Page 59 of Of Empires and Dust
“Rise,” Kallinvar said, grasping the man’s forearm. “Brother Kevan.”
Chapter 15
Judgement
6thDay of the Blood Moon
The Eyrie, Aravell – Winter, Year 3081 After Doom
Aeson had not visitedAravell often over the centuries since The Fall, but he had never before seen the Eyrie empty. Valerys, Sardakes, and Varthear were still making their way back from the Eleswea un'il Valana with Calen and the others, but they were all that was left. The last remnants of the world he remembered.
Ithrax, Thurial, Onymia, and Aradanil had all perished in the battle for the city. In a sense, he was happy they would finally be with their soulkin again, that they would finally be allowed the rest they so readily deserved. But that didn’t stop the pain in his chest.
He walked through the Eyrie and towards the passage in the western rock face that led to the cells and the old courtyard. Theopening rose over a hundred feet into the rock, spreading one and a half times that left and right.
Two guards stood at the entrance, the symbol of a white dragon adorning their steel breastplates. They placed their hands on the pommels of their swords and dipped their heads.
Aeson inclined his head and passed through the entrance into a long corridor of hewn rock large enough for a dragon to pass. It felt strange to think of this place as a prison. At one point, it had housed over forty Rakina who had wished to stay closer to the dragons, but it had been empty for almost three hundred years. It seemed as good a place as any to hold Farda and the others, but it still felt strange.
A low rumble echoed down the corridor, reverberating against the stone.
Aeson pushed onwards. He didn’t have long; the others would be there shortly. His steps grew slower as he approached the archway at the end of the corridor. He knew what he would find, but even still, when he finally reached the arch and looked out into the courtyard, his heart cracked.
Avandeer lay curled on the paved stone, enormous rune-marked shackles around her ankles and a collar about her neck, chains tethering her to the ground. Scars of fused scales raked her body, and her breathing clearly laboured with each rise and fall of her chest. After seeing Avandeer and Tivar defend the city, the elves had taken enough pity on them to heal the major wounds, but healing dragons took time and energy.
Even before The Fall, Avandeer had been amongst the most breathtakingly beautiful creatures in the world. The purple and white pattern of her scales had captured the hearts of many artists across the continent. To see her trapped, to see her light diminished, her spirit shattered, sliced into Aeson’s already tattered soul. In the back of his mind, he thought he couldfeel Lyara, like the fragment of a shadow lingering in the light, begging him to comfort Avandeer.
As he stepped through the arch, the dragon stirred, chains clinking, talons clicking against stone. She lifted her head, turning to face Aeson, her lids peeling back to reveal eyes the colour of marigold.
He moved closer, Avandeer staring at him. The dragon’s jaws were unchained. She could have bathed him in fire if she so wished, but she held no fury or wrath in her eyes, only apathy and loss. After all these years, Avandeer and Tivar had turned and fought against those who had betrayed The Order, and as soon as they did, they were wounded, separated, and shackled. Aeson had never had the displeasure of wearing rune-marked shackles while Lyara still drew breath, but from what he’d heard, it was as close to being Rakina as the soul could come.
The dragon shifted once more as Aeson came within arm’s reach, a low rumble emanating from her throat. Avandeer’s upper lip pulled back into a snarl, the smell of embers and ash floating from her half-open jaws.
“Laël sanyin,” Aeson whispered as he lifted his palm, ignoring the dragon’s snarl.
I am sorry.
His breaths shallow, he rested his hand on the dragon’s warm scales. Two parts of his mind warred as his finger traced over the edge of a jagged groove just below Avandeer’s eye. Sorrow consumed half of him, rage the other. The Dragonguard had taken everything from him. They were meant to be his brothers, his sisters, his kin. But they had betrayed their oaths and destroyed all that he had held dear. And yet, now that he looked upon Avandeer, he found no joy in the dragon’s darkness, no solace in her pain.
Aeson wanted to speak, to say something – anything – but the words were as elusive as the wind. What could he say?Judgement would be passed soon – life or death – and that was when his words would matter.
He allowed himself a few moments before pulling his hand away. There was a question he needed to ask before the others arrived, and now he had given himself little time to do so.
Avandeer stared at him for a moment longer, then rested her enormous head on the stone once more, the rumble fading from her throat as though Aeson no longer existed.
“This is not how it should be,” Aeson whispered to himself before turning and walking back through the archway.
Aeson made his way along the candlelit corridor until he came to a stop outside an iron-banded wooden door with old Jotnar runes carved into the wood. Dumar, son of Rahlin, had once called this room home. Aeson remembered the day he’d found the letter, the day Dumar had joined his soulkin. Dumar had been the first among the surviving Rakina in Aravell to make that choice, though not the last.
Drawing a slow breath, Aeson opened himself to the Spark. He could see the elemental strands pulsating in the dark of his mind, their light flickering, fading.
Not now.
He closed his eyes, reaching for the translucent strand of Air. He clamped his teeth down, the muscles in his jaw twitching as he tried to pull a thin thread from the strand.
It had taken Aeson many years to find the symbolism in what Lyara had taken from him when she died. He could go weeks without difficulty when drawing from the Spark, only for it to abandon him for moments, or hours, or days at a time without warning. It held no rhythm nor rhyme, no beat nor cadence.
It mirrored his grief. Months could pass without Lyara touching his mind, without thoughts of Naia crushing his half-soul, without the memories of those he had loved rending his heart. But then, once he had allowed himself to breathe, to sleep,to rest, it would come rushing back to remind him he was no longer whole. For grief is not a constant thing. It is a monster that does not kill its prey but plays with it, torments it. Grief is not an obstacle to be overcome. It is an injury that must be accommodated. It never leaves, only waits.
