And They Were All Saved
by Thomas Sullivan
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Table of Contents parts: 1, 2, 3 |
conclusion
A Quest: Predawn, Late Autumn, Present Year
“Awaken. Uncoil your form, spread your wings, and show this world majesty it has not seen in centuries.”
Dawn was only an hour off. The Sword knew the prayer was on its final legs. She supposed that now that the dragon was buttered up, it was time to tell the damn thing to wake up. Though she had been counting the minutes until morning since the ritual had begun, she found herself reluctant to end the banter that had passed between her and the Bookworm.
While the Sword was far from convinced that Garrn was the savior they were all praying for, she had to admit the Bookworm made a compelling case. What’s more, for years, she had been putting together the research that had even allowed the expedition to take place. In her own way, she had been working feverishly to end the plague on the kingdom.
“Hey, Egghead.”
“Yes, Meatsack?”
“Suppose the dragon wakes up. What’s the risk we’ll end up as dragon snacks?”
“Well... the stories aren’t very precise on that point, so it’s hard to make a professional judgment.”
“You’re joking.”
“No, actually. It’s remarkable how all the stories of quests to wake Garrn just skip over what happens to the questing party. Usually Garrn just wakes up, solves the crisis, and the story ends.”
“So we’re lizard food. Great.”
“Hang on, that’s not what it means. On the contrary, if I had to guess, I would say that it suggests nothing eventful happens to the people waking the dragon. When the stories were being told, there was no need to give details about what happened to them, because everyone knows they would just finish the job and go home. At least, that’s my hypothesis.” The Bookworm sounded uncertain. She clearly wanted to believe her own theory. Her nerves were somewhat charming.
“Well, works for me.” But something else she had said bothered the Sword. “But by that logic, if the stories show Garrn just waking up and solving the problem, does that mean there’s no negotiation, or deliberation, or whatever? Garrn just wakes up and does what we tell him?”
“Is that... is that so surprising? I mean, everyone says that’s what Garrn’s job is: to protect the people. He doesn’t do anything else, I think.” The Bookworm’s tentativeness had darkened into an undertone of deep doubt.
“Hm.” The Sword could no longer find her relaxed attitude. She kept a hand on the hilt of her blade.
* * *
I accepted each request the Protectors sent my way. I was still haunted by phantom fingers around my throat, and tree trunks splashed with blood, but I was still able to complete my duties. If anything, I became more efficient and more competent. Over time I dueled demons, megalomaniac kings, warmongers, and more. I didn’t do it alone, of course but, often as not, I was the only magic-wielder with the Protectors, and also one of the few to help fix the wreckage left behind by each threat.
Soon I started hearing stories about me being circulated, claiming I had single-handedly defeated armies, or freed entire towns from dictatorships. They called me Guardian of the People.
And through it all, I relived those moments of peril. There would be stretches of time, weeks even, where the unwanted thoughts would simply come and go, like strangers waving from a distance. But then there would be times when the danger became so real, so visceral, that I hoped his grip on my throat would tighten, that I wouldn’t have to take another breath. My heart would claw at my ribcage, gnash its teeth and attempt to fly out of me.
Sleep became my escape; the only time I could be reasonably sure my thoughts wouldn’t be interrupted by terror was when I drifted into unconsciousness. That is, unless I had a nightmare. But those only happened on occasion.
Being home with Brysen helped some. His whittling joined my magic as a means of putting art into our cottage. We cooked together, something else we could create. And I began to let him touch me again. I could tell Brysen was greatly relieved by this, but that he still hadn’t quite let go of his concern for me. I still spent much more of my time sleeping than before.
I rarely left the cottage save for quests. And he saw the way I fell apart each time I came home: the way I sobbed because I had been surprised from behind that day, or because I had almost burned a Protector for trying to touch me. The way I would constantly check over my shoulders for incoming threats. The way I would crouch like an animal, hands protecting my face, because I had been touched by danger so often in rapid succession that I couldn’t tell myself it was over.
I’m not sure Brysen knew how much I knew about his hurt. I was well aware of the fact I was causing him pain each day. And I was well aware that it was my fault. He should have chosen someone more durable, like himself, someone who could handle imaginary terrors, someone who didn’t break just from being slammed into a tree a few times, someone stronger. But he was kind enough to support me, and I was selfish enough to take everything he gave, so that’s why things turned out the way they did.
We were having a good day. I had gotten out of bed, gone for a walk outside, and made lamb stew. We were laughing together. He was doing his impression of the miserly tavernkeep who “miscounts” what he owes Brysen for fixing his tables. It was a good day to talk.
“Ray, are you sure you want to keep accepting the Protector’s requests?”
Up until that day, my answer would have been a short “yes.” But suddenly, the idea of stopping did not seem as intolerable as it was. So instead I asked, “Do I have any other choice?”
Brysen’s answer was immediate and emphatic. “Yes. You do. You want to help the world, and you do. But your help doesn’t have to be so big. Little help is good. Helping the village. Helping me.” He paused, debating whether to add the last we both knew was coming. Of course, he did. “Helping yourself.”
By default, I began saying, “I have a responsibility—”
“To me. To us.” The anger held back by Brysen’s endless patience began leaking. “I hate this. That world you’re trying to save doesn’t know you. Those people don’t know who they’re asking to be Guardian. If they did—”
“They would want an exchange, is that it?” The bitterness rushed out like bile, and I barely had time to regret it.
“No,” Brysen almost whispered. “They would love you. They would want to protect you. Like I do.”
“How delusional you are, to think your love entitles you to more of me than I’m willing to give. If you truly are dissatisfied with our arrangement, by all means, leave.” I barely recognized the voice coming from my mouth, and I don’t know if Brysen did either. He sat slack-jawed for a moment, mouthing the word ‘arrangement’ as though learning it for the first time. Another instant, and I would have desperately tried to take back what I’dsaid. I would have begged for forgiveness and never traveled again if it had a chance of undoing the hurt I had done. Regardless, I will never know if this was possible.
At that moment, fire came streaming into our cottage, the timbers catching blaze like soldiers trained just for that purpose. In the whirlwind of yellow and orange, I somehow managed to find my mind and cobble together a spell to surround Brysen and myself with water. We had only minor burns, and I was able to douse the largest fires, so I stole a long enough glance out the window to see a hulking black dragon, coasting above the valley. It was raining fire upon the village, and the screams of the townsfolk thickened the air as much as any smoke.
I called out to Brysen, “Leave. Now!”
The snap of wood, and then Brysen was gone.
No, to skip what happened in between would be letting myself off easy. After the snap, I did react, and I got ready to cast a spell, but too slowly. The burning ceiling was already falling. And when it fell, it fell on Brysen. I honestly don’t know if I heard him scream or not. But I do know that hot air was suddenly smashing my face, and in the smoke and fire I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t breathe, and I burned my hands moving wood to find Brysen and he was bleeding. He was bleeding and burning.
I wonder if there was some strange magic in that moment, because past and present collided. All of my terrors seemed to become one. Smash. Bleed. Burn. Don’t breathe. Smash. Bleed. Burn. Don’t breathe. Don’t leave Brysen.
But my body said one thing and my mind another and my heart something different entirely, and I ran out of the wreck of a cottage. I left Brysen, and his figurines, and our lamb stew and everything we had made together under a pile of burning wood.
And that heap was all I saw when I looked up at black dragon. It was still doing its work, and there were already over half a dozen burning piles like mine. I started muttering to myself, performing the difficult magic of changing one thing to another.
My nails first. They thickened, then lengthened, then curved. My skin next. It grew hard, like armor that can’t be snapped or smashed or burned. I started to grow, my head reaching higher and higher because my neck was extending, and my body became thick and rough with muscle.
Before long, I was on all fours, clutching the ground with my talons. From there, it was the finishing touches. My head flattened and grows horns from the temple, and my teeth became razor-sharp and serrated. A whiplike tail grew and trailed out behind me. For the first time, I spread my wings.
And I gleamed alabaster white in the deathly glow of fire. And my gleam caught the eye of my target. The black dragon turned toward me, but I was already turned toward it, and so I flew. I flew at it and attacked with every one of my newfound weapons.
I suppose if anything could have killed me in my new form, it was that dragon. I suppose it was the most fearsome foe I’d ever fought. But regardless, it was fated to die the moment it took my valley. My Brysen. My home.
As I stood over the black remains of my enemy, I realized that the fires were still burning. People were weeping, and some might even think I would end their lives. But I had no interest in doing that; instead I summoned my magic and brought down rain. The people were shouting and cheering, but I still saw a world of fire, of charred wood and bloody tree trunks and bloody Brysen. Searching desperately for something familiar, I flew into the mountains.
Not knowing what else to do, now I sleep.
* * *
A Quest: Dawn, Late Autumn, Present Year
The prayer has stopped. The dragon still sleeps. All is quiet. Even though she did not expect anything to happen, the Sword somehow feels disappointed that she was correct. Contrary to her nature, she does not feel like gloating to the Bookworm that she was correct. In fact, thinking that the scholarly woman might wish for comfort, the Sword turns to her.
She finds the Bookworm staring at the dragon, her eyes full. Full of wonder, anticipation, passion, and fear. Definitely fear.
Before the Sword can speak, there is a rumble.
* * *
Raymond: Now
Eventually, I woke up. That first time, I was as confused as anyone. In front of me was a group of travelers, weary and desperate, but amazed at something. It was a sleepy minute before I realized it was probably me.
“Guardian,” the boldest one said, her voice carrying despite a small quaver, “we’ve come to seek your aid. The legends say that centuries ago, you protected this land as man and dragon. We ask you do so once more.”
I could barely wrap my head around those words, much less refuse them. I certainly couldn’t have told these bedraggled souls that throughout all my sleep and in that moment, death grasped for my throat, attempted to bury me in flame. I was utterly powerless.
It all starts to blur together from there. What one group asked, and what the others asked. All I can remember is that I just wanted to sleep. Whenever I woke up, there was some great trouble. People in despair. And even as I helped them, even as I became their Guardian, I just saw a burning house, a bloody tree.
This time is nothing new. Same shock, same awe, same crisis. A wizened old man — presumably the source of that dreadful prayer — offers obeisance, but none of the folk catch my eye but two women in the back. The smaller looks like her mind has lightning running through it, and the larger meets my gaze evenly, hand on sword hilt. Something akin to recognition lights their eyes and, for the briefest moment, I wonder if someone will ask for something other than my help.
But then the large woman gives a shrug, and I remember that we have responsibilities. They will turn to me out of desperation, and I will welcome them. They will tell me their woes, and I will listen. They will ask me to save their homes, and I will watch mine crumble to ashes, and I will solve the problem, and go back to the mountains, and sleep. And wake up again. And again. And again.
Copyright © 2018 by Thomas Sullivan
