(no subject)
Title: Lost
Story: The Dragonfire Chronicles
Characters: Istvan, Orla
Flavours: Rainbow Sherbet #12 [Gold]; Prune #23 [More than meets the eye]
Toppings: Butterscotch
Extras: Malt - Summer 2011 #52 [Every time I think back, all the good stuff that ever happened to me, happened when I was with you.]
Word count: 1,440
Rating: PG
Summary: In which Orla must go to war.
They were sitting in the garden when they felt it. Istvan was writing; writing notes or observations or ideas, Orla couldn't tell. Insula was lying out in the sun, his massive wings stretched out to catch more rays. Orla was dozing, relaxing; her life - their lives - had been this way, these last few years. Nice. Quiet. A perfect little bubble in a perfect little corner of the country.
The bubble shattered and Orla screamed.
Insula roared at the same time and Istvan looked up, surprised. Orla was surprised too, that he couldn't feel it; but then she remembered - he'd never had a dragon. He spoke to them, but he spoke to them like the non magic users did. He'd never had that connection so he couldn't feel what Orla and Insula felt.
What they felt was that dragons were dying.
"What is it?" Istvan asked; his notes were scattered across the grass and he was hovering over her, his hands fluttering with worry. "What's happening?"
"The dragons," Orla said, ignoring the pain in her chest, in her heart. "They're killing the dragons."
Istvan reeled; he knew the magnitude of what she meant - and he believed her. Maybe he could feel it, in his own way.
The feeling began to ease off and Orla got to her feet, swaying a little. Istvan helped her and she didn't push him away - there wasn't time for that, wasn't time to argue.
They were older now. Old, maybe, she thought. Istvan's hair was silver and she knew hers wasn't far off. Insula wasn't at his prime any more.
Still, they had to try.
For the first and last time in her life, Orla kissed Istvan. He did nothing else but kiss her back, feeling and feeding her desperation as his fingers tightened in her hair, as he held her close to him.
She pulled back a little and they breathed the same air for a moment. Insula was silent, but Orla knew he was watching.
"Try and come back alive," Istvan said finally. He would never make it in time; and she wouldn't take him into battle on Insula - she couldn't. If they were hit on the way over-
"I'll do my best," she replied, ignoring the tears that stung her eyes and blurred her vision.
He kissed her once on the forehead and she snatched up her sword from where it was resting against the cottage wall. Insula turned his head to look at Istvan closely and as she watched, Istvan reached out a hand and patted her dragon on the nose.
Insula nodded his head and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, Orla moved, running across and jumping on his back. She felt some of the youth return to her limbs and she smiled at Istvan, feeling the strain in her face. "Good bye, Istvan," she said.
"Good bye," he replied.
*
It had been three days - and though he had no dragon of his own, Istvan had felt every second of it, once he knew what he was looking for.
He'd felt Orla and Insula fall on the second day.
There was no point in going to the towers. They'd gotten the message out. The towers were destroyed and the magic - the magic was seeping away, going by the hour.
He was sitting out on the garden when the soldiers arrived. The first of them eyed him warily, had probably heard of his reputation.
Up until he saw the second soldier, Istvan had every intention of remaining passive, of letting them kill him and going into death - a coward? He had no idea. The thought of what had happened; of what he had let happen, in his own way, left a bitter taste in his mouth.
But the second soldier - The first was young. Barely more than a boy and he hesitated; because he knew what he was facing. He knew he was facing someone more powerful than he - if not as powerful as he had been before the towers and the dragons.
The second one was a little older; still filled with the first flush of youth but it was clear to Istvan immediately that this was a man who bullied his way through objections and obstructions; that this was a man who could and would be cruel, if it suited his needs.
It was enough to make him lift his head, ignore his despair, and take notice.
When the soldier began to taunt him, he could have laughed.
"Get up, old man," the soldier said. There were others, coming through the trees. This cottage had never been private; Istvan had never been, since that day he'd run into Orla in the marketplace.
Beautiful, vibrant Orla.
He should never have left it that long. Should never have feared her reaction.
"Are you going to just sit there so we can run you through?" the soldier shouted. His compatriots were egging him on; laughter echoed through the trees and Istvan listened. There were a lot of them, but nothing about them screamed that they had been exposed to magic, that they knew what he could do.
If they had come from Ethrial, they had no idea what he could do.
He stood and all the despair; all the fear and the hate and the grief; made the ground shake.
The first soldier's eyes widened. He knew. He knew what Istvan could and would do, if he needed to. His sword lowered a fraction and Istvan knew he would spare him.
The others charged.
It was a blur; a messy, bloody blur that Istvan remembered as a steady flow of lightning magic, of the shocks that ran through his skin. The magic might be ebbing, but he sucked it from the air around him when he needed it, when he felt his energy waning.
He opened his eyes and the bodies, blackened beyond all recognition, lay on the ground.
The first soldier cowered in the grass, his sword on the ground behind him. He was trembling all over, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
Istvan walked over to him and crouched until the boy looked up. "You will tell them what I did," he said, "And you will tell them that they will not find me."
The boy nodded and lowered his eyes again as Istvan stood, picking his way through the bodies and walking into the house. The reality of what he had done - he knew it wouldn't hit him, not for a while. He was still running on adrenaline and anger and it was all he needed for now. For this one last thing. He would get his final revenge.
His notes were put in his bag, his bag over his shoulder. Istvan left the cottage, left the place behind and began walking.
The sea was far enough; not the coast that the dragon towers did - had - overlooked, but the other, the one that led out onto ice and seals. Istvan surveyed it with weary eyes and as he walked along the glaciers, the animals shifted aside to let him pass.
He knew a way, deep down. He knew a way to preserve himself and wait until the magic returned.
Dragons would return. They had to. If they didn't, if magic didn't-
He shook his head, the first concession to his thoughts and doubts in days. The magic in the water was calling to him, he was sure. He felt like he could hear it, begging him for help, asking him to save it.
Istvan stepped out onto the water and as he whispered a word, ice formed under his feet.
He walked three miles out before he stopped, looking back at the path he had created for himself.
No one came up here anyway, but no one would venture out into the water. Not without dying first.
Istvan sighed and frowned and planted his feet firmly on the ice. This would have to hold him for as long as it took - whether that was three years or three thousand. If it failed-
He probably wouldn't even notice.
Istvan began to speak and along the shoreline, seals lifted their heads and cried out to him.
His last thought, before the ice encased him and his body slept, was that maybe seals could feel the magic too.
The boy returned to his commanders and they listened to the tale with horror; the magic was leaving, but a man like that was certainly dangerous.
No one ever found Istvan.
The boy never forgot him.
Story: The Dragonfire Chronicles
Characters: Istvan, Orla
Flavours: Rainbow Sherbet #12 [Gold]; Prune #23 [More than meets the eye]
Toppings: Butterscotch
Extras: Malt - Summer 2011 #52 [Every time I think back, all the good stuff that ever happened to me, happened when I was with you.]
Word count: 1,440
Rating: PG
Summary: In which Orla must go to war.
They were sitting in the garden when they felt it. Istvan was writing; writing notes or observations or ideas, Orla couldn't tell. Insula was lying out in the sun, his massive wings stretched out to catch more rays. Orla was dozing, relaxing; her life - their lives - had been this way, these last few years. Nice. Quiet. A perfect little bubble in a perfect little corner of the country.
The bubble shattered and Orla screamed.
Insula roared at the same time and Istvan looked up, surprised. Orla was surprised too, that he couldn't feel it; but then she remembered - he'd never had a dragon. He spoke to them, but he spoke to them like the non magic users did. He'd never had that connection so he couldn't feel what Orla and Insula felt.
What they felt was that dragons were dying.
"What is it?" Istvan asked; his notes were scattered across the grass and he was hovering over her, his hands fluttering with worry. "What's happening?"
"The dragons," Orla said, ignoring the pain in her chest, in her heart. "They're killing the dragons."
Istvan reeled; he knew the magnitude of what she meant - and he believed her. Maybe he could feel it, in his own way.
The feeling began to ease off and Orla got to her feet, swaying a little. Istvan helped her and she didn't push him away - there wasn't time for that, wasn't time to argue.
They were older now. Old, maybe, she thought. Istvan's hair was silver and she knew hers wasn't far off. Insula wasn't at his prime any more.
Still, they had to try.
For the first and last time in her life, Orla kissed Istvan. He did nothing else but kiss her back, feeling and feeding her desperation as his fingers tightened in her hair, as he held her close to him.
She pulled back a little and they breathed the same air for a moment. Insula was silent, but Orla knew he was watching.
"Try and come back alive," Istvan said finally. He would never make it in time; and she wouldn't take him into battle on Insula - she couldn't. If they were hit on the way over-
"I'll do my best," she replied, ignoring the tears that stung her eyes and blurred her vision.
He kissed her once on the forehead and she snatched up her sword from where it was resting against the cottage wall. Insula turned his head to look at Istvan closely and as she watched, Istvan reached out a hand and patted her dragon on the nose.
Insula nodded his head and closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, Orla moved, running across and jumping on his back. She felt some of the youth return to her limbs and she smiled at Istvan, feeling the strain in her face. "Good bye, Istvan," she said.
"Good bye," he replied.
*
It had been three days - and though he had no dragon of his own, Istvan had felt every second of it, once he knew what he was looking for.
He'd felt Orla and Insula fall on the second day.
There was no point in going to the towers. They'd gotten the message out. The towers were destroyed and the magic - the magic was seeping away, going by the hour.
He was sitting out on the garden when the soldiers arrived. The first of them eyed him warily, had probably heard of his reputation.
Up until he saw the second soldier, Istvan had every intention of remaining passive, of letting them kill him and going into death - a coward? He had no idea. The thought of what had happened; of what he had let happen, in his own way, left a bitter taste in his mouth.
But the second soldier - The first was young. Barely more than a boy and he hesitated; because he knew what he was facing. He knew he was facing someone more powerful than he - if not as powerful as he had been before the towers and the dragons.
The second one was a little older; still filled with the first flush of youth but it was clear to Istvan immediately that this was a man who bullied his way through objections and obstructions; that this was a man who could and would be cruel, if it suited his needs.
It was enough to make him lift his head, ignore his despair, and take notice.
When the soldier began to taunt him, he could have laughed.
"Get up, old man," the soldier said. There were others, coming through the trees. This cottage had never been private; Istvan had never been, since that day he'd run into Orla in the marketplace.
Beautiful, vibrant Orla.
He should never have left it that long. Should never have feared her reaction.
"Are you going to just sit there so we can run you through?" the soldier shouted. His compatriots were egging him on; laughter echoed through the trees and Istvan listened. There were a lot of them, but nothing about them screamed that they had been exposed to magic, that they knew what he could do.
If they had come from Ethrial, they had no idea what he could do.
He stood and all the despair; all the fear and the hate and the grief; made the ground shake.
The first soldier's eyes widened. He knew. He knew what Istvan could and would do, if he needed to. His sword lowered a fraction and Istvan knew he would spare him.
The others charged.
It was a blur; a messy, bloody blur that Istvan remembered as a steady flow of lightning magic, of the shocks that ran through his skin. The magic might be ebbing, but he sucked it from the air around him when he needed it, when he felt his energy waning.
He opened his eyes and the bodies, blackened beyond all recognition, lay on the ground.
The first soldier cowered in the grass, his sword on the ground behind him. He was trembling all over, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
Istvan walked over to him and crouched until the boy looked up. "You will tell them what I did," he said, "And you will tell them that they will not find me."
The boy nodded and lowered his eyes again as Istvan stood, picking his way through the bodies and walking into the house. The reality of what he had done - he knew it wouldn't hit him, not for a while. He was still running on adrenaline and anger and it was all he needed for now. For this one last thing. He would get his final revenge.
His notes were put in his bag, his bag over his shoulder. Istvan left the cottage, left the place behind and began walking.
The sea was far enough; not the coast that the dragon towers did - had - overlooked, but the other, the one that led out onto ice and seals. Istvan surveyed it with weary eyes and as he walked along the glaciers, the animals shifted aside to let him pass.
He knew a way, deep down. He knew a way to preserve himself and wait until the magic returned.
Dragons would return. They had to. If they didn't, if magic didn't-
He shook his head, the first concession to his thoughts and doubts in days. The magic in the water was calling to him, he was sure. He felt like he could hear it, begging him for help, asking him to save it.
Istvan stepped out onto the water and as he whispered a word, ice formed under his feet.
He walked three miles out before he stopped, looking back at the path he had created for himself.
No one came up here anyway, but no one would venture out into the water. Not without dying first.
Istvan sighed and frowned and planted his feet firmly on the ice. This would have to hold him for as long as it took - whether that was three years or three thousand. If it failed-
He probably wouldn't even notice.
Istvan began to speak and along the shoreline, seals lifted their heads and cried out to him.
His last thought, before the ice encased him and his body slept, was that maybe seals could feel the magic too.
The boy returned to his commanders and they listened to the tale with horror; the magic was leaving, but a man like that was certainly dangerous.
No one ever found Istvan.
The boy never forgot him.