyes of the tavern, which were largely ignoring this man, finally fell upon him.
“For you are in the company of luck and good fortune today! Lord Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, El Cid himself, has decided to join the fray and beat back the Romellan aggression! El Campeador himself is here to take your freedom back at the tip of a spear, and he calls on any brave sons of the land to join him in this quest!” he yelled.
El Campeador, the Champion himself, is leading an army against the Legion…?
“El Cid offers you all this much, my friends: emerge victorious or die on your feet, for it is better than life on your knees!”
The tavern roared with cheers, and men began flocking around the speaker to enlist in El Campeador’s army.
I don’t know if it was because I was seeking a higher end than dropping dead in a ditch with a bottle in hand, or if it was because I just wanted to do something useful with my life.
I did know that my sword arm was itching for a fight, and the matador fights weren’t going to cut it.
***
Archbishop Turpin
“…and thus, my lambs, our divine light was taken from us, and our nation was plunged into darkness for centuries to come under the yoke of the tyrants in Romellus. I now ask that you join me in solemn prayer in this holy ceremony, as I crown Lord Charles the Great, Charlemagne, King of the Franks. May you bring back the light of the Divine Dragons back to this land.”
As I gently placed the golden crown, richly decorated with beautiful gems and mana stones, on King Charlemagne’s head, the titan of a man slowly stood and turned around to face the congregation.
Seated in the pews of the church were all the nobility of Frankia, and the only ones permitted to stand were myself, the King, and his twelve knights.
The first of the knights, Orlando, stepped forward and raised his sword to the sky.
“In the name of sovereignty for our nation, I pledge my allegiance to the King!” he yelled.
Another knight, Astolfo, stepped forward right after him and raised his sword to clink with Orlando’s.
“In the name of freedom for our nation, I pledge allegiance to the King!” he yelled.
The knights came one after another, pledging allegiance to King Charlamagne in the name of ideals they dreamed of for their country.
“In the name of Frankia, we pledge our loyalty to the King, long may he reign!” They shouted collectively.
***
Merlin the Cambion
“Be careful what you wish for, boy.” I said.
The Gallic armies were defeated, and one of their tribes, the Anglo-Saxons, had pledged allegiance to the Republic. For their loyalty, they were to invade Britain and make a homeland of it for themselves.
Britain had no strong king or leadership to stand against these foreign invaders, and the knights who held authority all quarreled with each other like children in the face of this threat, which brings us to today, where every able-bodied man and woman has gathered to put the matter to rest once and for all.
The boy stood at the end of a long line of people lining up to draw the Legendary Sword of Promised Victory from the stone, which she placed there from eons past. Etched onto the sword itself were the words ‘Whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil, is rightwise king born of all the Britons.’
In such a time of imminent crisis and deep division, there is deep conviction amongst all Britons that this prophecy was coming true now, more than ever before. From the day the sword was placed in the stone, only one person is destined to pull it out, which explains the relative order in the line behind the stone as compared to the rest of their buffoonery.
No one but this boy could see me, and only I knew who the destined King of the Britons was going to be.
“Once you pull that sword, boy, there is no coming back.” I said.
“You will cease to be human. You will become a creature known as a ‘King.’”
The boy heard my words but made no move to acknowledge them.
“Once you become King of the Britons, you will be fated to victory against the invaders – but it will come at a great cost to your people. They will seek someone to blame, namely you, and your knights will turn on you and each other. In the end, you will die loathed and betrayed, with all of your companions dead, just like scores of your people. Your only success will be repelling the invaders.” I said melancholically.
“And yet, it doesn’t have to be this way. You can walk away now, young boy, and lead a life filled with fulfillment and happiness for yourself and your family. All you have to do is give up on Britain. Knowing this, will you still step forth and draw the cursed sword?”
The boy finally acknowledged my presence and gave me his answer. As I listened to the last word he uttered, an irrepressible grin emerged on my face. Moments later, I was laughing so hard that tears began streaking across my face.
“Praise be to the forest, this, this, is why I’ll never get tired of fated prophecies!”
The boy did not respond as I cackled, and with the snap of a finger, I vanished.