There would be honor in this, they had told him. They were dragons. Dragon-people. Close enough it didn’t matter. They were nearly nine fulms tall, he was told, with scales black as night and sometimes skin to match. They were savage, warlike. Rounaut had gone with his brothers because they wanted to show him the glory of dragon-slaying.
At first he had followed his brothers and the assembled group eagerly, seeing the scales, their horns and tails, and allowing himself to be taken in, weaving through fights, throwing punches to take advantage of distracted foes and slipping away before he could see retaliation.
But then he saw him: a boy his own age, clutching a large urn in both arms. Fleeing swords and axes, he skidded, crouched, leapt away in a blind panic. White eyes caught Ronaut’s own as he spun and nearly collided with him. Rounaut’s fists raised on reflex, but his grip was so inflexibly tight on his hora that if he’d tried to throw a punch it would have sprained his wrist. The boy, gangly in a growth spurt much like his own, shooting up into their much taller frames, was not what he had been told his enemy was. The world grew muted as he was surrounded in his own little bubble of shock, truths hitting him in slow motion, one by one.
The men were scarcely taller than his father. The women were tiny, smaller than most Hyur. They had not been prepared to be attacked by anything more fearsome than wolves, and numbered no more than fifteen.
The boy was screaming now, and he realized he’d inadvertently cut off his escape. His feet felt like lead as Rounaut tried to step aside but the boy wasn’t running. He was stumbling, falling, an arrow in his back pushing him to the ground. The clay urn fell from his grasp and shattered at Ronaut’s feet. Loamy dirt spilled over his boots. Dirt? he wondered, though it took him a moment to realize he had expected water or maybe ale. It didn’t matter as much as the crimson puddle soaking into the grass.
His brother wasn’t that close, but his face suddenly loomed too large in his vision, all he could see. “Come, ‘Naut!” he said, and his words sounded surreal, like he was hearing them from afar. He was grinning triumphantly, and Rounaut wondered why he’d never seen how nightmarish it could be. “I didn’t intend to steal your first kill – let’s find another your size!”
He ran off, into the chaos of scaled people and their own ragtag squad of glory-seekers. Rounaut couldn’t follow, anchored by the dirt covering his feet, eyes fixed on the prone form before him. Despite the noise of battle, he heard a breath rattle out of him, and then he was still. Nobody came for him, to lead him back into combat. He stood in front of the corpse, the boy who had only been trying to escape with his life, unable to look away.
He heard the enraged scream seconds after it had actually happened, felt something impact his side, and the world rushed into focus as he toppled to the ground, a hand up to block another attack from the enormous man before him, howling in rage – no, in pain. He watched the eyes, white set in ebony skin, like the boy’s, watery with tears. The dragon-man was unarmed, but had both arms raised to deliver a blow like a hammer’s. He stopped, looking down at Rounaut as he watched from the ground, terrified but unable to bring himself to move.
I wanted this! part of him screamed, as his mind came out of numbness. I agreed to come, to kill you and your defenseless kin! Whatever comes next, I deserve!
The man hesitated, lowered his arms. His head turned slowly, and Rounaut’s followed, to the skinny form beside him. And the man, with all his fearsome edges, dark as a living shadow save his striking white hair and eyes, crumpled, gathering up the corpse in his arms and sobbing into its lifeless flesh.
Apparently, this is what he had earned. Rounaut pulled himself to his knees, and watched the hulking man grieve for what seemed too long. He looked up at the battle, the slaughter, a crowd of armored Elezen with gods knew how few poor dragon-people – had he ever been told their proper name? – in the middle somewhere. For the moment, the pair on the outskirts seemed to be forgotten. He wondered where his brother was. The sole archer in the squad surely would have killed the man.
He realized he didn’t want him to die. He very urgently did not want this.
“No more,” he managed to finally say, his voice pitifully thin, but surprising even to him in its resolve. The man raised his head and looked at him, jaw set, quivering. Rounaut gathered up his hora from where they had fallen beside him and hooked both to his belt. He would not draw his weapon, and the man’s gaze followed him with increasing confusion as he watched him stand.
“No more. Follow me, sir. I can show you a place to hide.”
He could see the question in the fire-white eyes that bore into his. But there was no time, and they both knew it. They fled the brutality that he had been told would be a glorious battle, from the butchers he had once called his family and his friends.
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The Death of Ignorance
At first he had followed his brothers and the assembled group eagerly, seeing the scales, their horns and tails, and allowing himself to be taken in, weaving through fights, throwing punches to take advantage of distracted foes and slipping away before he could see retaliation.
But then he saw him: a boy his own age, clutching a large urn in both arms. Fleeing swords and axes, he skidded, crouched, leapt away in a blind panic. White eyes caught Ronaut’s own as he spun and nearly collided with him. Rounaut’s fists raised on reflex, but his grip was so inflexibly tight on his hora that if he’d tried to throw a punch it would have sprained his wrist. The boy, gangly in a growth spurt much like his own, shooting up into their much taller frames, was not what he had been told his enemy was. The world grew muted as he was surrounded in his own little bubble of shock, truths hitting him in slow motion, one by one.
The men were scarcely taller than his father. The women were tiny, smaller than most Hyur. They had not been prepared to be attacked by anything more fearsome than wolves, and numbered no more than fifteen.
The boy was screaming now, and he realized he’d inadvertently cut off his escape. His feet felt like lead as Rounaut tried to step aside but the boy wasn’t running. He was stumbling, falling, an arrow in his back pushing him to the ground. The clay urn fell from his grasp and shattered at Ronaut’s feet. Loamy dirt spilled over his boots. Dirt? he wondered, though it took him a moment to realize he had expected water or maybe ale. It didn’t matter as much as the crimson puddle soaking into the grass.
His brother wasn’t that close, but his face suddenly loomed too large in his vision, all he could see. “Come, ‘Naut!” he said, and his words sounded surreal, like he was hearing them from afar. He was grinning triumphantly, and Rounaut wondered why he’d never seen how nightmarish it could be. “I didn’t intend to steal your first kill – let’s find another your size!”
He ran off, into the chaos of scaled people and their own ragtag squad of glory-seekers. Rounaut couldn’t follow, anchored by the dirt covering his feet, eyes fixed on the prone form before him. Despite the noise of battle, he heard a breath rattle out of him, and then he was still. Nobody came for him, to lead him back into combat. He stood in front of the corpse, the boy who had only been trying to escape with his life, unable to look away.
He heard the enraged scream seconds after it had actually happened, felt something impact his side, and the world rushed into focus as he toppled to the ground, a hand up to block another attack from the enormous man before him, howling in rage – no, in pain. He watched the eyes, white set in ebony skin, like the boy’s, watery with tears. The dragon-man was unarmed, but had both arms raised to deliver a blow like a hammer’s. He stopped, looking down at Rounaut as he watched from the ground, terrified but unable to bring himself to move.
I wanted this! part of him screamed, as his mind came out of numbness. I agreed to come, to kill you and your defenseless kin! Whatever comes next, I deserve!
The man hesitated, lowered his arms. His head turned slowly, and Rounaut’s followed, to the skinny form beside him. And the man, with all his fearsome edges, dark as a living shadow save his striking white hair and eyes, crumpled, gathering up the corpse in his arms and sobbing into its lifeless flesh.
Apparently, this is what he had earned. Rounaut pulled himself to his knees, and watched the hulking man grieve for what seemed too long. He looked up at the battle, the slaughter, a crowd of armored Elezen with gods knew how few poor dragon-people – had he ever been told their proper name? – in the middle somewhere. For the moment, the pair on the outskirts seemed to be forgotten. He wondered where his brother was. The sole archer in the squad surely would have killed the man.
He realized he didn’t want him to die. He very urgently did not want this.
“No more,” he managed to finally say, his voice pitifully thin, but surprising even to him in its resolve. The man raised his head and looked at him, jaw set, quivering. Rounaut gathered up his hora from where they had fallen beside him and hooked both to his belt. He would not draw his weapon, and the man’s gaze followed him with increasing confusion as he watched him stand.
“No more. Follow me, sir. I can show you a place to hide.”
He could see the question in the fire-white eyes that bore into his. But there was no time, and they both knew it. They fled the brutality that he had been told would be a glorious battle, from the butchers he had once called his family and his friends.