Of Dragoons and Noordith

The first memory of every Dragoon is how they die. It has been the curse of the Dragoon clan since the fall hundreds of years ago, and the meaning of such incantation lost to time. When Derolth received his ominous foresight, and his wings were clipped as is tradition, the final fire of the clan was lit.

The moon is bright, casting a pale light through the barren forest to make the shadows even darker than the scales covering his body. Winter took what little life seemed to be starting to fight back months previously, so monstrous petrified trees unuse to life cast death in their experienced shadows. Other clans, ones less desirable by those in the Megacities untouched by the desolations, roam these woods in the warmer months hoping for living prey. This frosty night is still, only a predator turned prey is moving to try postponing the inevitable capture given the number of pursuers. Derolth walks the invisible game trail, letting his fire inside warm his scales, beating back the chill of the night with willpower alone.

He knows this is not how he parishes; not yet.

Rarely is a Dragoon found this far north, and he knows this fact places an even larger bounty on him the farther he travels. The scales covering his body make for the best armor this side of the eastern sea, his bones are hard enough to forge blades so sharp they will cut when looked at, and his white hair a trophy fit for a Mayor-Monarch of a megacity. With these thoughts, Derolth grunts a hollow growl that passes for a laugh as he thinks of how much money he is worth to anyone other than himself.

The last assignment went wrong and took him far into wild territory. He found his assignment there, a land-pirate king who wronged a wealthy merchant with connections to the monarchy of New Arkans City. There in his pirate king fortress deep in the great grass sea, this king met his end when Derolth stealthy entered the bed chambers and set fire to the sleeping king and concubines.

Being that Derolth is 23 hands tall, stealth was never a good option for him. On his way out, backlit by an all-consuming and terrible fire, he was spotted by the guards of the Mayor-Monarch from New Arkans who were sent to protect the pirate king. As it turned out, Derolth was worth more dead than what the pirate king had stolen.

North was the only way to escape.

The days and nights quickly blurred together as the sole focus of every waking second became movement. That is the way of the Dragoon. Movement is life.

After the fall, the first Dragoons were born from normal humans. They were called other names in an old tongue then; devil has sense lost the meaning it once held. These first outcasts found each other over time and rebranded themselves as Dragoons, taking work as mercenaries as they traveled across the south lands. Only once did they hold land, rewards from a fight won against staggering odds. The Dragoons did not hold that land long, as they were nearly all killed for their brief fortune.

The year after this exile was the year Derolth was born.

Following the traditions, he learned of his death and told the elders while his wings were clipped. This painful storytelling is the only time a Dragoon can speak of their ending for fear of something much worse. In the cave they called their home for that particular night, the young Derolth spoke aloud what he saw. He was the first of the clan born colored of black onyx, all others were lighter and brighter. He, a pariah aware of his status as plainly as how he dies, gave his account as bravely as a small one can without crying out during the painful ceremony. The next day they moved, a rumor was spread that the end of the Dragoons was near and Derolth began feeling the heat of the fire he now kept within him.

Movement is life to a Dragoon. They moved and continued to get work, but the assignments became harder and harder to conduct with less of a reward every time. The surrounding clans, who all had watched the Dragoons rise to land ownership and fall again, felt a chill of bad luck crawl up their spines every time the nomadic mercenaries darkened their land. The work would come, the tasks would be completed, and one by one more of their finest warriors would perish in the task.

Derolth’s fire was growing weak now thinking of the history of his clan, only noticing the chill of the night due to the slowing of his limbs. “Movement is life,” he tells his arms and legs as an old command, a demand to work and pay the toll necessary to see his own death fulfilled properly.

Cresting a hill and bathed in clear moonlight again, he takes stock of his surroundings. A clearing ahead, no artificial lights, a breath of a bitter breeze from the north that flutters his short hair atop his head, and in the stillness between gusts the sounds of pursuit can be heard from the south.

“Movement is life,” he speaks into existence the strength he needs, emboldening the fire in his chest.

Continuing the forced march, he moves into the clearing without the speed or coordination normally exhibited by the final mercenary; the cold, lack of rest, and too little sustenance wreaking havoc on Derolth. Through the opening in the petrified forest, the breath of a breeze grows to a fierce torrent of invisible icicles piercing scales as cleanly as his sword would cleave victims in half. The distance across the clearing to the cover on the other side must have grown, as the trip is taking longer than it should. Breath catches in the throat, threatening to take the cold down to the fire and extinguish the life it sustains.

“Walking shadow,” the winds say, speaking to Derolth.

Not now he thinks to himself, thinking of his fire, the clan, the curse. How dare his mind reestablish the loneliness of being a pariah.

“Walking shadow, help,” says the wind again.

Derolth looks up, realizing now he is close to the cover sought. The great dead and petrified trees glowing white in the black shadows look so inviting, like a place to finally rest. If only the wood would burn, and pursuit was not close and sharp enough to shave with.

“Shadow!”

This time Derolth knows it was not the wind. He takes the last few long strides to find sanctuary in the black shadows. Turning to survey the expanse he just came from, trying to find the source of the whisper of a voice, he sees only the clearing. Crouching, making himself as small as his enormous frame can allow, Derolth ignores the tired groaning of his muscles and heightens his senses to find the source of voice lost on the wind.

“Shadow,” the voice comes again, pitched and fluttering like a birdsong from below the final Dragoon. Derolth hears the cracking of his own scales as his head breaks speed records to look down to the ground he stands on. There between, his claw studded feet, sat a small child. Derolth takes a step back and gets even lower to the ground to better inspect the little thing he nearly stepped on.

“The seer said when a shadow moves among the shadows and darkens our home, then we must go. Are you the shadow?” the small voice asked. Slowly Derolth could make out the being he stood above. Black hair, only visible because of the extremely pale skin. Eyes hidden in the shadow and clothed in surprisingly thin and tight-fitting cloth covering the whole body.

Derolth’s study of the small being was interrupted by movement from across the clearing. Looking up, he saw shadows moving from the angry glow of torches. Shadows leapt up and fled from the wrath trying to set fire to the stone trees, and men’s faces were beginning to appear through the petrified trees.

“Humans never could see in the dark very well,” Derolth said, more growled, under his breath and avoiding the question the little thing had asked. “Let us be off then,” he said, picking it up with one arm and turning to continue fleeing.

Now with more of the moonlight to better see his cargo, Derolth can tell he is carrying an Elf. As far north as he is now, this would be one of the Noordiths, though it is said they have completely left these lands. He could see now that the little one was a small girl, black hair that flowed free, and her eyes were black as the shadows they moved through.

“Shadows cannot carry, they don’t have bodies,” she said looking up at him. He was not running, but because he had longer legs than some horses he had seen, his walk was fast enough for the moment.

“I merely look like a shadow,” Derolth said, now focused on the trail and not his living cargo. “What are you doing alone?”

“Are you not to ask my name before interrogating me? I should say a shadow should have better manors than demand such,” the little Elf crossed her arms and looked indignantly back at Derolth.

“Fine, what is your name?”

“Finna.”

Derolth looks down again. Her nose is pointed, regal, her ears as well, all pail and in contrast to black lips that lay in a smile. She spoke as if she were educated by a high court of some kind, though she is so small.

“Finna,” he says, regaining focus on the trail he is blazing. “All is fair, Finna. Pray tell, why are you out this late in this dark night?” He finished this while climbing over a fallen tree, one so large Finna would have gone under with little trouble.

Finna looked at the walking shadow moving like the wind through the stone trees of her home and wondered if this is truly who is to save her family and her clan. She wanted, needed to tell him all of this. To answer his questions and blurt out that his coming has been told for years and is to be the beginning of a new era for her and her clan.

She did not do these things, instead she regained her own focus on the trail. “Up there,” she said trying to avoid the focus of the shadow. “Take the hill, there you will see a tree fallen on its side. Run to the east from there. Run quickly please and I will answer your questions with all the detail you wish Sir Shadow.”

Sir Shadow.

Derolth smiled to himself realizing this is the first time Sir was used to describe him. Living as a mercenary there is little opportunity to be awarded this courtesy.

“I am no Sir, though I appreciate your observation. Where will this path take me?” Derolth asks, picking up the pace and vaulting over another obstacle.

“When you get there, I will let you know,” Finna answers with her attention split between the path ahead and the creature who is carrying her. She felt how hot to the touch he was, the reason he has been able to move this long let alone outpacing all the horses she had ever ridden.

“Why should I trust you, Finna?” Derolth asks while making it to the top of the hill and changing course to the east. “You still have answers to be given.” Only after saying this all aloud to his passenger did he realize that his body was following command without his mind making decisions. Tired, he thinks to himself, I am just so tired.

The path grows so thick with the stone trees the moonlight dims and the trail is nearly lost to sight, though this is little concern to Derolth as his eyes adjust to the dark quickly. Darker the path grows as the strange pair continue their retreat from the new Arkans City Guards who want blood. The path narrows, the limbs of stone trees hang lower, and the light is so blotted out that the shadow completely envelopes the two in darkness so thick the sounds of Derolth’s footfalls soon become muffled.

“Can you see?” asks Finna, a small voice sounding so loud in the quiet it startled Derolth.

“Yes,” he answers in a whisper. He is no stranger to the darkness, though this one seems different.

“Shadow, you really are a Dragoon, are you not?” the voice asks. Sounding years older than the frame seemed capable of producing.

“I am,” he answers, his pace slowing though barely noticed through the vacuum of sound they now traveled in. Derolth looks ahead with his eyes lit by the fire within. He sees the curve of the trail, the blind corner ahead seemingly smaller than his own frame and he wonders if he will be able to fit without having to put the small Finna down.

“Hold here please,” Finna says before the too small corner arrives.

Derolth stops, feeling his sword and other items move on his belt but not hearing them. He crouches and places Finna on the ground. The clothing of the child is grey, raged though still regal, as if the garbs themselves were made to be royal purely by touching her skin. Her black eyes framed by equally black hair pierce through his own sight, looking to find the fire within.

“I owe you answers I believe,” Finna said with no emotion, facts being what they are.

“Indeed, I-“

“Let me answer the questions you seem to lack the words to ask,” Finna interrupted, raising a small hand, and silencing the hulking Dragoon, slayer of hundreds.

Derolth’s has lived a long life at the disposal of those more wealthy and noble than himself, his entire family line had. He has served great lords and those who think they should be great. In all his years, in all his dealings, this was the only time he truly felt his voice silence in anticipation of the speaker.

“I am merely 35 winters old,” the small Finna began. “I understand that may seem quite a long time, but to my clan it only means I have just learned to walk. As I am sure you have guessed, I am Noordith. You have traveled a long way to be among our boarders now.”

Without realizing it, Derolth began speaking. “This is the farthest north any Dragoon has ever traveled. I have heard stories of the Noordith, but this this the first I have ever laid eyes on a member of your clan.”

“And I yours,” Finna responded. She paused, as if to listen to the wind though there was still no sound but the voices of the two. “Tell me, Shadow, is your first memory truly of how you will meet your end?”

Derolth’s voice caught like the moment before a sob. The pain of the curse, the pariah among the outcasts, seemed rawer in this moment than ever before.

“I have seen this ending too Sir Shadow,” Finna started before Derolth could explain. “I have seen more than you realize. I need you to bring that memory to the surface now, to close your eyes and be a small child again with the fresh realization of your mortality.”

He did as instructed. On his haunches and eyes closed the memory came quick and poisonous. The same fire was around him there, with atrocities that were once men moving within the flames. Again, like every other time, he turned over his right shoulder and saw the destruction of his enemies within a strange village surrounding the lone patch of unscared earth he stood on. The wind began again, spinning the flames around him. The heat intensified and the brightness of the inferno quickly overpowered his senses again.

His eyes closed, the sword heating and burning his hand holding the hilt. His belt had caught fire by the very flame he used to keep himself alive through all these years. He was his own demise; his gift is own curse.

Then something strange happened, where the memory would fade into black unconsciousness Derolth’s eyes opened again finding himself on fire. The agony of the moment lasted only a second, and he looked up to see two black eyes looking at him through the flame. There, in those black eyes, a single tear formed and fell.

Derolth opened his eyes quickly, he felt he was still on fire and saw steam rising off his body. Still on his haunches he looks down to the too small Finna and found she was holding onto one of his fingers with her tiny hand. A single tear was falling down her cheek.

“How dare you,” he growled. “How dare you defile my destiny as such.” The words came out as sharp as the fangs that formed them. He felt betrayed, and willing to burn the little Elf child who was too wise for her own good. He felt ready to end his clan to cleanse this little one of the sin she had committed.

“You have no reason to believe me when I tell you this, but I changed nothing. All I did was share my own foresight with you,” Finna says, more tears falling down her face as the only betrayal of emotion on her stone like features. “Please know I hate to have this in my mind.”

“I cannot call you a liar with any certainty, but if we were in any other destination I have traveled, I would be justified in killing you,” Derolth said through clenched fangs. He realized that Finnna was still holding his finger in her little hand, and while he wished to remove the connection, he could not bring himself to do so.

“Keep that fire then,” she said, quieter though more sternly. “Follow me, your pursuers are near, and we must continue.”

Finna turned and lead Derolth by the finger ahead though the narrow turn. He fit through the opening but only so, feeling the stone trees scrape his scales like a threat of impalement. On the other side they found themselves in a cavern with a clear ceiling above letting the moonlight filter though unabashed.

“What in the Gods,” Derolth said aloud, question answered by his own voice coming back from the other side of the expanse.

“Quiet now,” Finna said barely louder than a breath, “I cannot keep our voices contained here.”

So, the silence earlier was her, Derolth thought while observing the space. Finna released his finger, and he placed a scaley hand on a wall of the cavern to feel its structure. He found the walls cold, the cavern itself made of ice.

When he turned back Finna was already moving across the icy expanse to the other side where another opening sat. He followed and quickly caught up to her with his long strides, all the while marveling where they had found themselves.

She stopped quickly, halting Derolth only just so by grabbing his sword’s sheath. He turned to ask what the interruption was for and found Finna looking up to the glass like ice ceiling with shadows passing over her face. He quickly looked up and saw the guards who had given him chase for so long standing above. He could see the captain of the troop gather his men for a quick halt, their boots shuffling to stand at attention.

Through the ice above the unseen pair heard the orders given. “Quick halt men, have a ration and check your blades. Our bounty has led us to the Noordith’s home, so we shall double our prize this night by burning the last village of that cursed clan and killing the last Dragoon!”

In the cheers above, Finna spoke just loud enough for Derolth to hear. “They must have seen the trails my people make while they forage. Please, we must make hast now.”

With that she began moving again with a speed uncommon for those her size. Derotlh, in his compared enormity, struggled to make pace with the small and agile Finna while also keeping his noise discipline maintained. Above their heads, the guards began chatting and consuming their provisions loudly, ritualistically preparing for their battle ahead.

Finna, in easy and practiced movements hardly fitting someone who just learned to walk, continued leading the pair back into the unfiltered moonlight. It took most all Derolth’s remaining strength to keep pace with the small Noordith Elf, as it had been days sense rest or any meal.

They stopped once, Finna softly panting with exertion while Derolth was gasping loudly. “Damn my age,” he said between gulps of air.

“Here,” Finna said, pointing to a pool of water turned to ice on the ground, “Drink from here.” She moved over with a small rock she had picked up to begin breaking the ice up.

“Stop,” Derolth commanded standing straight, “Let me.”

He knelt covered the pool of water with a black scaly hand. He closed his eyes and felt his fire move down his arm and into his hand. He felt the warmth he can control on a whim begin melting the ice. He opened his eyes and took note of the water his hand was sitting in, and that the moonlight was dimming.

“How?” Finna asked, looking at him while cupping the water in her hands to drink.

Derolth began doing the same. “Dragoons, when young, have their wings clipped and their true nature presented through the pain. Through this ceremony, some Dragoons would find they can control water in its many forms, others have larger and more powerful wings grow with the gift of flight. I have fire, I never knew another Dragoon who could control the fire as such. All who had the fire’s breath had passed before I could remember.”

Finna studied Derolth with her black eyes, absorbing the moment and conversation like a dark cave absorbs a small candle’s light. Derolth did not pay mind to this, he continued to drink his fill as it had been a day without water at the least.

At last hydrated again, they continue up a final incline. At the summit, Derolth turns to see the moon set casting a dark stain across the land as black as death. Behind them, but closer than hoped for, firelight was spotted moving through the stone forest.

“Can you see?” asked Derolth of Finna.

“I will not need to soon,” she said while tugging along her large companion. On the declining slope before them, the darkness becomes fully engulfing challenging even Derolth’s natural predatory night vision.

At the bottom of the challenging decline, an overhang of rock is the only landmark of the surrounding area. Derolth was impressed with the little Noordith’s ability to navigate the terrane in such poor light, until a voice stills their progress.

The voice spoke a language Derolth never heard before, though it seemed sing song and familiar the way a bird song in a forest is known and unknown simultaneously. He stood, trying to decipher what was said and trusting in his black scales to hide his presence in this vulnerable moment. Then Finna spoke the unknown language back. Must be the native Noordith, Derolth thought quickly before Finna took hold of his finger and began pulling him under the overhanging rock. He had to duck down to follow, and quickly found that even his vision was no use in this kind of darkness.

Finna and the strange voice continued chattering back and forth for a time while they walked. Derolth hoped he could understand the conversation as much as he wished he could see or stand up straight in this small cavern. He thought of the question he was never able to ask Finna, why she felt it necessary to help him.

Ahead, unlike his introspection, a light was forming as an end to the tunnel they found themselves in. The light jumped and moved as only firelight might, and soon the smell of burning oil came as well. Out the three travelers came from the tunnel, the strange guide first, then Finna, and finally Derolth. Now he could see the guide to be a Noordith Elf, about as tall as his waste and clad in grey and brown armor. Though he be small, the fierce looking quill of arrows proved the Noordith warrior to be capable if not intimidating.

Derolth found he was becoming surrounded by eight other warriors, each with their own preferred weapon ranging from long spears, swords, and ax held by a stout Elf, and arrows knocked on bow strings. He felt bad, realizing that these eight elves did not have the combined strength to knock him down let alone pierce his scales.

Then it happened.

He felt his fire grow inside, he looked at the warriors surrounding him and the gathering clan around them further. He recognized this place with its stone buildings, the pointed roofs.

This is the place he will meet his end; the destiny is near.

Derolth looked at the warriors around him, each prepared to take on the giant he is for the sake of their clan. He stood taller, ensuring they know the scope of work they must dedicate the last moments of their life to, standing tall to honor what they will soon sacrifice.

He draws his sword quickly and points it to the Noordish Elf standing at the head of the encirclement, his fire flaring in his chest and steaming through his clenched fangs.

“No!” Finna yells and stands between Derolth and the Elf at the front of the encirclement. “This is not how Sir Shadow!”

“How is that known to you?” Derolth asks accusatorially. “You who has led me to my demise, who never concerned herself with knowing my name.”

“Because,” the Elf who was the original target for the sword began, his pronunciation of the word hard for his lips. This broke Derolth’s concentration, his fire calmed enough for his mind to take note. The Elf, the noble one of the encircling warriors, continued while pointing at Finna, “Speaker for Noordish.”

This cools Derolth’s fire more, a mixed emotion of confusion and weariness begins to replace the void that once held anger and the need to fight. He lowers his sword, and so does the rest of the warriors.

“What does he mean? Who are you really, little Noordith?” the last Dragoon asks as he slowly, and more out of accommodation than honor, goes to a knee.

“I am the speaker of my clan; I can talk in all the spoken languages of this land. It is my own curse if you will, because of my ability I have grown too old too soon. I will be communicating for Nekty, our leader by experience alone with his 173 winters lived.” Finna finished this proclamation to Derolth with a bow to the noble warrior. Nekty looked to be the equivalent of barely pimpled young man defying the age Finna just gave the Elf.

In closer examination, Finna was the only Elf with black hair and eyes. The rest, still as pale, had hair of brown and blond with eyes of blue and green poking out from behind barriers to see the interaction. Finna, in both appearances and actions, truly stood out to from the rest of her clan, much like an outcast.

She turned quickly to Nekty and began talking in a voice loud enough for all the gathered clan to hear. Her voice sounded much older in this moment, though it carried no authority. A message long awaited now delivered to a captivated audience.

When she finished, Nekty spoke as well, this in a deeper voice than expected coming from such a small being. Noble and commanding, he spoke without an air of worry. The calm shown by the leader of the Noordith was overshadowed by the frantic movement of the rest of the clan, each finding their purpose in the moment to complete a task only the individual knew needed doing.

Finna turned back to the final Dragoon, her eyes pleading but her face stone.

“Sir Shadow, I have brought you hear to ask you to listen. Please, hear out Nekty,” her head bowed ever so slightly upon uttering the name of their leader, “and make your decision when he is finished.”

Derolth had sheathed his sword when the clan began moving around them in an unwarranted hurry and now placed his unburdened hand on his knee. He nodded for her to go ahead, then Nekty began speaking and Finna translating.

“Our seer moved on to the next life last winter. Seers in our culture are particularly important as they help us to move to safer lands. As we went without direction, it was decided that the Noordith should stay in our current location. This proved faulty, as bands of wondering killers have taken our strongest over the moons. It is now time for the Noordith to move.”

Derolth knew of these killers who came during the moons, during nights such as this. He had once been one of the killers, to another clan, many leagues south.

“Mitt Domov, Our Last Home, is a sacred story passed down through the winters of a place where no outsider will be able to find the Noordith. I, Nekty the Last, have made it my final act to have the clan moved to Mitt Domov. Enough of the clan knows the old story to be able to find their way, I have decided it is not my destiny to see this myself.”

“Hold,” Derolth said quickly, “as leader should you not go with them?” Finna relayed the message, though it seemed like she would have preferred to answer the question out right.

“No, instead I ask for you to protect them on their journey. Keep the last of the Noordith safe, while myself and my warriors hold off the guards who have been following you for many nights.” Nekty held a hand as he saw Derolth begin to interrupt again. “You have given our speaker back to us safely, and I know you to be mightier than my few warriors and myself combined, this is why I ask for you to continue north with my clan and protect them.”

Derolth was quiet, keeping his face as stone as the forest now behind him. What Nekty, the leader of the Noordith was proposing, no demanding, of the final Dragoon was a death sentence to the noble Elf. Derolth knew that Finna did not have the time to convey the size of the force coming for him and knew that the elves wouldn’t last long against the men who sought blood this night.

The three sat in silence for a moment longer while the Noordith clan continued to move about quickly. The decision with no time to think was coming due now, the moment of action had come.

Derolth began to open his mouth to answer the noble leader when an arrow passed far too close to the trio and landed in cold dirt near them.

“Tell him I will not,” yelled out Derolth as he turned to face the men coming from down the hillside. From the dark, more arrows were flying while the Noordith ran for cover and only two Elven archers returned fire.

In one of these first volleys of arrow fire, Derolth received a blow below the knee on his right leg, breaking the scales and cutting the flesh underneath. He had drawn his sword and was prepared to fight; his fire was burning hotter now and the steam through his fangs was hot enough to burn.

“No,” a voice came from beside him. Nekty stood there, sword out as well, prepared to face down the charging men.

The guards must not have brought enough arrows for their few archers or felt that the victory would be more honorable if it were closer, because soon the whole of the company began charging down the hillside screaming, “For Arkans!”. Looking around and finding Nekty and five of the warrior elves who had survived the volley of arrow fire, Derolth knew the odds were poor at best.

They were all about to die there this night.

Nekty started speaking loud and fast, but before Derolth could stop him he heard Finna begin translating. “Go now, we will hold.” She had not left her leader’s side.

“No,” Derolth replied while sheathing his sword. He would need both hands for what came next.

He moved quickly for being freshly wounded, from his left to his right. On the outside of the line holding back the guards, Derolth went to each of the elves, picked them up, and threw them behind cover and away from the potential battle all the while yelling his own commands to Finna.

“I am wounded, I am old, and I am tired of running,” Elves were flying, unable to react to the Dragoon. “You of noble blood, give me this last right,” the third and fourth now behind cover, and the fifth Elf midair, Derolth looks at Nekty. “Let me die for a truly noble leader, a finally worthy cause.”

Derolth did not have to throw Finna orNekty, the speaker and leader of the Noordith paused. Nekty nodded and spoke quickly, Finna translated just as fast and over her shoulder has Nekty pulled her away.

“With the purity of fire, fight.”

Derolth turned now to the guards at the base of the slope as they began to charge on even ground.

His sword out, as fast at lightning scaring the night sky, he slaid one man. Then another. Wide arches of steal and blood begin painting his vision and the steam through his fangs burned those who came too close. The claws on the tips of his fingers and toes began to be used as weapons once the sword no longer cut as cleanly as needed.

The whole of the guard was trying to take him, and they would succeed it seemed.

Derolth smiled, “With purity of fire, the last Dragoon shall fight!”

His breath came, setting fire to all around him as he turned in a circle to claim each guardsman as a victim.

Soon his eyes closed, the feeling of the pain all around him gone in an icy sharpness, and he saw black, tear-filled eyes looking into the last Dragoon.