Flight School: Hunter

Less for More

Dragons were never meant to speak to butterflies.

Speaking to it would be a disaster, a calamity. For he, so large, would do nothing but destroy a thing so small and infinitely beautiful.

*

Final words. The price, the weight of it all and to sum it up in a sentence; the mere piecing together of words to form the culmination of one's life was no easy task for the dying. What one would expect to be saying seconds before their departure was nothing like what they ended up with. And yet, what may seem to the naked eye a string of nonsense—where is my clock?—can somehow be the sum of a whole.

For bridges to burn and for one to be standing in the middle of the flames that swallowed and took was a feat like no other. It had been more than a hundred years since he'd first used them but Falrir never imagined the lapping fires to look this menacing up close. These flames, his very own, felt nearly foreign in the darkness. He knew they could not harm him and yet there were scars and wounds that drained every bit of the energy inside. The force of adversity was not something he could belittle or disregard and this very moment did much to demonstrate the power of the Wind—the spreading of his flames.

"Put out the flames, Iolani," he felt the tiny frame heave at his shoulders in an attempt to take him away. "We need the storm."

"It's coming, sir," Io lied through his teeth, helping the dragon to his feet and holding on to the arms over his shoulder. "I think I heard thunder in the distance."

"It's here," Falrir reasoned. "It must be. I feel it inside."

And there it was—an inexplicable, miraculous phenomena that he could never understand. To be apart from the one closest to the heart was a feeling that could not merely be felt or experienced for it was more. More than a feeling; an instance; an expression of loss. Loss altogether boiled down to this, a heavy hole, deep and grieved and the seemingly futile search for that which once filled its hollow place. Falrir could tell that Sylvain and he were farther apart than they ever were.

"Sir, the bridge," he could feel the support beneath his feet weaken at every step. "I don't think we can make it to the other side in time. We need to shift and fly or the wounds on your back will—"

The sheltered path had its roof caving in a matter of seconds, crashing onto the flagged stone floor of the bridge and, at the impact, breaking off it's second pillar of support so that it formed the most unlikely 'v' in the middle of it all.

There were voices Io could not quite make out amidst the spitting of fire and rubble, coming from every direction he could think of and leaving him desperate to search for a way out. Above, something landed on a part of the roof that remained intact.

"Lord Falrir!"

Footsteps clunked over their heads and a flurry of feathers he could not recognize swooped in through the only safe opening that had held its weight against the flames. It was Kirill, shifted into his half-form and accompanied by the other members of the dragon's Order, rushing to his aid.

"The Lord—those wounds," the headmaster turned to Io in an outrage. "How did this happen?" Members of the Order came forth to take the dragon out of his arms, propping his arms on a shoulder each before shifting into their halves.