Repudiation

By Dragon's eyes, guard your own,

should you be tempted far from home

By Dragon's eyes, treasure your ties,

for by them comes forth all that is wise

By Dragon's eyes, now, look to the skies!

The Dragons' eyes upon you shall stay your demise



The pain from her shoulder tears through her. Her wing falters, weak, heavy, and sluggish. Her panic and the eerie quiet of Silovar's absence even as he begins crashing down to the ground above her fights her shoulder for her full attention.


And it wins.


In the moment, her action felt nothing sort of miraculous. When she will think back on it for the centuries to come, only the Dragon will be what sustained her, and only the Dragon shall remain.


She sweeps upward, pressing against the pain now fading to the back of her mind. Her wings will obey her. Silovar's body crashes limply into her, but she keeps her momentum. She wraps her limbs around him as she pushes forward, holding the larger Dragon close to herself as well as she can.


The ballista turning around for a third and likely final shot makes itself known in the periphery of her vision. She cries out as she pushes forward still, flying faster, falling over the length of the city. An instinct tells her to drive herself off the slope on the other end of the Western Gate.


She dives.


A silver bolt from the ballista on the Western Wall sails harmlessly past her as the slope of the mountainside grows next to her. She holds fast to Silovar, who grows heavier and heavier in her grasp as she aims to fly along the river's length below.


Her shoulder and exhaustion begin to win the competing bids for her attention. A thought occurs to her, one she doubts will work, but one she is determined to try nonetheless.


Talons be nails, claws be hands... she repeats in her mind, envisioning her own transformation, and projecting it on Silovar. They disappear beneath the cover of darkness, smoke clearing beneath tree canopies along the river to reveal Osthryn kneeling on the ground, arms securely wrapped around Silovar lying across her lap. She twists to the side, her right hand snaking beneath his head and her left instinctively reaching for his cheek.

His face is as cold as the expressionless eyes that stare beyond the sky.


"No," her voice rasps, a stabbing pain shooting through her left shoulder as she moves to lay him flat on the ground. Her trembling fingers press against his neck, hoping for a pulse, the foreknowledge of what she wouldn't find doing nothing to soften the blow of the cold nothingness that meets them.

"No, Silovar, please!"

His pallid skin is cruelly unmoving in response to the hot tears that fall upon it. Her emerald eyes glow deeply with the grief that pours from them.

"You will forget me..." she hears herself say, unsure why. She does not fear him forgetting her. He will not forget her if he stays. He...

There is no will or will not. He is dead.

No. He must not be. He will not be. Her shoulder protests in response to her shuddering breaths and her silent sobs. He is not dead. He cannot die. He said so, he was so sure. He knew that he would not die.

He couldn't have known.

"NO!" Osthryn shouts in response to the thought, clenching her teeth. She runs her hands over his body, ignoring the cold absence that she finds. Her hands come up against the bolt.

Her hand closes around it. The sliver burns, a sickening smoke rises from where her palm meets the metal. She does not care. She grips the bolt and lets the pain ground her. Should she remove it? She should remove it. What if he bleeds out? There is no heartbeat. He will not bleed out. No reason to worry about any further organ damage. He is already dead.


He is not dead.


He is dead.


Osthryn cries out as the pain shoots up her arm, refocusing her sharply. It matters not. This is a desecration of his body. It will be removed. Osthryn pulls.


The splash with which the bolt lands in the river is overshadowed by her pained scream as she grips the wrist of her right hand. Blurred vision reveals a mangle of burnt bronze scales on her palm. She only focuses on it for a moment, before leaning back over Silovar. The gaping wound in his chest trickles with the sluggish flow of stagnant blood. The cold blue eyes are too dead for her. Too lifeless. She cannot bear them.


Her lip trembles as she gently pulls his eyelids closed. She sits back on the heels of her feet, watching him. Watching the slow trickle of blood. Watching the ever-more pallid tinge of his skin under the moonslight. Her eyes are fixed on his chest, hoping against hope for any, any, sign of breath or movement. The silence makes itself oppressively known.


It is not long before her thoughts turn to why they were here. The fear of the city guard following the path she took and coming upon them to finish them off is foremost in her mind.

A bitter chuckle escapes Osthryn's lips as she turns her head to the sky above.

They killed all the wyverns, they won't be catching up soon.

She lets the silence stretch, the only sounds are the wind filtering through the trees and the rush of the river behind her. She takes Silovar's ice-cold hand into her own, and waits. For something.

The beacon encroaches into the corner of her mind, and she lets it find her. It beckons to her. Calls her to come. She knows where she must go. Her eyes lift to Silovar's body, the transformation that she imposed upon it might not last for long. She assesses her own injuries. She will have time to heal herself and bring Silovar's body to the Standing Stones before the transformation lapses completely.


It is with reluctance that she lets go of his hand, and clasps her own hands together. She does not care for how her palm looks afterward, only that the damage is covered. She flexes her right hand, the burn now merely a painless purple mark on her skin. Her right hand is placed on her shoulder, with a deep breath, Osthryn closes her eyes and lets her magic stitch it back together. Fibre by fibre, she envisions the wound welding itself closed, like new.

Osthryn stands, lifting Silovar with her arms beneath his shoulders and knees. Her eyes are dry when she looks up to the heavens, but the tears they left still cling to the Dragon's cheeks as she takes to the sky.