King of the Woodlands

Chapter 21

He'd almost drowned that day in the ocean, his wings dragged down by the cruel wind as he screamed for help that would never come. After all, Fate never bothered with creatures like him. Not even the God of Chaos bothered with creatures like him.

One day, he knew he had to go back to the Towering Timberlands. He had to make the humans pay for what they'd done to his brother, to his family, to his clan. But now he was too tired.

He'd curled up near a misty mountain spring that smelled like sunshine and oakmoss. The grasses grew bright and green, freckled with small white flowers he didn't know the name of, and the sky was a clear blue.

That night, he hadn't slept. He'd stayed awake, roaring at the stars, demanding that they gaze back at him. But when dawn came and all the stars disappeared, he too faded away with them, his soul lost, broken beyond true repair. He'd just fought a great war, but the war had won.

One day, when he was making the journey back to the sea, he'd spotted a village girl. Her mellifluous laughter rang out, a tolling silver bell. She had lemon-pale hair and skin white as snow, and her name was Beatha, which meant life. Her father was a woodcutter and her mother was a healer.

"Dragon!" she'd shrieked as he'd flown over her village with its thatched roofs and braying donkeys pulling wheelbarrows. "Look at how beautiful he is!"

Unable to resist his curiosity, he'd flown down to see her. She'd laughed in delight, her braided vanilla-lemon hair flowing in the wind. She wore long robes of emerald and gold, the Llewellenar colors, and there were clovers in her hair.

"Do you have a name?" she'd asked him.

He'd told her the name he'd abandoned. She'd said it like a prayer, something to be worshipped.

"You speak," she'd said. She smelled like firewood and fresh snow.

"Of course I do," he'd replied, his heart heavy.

"Won't you spend some time here? I have no friends among the other children, and I've been dreaming of dragons for days."

And so he stayed. She tried getting him to eat a stew of garden peas with salt and squash, but he explained to her that dragons only ate meat.

Beatha had felt like the first friend he'd had in such a long time. She listened to his stories and had a laugh that could light up even the darkest of days. But he didn't want her to replace Kolzryrth. He didn't want to forget his brother.

"Do you have a family?" she'd asked him one night. They sat on a bale of hay, looking out at the sea, how the moon shone like a silver lantern over the waves.

"I did," he said.

"Did you leave them?"

"Yes."

Her honey eyes had widened. "How horrible," she said. "I hope they aren't worried about you."

Did she not catch the "I did" part? he'd thought. My family is dust now, and she will be too.

"I hope you said good-bye to them," Beatha said.

"I didn't say good-bye." He kept his eyes on the night sea. "I just let go."

A couple nights later, Beatha's village had been burned to the ground as the knights in shining armor came, searching for a dragon with charcoal and dark silver scales.

The Woodland King found Beatha on the same hay bale. Blood was smeared across the hay like a trail of damp red flowers, and there was enough of it to paint a barn red.

"Help me," she pleaded, her eyes so wide he could see more white than honey-colored iris. "Please." She then said his name, and suddenly he felt so foolish giving it to her.

"That's not my name," he said softly. He stood and watched as her eyes went glassy, as she went limp as a wooden doll, the moon reflected in her empty gaze. Behind them a crow cawed, a sly, rasping sound, like a farmer who had smoked from a pipe too long.

He didn't pray for her. He didn't mourn her. He left her broken body slumped on the hay bale and let her go, just like he'd let Kolzryrth go. It hurt to leave her like that, but he savored the pain. He deserved it.

✥

He'd returned to the Towering Timberlands with an empty heart, expecting the worst.

A red sun sank in the distance, pools of scarlet and gold light illuminating the wreckage. Upon the forest floor lay trees fallen in a storm long forgotten. The tempest had been harsh, stripping away the bark and outer layers. Only a single silver birch remained standing.

A broken laugh escaped his chest. The Towering Timberlands—the place where the trees ate children, where the dark branches' spindly fingers reached out to snatch up any human with a head full of foolish arrogance. There were so many tales surrounding his home, and these humans had just came in, stomping all over them.

The matrons' cave had been destroyed. Blackened bits of straw peeked out of the entrance, but there was no sign—no sign at all—that a mighty dragon had once dwelled there.

Even the hatchlings' nests were gone. Everything was gone, leaving only a wasteland of fallen trees and crumbling stone behind.

Dragons and man had always been companions. Man taught dragon how to fish, and dragon taught man how to hunt and how to speak the language of courage. But now they were wrenched apart, rivals, enemies.

Part of him wanted to shout that he was alive, that he was a Fire-Dancer, that the humans hadn't seen the last of him. Another part of him wanted to sink to his knees and weep.

The usually vicious forest was eerily quiet. He felt rage rake its way down his spine with cracked, screeching iron nails as he beheld the mourning trees. There was no bird song or cricket chirp. The woods were silent in their grief, weeping for what was lost.

Minutes had passed, minutes that he didn't deserve. He'd then opened his mouth, flames pouring out like lava, flaring and spitting sparks. Black-grey tendrils of smoke slithered from the tangles of orange.

The trees reached out to him with spindly branches just as the sky was torn apart by violent slashes of yellow and orange and red. They waved their branch-arms around and around, trapped in an endless dance with no children to eat and no dragons to house.

When you dare step foot on the dampened soil, dear child, the mothers would say, you'll perish to dust, so draw your line carefully between the the forest and that skin of yours you value so much. The dire warning was usually accompanied by threats of cold beds if their children dared wander into the forest.

Even as a wyrmling, the Woodland King knew the tales were true. Unease had pooled in the sharp hollows of his bones, and every time he'd gone out on a hunting mission, he'd feel twisted branches inching closer to him, the cold breath of an oak tree against his neck.

This was his home, where the rumbling of child's stories danced between the greedy trees, where the trunks whispered warnings to any human who dared step foot onto the dampened soil. This was the home that he'd helped build up from bones and seeds, and he was destroying it.

He'd thought of Beatha, the shade of her eyes, the tilt of her lips, how her hair looked like lemon frosting atop a vanilla cake. She was wrong. The world was wrong. And nothing could make it right again. There was no safe place. Not for him, not anymore.

But maybe, brick by brick, he could end this world and start a new one.

So he threw himself into that fire, into his rage, and let himself burn.