The Prophecy

Zephir (3)

They were just a tiny black spot in the distance, in the plain, that the pain was already waking up. It was a diffuse ache that ran all over the chest but whose intensity was concentrated in the sternum. The more it intensified, the more difficult and painful it became to breathe. The dragon began to lick the wound but it was useless: it was bleeding inside. Perhaps he could have called the girl and her friends back. Although, somehow, he knew it would be in vain. Firefly had already done her best. Ask her to perform yet another intervention of the kind would probably deplete the young Gloumy of her magic, or she would die of exhaustion trying to heal him. How ironic! This pretty gloumy and this young girl had risked their lives to save his own and he was going to die anyway! He could not repress a deep and cold laugh as he measured the full extent of this pathetic situation. He was going to open the Gates of Forgetfulness in the very plain where he was born. But this time he would be alone. Alone.

He was going to let himself be overwhelmed by these sinister thoughts, when a noise drew him out of this entrapment. It felt like a wave, a flood, a sound alternately weak and strong. A wave that came and went. He thought for a moment that it was his end, that he was entering the World of Dreams, above the Sea of Eternity, just before seeing the Gates.

He was mistaken. He understood this as he listened to the irregular beat of his heart. What he heard was a breath, a breathing. A breath other than his own. Slowly turning his head, he realized in amazement that he had made a mistake again. It was not one breath he could heard, but two. But what he could see was only one figure for two beings. One of them was a humanoid being, male, the other a steed.

The man was tall, with a proud look despite his tired and discarded clothes. They must have been made by the best craftsmen, in the noblest materials because, despite their age, they kept a certain presence. The coat had an ancient cut: the collar was stiff, high and straight up to the cheekbones, a large panel hid the sleeves like a cape, and the wide and straight waist of the garment ended only at the ankles. The embroideries of the coat formed full, sinuous lines, whose curves, initially concentric at the level of the neck, drew, while moving away from it, strange motives of disappeared or magical animals. Towards the chest, the lines became tangled like vines, ending in a geometric shape of the most curious effect. In places, precious stones and gems of various shapes, which time had not been able to fade, threw luminous glimmers. The long coat covered dark brown leather boots.

The steed that the man was riding, a superb grey-blue stallion, had a majestic and proud, almost haughty bearings. As with the man's clothing, his harness was luxurious but worn out by time. However, he kept an old-fashioned charm.

The man jumped out of the saddle and went directly and without the slightest sign of fear, towards the dragon. The dragon did not have time to think about a riddle, let alone to inflate his throat with gas to start his fire: the man had already put his hand on his chest and was addressing him silently.

//It hurts, doesn't it? Obviously. Then let me do something about it. I don't need to ask you why I'm doing this. Tell yourself I have my reasons. //

Without waiting for the slightest reply, he returned to his steed, rummaged through the saddlebags attached to the saddle and pulled out a small object. He returned to the dragon and applied the object to his chest. The dragon felt the cold falling down on him, immersing him deep into a kind of torpor. In terror, he stared at the object that was freezing him. It was a kind of stylus. It was not made of bamboo but of a transparent material, a kind of rock crystal. The entire body of the stylus was encircled with fine grey metal threads that formed arabesques skillfully intertwined.

_But isn't that a... he murmured in amazement.

_ A Glinsmalin, yes, indeed.