Anagnorisis
Fiction Fantasy: A D'Veen tale. During the Age of Dwarves, an atrocity unfolded beneath banners and marching drums. History would learn the cost of that choice only after the fire went quiet.
Anagnorisis
The dragon stood upon the broken shelf above the quarry, its great form outlined by firelight and drifting smoke. Scales the color of weathered copper caught the glow of the furnaces below, each one scored by cuts earned over years of pursuit. Its wings spread wide for balance, holding ground against a slope torn open by picks and greed.
Below, dwarves surged uphill in armored lines. Shields locked. Spears angled high. The air rang with shouts and the grind of steel dragged over stone.
The dragon struck first.
Fire rolled down the slope in a wide sweep. It forced the front ranks to scatter, drove them back from the ledge where the ground gave way to a sheer drop. Heat buckled shields. Dwarven soldiers fell, scrambling for footing. The dragon held its place, guarding the rise behind it where the stone darkened and dipped inward.
Thrain of Karrhold ran with the second line. His armor felt heavier with every step. He had marched for weeks, following the banners, telling himself the tales were true. Dragons hoarded ruin. Dragons burned cities. Dragons fed on fear.
The dragon before him did none of that.
It did not pursue. It did not press the advantage. It stayed where it stood, body angled toward the slope, wings flared wide, eyes fixed on the dwarves with a steady, watchful focus.
A horn sounded. The third line surged forward.
Thrain raised his shield and pushed with them.
Steel met scale. Spears struck. The dragon reared, fire bursting upward in a column that scorched the sky. A talon swept down, smashing shields aside, flinging warriors back in ragged arcs. The ground shook beneath its weight. The dragon roared, a sound filled with fury and pain and the mountain answered with falling stone.
Then a scream cut through the din. High, thin and terrified.
Thrain turned.
A child had wandered up with the soldiers and stumbled near the edge of the quarry, no more than seven winters by the look of him, small helm askew, child’s wooden shield dropped somewhere behind. A blast of fire from the forges had cracked the ledge, and the stone beneath the boy gave way.
He slid toward the drop.
The dragon saw him.
The change came fast. The dragon’s head snapped around. Fire died in its throat. It surged forward, not toward the lines, but toward the falling child. One great coil wrapped around the boy, pulling him close, shielding him against its chest as the ledge collapsed entirely.
The child vanished beneath the dragon’s body.
The dwarves froze.
For a moment, no one moved.
The dragon curved around the child, wings folding inward, head lowered, body drawn tight in a protective arc. It held still, offering its back, its side, every vulnerable place exposed.
Thrain felt something break open inside him.
“Hold!” he shouted, his voice tearing raw. “Hold the line!”
The command never reached the rear ranks. A captain, face blackened by the day’s soot and fixed with fury, raised his arm. The signal fell.
The ballista fired.
The bolt struck deep beneath the dragon’s wing. The force drove the dragon sideways, ripping a cry from its throat that shook the quarry walls. Fire burst wild and uncontrolled, scorching the rock, then guttered out.
The dragon collapsed. It did not loosen its coil.
Thrain ran forward as the shouting died away. The dragon lay still now, its great body slack, smoke curling from rents torn by steel and iron. Warriors moved in with ropes and hooks, hauling at scale and limb to clear the field.
“Careful,” Thrain yelled. “There’s a child.”
They did not hear him.
Ropes tightened. The dragon’s body shifted. As it rolled, the coil loosened.
A small figure tumbled free.
The child lay unharmed, soot streaked, shaking, alive. He coughed and cried, scrambling away on hands and knees until Thrain caught him and pulled him close.
The quarry fell silent, save the whispers passed among the soldiers.
The dwarves stared at the dragon’s fallen form, at the place where it had wrapped itself around a single fragile life. At the marks along its side where old scars crossed newer wounds, layered from years of pursuit.
No one spoke.
Thrain knelt, one hand pressed against the child’s back, the other against the warm scale at the dragon’s side. The heat faded beneath his palm.
Only then did the truth settle among them, heavy and final.
This was not a monster driven by hunger and killing.
This was a guardian.
The banners still flew. The campaign would continue. Orders would be followed. History would move forward without pause.
The dwarves had won the battle. D’Veen had lost something far greater.
By Heather Patton / Verdant Butterfly
A Musical Pairing
Day 5 of Bradley Ramsey’s Flash Fiction February: “Dwarves & Dragons” Write a story or poem set in a world where dragons are being hunted to extinction Optional D’Veen Challenge: Set the story in the realm of D’Veen.
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I'm going to have to warn Finton before he reads this one. He's going to cry, you know how much he loves dragons.
Seriously though, the symbolism here of the dragon giving its life to protect a child of people who want dragons dead is insanely powerful. Your writing is just insanely gorgeous as well. The action is beautifully composed, and that final line left me with chills.
It is truly an honor to see you write a story in my world, friend. You are an insanely talented writer.
Very moving