Book of Ellagar

Chapter 12: Dust to Dust

The voice was faint, almost lost in the silence of the tunnels, but she recognized it immediately as Grandmother's. Ellagar should not thought of her here. The realization that her task had somehow pierced the veil of distance, filled her with both an odd comfort and a renewed sense of urgency. If Grandmother was upset that she was in the dragon barrow, then the stakes were higher than she had imagined. Ellagar was on the right path. 

But as quickly as her voice had come, Grandmother's presence was gone. It felt like a cold door had slammed shut in her mind, leaving her alone with the fading whispers of the swamp. And then even those voices were gone. A coldness slithered into the void, a shadow that whispered of malicious intent and ancient grief. It wrapped around her thoughts like a serpent, squeezing tighter with each step she took deeper into the barrow. Cutting off all connection. She instantly missed the whispers of the swamp, she walked feeling a sense of dread that pulsed in time with her own heartbeat.

She was so alone here. No swamp, no Grandmother, nothing could speak to her here. No. Not nothing - there was that dark, judging presence. Is this what had possessed the boys? What was this dark thing fluttering in her mind, she felt it prod and guide her feet. She recognized these passages - this was the way to the cavern with the great tapestry Ardvek had admired. Why was she here? Why was she being led back to this spot?

Something skittered in the darkness around her feet, and she saw small dark scaled creatures run from her light. They looked like deformed rats dressed in dragon-scale armor. One turned baring its needle sharp teeth, and glaring at her. It turned as she drew closer and fled from the light of her staff.

Ellagar reached the chamber of the tapestry. It hung as before, its vibrant colors dimmed by the dust of centuries. But as she approached, the weave began to shimmer and shift, the threads shining silver and gold. Moving of their own accord, the threads settled and changed hue. A raven stared at her and was gone.

The scene reshaped, and she saw not the earlier battle from history but a vision of the future, a battle of titanic proportions where dragons of every color clashed in the sky and the earth trembled beneath their mighty wings. Destruction rained down everywhere. The tapestry was a living artifact possessed by destiny, and she watched, in dread, as its story played out.

In the center of a battle, a dragon emerged, unlike any she had ever seen before. It was vast, its scales a shifting rainbow of chromatic colors that swallowed the light, eyes that pierced through the very fabric of reality. It's vast head changed colors and shape. This creature was beyond ancient, and its power was unmatched, a force of nature that could reshape the world with a thought. It was a dragon that could only be described as a god. The tapestry pulsed with energy as the creature's gaze fell upon her, and Ellagar felt the weight of its scrutiny like the barrow above her pressing down on her soul.

Was this Grandmother? The question burned in her mind as she stared into those ancient eyes, searching for any hint of recognition or kinship. But the dragon's gaze was cold, devoid of the warmth or cunning she had come to expect from the voice in her head. This creature was something else entirely, something that transcended the bounds of nature.

A raven flew across the desolated lands that remained. Cawing, calling. It looked at her and flew onwards.

The tapestry shifted again, and the weft of the tapestry became scrolls. Scrolls scattered across a vast stone floor, their parchment brittle and yellowed with age. Ellagar reached out with reverence, her heart racing as she recognized the handwriting from the scrolls that had been entrusted to her. The same meticulous script, the same cryptic symbols and runes that had guided her so far. Grandmother had written many versions of the prophecy. She really was cheating. But why?

Her hand hovered over one scroll, the oldest one, its edges tattered and almost unreadable. She could feel its power, a pulse of ancient energy that resonated with the whispers of the swamp. Taking a deep breath, she reached out and touched it, expecting the vision to vanish like mist. But to her astonishment, her hand passed through the weave and grasped the parchment, pulling it free of the tapestry as if it were a real object.

Her eyes scanned the ancient script, the words feeling like whispers from a long-forgotten tongue. It spoke of an egg-mother, a being of great significance to the prophecy, whose fate was intertwined with that of the clutchlings. The final egg was the key. The egg-mother's sacrifice would be necessary for the continuation of the line, a grim foretelling that made Ellagar's heart sink. Could it be referring to her? A simple dragonborn druid? Her thoughts swirled like leaves in a storm as she read on, the implications of the prophecy becoming increasingly dire.

The scroll spoke of a time when the egg-mother would lay the final egg, an egg of unparalleled power, and how it would be found by the chosen ones. But Ellagar had never laid an egg; and she was a dragonborn, not a dragon. The shadows mocked her whispering that she had been born to this purpose, that her very existence was a catalyst for the prophecy. Yet, the words on the scroll were fluid, painting a picture that seemed to shift and change with each new revelation. The words were as all cryptic prophetic nonsense. In anger she hurled the ancient scroll and watched it explode into dust.

The dust swirled around her, the letters rising from the parchment like a cloud of angry bees. They danced in the air, spinning and twisting into shapes that whispered of destiny and loss. Of fate and inevitable choices. Ellagar watched in horror as the ancient script re-formed into the image of Thelara, standing tall and proud, staff in hand, in a battle that raged around her. The scene grew clearer, and she could see the dragonborn druid-warrior fighting valiantly, her eyes gleaming with fierce determination. And in that vision Thelara died. Black claws bursting through her back.

The dust settled, and Ellagar's hand trembled as she reached for the vision of her broken sister-in-arms. Her friend. Not again. The reality of the prophecy washed over her like a cold tide, leaving her feeling sick and disoriented. Thelara had sacrificed herself once before, but this was different. This vision was not just a battle; this was the endgame. The culmination of all Grandmother needed to happen. Ellagar played back the vision looking at her companion's eyes, Thelara's eyes normally full of life and passion, now were etched with grim determined resignation. She knew her fate and embraced it. No. Ellagar's heart was torn between her promised duty to the prophecy and her love for Thelara.

With a roar that echoed through the cavernous chamber, she brought her staff crashing down onto the dusty stone floor. "No," she shouted, her voice a thunderclap in the silence. "I will not allow this!" She reshaped the words and symbols, rewriting the words. They fought her will, and she let her rage flow, the cloud of words exploding into black dust. It choked her.

The anger surging through her veins ignited the ancient magic within her staff, and the tapestry in front of her burst into a shower of green flames, consuming the visions of the future in an instant. The heat was intense, and Ellagar felt nothing but a cold, burning resolve.

The ash and the dust swirled dense around her, choking her. She tried to hold her breath. Cover her mouth and nose. The grit seeped through filling her nose, and eyes and throat. The reek of burnt wool and the dust of centuries filled her senses. The dark presence in her chortled at Ellagar's distress, as she fought to breathe.