Melancholy of a Tyro Saviour

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

He could recall it perfectly; the crystal clear image taking shape in his mind’s eye. The lush greens of the rolling hills, the mighty silverwood trees that hid the playful lives of the nymphs and shireland elves. He could remember stopping during a trek through these lands, feeling the trickles of sunlight dance upon his caramel skin as they cut through the treetops, casting his skin in an almost ethereal bronze glow.

Yes, quite a peaceful memory. That had been before an old war had torn through the land and razed the wondrous place to the ground. The peoples that had once dwelled here had fled in terror as their homes were caught up in a conflict that had naught to do with them. Then, when the war was won and all that took part went home, what was left was a barren wasteland.

Yes, that had been when he had first arrived in these lands, so very long ago. So long ago in fact he wondered if there still existed anyone but some amongst the elven tribes scattered around the world who could recall it. No one who he would have once known in the very least.

You are here again, old friend?

He tensed his face, his entire body. No, it was not the time. He would not be sucked into such memories. No, he opened his eyes and refocused on the valley instead.

It took time, but the grass and the weeds and small flowers soon learned to grow back in clumps. Now the valley was a far-stretching mismatch of beige earth and viridian green, with large rock formations and the occasional tree scattered throughout.

And of course, it was now home to a clan of dragons.

Or more specifically, it was home to a clan of wyvern. Though any type of dragon was quite rare, wyvern were rather small and of the most common type that existed beneath the wide range of the umbrella that is dragons. These magnificent beasts tended to grow no larger than your average village house, and were also the most common type found amongst the mounts that the Dragonriders of the Kingdom of Barchute rode into battle. Their ability to breath harsh flames from their mouth also made them a formidable enemy to a novice warrior or knight.

A nudge and a deep, beastly grumble to his immediate left broke him from his thoughts and had a small smile gracing his features. He did not remember ceasing his action of stroking the beige, scaled head resting on the ground next to him, but resumed without debate. An equally deep, but this time pleased, growl is what he received in response and it had the smile on his lips widening ever so slightly.

A pleasant gust of wind came rushing through from behind the next moment, and the thick and rough locks of his hair being blown forward to resemble a tunnel around his view was rather amusing. He usually had the coarse, grey braids gathered together in the neat form of a ponytail, but had let them down to further enjoy the peaceful moment. So rare a moment such as this was for their group, and allowing himself to actually relax during them was rarer still, so he had thought it a good choice.

With a short and quiet chuckle he brought his unoccupied hand up and gathered the dancing locks of hair back behind his head to clear his vision. What he saw before him now, not twenty yards away from his place sat upon a boulder, was the smouldering remains of a recently extinguished campfire while the party continued to pack up their possessions. The wyverns that lay haphazardly around their resting place remained undisturbed.

“Ah, so we are moving out soon,” he mused to himself quietly. “I suppose I should start getting ready too.”

He gave the now snoring wyvern beside him two gentle pats with his left hand before using the opposite appendage to grasp the long and twisting staff that lay perfectly beside him. Placing the bottom tip on the ground, he pulled himself to his feet. He took a moment now to feel the breeze dance around his whole body, blowing his cloak out in front of him in the same manner as his hair.

It was the flapping of the midnight blue material that awoke the great lizard from its fragile slumber. A near whine like noise reverberated from his throat as it recognised he was preparing to depart, and he smiled at the creature in pity. Though it could not speak their tongue, it was clear what it was trying to say; it wanted him to stay and continue his petting.

“Forgive me my draconic friend.” The aged man bent down to pluck a singular blade of grass from the ground. “But me and my companions must depart now. Perhaps we will visit some other time.”

With one final pat to its round snout, he slowly began the short trek to his allies. It truly was a shame that these beasts were unable to speak the human tongue that was most common in these lands, or any other tongue besides their own at all. No, only Great Dragons were capable of such feats. These great beasts in question were within the size range of capital cities to whole mountain ranges. They were the rarest dragon of all, living for millennia and having more knowledge than even sorcerer’s at the rank of Sage like himself. Ah, perhaps one of these great ones would recall the long past times he often thought of.

It always looks so beautiful from here. It’s my favourite place in the city.

No, he shook the images away. No matter how the memories scratched at the back of his eyes, he refused. It was of a now forgotten time, a now forgotten kingdom.

…a now forgotten man.

Coming to a standstill with a huff, he held the blade of grass between his left thumb and forefinger up to his eye level. He grasped it at the very tip and had the rest hanging beneath his finger. He muttered a few words silently and the singular blade glowed a soft blue. The very next moment it shot up straight through his fingers, sparks of embers bouncing around as it passed through. The moment it had completely left his hold it travelled with great speed behind his head and gathered his ashen braids into a ponytail once more. No longer what is a small sliver of grass, but now a thick leather hair tie.

Resuming his walk, his eyes took in the pinks and purples of the early morning sky. The star had yet to rise from beyond the horizon, gifting any awake now a gorgeous painting of sky and clouds above them.

He arrived at the small gathering of busy people around what was once their campfire. Having no material possessions but the staff held in his hand, he decided to watch them for a moment before lending his aide. However, he could not help but notice the absence of two particular members of their little family.

“John,” the mage called to his right, “Where is our fearless leader and his ward?”

A great behemoth of a man turned to look at him. Even sitting on the ground, the man named John towered over him by a head and a half, and he was six feet tall so that was no mean feat. Taking his attention away from tying supplies to one of their few horses, he pointed towards the distance behind the man.

“They’re over there, sorcerer.” his gravelly voice grumbles, turning back to the horse and resuming his work. “They’re training on the ridge.”

The aged man marvelled at the passive height of the half-jotun for a moment longer before turning to the direction John had pointed. Sure enough, the silhouette of their reluctant leader and a young man were sparring on a hill not far from them. The young boy attacked the older man with a short, wooden sword, roaring heartily with each thrust and strike. His opponent, clearly the better fighter, easily dodged or parried the child’s attacks with a strange wooden object that was thin and curved slightly.

He watched as the boy heaved for a mere second, sweat dripping from his brow, before lunging for their leader again; said leader dodged and moved behind the boy with such grace it was as if he were dancing. He then planted his foot into the boy’s behind and sent him sprawling into the floor.

As the young boy groaned in pain, the man released a sigh and began walking to the side, where the mage could see what appeared to be a shirt hanging from a wooden stump.

“Damn you, Robin! I nearly had you that time!” said the child, heavy breaths fogging into the cold morning air. The leader of this ragtag group, Robin, sighed again.

“Sure you did. Now, get up and wash your face. We’re heading out soon.” came Robin’s cool reply. He grabbed the shirt from the stump and threw it over his shoulder. He then pried the stump from the earth to reveal it was the exact same as the one he had been sparring with. Suddenly, he slammed the ends of the two objects together, a quick, orange glow appearing for a second where the two ends met.

Ah, the mage thought. He was fighting with the bow.

Sure enough, the two wooden objects had formed the curve of a bow. Another glow came from said bow and in a small flash of light, a drawstring appeared. After taking a pause to test the tension of it, Robin hooked it over his shoulder. Their leader then turned to make his way down the hill to them, but a young voice from behind him caught his attention.

“Look! The sunrise!” and sure enough, the blazing orb began to creep over the hill, casting the land and all its inhabitants in a warming glow. Reds and oranges began to mix and blur with the previously pastel colours of the sky, and everyone ceased what they were doing to admire its stunning beauty.

Yes, quite often. It always gives me… it always gives me hope in these otherwise hopeless times.

His jaw clenched as he fought off the unwanted whispers of an ancient memory once more. It did not do well to dwell on what was, he knew this: it was better to focus on what could be.

His eyes strayed from the sun to the two on the hill once more. Robin, stood tall with a heavy sadness ever present in his frame, released a rare, genuine smile. It was small, miniscule really, but it was there. The warrior’s olive skin and curly, inky hair glistened in the early morning light.

The boy to Robin’s left laughed happily at the gorgeous morning, the waves of his dirty blonde hair whipping in the wind, with the light passing through them, gave it the appearance of a wild flame. He looked towards Robin with a giddy smile, the fairness of his freckled skin glistening with sweat. The young man then noticed the mage below them watching, and so turned to him and began to wave heartily.

Now he had to look into the near orange of the child’s irises, and was overcome once more with an unbearable grief and wave of nostalgia. He could fight off old memories no longer.

Suddenly he no longer stood in the grassy valleys on the continent of Albion. Now, he was a young man once more, sat upon sandstone brick and his view filled with endless miles of sand and desert before him.

Lost in his mind, he did not hear the person behind him approaching until they began to place themselves next to him on his left, sat with their legs hanging over the edge of the hard and cold balcony.

His companion released a purposely loud and pleased sigh once they were seated, but made no immediate move to break the silence in the slowly lightning dark. It was a comfortable silence, as it always was with them, as they watched the sun finally cast its ethereal light over the land

He did not spare them a glance to identify them, he knew who it was; he could tell by their footfall and the fact that this person would be the only one to come and find him if he were not there.

He would know this man besides him even if lifetimes separated them.

“You are here again, old friend?” came his friend’s voice, filled with a feeling that conveyed pure, unmatched strength, no matter what he did; it had gooseflesh spreading across his forearms and the back of his neck.

“Yes,” he said in reply. “It has a calming effect, and I can see a large part of your kingdom from here. Keeps me alerted.”

The other man barked out a clipped laugh. “Just like you, to reduce something so beautiful to being so logical.”

He shrugged. “Someone has to make sure you do not get yourself and all your subjects killed.”

“That is true. I do not know where or even who I would be now if not for you.”

He finally looked at his friend, his king, at that and was met with eyes the colour of molten metal. They seemed to shine with the flare of a grand fire in this new sunlight, and bestowed upon him a warmth that the desert would be in awe of. He wondered how much longer he could convince himself that the upped rhythm of his heart was just from the shocking colour of his friend’s eyes.

The ebony of the king’s skin appeared flawless in the blinding light, and his mouth was set in an adoring grin. His beard, long and braided and absent of the golden clips that usually kept it straight, danced in a cool desert breeze. The royal headpiece was- in a rare instance- absent, so the young man had a perfect view of his friend’s equally long and coiled hair, reaching his mid back and kept in a low ponytail; multiple round, golden clips went down the length of it to keep it all contained.

How could anyone admire the pure beauty of this man and not weep? He could hardly begin to fathom how he could do it himself. Though, the heat that spread from his shoulders and all the way up to where his two horns sprouted from his forehead was probably the trade-off for that. Or so he told himself.

“I’m more surprised to find you here, my king.” He hoped his friend had not noticed how long it had taken to find his voice. He also hoped the change of subject was not obvious.

The dark skinned man made no inclination that it was as he jutted his chin towards the rising, crimson star. “It always looks so beautiful from here. It’s my favourite place in the city.”

He could not disagree. “You come here often then?”

“Am I not allowed to go where I wish in the crown city of the kingdom I preside over?”

“You are avoiding my question, your excellence.”

His smile faltered at the accusation, and then sneered playfully at the title. He cast his disarming gaze down to his knees for a moment before replying quietly.

“Yes, quite often. It always gives me…” he trailed off for a moment and then locked eyes with him again. “It always gives me hope in these otherwise hopeless times.”

He felt a pang in his heart at that and placed a hand on his friend’s solid shoulder. “We will win this. The Adversary shall not win. I promise you that.”

The king seemed to genuinely appreciate it, but still released a noise that was a mix of a hopeless laugh and a scoff. He couldn’t fault him for that; despite vowing it, they both knew that any promise was not so easily kept. Life was far more complicated than swearing to another over the locking of little fingers.

“I will fight for you all, regardless of whatever outcome The Seers foretell.” his ruler said after a brief silence.

“You have never been one to put much care into concepts such as destiny, or fate, or the whims of any higher powers before. I should know, I was born of their intent to thwart you.”

That got a good laugh out of the man on his left. “You are right again my friend, as you usually are.” He finally turned his gaze back to the sunrise. “However, this is not just some kind of foe that I will be able to defeat with my fists. This will require the ancient power that dwells within.”

“This is also true,” he replied. He continued to regard his friend’s profile for a moment before dropping the hand from his shoulder and facing the view himself. His left hand fell to rest not farther than a centimetre from the right hand of his oldest companion.

“This war that will arrive in the coming years, it will not just be for the fate of the people, the kingdom or the land,” the royal man breathed. “It will be for the fate of this world, of every world themselves.

“Yes”- he nodded his head- “Yes it will. And it will not be easy.”

“Yes, it will not be easy.” The king finally smiled again then. “However, we do not love this world without reason.”

He watched the man then, out of the corner of his eye, before whispering. “Yes, not without reason.”

They lapsed into silence and gazed at the beauty of the morning sun once again. But slowly, ever so slightly, he felt the little finger of his king brush against his own. He cast his gaze at the man again, but the royal merely continued to watch the horizon.

He hesitated, but slowly he pushed his little finger back against his companions. In a moment that felt like an eternity wrapped in the blink of an eye, their little fingers locked together, the morning star the only one to bare witness.

“I will always support you.” he mumbled just loud enough to hear. “I will stand besides you, guide you, and fight with you in any lifetime we live. I vow it. I promise it.”

The King did not respond. He merely smiled even wider.

And just like that, he found himself back in a grassy valley surrounded by waking wyverns and people who are trying to change the world. His mind had clearly not been absent for long either, as the young boy with eyes of fire and Robin were just making their way back down to where the rest of them were. While Robin pulled on a ragged brown shirt as he approached the party, the boy came straight up to him.

“I’m actually getting better at sword fighting! Though, I’d get better faster if Rob would actually use some kind of sword and actual techniques.” The boy shot his guardian an annoyed look with that last statement, but Robin simply started back with a deadpan expression before beginning to help John. The child turned back to the old sorcerer once more. “But this means you can start teaching me more about magic and crap now, right?”

His eyes were the same. The same, but still completely different. They were different people entirely after all, the only thing that they shared right now being the salamander orange of their eyes. And besides, that man was a long, long time ago.

“That I can see my boy. However, we must make sure we have perfected the differing theory of respective spells before we try and attempt anything practical, understand?” he finally replied. The child seemed to blanch at that.

“Make sure you listen to the man, you little shit.” Robin called from across the campsite. “I didn’t risk my life dragging your arse across warzone after warzone and enemy infested kingdoms to the man just for you to not listen properly.”

The boy narrowed his eyes and grinned devilishly before throwing a rude hand gesture at the archer. Robin sighed tiredly before locking eyes with the mage. He could see the exasperation swimming in Robin’s honey-coloured eyes and could not keep at bay the mirth that surely filled his own hazel irises in response.

“At least the lad has some spark to him,” he offered the man somewhat weakly. Robin rolled his eyes.

“Oh yeah, he’s a real firecracker.”

“Hood, a little help here?” John cut in, addressing Robin. With his attention stolen for a second, the boy finally cut in with a quizzical brow arched in confusion.

“What the hell is a firecracker?” he asked. Before the old man next to him could reply, Robin started yelling once more.

“Doesn’t matter, get your arse over here and help pack please.”

“Yes, yes, coming now mother.” replied the boy as he started trudging over. The old sorcerer sighed and clasped a hand to his forehead, horns long since gone. He held it there for a moment before dragging it down his face and letting it rest over his mouth, his fingers combed into the short, coiled hairs that made up the white, grey and sparse black that was his beard.

He stood still, wondering if perhaps it was time to trim said facial hair, when the squeaky voice of the child called for him once more.

“Come on Merlin, come help me with this.”

He smiled again as he made his way over to the blonde tyke, but was lost once again in his thoughts as he absentmindedly began helping the clean-up.

He cared for this boy greatly, like one would a grandchild. As such, he feared the dark future that awaited him. He had already lost his father and his sister, how much more could such a young child take?

He swore long ago to look after and guide this boy. He would make sure to keep this vow, above all else. As the party finally began to continue their journey, he regarded the wyverns all around them, and then looked to the front of their group to see the boy badgering Robin once more.

I wonder if he has any clue at all, he thought. That his surname actually comes from these creatures. When his father was a boy, he told me all about it.

The boy’s ancestors had apparently once liberated themselves and clans of Dragonkin from enslavement. Together, with the Dragonkin and many other slaves, they overthrew their captors and founded their kingdom.

In gratitude, before they departed to their far away homelands, the leaders of the Dragonkin clans had bestowed upon this person the title Pen’kroyk Drageel, which when translated meant ‘Saviour of the Dragon People’. Combining the two words in the differing languages, had resulted in their family name.

The family name of a long line of rulers, all of which ranged from anywhere between incredibly just or horrifically cruel. The boy’s father was more just and caring than any other king ever came.

Yes, this boy was once a king; and in the near future, as long as this party saw to it, he would be once again. And Merlin feared that he would be in the far future as well. A future that this boy had never asked for and never deserved.

However, that story was of a different kind entirely. That story did not start here, with all of them. It did not start with him. It did not even start with the young boy that this was all for. No, this story started with a mercenary by the name of Robin Hood. And most important of all…

The story really starts several years before this point.