The Dragon's Flight

[Koodini 854]

 

 

 

THE CASTLE GLASGON, ALBA. — The 11th of Horen’s Calling, 2077.

“Speak it,” strung a weariness which none could bring solace upon. That Tiber’s voice, so often backed by certainty, proved naught greater than a husk of itself. Languid, it found echoing. “I must know. Speak it.” No hand braved to wipe away the sweat which clung to her pale flesh, for any who tried knew they would be met with refusal. The eve’s toils had nearly seen her undone, and left her body enfeebled and her mind within decidedly spent. Yet Diane still drew breath, and so too did that babe, a scion whose cries lingered further than she’d have wished.  No doubt the child was in the process of being dressed and soon to be brought forth, swaddled in alabaster cloth just as the Duchess had requested. But that sight had yet to come, nor did any answer to her wonder.   A gaze once ever-kind had found itself shed, usurped by an indignation seldom seen. Where insistence had once dwelled birthed now the roots of exasperation. So fine a substitute it was, amongst the quietude which her retinue of midwives and physicians had chosen. Only upon that last writing she fell victim to, though merely a remnant of her settling pains, did their halted makings budge. A scuttling throng of hands and robes, their haste an airless circling— attendants drawn forth come frailty’s semblance, as vultures to the scent of carrion. Her vexation broke forth in a shrill cry. “No- Begone, all of you! Out, until the babe is brought before me!”  Her voice carried sudden force, brandished akin to how one would a dagger.   All bouts she had ever known paled in comparison to that struggle existent amongst her and those attendants who wished only for wholeness to rest assured. Their care was found misconstrued upon her ears, as if they wished to construct themselves obstacles before her and that which she wanted to know. Ever obstinate, that woman once styled beggar… all until her chamber’s door found groan. The sight of a babe ensnared by cotton and their Lady Matron, at last, drew her into a semblance of peace. Silence fell across the uneased chamber, and only one possessed the capacity to break it. One final time, Diane clamored, “Tell me. Please, Roswyn… Tell me it is our heir.”   Mercifully, the Matron did not allow hope to linger further. Before all present, she declared, “A girl.” Spoken neither in lament nor pleasure was that declaration. But no such indifference would be Diane’s to claim. Her brows, once strong beneath the guise of distress, became weak with furrowing. Though unvoiced, all which welled within found manifestation; her jaw’s shake and nostrils’ flare, her eyes’ brimming and flesh’s reddening. Feebly, her voice sought one last request.   “Bring her to me. Allow me her, and then I bid you all to leave me.” “Your Highness,” began a breath seeking rebuttal, though it was soon laid to rest. “Bring her to me.”   Naught rose in retort. Diane’s hands, sapped of all their greater strength, could hold but one weight: her daughter. Neither burden nor tragedy, merely hers. Her fears were vindicated, for the fruit of labor laid rowdy within her arms. And those humble quarters which seldom entertained noise greater than her own murmurs or the passing gales’ cries found themselves enlivened, now host to mewls which effortlessly shattered the silence of those halls. Even against Diane’s chest, the girl refused to settle. Those squabbles had proven incessant in their stay, no hum nor gracing hand enough to calm her. Had she been alike, Diane wondered, when her own wisps of hair were first drawn to her mother’s chest: a discordant, unruly daughter?   Their matron had seen all whom remained out, and now the quarters were theirs alone. And upon their departure, one might swear an air of ease, or perhaps mere exhaustion, befell babe. At last, quiet. And in its wake, peace. The girl possessed a gaze paled as their ancestors’, of no greater vibrancy than the weathered outcrops of stone near Janisport, with hair alike to her father’s, brown as the barks she once carved thoughtless etchings unto. In that light, she was no misfortune. In that light, she was nothing to grieve, in the shadow of an heir which could have been. In that light, she was all she needed to be.   Though the hour would pass and Diane would finally surrender the babe to her attendants’ care, rest would not come easily. No dream would arrive, come her head’s fall unto silkened cushionings, nor would any true repose. Her stupor would be ornamented by a grievous, harrowing knowing: her content was a sentiment unlikely to be shared.

 

THE CASTLE GLASGON, ALBA. — The 11th of Horen’s Calling, 2081.

Within the hush of her private apartments of Glasgon, Diane found herself at last unmoored from the demands of court. Comforts, the word she had so often used for the finery of that keep. Once, it had been true. A home—at least in its material form, even if those who filled its fair chambers rarely acted as one. Somewhere to retire when the hour grew old or fatigue sought to best her. But a home, it was no longer. All which once met her every need had grown lusterless. Their ballroom’s glazed floors, the frames of golden leaves which ensnared portraits of Alstions of yore, even her beloved chalice, a relic which long predated her arrival unto Azuras. Their appeals were lost, now existent as naught but prosaic fixtures within her day’s toils; gilded nothings which had long been fashioned the very bars of that cage which held her. In her eyes, the Glasgon was no finer now than those timeworn halls which she’d known all her youth. But a woman of her position held no choice. From that cage she could not seek to fly, for encumbrance had settled about her shoulders. Those daughters, so cherished as they were, were styled weights from which she could not drag away. And now another life had begun to quicken within her stomach, no longer small enough to be hidden beneath layers of silk and lace, and entirely impossible for her to ignore.    A life whose nearing arrival was not heralded before their realm, for nary a soul dared chance the sanctioning of a festival nor rite in the name of a babe-yet-seen. For William could not seek to deign even that. What good was it to their realm, might she sire another daughter? What shame might further befall him, should their court’s astrologers augur a son’s come yet leave naught but the seed of embarrassment? It was refusal, by his hand alone, to brave such mockery again. A disallowance which began to lead their marriage astray, further into the suffocating hush she had long become acquainted with. For his image before the realm, as their promised steward and darling prince, held greater importance. Greater importance, certainly, than that of his image before her, as husband alone.   A husband who could not find it within him to spare her many words, and even rarer a glance stripped of its contempt, yet all too capable of rearing his focus everywhere except her and what was to be theirs by blood. Was she meant to not think much of it, that birthed detachment? Was she meant to be better than she was, to not allow it to act as such a marring upon her spirit? How could she not, Diane reasoned with herself, for any would.   No matter, she decided. Those thoughts would do her no good to ponder upon. No remedy could be brewed which might see their tension severed and understanding brought about. It was better, decidedly, to rest her head. A finer choice to prepare for that which awaited the Saint’s days than drive herself maddened with lamentations of that which would only pass. To rest, she was.   But even in a realm where no charge laid upon her, that woman of Beaufort would find no reprieve.   . . . . . Just as sleep’s soft hand did seek to draw her lids to rest, a sudden lightning within her gaze did flash them wide anew. As if some malefic force, lurking erewhile in the shadows, had thrust a torch within her very soul, and bid her see some revelation in the dark.   Yet it was neither dark nor revelation which Diane came into the vision of. Steady beneath her, the sway of a saddle lulled that Duchess of Furnestock, no finer a woman wayward amongst underbrush, to the greater of her senses. Around her rose the endless forest, familiar as the Daelwood of their realm's bounds, yet far vaster, of thickets dense as a mourner's veil and impassable as fortifications of cobble, wherein no sun dared dwelled. The earth beneath her thrummed, shaken by the weight of that steed which she rested upon. Cluster upon cluster of blossoming primroses laid asunder in her wake, and nary a share of soil left undisturbed. Were it not for the crossbow within her grasp, might she have proved naive as to that which she sought: a huntswoman's trophy.   Reared, that held gallop soon slackened unto a stillness. "On," she bade of her steed, though it was unlike those subjects of her household. The mare had halted for a given reason, and from its stasis yet it dragged. Her lips found split, but interruption soon sought to see those words within her very throat slain. Overhead, within the high vault of air, a shadow passed, its span wide as the clouds, yet neither breath nor sound betrayed it. The beat of wings, unadorned by the whistle of passing plumage, meant but one thing to her.   ".. Draconis," drew the recognition, spoken within a tongue near extinct.   Should they persist in that unmoving manner they held, would it pass? Though she was no wiser, she elected to believe so; atop those soils, with nothing grander than her hushed breaths and that horse's low snorts in ornamentation to the forest's ambience, Diane laid. Patience, a virtue she seldom retained, had become her embodiment. Thus, she waited, and not one muscle braved to even flex as that threat within the skies flew over once again. Though this time, it did not leave a harrowing silence behind. From where she stood, a fleeting vision; but within her ears, the strike of cloven hooves against forage rang true. The prize which she sought, of golden hide and grand stature, fled in wake of that dragon's passing. Its vision danced through the verdure, taunting her and fashioning that bared patience a mockery.   One force fell that horse's side upon the realization: a heel swathed in tanned leather. “Haste, girl! Haste!” No longer did her leal steed dare tarry. Through bramble and darkness she rode, ever deeper and ever seeking, until the trees opened like a sigh. The sun laid low upon the horizon, and Diane knew well that gilded beast of hers had but two choices: to meet whatever laid upon the bottom of that steep descent or face her.   By way of rein’s tug, that leal creature beneath her had its ardor yielded, its bolt coaxed onto a mere walk. “Protect me, as I have sought to protect thee. Guard me in thy light, so no shadow may encroach upon me,” crept murmurs. A last-gasped prayer, before she was to face that which years of rest had long tormented her with. With her crossbow risen and a breath drawn taut, but a singular hoof sought to cross the treeline.   When she emerged into the glaring sun and her eyes’ disorientation settled, it soon became clear there laid no gilded beast upon that bluff. It was William and him alone, garbed in their banner’s plate as he oft was. And yet, with an adornment which was utterly unfamiliar: a crown, wrought of the finest metals and topped by a pair of antlers. His gaze laid upon the welkin which overlooked that Archduchy they knew so well. A realm which was to be his without contest. It was as if he knew her arrival had come, for her throat hadn’t even begun to well with an utterance and nor did he face her before his words found stay within the air. “Diane.” “William?”   One might swear the prince had found a hint of humor upon him, as those arms and shoulders once tense became at ease. And as his frame found turn, so too did Diane fall upon the fortune of a sight. Swaddled amongst a sea of azure cloth and slumbering, a babe of silver eyes. All which bolstered her wrist’s loft faltered and fated that crossbow to release, where it found shatter atop soil. The Duchess reined her horse and beheld it, as though marking the truth in that vision, whilst a world of bemusement claimed her.   Diane spurred her steed, chest taut with pounding as she urged herself up that slope and towards the babe whom awaited, arms reaching. From afar came the deep, slow beat of wings, growing ever nearer. Each stroke shook the air as though the sky itself might rend, shifting gathering upon gathering of foliage aside as the air grew thick. She ran, haste burning her tendons like coals, and the dragon’s shadow infringed upon that serene clearing. Even so, the child laid before her, peaceful as one might pray and with the breath which life required. Those weary hands of hers, beset by shake, reached forth towards the child. Yet she would never grasp him. One last beat rang within her ears, and then a thunder claimed her mind; that world trembled, and its fashionings were torn from, seam by tedious, fleeting seam. The world had drawn its sharp breath and let it go, as if it never claimed her lungs to begin with. So quickly as she descended into its depths, Diane arose from her dream to a cacophony of screams and shouted orders from the mouths of guardsmen. Rush, she tried, to pull herself from her bed's ensnarement and spy that which commotion had found root within. But she was so easily stilled, a fixing of agony strung within her and a wave of nausea seeking pass. "Assist me!" Her voice cried, bound in an authority she oft loathed the possession of.    "You must remain within, Your Highness," the vision of an uneased chambermaid pleaded.  "Guide me," Diane rasped in interjection. "Aid me onto the balcony."   With aid, all bound in due gentleness as her state required, the Duchess arrived onto the sight of that which Godwinsburg shrieked in horror of. Yet when her footfalls ceased and she laid open upon the Glasgon's balcony, it was not the expected band of brigands or pagan tribesmen which found her, but rather the far glimpse of a passing, scaled beast.   "Please, my lady, return to your chambers!" That pleading insisted. "They know not if it seeks return!"   Though Diane found herself upon no urgency. She lingered beneath the expanse of sky, watching the clouds drift for far longer than the sight existed, in hope that omen might return. Each passing shadow and shifting vibrancy above she examined with silent devotion, as if the skies themselves had whispered a secret designed for her. Time stretched about her, yet she remained, tethered to that vigil, willing to stay until the world revealed what dreams had promised.   But the willing seldom came into that which they wished. A breathed lament, of all which worked within to tear her asunder, besmirched the surface of Diane's tongue. Buckling, if it were not her for attendant, perhaps she'd have collapsed then and there from the torment alone. The strength of many it took, to peel her from where she rested enfeebled, and see her back toward her quarters.   "It comes," she spake through gritted teeth. "The dragon, once more?"   Though no answer found itself stayed within the air, her throat yet occupied by squalls and wails, those gathering physicians knew. There was a dragon to come, and soon he was to claim his ascent.

[mojanghunter 566]

“An Omen.”

 

That, Sir Janos had pronounced the winged beast, when it overpassed Saint Godwinsburg. William gave no answer. He had long since stopped believing in such things. Yet deep into the evening, as he sat beside the dying hearth, the creature returnt, not upon the wind but instead within the cloisters of his own mind. It wheeled through the dark battlements of his thoughts, settling upon the parapets of his conscience, and would by no means be driven off. He could not frighten it off with silence, nor could he whisk it away with wine. So he sat in the dark, the fire dead, the room growing cold, and let the beast turn and turn while he tried to make sense of it. The effort wore him out.

 

Only then did sleep finally come. And he dreamt of nothing at all.

 

Edited May 20 by mojanghunter

[Festive Fate 10]

As Inku was getting knighted, a large beast was overheard. He hoped this wasn't foreshadowing; he'd hate to get burnt again.