Chapter Text
Viren watches Harrow ride out of the border town, armour shining in the red autumn sun. He has to admit that even though he’s somewhat opposed to this show of solidarity with the town’s garrison, it looks good.
The King storming out of gates, the horse’s hooves kicking up plumes of dust around him, the scent of battle about him, the way his face is set stern to the sky and his eyes gleam with the anticipation of an approaching foe. Viren rides just behind with the troops, they stream out behind their King, like a glittering sea of silver, buoyed by the royal presence.
Viren’s eyes flit between Harrow and the skies above them, the small dark specks of dragons hang there, they look like nothing more than distant eagles, but he knows they will come for them, all teeth and talons, howling.
He follows the line of Harrow’s arm as he directs the ballistae towards the skies, as he stands up in his stirrups and orders the lines, his horse wheeling and pawing at the dry earth.
The shadows of dragons always hang over the lands near the border, and humans push ever closer towards its edge. Families in search of food or land, settlements that turn into villages that turn into towns, and the story is always the same. The dragons come, lay waste to it all, they rain down fire and storm and push the tide back. Time passes, people forget and the same history repeats itself, again and again.
So it is good to have a King who will get his hands dirty, who believes in justice and equality for all and if Viren doesn’t always agree with his more impulsive plans, he still knows the importance of a powerful image. The way the word will spread and his people will love him all the more.
Not so the dark mage who sits in the shade at his shoulder, but that is necessary too.
For a moment Harrow catches Viren’s eye, and they burn with the hunger for battle, a personal vendetta the King carries in his heart. Then they both look back up, the dark shapes grow ever larger above them, their shadows scud across the land.
There is the sharp creaking wind of the ballistae’s bolts, the shouts of the men, the horses snorting, a cacophony of noise and movement, and then there is something almost like silence as they watch the dragons approach. Three of them, barbed like the head of a speeding arrow. Viren always feels revulsion and wonder vie within him at the sight of them.
There is no escaping a sense of awe.
These great creatures that can soar above them so majestically and curve the air beneath their wings. They are free from all logic or reason, free from the chains of gravity that bind men and they drop like stones from the sky.
“Hold!”
Harrow’s shout rings out, his sword is held aloft and the troops hold. Viren readies the primal stone, feels the tempestuous weight of it in his hand. He can see the eyes of the dragons now, their snarls of rage, the shine of their scales in the setting sun.
“Ballistae.” And there is the hiss of the arrow’s exploding from them, whistling through the air.
“Viren!” But he knows his role, has his staff in one hand, the stone at the ready in the other.
He sends up all the power of the cyclone and it carves wind and lightning, sends shards of ice flying and the magic is within him and the storm fills his senses, he sits there in the inferno and burns.
He is aware of the battle around him, aware of a dragon falling from the skies, another wheeling away, but it is all happening at some point beyond him. His focus has to remain fixed on the swirl of the tempest that emanates from him, the core of himself that controls it. The third dragon is set firm in his sights and he lets the storm rage, combines it with darkness, folds them together, until the dragon falls like a stone from the skies with its terrible screeching lament.
He gasps for air, feels the rush of the magic depart, the way it spirals away from him, draws itself back into the cosmos, and leaves only its shadow behind.
The nearby soldiers fall on the prone body, slash and hack at wings and scales and blood flows and steams on the cooling air. Viren turns from it, there will be time for that later, he follows the hollers and shouts of the soldiers, looks for the gold of the King.
Harrow is riding with a group of guards towards the second downed dragon, their chains and swords flash in the dying light.
It seems this dragon is not quite down though and with a roar of pained rage it sets itself on its haunches and leaps forwards, teeth snarling, talons tearing at the air. Viren spurs his horse around and sets into a gallop, he watches with horror as the dragon swipes at Harrow, catches him, tosses him into the air as if he is nothing more than a little rag doll filled with straw.
The soldiers are screaming and shouting, there is a rush of noise and all Viren can do is pull on the stone a second time and all his strength goes into the spell, wind catches the King, floats and feathers, tries to resist the pull of the earth, he still hits the ground with a distressing thump, but the blow is cushioned at least, and Viren slides from the back of his horse when he reaches him.
He moves at a run, falls to his knees beside him. The dragon has torn through Harrow’s chest plate as though it is nothing more than a sheet of old dry parchment, ripped it half off him, shredded through the mail and gouged a deep red river into the flesh below. It runs with a dark viscosity over his skin and Viren swallows the fear that he feels.
With a wound like this time is of the essence. Harrow is still conscious, face contorted with the searing pain of ripped nerves. The blood is flowing freely though, all over Viren’s hands as he tries to hold the two jagged sides of the wound together. It is like trying to grip onto the slippery skin of an eel and the blood runs blackly down to the earth below them as if its only desire is to pull Harrow back to the dirt’s cold embrace.
He has to deaden his emotions to the severity of the situation, to consider the various options he has at his disposal, which aren’t really enough. The stone is no good for healing, if he could get back to the town for ingredients there might be another way, but there is no time for that. He has the staff, he will have to call on his own energy, it is not a particularly elegant solution, but then the situation is not particularly elegant either.
For a moment he stops and shuts his eyes, draws on all the magic around him in the air and the earth, there is never enough in the human kingdoms, but it is there still.
It will sing for him, he knows all the ways to draw upon its notes and he will shape them, they will have to move for him. The consequences of failure cannot be contemplated. A kingdom without a King is a bloody blot on the pages of history, and this man in his hands holds something more than the heart of him.
The magic comes, he hears its music darkly in his head and it is a heavy tune, it beats around in his brain, pummels him this way and that.
It seems he does not have quite as much residual energy within himself as he’d expected though, it appears he has exceeded himself again. He can feel a black tide furling at the edges of his vision and he draws on himself to finish the job, sucks the energy from deep within, pulls it out of his very bones and sinews.
He forces the flesh to knit and meld, watches it mend, fuses the vessels, layers fat and muscle and skin together. Pulls himself apart to draw the tissue of Harrow together.
It is not quite enough to make it neat, he can see the red line where the flesh has joined, it will leave a mark. He can feel all the colour draining out of the world around him, fading from his own skin.
“Sorry Harrow.” His voice slurs, becomes thick in his throat as the darkness overwhelms him and he hears himself from very far away. “That’s… gonna… scar.”