Unwilling

The forest had gotten dark faster than Isabelle had thought. Then again, how would such a young child barely out of her infant years be able to tell time, let alone predict how fast it moves. The dark crept around her as did the chill of the night. The small blanket she wrapped herself in did very little to hold the cold at bay.

The wind whipped at her curly red hair, hair unlike that of the other girls or anyone from her village, all except for her father, the blacksmith. But even her vibrant colored hair became dulled the further she trekked through the ever thickening woods.

Her foot caught on a tree root and she fell face first into the mud. After she pulled her face from the wet dirt, tears began to streak down her face. Her foot hurt and as most children, she couldn’t help but cry. Poor Isabelle wanted to go home, and she had no idea how to get there. She cried harder the more she thought of her father and how she wanted nothing more than for him to come get her. “Papa… papa, please.” She whined.

Her wails soon diminished into whimpers, and then silent sobs. She only stopped crying once it became too painful to continue. Eventually, Isabelle gathered herself as best she could and scrapped off as much mud as possible. Her foot still hurt and her leather shoe was torn at the seams, but what else was there to do but to keep walking.

She kept on walking, long past her bed time and far from home. Other than the occasional tree branch snagging her hair, the only obstical that halted her trek was a wall of leaves, honeysuckles and wild flowers reaching twice her height. Isabelle pushed her way through the bushes, thorns scratching her pale skin, drawing blood.

Emerging on the other side covered in mud, cuts, bruises and her own blood, Isabelle found herself in a clearing. The full moon shined overhead, the black night decorated with stars, creating pictures of heroes and beasts of legends in the sky. Her father often spoke of the stories hidden in the stars, of the brave men and women that became so great that the gods painted them in the sky with stars. The stories always put her mind at ease, and her father used them to his advantage when she needed to get to bed.

The clearing held nothing but a soft bed of grass, barely up to Isabelle’s knees. The air was still cold, but at least the moon let her see through the night, and that gave her some comfort. Her father went through more candles than he would have liked, keeping the darkness away as Isabelle tries to fall asleep.

Exhausted, she fell on her butt and refused to move a muscle. If her father was coming to get her, she would not move anymore, she figured if she found this place, her father knows of it already.

“Young one. Why are you here, all alone.”

Isabelle squeaked and spun around, still siting on soft ground. Her small dress and blanket were in tatters, and even as young as she was, she knew that her appearance was entirely unacceptable in the presence of the newcomer. A tall tan skinned man towered over her. She thought he could even be taller than her father, and to her, he was bigger than life itself.

The man wore long crimson red robes, embroidered with gold. But it wasn’t his unusual skin, his expensive looking clothes, or even his glowing gold eyes that held her attention, but his hair. His hair was the color of polished iron. “Are you lost, child?” The man said in a deep and rough voice. The man looked young, but the way he carried himself was that of a man with many years of hardship behind him.

Isabelle nodded, and slowly began to remember that she was indeed lost and far from her home back in the village. She started to cry again. Her wailing made her throat hurt more.

The man before her could only sigh and smile as he knelt down and scooped her off the ground, “Come, young one. We shall return you home. Now, do you know what your village’s name is?”

Being embraced in this stranger’s arms felt comforting, like she was being held by her father. Isabelle managed to hold back her sobs enough to answer her savior, “I… I live in Fiona village.” Her voice hurt her throat and the words barely came out in a whisper.

“And your father, what does he do?” He asked, trying to sound soothing.

She coughed and spoke, “Papa makes metal things, like swords and cooking pans.”

“I see. Well then, Isabelle, lets get you back to your papa.”

The man wiped tears away from her face and Isabelle couldn’t help but fall asleep in his arms.

————

Isabelle’s father, Desmond, could feel his stomach flipping in his body. His throat began to hurt as he continued to yell his daughter’s name. He stood not far from his home in the village, but he was far enough in, the light of his lantern no longer could reach the walls of his home. Isabelle always liked to wander, but she had been gone for too long and now he began to fear the worst. “Isabelle! Isabelle, where are you!”

“Are you the blacksmith of Fiona village?” A deep voice said behind him.

Desmond turned to see the man in red robes and silver hair. The man held a small girl with copper hair, covered in dirt and cuts. She was asleep, but she looked like she tumbled down a mountain. Desmond could hardly contain himself, “Yes, I am. You brought my daughter back to me!”

He took his daughter into his arms and nearly dropped her once he felt her snow cold skin. He gasped and was about to break out into a cry, but the man before him placed a hand on his shoulder, “Fear not, she is alive. Just take her to a fire and she will never suffer from this.”

Desmond felt his daughter move in her sleep and relief flooded his being. He met the gaze of the man and spoke, “What is your name, if I may ask?”

“I am Ragis. I am the forth of the five remaining dragons of this world, and I must ask you for a sacrifice.” The man answered.

“Is this a jest?” Said Desmond.

The man claiming to be a dragon looked Desmond in the eyes and smiled. His crimson robes caught an non-existing wind and flew open, turing rigid. The robes turned into giant wings and the man’s tan skin was replaced with red and silver scales. Before Desmond’s eyes, a giant dragon as tall as trees towered over him. The transformation had taken only a breath, and just as quickly, the dragon shrunk and turned itself back into the shape of a human, his bright golden eyes remaining the same in either form.

Desomond fell to his knees and bowed over his daughter in respect. “Forgive me, Master Ragis. I didn’t know it was you.”

The world knew of the five ancient dragons and their power. The dragons ruled over all the mythical beings in the world solely in strength and resided on the western continent. The mythical beings almost never set foot off their lands, but not unheard of. However, one of the five remaining dragons appearing in the form of a human, and saving a lost child no less; that is unheard of.

“Please stand, blacksmith. You need not bow to me.”

“But you are…”

“I know who I am. Though my siblings may disagree, my life is no different from yours.” Ragis interrupted. “The world may be full of different species and souls, and some may be superior in strength or in the magics, but no life is worth more than another. That is until one is made to be worth more.”

Desmond looked up at the dragon hiding behind his human face, “What do you mean, Master Ragis?”

“I will explain, once you and your daughter are within your own home. Come.” Said Ragis as he turned and started walking back to village, and Desmond followed.

When the three of them returned to Desmonds home, Desmond did his best to clean Isabelle while she slept. Resigned to waiting till morning to give her a proper bath, Desmond put his daughter in her bed and blew out the candle before closing the door to her room. Ragis was seated at a table, an offering of fruit and dried meat before him. The fire roared in the stone fireplace, the soft light making shadows dance within the small home.

“Blacksmith, come. Sit.”

Desmond took a seat at the opposite end of the table, listening intently. Though it never occurred, if a dragon were to visit your home, you would be wise to do as the near infinitely powerful beast commands. Desmond knew this and showed the respect due to such a mighty being, “Master Ragis, what did you wish to tell me?”

“I did not come to this continent of humans to solely save a human child from freezing to death in the forest.”

“A feat I will forever be grateful for. A debt I am unsure how I could ever repay.”

Ragis waved his hand, “Think nothing of it. As I have said before, I require a sacrifice. Not one of death or in blood, but in one’s self and what they hold dear.”

“Master Ragis?” Desmond asked, uncertain of the dragon’s meanings.

“I require a vessel in which the future of this world will reside. I require both a student and a leader. I ask you to sacrifice your daughter and only her. I have no use for another.” Ragis said, his glowing eyes fixed on Desmond.

Desmond was speechless, and furious, “I… I… But Master Ragis.” He tried to collect his thoughts, “You say you did not come to save my daughter, but you ask me to give her to you?”

“No, I ask you to give her to the world. It is true, I did not come for her specifically, but her I will take.”

“What would you do with her?” Desmond demands.

Ragis narrowed his gaze, “I can not tell you this. You say you are indebted to me, so I tell you of your payment. In seventeen years, upon Isabelle’s twenty-first year, you will forge her a sword and return her to the forest from which she lost herself. She will return with me to the western continent and from there, she will be following a path that I have deemed in need of her. Do you object?”

Dragon or not, Desmond was a true father, “I do object. Isabelle is a my blood. I will not rob her of a normal life to be sent to unknown lands with unknown beasts for the gods know what.” He slammed his fist into the table.

Ragis, exuding absolute authority, spoke calmly, “You must do as I have commanded, or in twenty years, her so called normal life will be robbed from her and everyone else on this planet. She is needed.”

Desmond wasn’t sure what Ragis was trying to explain, but he knew a warning or a threat when he heard one. Deflated, he asked, “Why her? Was there a prophecy?”

The dragon almost laughed, “No, Blacksmith. Unlike the expectations the humans have of destiny or fate, Isabelle is the same as anyone else. Like the heroes passed, Isabelle is being chosen not for her potential strength or how favored with the gods she is; she is being chosen solely for the fact that she was where I arrived, and that her father can make her a sword. It is as simple as that.”

“Then why not choose another in her place?”

“Because now that I have chosen, my word is my bond. I am held to do as I have said, such is the honor of the dragons.”

Desmond’s heart broke. He was being told to give up the last thing his wife had left him, and he was to send her off armed. What could be so dangerous, if not a dragon, to threaten the world if he did not do as he was told.

“Blacksmith, do not think me unkind. I do not wish to take her from you, but I must. You will have seventeen years together, and in that time, you will be undisturbed. And to ease your mind, I do not intend to thrust her into harms way, until she is ready to over come it.”

“You are giving no choice, then.” It sounded like a question, but both Desmond and Ragis knew it was just a matter of fact.

Ragis stood and skirted around the table, coming face to face with the door to the outside. Before he departed, Ragis left Desmond with a final comfort, “Should Isabelle prevail, she will be able to come home again. If she becomes what we all need her to be, there will be nothing to stop her from doing as she wishes. Not even I. To put her on that path, I need you to do as I have requested. And as a gift, use this to aid the fire you use to forge her sword and you will do her a great service.” Ragis pulled from his robe a small leather bag and sat it on the table before opening the door and vanishing into the night.

Desmond wept that night, tears fell like rain on the wooden floor. Seventeen years sounded so far away, but Desmond knew, those seventeen years would feel like seventeen seconds, and for that he wept.