The Last Battle: Mid-Story Scene

A scene I wrote a couple of days ago. It takes place during a flashback that explains how Kata and Santok met. I've also got a timeline going to figure out what happened when before the events of "Last Battle". Everything is changeable, but as of now, Kata is currently 23. Santok is 41, though that may not be his biological age in human terms, since beastmen may age differently than humans. Cyra is 42 and Rayna is 16, which I need to change in an earlier scene.

“What spells do you know?” asked Santok, once the fire was burning steadily.

“None,” Kata replied. The question was a little surprising. Surely he had noticed by now that she wasn’t a caster.

“None?” Santok looked genuinely shocked. “You really never learned any?”

“Of course not!” Kata was starting to feel defensive, though she didn’t understand why. “I’m not a caster and I never trained to be one. I don’t have the talent for magic.”

“Ahh.” Santok was nodding his head, his eyes closed.

“I misunderstood,” he said, his eyes returning to her. “In Keltaria, we are all taught basic magic. Some take a greater interest in it and go on to become mages or healers, but everyone knows a few simple spells. I had assumed it was the same in your land.”

Now it was Kata who nodded in realization.

“So anyone can cast a spell?” It was in contradiction to what Kata has always been taught and had always believed. Magic was something you were born with, something that you discovered you had and chose whether or not to nurture. She had never even considered the possibility that it was something she might be capable of.

“Oh yes.” Santok spread his hands wide. “Magic resides in every living thing. We tend to think of it as something mysterious or divine, but magic is really just an energy that lets you achieve feats you normally could not.”

“Like what?”

“You have seen battles before. Have you ever wondered how a gravely injured knight can find the strength to lift his sword and keep on fighting when by all rights, he should be unable to stand? Magic. A doe fleeing a wolf and escaping in a last burst of speed that seems to come from nowhere? Magic. A single blood lily growing from earth that the roughest weeds cannot survive in? Magic. You have almost certainly used magic before without ever realizing that you did.”

Kata considered this idea for a while. She wasn’t certain she believed it, but she had never really discussed magic with spellcasters before. Was it possible? Could magic really be nothing more than an inner strength that could be tapped without the words and gestures she had always believed it required?

“Here,” said Santok. “Hold out your hand.”

Santok put his own hand out at almost full arm’s length, palm up. Hesitantly, Kata did the same. Santok nodded in approval and drew his own hand back.

“Now concentrate on the center of your palm,” Santok instructed. “Try to draw your energy there.”

Kata focused on the middle of her hand, staring hard at the skin, the tendons, and the veins underneath.

“Am I doing it right?” she asked uncertainly.

“You will know if it works. It can help to imagine a situation where you might naturally use magic, or think of something or someone you feel strongly about. Keep concentrating. I am going to tell you the word for the spell.”

Kata tried to increase her concentration. She thought of particularly tense moment of fighting she had experienced, time when she might have easily died. She thought of her home, her parents, some of her fellow knights, all the same things she thought of when she needed to remind herself why she was willing to fight and die.

“Pa’roh,” Santok recited, and looked expectantly at Kata.

“Pa’roh,” repeated Kata. Nothing happened.

“Put more emphasis on the second syllable. ‘Pa’roh.’”

“Pa’roh.” Kata felt a slight tingle in her palm, but she couldn’t be certain it was anything more than her own wishful thinking.

“Good. Make the pause in the middle shorter and roll the ‘r’ a little. ‘Pa’roh.’”

“Pa’roh.” This time the sensation was unmistakable. She could feel a rush of something indefinable toward the center of her palm. A tiny, worried voice inside her was warning her that Santok could be making her set herself on fire, but she ignored it.

“Don’t lose your concentration. You are doing very well. Again.”

“Pa’roh.” The rush came faster this time.

“Again.”

“Pa’roh.” A small circle of blue light began to glow in the center of Kata’s palm. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened in a smile.

“Keep concentrating. Say it once more.”

“Pa’roh.”

The circle of light slowly rose up from Kata’s palm. As she watched in amazement, it formed into a tiny glowing blue ball. The ball began to grow in size. When it stopped, it had a diameter about the length of Kata’s hand. It floated just above Kata’s hand, shining a bright pale blue. Kata stared at it, delighted. Santok smiled and clapped his hands softly.

“Excellent. You learn fast.”

“It’s incredible,” Kata breathed. She still couldn’t believe that she had actually cast a spell.

Santok held out his own hand.

“Pa’roh,” he said. His sphere of light formed almost instantaneously. It was larger than Kata’s, reflecting the size of hand. It also glowed a deep red orange, a strong contrast to Kata’s blue sphere.

“They are sometimes called ‘spirit lanterns,’” Santok explained, “though most people simply refer to them as ‘lights’. That spell is thought to be one of the oldest true spells in existence. It is also the first one taught to children.”

“So it’s used as a light?”

“Sometimes. Certainly in old times it would have been very useful as an easy to control light source that gives no smoke or heat. But nowadays, there are more sophisticated light spells that are used more frequently. But it is a simple spell that requires little energy. And it is very easy to manipulate.”

“Manipulate how?”

Santok didn’t answer. He stared intently at his glowing orb. It shuddered and then changed from a red-orange to bright green. Kata laughed.

“How do you do it?”

“Just concentrate on the center and think of the color you want it to be.”

Kata focused on the orb’s center. It took a little longer than Santok’s had, but slowly, the sphere went from blue to a green matching Santok’s. He smiled his approval.

“You can also move it,” he added. He pointed his fingers upward and the ball rose into the air. Tilting his hand from side to side, he made the ball sweep left and right. Kata copied his movements. It was awkward at first, but before long, she could make the sphere move pretty much however she wanted, well away from her hand. Santok showed her how to shrink the ball by bringing her fingers together and make it larger by spreading them apart.

“When did you learn this?” Kata asked once she had become adept at controlling the ball.
“I was a young child,” responded Santok. “Keltarian children nearly always learn it from a parent or an older child rather than in formal instruction. I learned it from my brother.”

Santok’s gaze grew distant. Kata had never heard him talk about his family before. She realized that she hadn’t really thought about him having a family before now. Of course she had realized that he must have had parents and maybe even other relatives. But she had always seen him as a hard, tough soldier, not someone who might think longingly of home and family.

“Children learn magic at different speeds,” Santok continued, bringing his attention back to the sphere and returning it to its original orange hue. “Some can summon a spirit lantern after only a few days; others take far longer. But there is a lot of incentive to learn. Many children play games by knocking them into each other, and if you cannot cast the spell, you get left out.”

“Did you ever do it?”

“What, knocking spirit lanterns together? Of course not. I stayed well away from frivolous games like that.”

Santok turned away and sat down, his back to Kata and the fire. Kata looked down at the sphere, feeling embarrassed. Up until now, she had merely tried to keep tensions neutral herself and Santok. But now, she honestly felt upset about having upset Santok, and not just because it might take the rest of their journey together difficult. She didn’t want to upset Santok or have him upset with her. She liked talking with him far more than she thought she would. It wasn’t just that he was the only person she had to talk to. She genuinely liked his company.

Kata was about to go and apologize to Santok when a large orange sphere zoomed at her from the right and slammed into her blue one, sending spinning away from her. Kata looked over at Santok. He hadn’t turned around or stood up, but Kata could see him glancing over his shoulder and sweeping his hand around. Smirking, Kata whisked her sphere away from another attack by Santok’s and whirled it around to knock his off its course.

Concerns - "Lost History" and Writing in General

"The Lost History of Sathyriel" is finished, at least as far as a first draft goes. I am trying to work on editing it. I thought this was going to be the easy part. This was generally the case when I was writing non-fiction pieces on animation for one of my many fake jobs. Getting the rough, awkward first draft out was the hard part. Editing it, refining it, shortening it to fit the required word length was simpler and more enjoyable. For some reason, I couldn't seem to write anything without putting out a first draft, being completely unhappy with it, scrapping most of it, and writing something better. But I guess there's a difference between writing and editing a one to five page non-fiction article over a couple of days with clear key points that had to be hit and writing and editing a 44 page fiction story where the first draft alone was written over the course of several months with no guidelines, no particular goal in mind aside from telling the story. A pretty big difference.

I don't know what I ultimately want to do with "The Lost History of Sathyriel", or even "The Last Battle". I've thought about the possibility of publication, but I have a lot of doubts about it. It's hard for me to even consider showing it to people I know, let alone total strangers. I'm not confident that it's worth publishing. I'm highly aware that the whole thing - "Lost History", "Last Battle", and whatever else comes out of this concept - is based off of a story that I've been kicking around for probably over ten years, and that does not necessarily mean it's a good story. I'm very self conscious about the fact that the main character is pretty much an idealized version of me.

I feel like I really need a fresh pair of eyes on the story. I need someone to tell me what's working, what isn't, whether "Lost History" even makes sense on its own (because I don't know if or when "Last Battle" will be complete), whether it's worth pursuing. I managed to convince myself while I was writing that the important thing was just to get it out, not to worry about its quality or worthiness. But now that it's out, I just don't feel like there's anything compelling me to stay with it. There's no touchstone, no one part I can look at and say "that's what everything else needs to be like."

There are some problems that I'm aware of. I'm currently looking at the first segment, the one I wrote last year, and what's jumping out at me most is Talshak. I don't feel like I have a good handle on him and who he is. What is he like and why is he that way? How did he and his clan end up allying themselves with Keltaria in the first place? What are his ultimate goals? He's obviously quite brutal and sadistic with his enemies, but how is he with people serving under him? With his own clan? Is he overconfident? Willfully ignorant? Smart? Slightly insane? It's not stuff that's necessarily going to be in the finished story, but I feel like I need to figure it out for him to feel real and consistent.

My bigger problem, though, is the question I keep coming back to: why am I doing this? Why do I want to write? I heard it suggested that for both writing and any other art, there's either a kind of pure, raw need to write independent of any outside influence or a baser, crasser, desire to be published, make money, gain fame and fortune. I've felt both of these things on occasion, but neither lasts long enough or stays strong enough to keep me going through a slump. Anne Lamott talks about writing as a gift to someone you care about. I, meanwhile, am afraid that nothing I write is good enough to share with those people. Ultimately, though a inner urge to take what's inside of you and make it exist independent of you can spark it, I believe that all creativity is a form of communication. And my biggest problem has always been believing that the things I am writing now are worth communicating. There are a lot of other concerns hanging over me right now, the biggest probably being the house being a continued mess. Compared to these concerns, or more enjoyable pursuits like video games, writing seems like a waste of time.

This is more me thinking out loud than coming to some kind of morose conclusion. I do want to keep writing. I just don't know how I'm going to do it and feel like it's worthwhile beyond just imposing some kind of purpose on my life.

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Eight

It's done. 44 pages. 16,541 words. I actually finished writing it yesterday, but I held off on posting it so I could check for typos.

Of course, it isn't "done." I have to edit, make sure everything's consistent, rewrite some part, maybe change some stuff around. But draft number one is finished and that's what I always find to be the hard part.

Comments and such.


The world came back to Joren gradually. First it was the heavy, medicinal scent of ground herbs and thick, syrupy potions. Then he could feel the hard wooden chair he sat on and Anaskida’s feathery head brushing up against his cheek. He could hear her wings rustling and the soft footsteps of the healer who had remained in the back room with him. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Cyra was still lying on the bed before him. She hadn’t moved and her eyes weren’t yet open, but her breathing had a more regular rhythm to it. The dark energy was all but gone from her body. Only a faint trace of it remained, crackling around the scar on her cheek. Joren suspected that whatever choice Cyra made, that scar would never heal. It was not uncommon. Many of Joren’s former patients had such lingering scars, reminders of their ordeal and hopefully of what it had taught them.
The remaining healer had just noticed that Joren was stirring. Her grip on a small glad bottle she was carrying tightened visibly. She started to say something, but apparently thought the better of it.

“You’re awake?” she whispered. She was trying to keep steady eye contact with Joren, but her eyes kept falling back to Cyra.

“Give her a little time,” Joren said quietly, recognizing where the healer’s real concerns lay. He leaned back heavily in the chair.

“Can I get you anything?” asked the healer, still keeping her voice low.

“Just some water, if you would.”

The healer went over to the small table, picked up a wide, shallow cup, and filled it from a bucket of water. She brought it over to Joren, who thanked her. He drank about half of it, and then offered the rest to Anaskida, who took several delicate sips. Evidently unsure of what else to ask, the healer tried to busy herself with the soiled bandages, occasionally stealing a glance in Cyra’s direction. Joren sat and waited.

If the room had not been so quiet, they might have both missed the sound. It wasn’t so much a moan as an exhale with a slight tone to it. Were Joren and the healer not waiting for even the slightest sign, they might have dismissed it. But both of them looked up as soon as they heard it. They waited, hardly daring to move.

Cyra took another deep breath, quietly this time. She stirred, her body shifting slightly to one side. Then, she opened her eyes.

Joren smiled quietly to himself. The healer gave a squeal of excitement. The door to the front room flew open and almost immediately, the small back room was filled with a crowd of people. The elf general who had greeted Joren upon his arrival came in first, followed by several soldiers. The general in particular looked relieved and kept murmuring something Joren didn’t catch. The healers crowded in next. Both they and the soldiers began talking all at once and soon it was impossible to make out any one conversation. Close after the healers shoving her way through the crowd came the head healer, the one the general had called “Tolla”. Even over the din of the soldiers and the healers, Joren could hear her yelling at everyone to stand back and give Cyra some breathing room.

Joren slid out of his chair and held out an arm for Anaskida to climb onto. He could just smell the faint aroma of what was probably a stew hot off the fire and he was starting to realize how hungry he was. Once Anaskida was back on his shoulder, Joren made his way through the crowd. Some of the soldiers and healers stopped him to thank him or congratulate him. He gave them quick thanks and moved on.

About halfway across the room, Joren felt a hand on his shoulder. Looking up, he saw Tolla standing next to him. Her face looked nearly as serious as it had when he had first seen her, though maybe a little less severe. Without a word, she gave Joren a short, deliberate nod. Joren smiled and bowed slightly. Tolla turned and started pushing her way towards Cyra’s bedside again.

As he reached the door, Joren turned and took a last look into the room. The crowd was starting to spread out and Joren could just see Cyra. She had turned on her side and was looking straight at him. The noise in the room was still too loud for Joren to hear much and he doubted Cyra had her full voice back yet, but he could still make out the words from the shape of her lips.

“Thank you,” Cyra said to him.

Joren, smiled, nodded, and left in search of the stew.


Official History

The Keltarian forces were defeated late in the spring of 709 at the Battle of Kelja Reik. Cyra herself slew Talshak, effectively ending the Keltarian occupation and uniting the kingdom of Sathyriel. The capitol was moved to what is now known as Drey Fandhil. Today, Kelja Reik lies abandoned and Talshak’s castle is a crumbling ruin.

General Marehnu was killed during the Liberation of Isudra, a key battle that established a crucial stronghold for the rebel armies. His strategies were instrumental in the success of this and other major battles. He is one of the seven generals honored by the memorial at Generals’ Square just inside the gates of Drey Fandhil.

Tolla of Millshaven was a well-respected healer who saved many a life during major battles of the war. After the war’s end, Tolla was knighted and highly decorated for her services. Lady Tolla served as head healer of the Sathyrian army, and then went on to found the Whitecrest Healers’ School. Under Lady Tolla’s guidance, the school has become a highly regarded institution, which gives aspiring healers a strong education in the fundamentals of healing magic.

After a severe injury during the Liberation of Isudra crippled her left leg, Peren of Aeshur Keep spent the rest of the war analyzing intelligence. When the war ended, Peren left the military. She traveled to Drey Ossar, a former dragoncaller village where Peren’s own ancestors one lived. Peren befriended the local Mosa dragon clan and began a study of dragon and dragoncaller cultures. Today, thanks in part to Peren’s work, Drey Ossar is a well-known center for dragon studies.

Lusaya, the white dragon who raised Cyra, fought in many major battles during the Sathyrian Independence War, frequently alongside her adopted daughter. She is now one of the leaders of the Vaar dragon clan. Her image is Cyra’s family crest and one of the symbols of Sathyriel itself. She is not a frequent visitor to the castle, but Cyra often travels up to the Vaar clan weyr to visit with her.

The wandering hero Joren Roosdrahm never settled in any one place, even after the war. He continued to travel the kingdom healing those in need with his unconventional magic techniques. Though the exact circumstances are not known, it is generally accepted that Joren once healed Cyra or someone close to her, for the queen always held him in very high regard. Cyra offered Joren an official position at the castle, but he declined. He did come to speak at the Whitecrest Healers’ School on at least three occasions. His fame caused many young healers to seek him out and ask him to take them on as apprentices. Of the likely hundreds of potential students he approached him, Joren took on only a handful. Only six are known to have finished training under him.

Joren passed away in the summer of 721. His age and the cause of his death are both unknown, but those who knew him agreed that he was quite elderly. Cyra went to visit him in Orkanholt shortly before his death and may have been present when he died. By his own request, Joren was cremated and his ashes were scattered at an unknown location. His six students were summoned to Drey Fandhil by Cyra, who bestowed upon them the Order of the Golden Falcon. Joren’s students continue to carry on his legacy and pass on his teachings to those who wish to learn. The Order of the Golden Falcon is only awarded to healers who were trained by these six healers or by Joren himself and is a highly respected honor.

Of all Cyra’s visible battle scars, perhaps one of the most mysterious is the one running from the far corner of her left eye down her cheek to her jawline. No one seems to know exactly how Cyra got this scar and Cyra has never explained it. It is commonly referred to as “the Queen’s tear” and numerous stories – both realistic and fanciful – have been told to explain how it came to be.

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Seven

I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't subtitle this "Cyra talks to her Psychologist".

Part Seven, two days worth of writing, over 2,400 words, and finally the end of this scene. This is really the centerpiece of the whole story, so I knew it would probably run long. There's some interesting stuff in this part. As with magic, I feel like it was better not to spell everything out completely and I hope that works. I also realize that Cyra does a lot of not talking over the course of this scene, but I think that makes sense with where her mental state is.

We're definitely entering the home stretch. Part Eight or Nine should be the end.

Comments blahdy balh.


Cyra didn’t say anything for a while. She continued to stand with her back to Joren. He waited.

“What did you see,” she asked slowly, “when you looked at me?”

She turned her head slightly to look at Joren. His eyes met hers with a calm, steady gaze.

“Pain. And sadness. It’s a kind of dark energy; looks like something between lightning and water. It was concentrated around that scar on you cheek.”

Cyra brought her left hand up to her cheek. She traced the scar with a shaky finger.

“It’s nothing,” she said self-consciously.

“That may be,” Joren admitted. “Sometimes the apparent source of the energy is just a particularly painful wound. Or it could be completely meaningless. But still, that much negative energy isn’t good. It prevents the body from healing.”

“What causes it?” Cyra asked with a little hesitation.

“Any number of things. I’ve actually seen people who were so frightened by whatever had happened to them that they weren’t able to take the healing and recover. It can be anger, fear, sadness, or something else.”

“What do you think is causing it with me?”

“That’s what I’m here to find out. Like I said, it can be all kinds of things, so I can’t really know.”

“But what do you think?” Cyra turned so she was almost facing him. Her blue eyes watched him expectantly. Joren sighed.

“I don’t like making guesses. But if I had to, I’d suppose something happened that you hadn’t experienced before, something you weren’t prepared to deal with. And now you’re not certain if you can go back and face it again.”

Cyra just looked at him. She didn’t move. She didn’t say anything. She just stood looking at Joren for what seemed a very long time. The, slowly, she walked over to the rock Joren was leaning against and sat down near it. Joren sat too.

“I’ve been fighting for a long time,” Cyra began, her voice soft. “Even before the war I was always wrestling with my brothers and sisters. I still have scars from those days.”

“Your dragon family,” Joren said, just to make sure he understood. Cyra nodded.

“So it’s not like I’ve never been hurt before. I’ve been in plenty of battles where I could have died if something had happened just a little differently. But this….”

She trailed off and sat silent, hugging her knees to her chest. Joren said nothing, waiting for when she was ready to continue.

“It wasn’t just the pain,” she said at last. “It hurt more than anything, but I could have dealt with that. But, I guess it just never seemed that…. personal. He….”

Joren looked as her quizzically. Cyra winced, as if even saying the name was painful.

“Talshak. He didn’t just want to stop the rebellion or kill me. He wanted to hurt me. He seemed convinced that once I was…gone, the rebellion would fall apart.”

“Do you think that’s true?” Joren asked, trying to make it clear by his tone that he didn’t expect any particular answer.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think it was, but now I just don’t know. Talshak said it was total chaos when I fell on the battlefield, that everyone either ran or surrendered. And the people from the village, the ones who organized the people to help with the fight, he said they were executed.”

Joren bowed his head solemnly.

“War has its price, even a just war,” he said. “I imagine you’ve seen more than your share of death.”

“Of course I have, and I always felt bad when our people died. But this time, it just felt like they died because of me.”

“Not all of your fights have been victories. I don’t know the details of every battle, but there will always be time when you can’t win no matter how hard you fight. When that’s the case, soldiers die, even under the best command.”

“I know. It isn’t that. Before, I always felt like all of us were fighting for something bigger: freedom, our own kingdom, the ones we cared about. But now, I just don’t know. Maybe they just fight because I convince them to, or because they think I can make life better for them somehow. It just wasn’t supposed to be like that.”

“What was it supposed to be then?”

“All I wanted at first was to kill the dragons who killed my parents. After my mother told me what happened to them, it was all I could think about for the longest time. I wasn’t even thinking about Talshak at first; he wasn’t there when my village was destroyed. I just wanted revenge.
“After a while, I just started thinking about it differently. I guess I just realized that my parents weren’t going to come back even if I killed everyone responsible for them dying. I started thinking about my family, and how they always had to be so cautious and stay so close to the weyr. The older dragons used to tell stories about the old days before Talshak, when dragons could fly anywhere they wanted without being afraid. They talked about the other clans and how some of them were gone because of Talshak and the rest might be too. We didn’t have any way of knowing if they were all right because we couldn’t travel that far safely. So I still wanted to make Talshak pay for what he’d done. But more than that, I wanted to make life better for my clan.

“And then when we started fighting the Keltarians and trying to get them out of Vaar territory, we kept meeting people who thought I was some kind of hero because of the sword and because we were winning battles. Honestly, I just didn’t know how bad the odds were back then. I didn’t understand how amazing it was that we were even surviving, let alone beating back the Keltarians. I just figured we could use the help so I let people join us if they wanted to. So I was getting to know them and I started realizing how bad things were for them too. And I thought that they had just as much right to be free as may clan did. So we started talking about what it might be like if we could get the Keltarians out for good and have our own kingdom.

“I always thought that the idea of being a free country was what brought everyone to the fight and kept them going. I though I was just the leader because I was there from the start and the sword made a good symbol. It wasn’t ever supposed to be about me. Now I even hear some of the generals talking about me being queen of our new country.”

“And you don’t want that?” Joren asked.

“No! I never asked for any of this. I don’t want all the responsibility. I don’t even want it now. The war shouldn’t hang on whether I survive or not. The people – they’re the ones doing the fighting and winning the battles. They’re strong. They shouldn’t need me and they don’t.”

“So you want to show them that they don’t need you?”

“No, that’s not it. I want them to understand that, but it’s not…it’s not what I want.
“I always thought that when all of this was over, if we actually won, I’d just go back home. It would be like it was before all the fighting, only better because nobody would have to be afraid anymore. But now, I just don’t feel like I have that choice. They look at me and they see a leader, a human, maybe even a future queen. And maybe they’re even right. I used to think my job was just to win the war, but what if it’s more than that?

“It just all feels like too much. I can’t be queen. I don’t even know if I want to. But I can’t just go home either. So I thought maybe it would be better just going…there.”

Cyra was looking up at the stars. Joren did the same. As he watched the distant lights he started to see something. Around each star there was a faint outline, a soft glow in a particular shape. As Joren continued to focus, he could make out various forms. Some were people, some animals, some were even plants. Some even appeared to be stones and water and other things. They weren’t constellations; every star had its own image surrounding it. Then Joren noticed something else. There were thin, near invisible beams of light coming down from the stars. Each star saw sending several of these beams of light down to the darkened world below. Stranger still, there were other beams of light coming up from the waking world into the sky. Joren followed the path of one and watched as it ended with the formation of a tiny new star. Every trail of light coming up into the sky did the same. Some of the new stars shone more brightly than others, but the birth of each seemed to make the night sky a little brighter.

“It’s beautiful,” Joren said softly. Cyra said nothing as they continued to watch the stars. Joren nodded silently to himself. This was definitely progress. He now fully understood the geography of this place: what lay below, what waited above, and where it was that they stood. Understanding the places he found himself in seldom pointed directly to a solution, but it usually helped.

“So,” Cyra said after a long silence, “is this the part where you take me back?” There was still a slight hesitation in her voice, but it was not as strong as it had been when she had first asked the question.

“I’m not here to take you back,” answered Joren, still looking up at the stars. Cyra’s eyes widened in surprise.

“You aren’t?”

Joren shook his head.

“I’ve never dragged anybody back kicking and screaming. Not sure it’s even possible. Sometimes I’ve had to lead people back because they couldn’t find the way on their own. But you seem quite clear on where to go if you want to get back to the world.

“At this point, there’s really not much left for me to do. You aren’t confused about your situation. You know what your choices are and what will happen in basic terms when you choose one or the other. I could spend a lifetime sitting on this mountain and talking to you, but I still wouldn’t completely understand what it is to be you. You’re the only one who knows that and you’re the only one who can make the decision.”

“So it’s my choice then. I can either go back and get better and keep fighting, or I can go up there and….die.”

It was the first time she had said the word, the first time she had admitted aloud what it was that she had considered doing. It was a good sign to Joren. People who just talked about “leaving” or “going away” were more likely to do so than people who called it by it’s true name.

“It’s your choice.”

“What would you do, if it was you?” Cyra asked. Joren sighed.

“Like I said, guessing doesn’t suit me and I can’t make this decision for you.”

“I know. I just want to know what you think.”

Joren didn’t answer right away. He looked up at the stars again and took a deep breath.

“I think you’re frightened, both from what happened to you and what you think might happen in the future. And I think that’s a very reasonable way to feel given your situation. It’s a very heavy burden for anyone to bear. You feel like others see you as something greater than you are and you feel like you can never live up to that image they have of you. Maybe it’s true; maybe you aren’t who they think you are. But I think it’s also possible that you are greater than you believe you are. There are people who depend on you in the world, yes. But there are people ready to support you too. There are people who gave their strength to send me to you.

“I know you are strong. It takes strength to live survive what you’ve been through for as long as you have. If I thought you were weak, I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving the decision to you just yet. But you are strong, so I trust you will make the right decision for you and not be influenced by other worries.

“I’ve never been a fighter myself, but we healers see nearly as much violence and war as soldiers do. I know war is a hard thing and likely much worse for the ones fighting it. But I’ve also learned that wars aren’t always won by great heroes who do things others can’t. Wars can because of a single lowly soldier, or one particularly fast horse, or a shield that held or broke, or one very small thing that no one even realizes was the reason the battle went the way it did.”

Joren paused for a moment. Cyra was watching him intensely.

“I don’t know how it works for you,” he continued, gesturing up at that sky. I don’t know if you get to see what happens after you die, whether the last battle is won or lost. But from the little I know, I think it would be very hard not knowing if you could have been that one small thing that made the difference.”

Cyra didn’t say anything. She looked up into the sky, then back down to the earth below. Joren stood.

“I think now is the time for me to go,” he said.

“You’re not going to stay until I decide?” Cyra asked, confused.

“As I said, the decision is yours now. I think you deserve to be alone when you make it.”

Cyra nodded. Joren took a few steps towards the edge of the plateau.

“Joren?” Cyra called. He stopped and turned to her.

“Yes?”

“If I decided to die, what would you tell everyone?”

Joren thought it over for a just a moment.

“I would tell them that we both did what we could, but the wounds were too great for you to go on.”

Cyra smiled at him, a small, slightly embarrassed smile.

“Thank you,” she said.

Joren nodded. He didn’t turn away from her this time. He took a step backwards, then another, then the last one off the edge of the plateau. He smiled up at Cyra looking down after him as he fell back down towards the waking world far below.

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Six

OK, this part is going to be pretty long, so I'm just going to post what I've got, even though I haven't come to a break yet. This is the real meat of this part of the story and I am rather enjoying writing it. I hope it's going to continue to be enjoyable, as it's mostly just two people talking for the rest of the scene. One of the things I like about writing this section is that I don't entirely know where it's going. I know how it ends and I know some key points I have to hit along the way, but the conversation mostly just plays out as I write.

Comments blah blah.

There was no way for Joren to know how long he had been scaling the steep rocky face of the mountain. Time seemed to follow different rules in this place. There had been times when what seemed to him no more than the duration of an eye blink had been nearly a day in the waking world. Other times he had spent what seemed weeks exploring a place and awoke to find mere moments had passed since he had first tackled the injury. He had learned to simply disregard the passage of time here and concentrate on the task at hand. The only measure he needed to worry about was the amount of oma he had left.

Joren grunted as a foothold he had been testing proved too shallow and his right foot slipped. Calmly, he shifted his weight to his left foot and his hands and felt for a more secure foothold. He had to admit that he was not enjoying the climb. Physical exertion was not his strong suit, even when his physical body wasn’t really involved. He could have made it easier on himself. Sprouting wings or summoning a wind to carry him up the mountain would have been much easier and faster. But Joren had always made it a policy to work his way through whatever obstacles his patients threw at him without aid. It seemed more honest, and it often told him something about the problem he would be facing.

Slowly, Joren continued to make his way up the mountainside. The going was no easier as he neared the top and he nearly fell more than once. Still, he persevered, pulling himself up inch by inch, keeping focused on the summit. Finally, he grabbed hold of a ledge above him, pulled himself up, and beheld the top of the mountain.

The mountain’s peaked was slightly leveled off, though the ground was still more jagged than smooth. Rough stones and little spires of rock jutted out here and there. The whole plateau was bathed in moonlight. Above was nothing but wide-open night sky. On the mountain top there was only Joren, and Cyra, standing a short distance away from Joren, her back partly turned to him.

Joren was quite accustomed to his patients looking very different when he encountered them in this world. Here, people appeared the way they saw themselves. The elderly could regain their younger bodies; the young often grew older. The infirm often appeared strong and healthy and the well ones at times were sick, injured, or even mutilated. Joren himself looked quite similar to his physical appearance, save for the white-blue glow of his skin. Joren had seen any number of strange alterations to the way people looked when he tired to heal them. But he had never seen a change quite as dramatic as Cyra’s appearance.

Cyra’s skin was white, far paler than the skin of her physical body would be, even awash in moonlight like this. If he looked hard enough, Joren could make out faint traces of scales here and there. Her hair had become numerous slender spikes arcing back from her head. Probably the most dramatic new feature was the wings. They were dragon wings, with dark blue membranes between the long white digits that each ended in pale claws the color of bone. They were unfurled, but lowered so the bottom edges rested on the stone beneath her. She was looking up into the sky. If she had noticed Joren, she did not seem to care.

Joren would have continued simply watch Cyra until she took notice of him, but the strain of scaling the mountain could not be held back any longer. With great effort, Joren pulled his lower body up onto the plateau. He made no effort to hide either himself or his exhaustion. He flopped onto the hard ground, rolled over, and lay on his back, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. The stone beneath him was rough, but just feeling that it was stable and holding his weight was enough to comfort Joren. He checked the remaining oma as he lay resting. From the time he had first battled the dark energy of Cyra’s wound up to now, he had used up almost two-thirds of what he had gathered. It was more than he would have liked, but not so much that he was worried he would need to leave right away. Feeling his strength slowly returning, Joren sighed contentedly and opened his eyes.

Cyra was crouched down next to him, looking at him. Her face was what Joren had expected from the changes to her body: neither human nor dragon, but something in between. The top of her head sloped down into a short snout, much shorter than a dragon’s. She had two small nostrils that alternately flared and shut as she breathed. Her mouth was closed, but Joren had a feeling he would not want to see it opened at him in anger. The scar that had brought him here was still on her cheek, dark against the white of her scaled skin. Her deep blue eyes stared down at him in puzzlement.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Joren Roosdrahm,” he replied as he sat up with a grunt. “I’m a healer.”

Cyra frowned and rose to her feet.

“I’ve had healers working on me. Lots of them. Why are you here.”

“I’m here because the other healers have done the best they could and it hasn’t been enough. So they sent for me to try something different.”

Cyra had turned her attentions back to the sky, gazing out into the stars.

“So I’m dying,” she said quietly. She did not sound surprised, or even all that concerned.

“Possibly.” Joren leaned on one hand as he up and stretched his arms.

“And you want to take me back.”

Cyra’s gaze fell from the starlit sky to the ground far below. Joren followed it, peering down at the darkened earth where he had begun his climb up the mountain. At first, it looked like nothing but a great void, but as his eyes adjusted, Joren could make out familiar shapes. There were trees and buildings and lakes and rivers. He could even see other mountains, though the one they were atop seemed to tower above all of them. The whole waking world lay stretched out beneath them, tiny when viewed from such a great height.

“Is that what you want me to do?”

Cyra whirled to face him, her eyes nearly sparking with anger and indignation.

“Of course it is! Why wouldn’t I want to be healed?”

Joren held up his hands and took a small step back.

“I didn’t mean to assume anything. If you wish to go back to the waking world, we can do it right now.”

“So that’s it?” Cyra’s brow was furrowed with skepticism and there was a slight hesitation in her voice. “You just come and get me and then I’m healed?”

“Possibly,” Joren said again. “Though I suspect it may not be quite that simple.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” Joren began, leaning back against a particularly large rock, “most cases I treat could be solves by any good healer. They don’t require anything more than basic healing magic or a few potions and bandages. I just happen to be the healer who’s around right then, so I do what needs to be done. But when people call for me specifically like you friends did, it’s usually because the standard magic and potions and other methods aren’t working. By all rights, the person should be improving, but the body just doesn’t seem to be accepting the healers’ work for some reason.”

Joren paused. Cyra had her arms folded across her chest. She wasn’t looking at him.

“So what do you do?” she asked.

“I try to find out why they aren’t getting better,” Joren explained. “I trained under several different masters – eccentrics all of them – and I learned a different method of healing. I can see certain things: connections between living things, positive and negative energies, sources of pain. It helps me to find the root of the problem. And I can connect with people like I’m connecting with you. I try to help them so they can start to heal.”

“Do they ever die – the people you’re trying to heal?”

“Yes.” Joren’s voice was solemn, but steady. “Sometimes they’re just ready to die or they’re too badly hurt to help by the time I get to them. Then I just try to make them comfortable. Sometime the best thing I can do is to help them to accept that they’re dying, though it’s often little comfort to those left behind. And sometimes I try my best to heal them, but it just isn’t enough.”

“Do you feel bad when they die?” Cyra was almost completely turned away from Joren, but he could see she had her hand up near her mouth.

“Oh yes. Even when I know going in that all I can do is help them die a little more peacefully, it’s still hard. I tell myself I did what I could and mostly I do believe that. But I always do wonder a little if there was some way I could have done more, given more, if that would have made a difference. And talking to the people who cared about the one that died, that never gets any easier. I have a not entirely deserved reputation for being able to heal people no one else can and it leads to some unrealistic expectations. I try to just take it when they get angry at me for not being able to help. I try to think about how much pain they’re in and that I’m just the most convenient target for all the anger they feel. But even when they don’t blame me at all, even when they’re the ones telling me I did all I could, it’s never easy. It could well be the hardest part of what I do.”

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Five

A short part, but one I feel the need to separate from the next. More lost italics: all of the dialogue is italicized to indicate that they're speaking Rannak. Rannak, incidentally, is NOT the dragons' native tongue; it's the language humans and dragons use to speak to each other. The word "Rannak" comes from a very old dragon word meaning "compromise". Most human speech sounds very high and fast to dragons, while human usually find dragon speech very slow and tonally based. Rannak is an attempt to split the difference.

Comments as always


Peren never had trouble finding the dragon. Even though the creature was doing her best to follow Peren’s instructions and remain hidden, her trail of crushed plants and broken tree limbs was easy to pick up. Day or night, her brilliant white scales stood out in sharp contrast to the dark trees and thick undergrowth surrounding her. So it was only moments after leaving the farmhouse that Peren came upon the spot where the dragon laid waiting.

Even curled up with her head resting near the tip of her tail, the dragon was impressively large. She seemed impossibly big and out of place against the backdrop of trees. She would have towered over any animal that lived in the wood, had any of them dared to come that near.

The dragon was quite still, possibly in an attempt to keep from being noticed. Her pale blue wings lay folded against her sides, gently rising and falling as she breathed. Her eyelids, always kept low over her dark eyes, closed and opened in languid blinks. Only the deadly sharp claws of her front feet truly moved, scraping at the ground in a nervous, repetitive motion. She did not look up us Peren approached, not even when Peren was standing no more than a few feet away.

“Great Dragon, I am honored in your presence,” Peren recited. At least, she thought that was what it meant. The little Rannak Peren knew had been taught to her by her father who had learned it from his mother. She in, turn, had learned it from her mother, who had learned it from her father. Peren’s great-great-grandfather had been born to dragoncallers, but had left the village at a young age and settled in Ormel. Each generation since had shown a little less inclination to fully learn Rannak and ended up with a little less knowledge to pass on to new generations. Peren herself had only ever learned as much of the rough, throaty language as her father had insisted on teaching her. It was only when she had joined the resistance and dragons had gone from rare creatures that you be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of soaring away in the distance to comrades in arms fighting by her side that Rannak had gained any real significance for her. Other soldiers were impressed by Peren’s ability to roughly figure out what Cyra and the dragons were talking about. It had helped Peren to stand out, but it had never been necessary before now and Peren was starting to realize how painfully inadequate her Rannak really was.

“My daughter?” the dragon asked, as far as Peren understood it. She raised her head a little, but did not look directly at Peren. They had talked several times now, yet the dragon had never looked straight at Peren or fully opened her eyes. Peren wasn’t sure if this was how the dragon always behaved or just a sign of her worry.

“Forgive me, please,” Peren began, fumbling for the right words. “I have mistake. You mother. Cyra your daughter.”

“My daughter?” the dragon asked again. There was more to the question, but it was beyond Peren’s understanding. Her best guess was that the dragon wanted to know about Cyra’s condition.

“Cyra rest,” said Peren. “Cyra not awake. Healer works now.”

“Daughter lives? Peren was surprised by the seeming frankness of the dragon’s question, though she couldn’t be certain that she had the intent of the translation right. The dragon’s repetitive scraping at the earth gouged deeper and deeper lines into the soil.

“I not know,” Peren admitted. “Healer works hard. Healer works good. Good healer.”

“Last healer,” the dragon added, and Peren could not mistake the meaning this time. The dragon knew full well that they were out of time and options. Joren was their last hope.

“Yes. Forgive, please.” Peren didn’t know the Rannak for “sorry”, or even if it was any different than “forgive”.

The dragon’s claws stopped ripping at the ground. Slowly, she rose to her feet, lightly shaking out her wings. Peren swallowed nervously. She didn’t want to have to try and convince the dragon to stay hidden in the woods again. It had been hard enough the first time and now Peren could see why the dragon wouldn’t want to be separated from her daughter. But the dragon made no move to leave. She raised her head to the sky, her long neck arcing gracefully. Opening her mouth, the dragon let out a soft, high-pitched cry. She held the high tone for a minute, then let it drop slowly, lowering her head along with the pitch. She fell briefly silent, and then repeated the cry again.

Peren could feel her knees trembling involuntarily as she watched the dragon. She had heard a dragon call to other dragons before. Those had all been near-deafening roars you could hear over an almost unbelievable distance. This cry was far too soft to carry very far and it was much different. Though there was nothing to translate, Peren had very little doubt of what the dragon meant.

At first, Peren just stood where she was, watching awkwardly. It felt like she was intruding on a private moment, and yet something in her did not want to leave the dragon alone. She took a tentative step towards the dragon. The dragon took no notice and continued on with her keening cries. Peren took another step, then another, until she was right at the dragon’s side. She gingerly reached out her hand and touched just the fingertips to the dragon’s side. The smooth scaled trembled briefly at her touch, but the dragon did not move. Gaining confidence, Peren laid the whole of her hand on the dragon. The dragon lifted her head and let out another cry into the night. Peren could feel the sound rippling through her whole body. It was almost overwhelming and Peren nearly pulled her hand away. But even through the heavy reverberation, Peren could sense the dragon’s sadness more clearly than ever before. Without thinking, Peren raised her head and echoed the dragon’s cry. It was a poor imitation; Peren lacked the knowledge and the lungs to do the sound justice. But she cried out as accurately and sincerely as she could.

The dragon stopped. She turned her arrow shaped white head until the heavy-lidded eyes came as close as they ever had to looking right at Peren. Peren could only see a sliver of the dragon’s eyes, but they were darker, darker than the darkest night sky. A small prickle of fear ran up Peren’s spine and she wondered whether she had done the right thing.

In answer, the dragon raised her head and howled out her cry again. Peren did the same and so they continued. The dragon let out her long, mournful cry of grief and worry for her daughter and Peren joined in with her. At last, the dragon lowered her head and did not raise it again. She laid back down on the forest floor, resting her head near Peren.

“I thank you,” the dragon said softly.

Peren may not have fully understood, but she knew what the dragon meant.

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Four

We're definitely looking at six parts at least. The next scene is short (in theory). I could use a short scene.

So this is how magic works in Sathyriel. "Oma" is italicized in the original text, but I don't feel like going in and doing it for every time it appears here. I'm going to hold off on the separate explanation of magic for a while as I really don't think it's necessary.

Comments as usual.

Joren sat in the chair taking slow, deep breaths and watching Cyra’s face. He was certain by now that the scar on her cheek was what he would need to deal with. The rest of her injuries were largely calm with only brief infrequent sparks to indicate that they were not yet past the point of posing a danger. But the cheek scar crackled with a constant flow of dark energy that kept the soothing glow of the healers’ work at bay. The source of her pain was clear and Joren could have started right then. But he continued to take deep breaths and watch Cyra. He needed to calm himself and to recognize that Cyra was an individual. He had never attempted to heal someone with quite so much tied into her fate, but thinking about that would only hinder his work. Joren needed to see her not as the leader of the rebel army, not as someone who could potentially change the destiny of this land and Joren’s own life with it, but as a patient in need of his care.

Joren focused on it, trying to block out any sense of the remaining healer moving about the room or the fainter impressions of the people waiting in the next room. Anaskida shook off her feathers and stepped lightly from his shoulder onto the back of the chair. Joren took one last deep breath before he began drawing oma.

He began with himself. Some mages he had known preferred to keep their oma in reserve, but Joren chose to start by drawing on his. He felt it was more honest to ask other living things to give of their oma if he had already shown that the cause was worth draining his own. He closed his eyes, put his left hand to his chest, and sought out the source of his inner energy. It came to him with only a bit of hesitation, probably due to a little lingering nervousness. He summoned up as much as he considered safe and held it waiting for the rest he would draw.

Anaskida was next. He asked her permission first, as he always did. She had never once denied him the use of her oma, but Joren respected that she was a proud creature and that the choice was always hers. So he asked her and was answered as her oma joined with his. Anaskida’s oma was a familiar sensation, all speed and wild energy and racing winds. He added it to his own and began the search for the remaining oma he would require.

He went first to the dragon mother. The physical distance made her a little harder to reach, but Joren had seen the shimmering blue connection between them and he felt certain that the dragon would give much for her adopted child. Almost as soon as Joren’s subconscious question reached the dragon, the response came in great waves of oma. The dragon’s oma bore some similarities to Anaskida’s; Joren could feel the rushing air of flight and a deep wildness. But there were also bursts of hot flame and a persistent roar. Joren reminded himself to note his impressions of dragon oma in his journal later as her added it to the rest.

Joren worked his way back from the dragon, drawing more oma as he went. He drew from plants when he though it might be useful, but he largely asked people and animals. Plants gave their oma almost before he asked. It felt of water and warmth, like earth soaked by the rain then warmed in sunlight. People and animals took longer, but Joren found none of them unwilling. He felt calm soothing energy from the healers flecked with scents and flashes of movement from their familiars. The soldiers’ oma was more strength and courage over fear and the chaos of battle. Joren brought all of it together until he had drawn oma from every major source between the dragon and himself. The result seemed like enough for what he had to do.

Joren concentrated on the oma he had gathered, letting it flow into his left hand. He began to shape the energies. A soft blue light began to glow at the center of his palm. It slowly spread, covering his palm, spreading to his fingers, and then reaching back down to just beneath his elbow. Joren gave a silent mental command and the light became flame surrounding his forearm. Joren stared intently at the scar on Cyra’s cheek, its own energy now surging up in angry plumes towards Joren’s arm. He took one last deep breath and laid his hand against her scar.

The two energies collided. The backlash was as strong as a physical blow, but Joren held on. His blue flame and the scar’s dark surges tore at each other. The back room, the table, the healer, Anaskida, and even Cyra were swallowed by nothingness until all that remained were Joren and the two warring energies. He fought to hold his hand steady long enough for the blue flame and the dark force to attack each other one last time. The two clashed together and burst into an explosion of orange light. Tiny orange embers fell away as the explosion faded. The embers floated slowly down toward Joren’s feet and disappeared, leaving Joren completely alone.

Calmly, Joren sat down and looked out into the great expanse of nothing. He began to do what he always did when he found himself in this place. He reached inside of his shirt and pulled out the little silver medallion he wore on a cord around his neck. He ran his finger along the simple glyph that was carved on it. He though of his first teacher: the scent of the strange herbs he would grind and heat to call up trance inducing vapors, the light crunch his worn boots made as they had walked together down dusty roads, the slow movements of his hands as they gestured in the air when he cast a spell, and that odd, distinctly human saying he was so fond of.

“True as the clear blue sky.”

Truth is a clear blue sky.

The light came slowly and without any clear source, like a sunless dawn. Joren watched as the void above him grew light and took on a blue color. The light began to illuminate the ground beneath him, shaping into a grass-covered field that stretched out as far as the now brilliant blue sky.

As always, Joren allowed himself one deep breath to simply enjoy this place for what it was. Then he began to scan the cloudless sky for anything other than a vast expanse of blue. He listened for the slightest sound, sniffed the air for any scent, and held as still as he could to take note of any new sensation. Slowly, the blue-sky world began to change. He began to see hints of clouds in the sky, forming themselves into vague shapes. He heard faint distant sounds, some like voices and others like music. A gentle breeze carrying the scent of fish told him Anaskida was wondering if they would be able to eat soon.

Joren scanned each sight and sound and smell, waiting for something to strike him as familiar in the right way. He looked over ever cloud, trying to make sense of its shape. He listened careful to the sounds and considered possible origins for them. He in the midst of trying to decide whether one cloud was meant to be a snail or a rowboat when something else caught his attention. At first he thought it was another cloud, but as he continued to look he realized that it was a moon. It seemed nearly the same color as the surrounding clouds, but as Joren gazed at it more intently he realized that it was actually rather grey. The little wispy cloud shapes continued to move around and change from one thing to another. But the moon remained still and constant and solid. The more Joren looked at it, the more the moon seemed unlike the natural moons he had seen. Despite the bright daytime sky, its crescent shape stood out starkly against the blue, almost like a scar.

Aha.

Joren smiled to himself and fixed his full attentions on the moon. He stared at it intently, blocking the clouds from his sight, ignoring the fading sounds. Soon, the faint voices and noises fell silent. From the very corner of his eye, Joren could see the remaining clouds disappearing. Even Anaskida’s pungent breeze gave up and left him alone. Joren kept his focus on the moon until he could have seen it with his eyes shut.

The sky around the moon grew dark. The darkness began to spread and Joren let his gaze wander from the moon. In mere moments, the entire sky was black. If not for the moon, it would have been as dark as it was before Joren had called forth the sky. As Joren’s eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness, tiny stars began to appear. Joren watched as each one twinkled into existence. They seemed to appear as randomly as they would on any natural night and Joren could not see any pattern to their placement. Then suddenly, a group of stars disappeared. Joren blinked in surprise. Stars above and to the sides of the ones that had vanished began disappearing as well. Joren watched, wondering what meaning the vanishing stars might have. Moonlight fell across an odd shape in the sky and Joren understood what was happening. The earth was rising, spiraling up into the sky and blocking out the stars. The moon was now illuminating the side of the newly formed peak. Joren watched as the ground continued to twist silently upward. Higher and higher it climbed until at last, in came to a stop and Joren heard a soft grind of settling stone.

Joren looked down at his feet and saw that he now stood at the base of the mountain. He turned to look around. There was nothing else as far as he could see. Looking back up at the mountain, all he saw was the remaining stars and the moon shining down on the steep rocky slope. Squinting, Joren could just make out something he didn’t quite recognize at the top of the mountain. The very top of the mountain.

Joren chuckled to himself and shook his head.

“Not going to make it easy for me, are you?” he said as he grabbed onto a handhold and began to climb.

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Three

The latest estimate is six parts, assuming I don't post two sections in one post. The interesting part gets underway very soon, so hang in there. And can you believe I nearly forgot to write the part where who the dragon is gets revealed? I am fully aware of how Joren found that out, but I'm not sure whether it will be revealed in the story or not.

I'm planning to write an explanation of how magic works in Sathyriel and its surrounding world. I thought I'd get to it today but I haven't had time.

Comment always welcome.


The waiting was the hardest thing for Marehnu. He felt no less tense than he had just before a battle. What if Peren and Garel couldn’t find the dwarf? What if Peren’s limited knowledge of Rannak wasn’t enough to direct the dragon to Orkanholt? What if the dwarf refused to come? Marehnu tried to keep himself busy. He sent some of his men to the nearest towns to try and replenish the healers’ diminishing supplies. He helped to sort out bandages and potion ingredients when his men finally returned. He checked in with his troops on the perimeter to make certain there were no signs of Keltarian forces. He stayed out of Tolla’s way as much as possible. Between fatigue and continuing unhappiness about Joren’s impending arrival, the head healer’s temper was short. Marehnu did his best to only speak to her when it was absolutely necessary. He did his best to stay occupied, but still he often found himself scanning the skies for the approaching dragon or waiting for one of his troops to come and tell him the dragon had been sighted.

Marehnu was passing the time chatting with a few of the resting healers who were unable to sleep when the code knock interrupted their conversation and one of Marehnu’s troops burst in.

“They’re here!” he exclaimed. “The dragon’s coming in from the southwest and it looks like the dwarf is with them!”

“Meet them near the woods and escort them here,” Marehnu said, trying to hide the relief he felt. “Tell Peren to make certain the dragon stays hidden.”

The soldier nodded briskly and rushed back out the door. Marehnu excused himself to the healers and went into the back room.

Tolla had been hiding her fatigue well aside from becoming more irritable, but looking at her now, Marehnu could hardly believe she was still standing. Her brow was furrowed as she poured fresh ointment onto a cloth and applied it to a gash on Cyra’s leg. Despite the lack of heat in the hidden rooms, her face shone with sweat. Her eyelids fluttered as she continued fighting the urge to let them close. She didn’t even look up at Marehnu as he came into the room.

“The dwarf is here, I take it?” she said sourly.

“He’s on his way,” confirmed Marehnu.

Tolla roughly tossed a dirty bandage into the corner of the room that was being used for garbage. She headed over to the table and busied herself helping another healer grind herbs for a potion. Marehnu was contemplating whether or not he should say something to her when the code knock sounded once more. Marehnu turned and headed to the front room just as Peren, Garel, and the dwarf healer were coming down the stairs.

Joren seemed old, though Marehnu found it hard to guess at the age of dwarves. Still, the large number of white hairs in his silver-grey beard and the small fringe of hair that ran from just above his ears around the back of his head suggested that he was no longer young. He wore a simple light grey cloak over a plain white shirt and baggy black pants. Affixed to his simple leather belt were all shapes and sizes of pouches, likely full of herbs and potions and small tools. That and the pocket-lined bag Joren had slung over his left shoulder were typical of healers. Perched on Joren’s right shoulder was a small falcon. Its large eyes blinked as its head turned this way and that to take in its surroundings. Marehnu was a little surprised. Familiars were not uncommon among healers; some of the ones who were here already had cats or dogs or smaller creatures with them. But hawks were unusual. Marehnu had never seen any kind of mage with a falcon as a familiar.

Marehnu bowed to Joren as he finished descending the stairs.

“Healer Joren. Thank you for coming.”
Joren returned the bow and the falcon flapped its wings to keep balanced on his shoulder.

“Your people were quite persuasive,” the dwarf said. “Though from what they told me, we don’t have much time to waste on chatting.”

Marehnu nodded in agreement and led the dwarf into the back room. Peren and Garel followed after them. Some of the resting healers got up from their makeshift beds and made their way to the back room door, curious to see what was going to happen.

Tolla was standing against the back wall as they entered. Though no one would have dared suggest it, Marehnu suspected that she was glad for the measure of rest that leaning against it provided. She eyed the dwarf as a baker setting out fresh pies might eye a group of hungry children. The other two healers in the room stopped what they were doing and stepped back towards where Tolla stood. The dwarf gave no sign that he was aware of Tolla’s animosity. He walked over to the bed where Cyra lay and began to look her over. He walked up and down the length of the bed, checking the dressings and nodding to himself. Once or twice, he reached out and laid a hand on Cyra, usually over a bandaged wound. Marehnu could see Tolla’s hands form into tight fists every time Joren did this, but she said nothing. Joren paused for the longest time near Cyra’s head. He touched a single finger to the scar running down her cheek. After a moment, he left the bedside, heading to the small table where the healers had crafted potion after potion. He removed both the pocket-covered satchel and his belt and set them on the table. Then he returned to Cyra’ side.

“Not making any potions today?” Tolla asked, he contempt clear. Joren looked up at her.

“You’ve done everything traditional healing can do for her,” he said simply. “If you hadn’t, she would have died already.”

Tolla’s eyes widened ever so slightly. Marehnu wondered if much of her dislike for the dwarf came from her believing that he had no respect for the traditional healing that she practiced. Perhaps knowing that wasn’t the case would calm her some. Tolla still didn’t look happy, but Marehnu noticed that she wasn’t glaring at Joren anymore.

Joren grabbed hold of the room’s single chair and pushed it over to Cyra’s bed. He hoisted himself into the chair.

“I’ll need you all to leave the room,” he said. “The less distraction I have while I’m working, the easier this will be. I can’t say how long it will take, probably until sundown at least. I’ll let you know when you can come back in.”

“Is there anything we can do to help?” Garel asked. He seemed disappointed that he wouldn’t be able to watch Joren work.

“Well, Anaskida and I will be pretty hungry once we’re through,” answered Joren, motioning towards his falcon. “A good meal for when we’re done would be nice. Other than that, you could talk to the mother.”

“The mother?” Marehnu repeated, confused.

“The white dragon in the woods,” said Joren. “Cyra’s mother.”

“Oh!” The assembled crowd turned to look at Peren. Her hand was at her mouth and her eyes were wide with horror.

“Of course! ‘Roma’ – it means ‘daughter’! I thought she was saying ‘leader’ all this time! I can’t believe I…”

Peren trailed off and shot a desperate look at Marehnu. He did feel sorry for her. She only spoke a little Rannak by her own admission and she’d been unexpectedly thrown into a situation where she was their only translator. But this wasn’t the time to reassure her.

“Go talk to the dragon,” Marehnu ordered, waving his hand in dismissal. Peren raced from the room and up the stairs, the door banging shut behind her.

Once Peren was gone, the healers slowly began to file out of the back room. Marehnu dismissed his soldiers and they left to take up posts in the front room or outside. Only Tolla made no motion to leave. She remained standing against the back wall.

“Tolla,” Marehnu said, hoping she wasn’t going to put up a fight.

“I’m staying here.”

“Tolla, you can’t stay.”

“Someone we know needs to be here keeping an eye on her condition and making sure nothing goes wrong. I’ll stay.”

Marehnu walked over to the back wall and pulled Tolla aside. He lowered his voice to a barely audible whisper, hoping he wouldn’t have to raise it.

“Tolla, you have done amazing work keeping everyone organized and keeping Cyra alive. Even Joren knows it. But you need to rest.”

“I won’t leave him alone with her.”

“Then chose one of the healers to come in here and watch him for you. If anything goes wrong, my men will be in here immediately.”

“And if that isn’t soon enough?”

“Like I told you, whatever Joren does is my responsibility. Now go pick out another healer to watch him and get some rest!”

“Is that an order?”

“It will be if you don’t cooperate.”

Tolla scowled at him, but she stepped away from the wall and made her way to the door. Her footsteps were heavy and her pace was slow. Marehnu doubted that she could have remained awake to supervise Joren. Once Tolla had left the room, Marehnu turned to the dwarf.

“We’re going to need one of our healers in here, just to supervise.” He felt awkward saying it, but even if he didn’t share Tolla’s suspicions, he had take reasonable precautions. Joren nodded his head.

“I understand. Might make things a little harder at first, but I’ll manage. Just try not to let anyone else come in.”

Marehnu nodded and left the room himself. One of the healers slipped past him and into the back room. He shut the door between the two rooms. Nearby a couple of the healers were helping Tolla into one of the beds. She didn’t look to be protesting any longer. Marehnu sat down at the bottom of the stairs and settled in for another long wait.

The Lost History of Sathyriel, Part Two

I'm start to think more and more that I'd like to put at least part of this into "The Last Battle", but 'm still not sure how to do that without the story coming to a grinding halt. Anyways, for those of you who forgot in the nine months since I last worked on the Lost History, Cyra was captured, got a big wound in her cheek from Talshak, probably got some other nasty injuries after Talshak left, was rescued by her troops, but is now expected to die from her injuries.

So this is Part 2 of what I figure will be at least a four part story. Since you're all aware that Cyra does survive to liberate Sathyriel, become its queen, have or adopt a child, and continue frolicking with dragons, this story is less about what the ending is going to be than how we get there. For example, I don't think it would really spoil anything if I told you that Joren will be able to heal Cyra, but the more interesting thing is how he does it. At least, I hope it's still interesting.

Comments still welcome.


General Marehnu had sometimes wondered about what his legacy would be. He never allowed himself to think about it when a battle was drawing near, and certainly never during combat. But in the quiet times traveling from one front to the next, he sometimes pondered what the historians would say about him when the war was a thing of the past. Now, however, Marehnu was nearly certain what it was that he would be remembered for. He would be known as the general who was there when Cyra died.

He hadn’t wanted to believe that it would happen. He still didn’t. But as the days and nights passed in the secluded farmhouse where they were staying hidden from any Keltarian troops sent to search for the escaped leader of the rebellion, he started to realize that Cyra was not going to recover. They had gathered all of the local healers they could find who could be rusted not to betray them to the Keltarians. They had worked in shifts, night and day, tending to the most serious injuries first and then moving on to the less grave ones. Ointments were applied, dressings were changed, wounds were cleaned, and spell after spell after spell was cast.

After three days, over half of the healers were too exhausted to do anything more. But there was still no sign that Cyra was going to recover. So Marehnu had sent his troops out further in search of more healers. It was risky. They had no intelligence on whether the Keltarians knew of the raid on Fortress Ullok yet. Soldiers may have been searching for their hiding place. Someone trying to find a healer willing to travel to a secluded location could easily arouse suspicions. The more people who knew about Cyra’s condition, the more likely it became that one of them might talk – not just to the Keltarians, but to the local civilians, or even other rebel soldiers. It had been decided as soon as it was known that Cyra had been captured that only those in the rebellion who absolutely needed to know what was happening would be told. Eventually, though, it wouldn’t matter any more. All of their secrecy wouldn’t be enough to hide the truth if Cyra, well known for standing with her troops on the front lines, was conspicuously absent from major battles.

Marehnu sighed, his visible breath trailing off into the cold night air. He leaned heavily against the side of the farmhouse. A distant flicker of white from the nearby woods caught Marehnu’s attention for a brief second. He sighed again and rubbed at his high forehead. As if they didn’t have enough problems, they still had to deal with the dragon.

Shortly after Cyra had been captured, the white dragon had arrived. Without Cyra there to translate, Marehnu had to rely on one of his troops who spoke a small amount of Rannak. She had been able to determine that the dragon wanted to help them find Cyra and rescue her. Marehnu had fought alongside dragons before and was glad for any aid he could get. The dragon’s help had proved invaluable in the taking of Fortress Ullok. The problem was that she hadn’t left afterwards. The dragon had followed them to the farmhouse and would not leave the area. Long negotiations through the translator, with each side only half understanding what the other was trying to say, had eventually resulted in the dragon agreeing to stay in the woods rather than right next to the farmhouse. Still, a dragon – especially a bright white dragon – was not particularly helpful when Marehnu was trying to avoid attention. They had yet to figure out why the dragon refused to leave. As near as Marehnu’s translator could tell, she simply did not want to abandon her leader.

Marehnu waited a moment to make sure the dragon didn’t come any closer. Then he headed back inside the farmhouse. The couple that normally lived there had left. They had hidden rebel soldiers on their property before, but everyone agreed that a small group of soldiers, any number of healers, the gravely injured rebel leader, and a dragon was an entirely different matter. The couple had left for a nearby town, which kept them safe from any battles that might erupt at their home and allowed them to plausibly deny that they knew rebels were occupying a basement room in their home. Marehnu went from the main living quarters to the storage room, gave the code knock to let his troops know he was coming, opened the secret door on the far wall, carefully closed it behind him, and descended into the basement.

The basement hideout consisted of two rooms that were virtually identical. The front room was currently being used for exhausted healers to rest and recover. The floor was littered with makeshift beds - mostly piles of hay and blankets – squeezed up against each other to fit as many as possible into the small space. Four of Marehnu’s troops stood guard, trying to remain quiet so the healers could sleep. Marehnu waved a hand at them as he came down the stairs, silently signaling that all was well outside. The guards nodded and Marehnu entered the back room.

Before he even got through the door, he could feel the sword. Cyra’s blade, Deslordian, had been retrieved from the battlefield after Cyra fell. It had taken several days for it to get from the soldier who had found it to the farmhouse. They had all hoped that the sword was what Cyra needed to recover from her injuries. They brought it to her room and placed it by her side, but Cyra did not stir. Deslordian had all but pulsed with energies of worry. Over time, Deslordian’s emotions grew more and more subdued. Now all Marehnu sensed from the blade was a low steady hum of mourning, punctuated by the occasional trill of confusion.

In contrast to the front room, the back room had only one bed. It was a real mattress that the two farmers kept in the basement for soldiers hiding from Keltarian forces. That was where Cyra had remained for the five days since they had brought her here. Six of Marehnu’s troops were stationed in the room to guard Cyra in case the guards hidden around the farmhouse and the ones in the front room were overtaken. There were three healers currently attending to Cyra. One was changing out soiled bandages for fresh ones. Another was mixing potions at the small table in the corner of the room. The third healer, the only healer currently at the farmhouse who was actually part of the rebel army, was seated the room’s single chair, which Marehnu had come to understand meant she was resting after casting a strong healing spell. She had become the kind of unofficial head of the healers, taking on the responsibilities of coordinating the various healers and keeping Marehnu updated on Cyra’s condition.

Marehnu didn’t bother asking the head healer how Cyra was doing. He looked down at Cyra and watched for the slow, labored rise and fall of her chest. That told him all he needed to know. If Cyra had been doing any better, he would have been informed immediately. If she slipped closer to death, he wouldn’t even want to have anyone tell him. Better to see for himself than deal with people’s hesitation as they tried to figure out the best way to deliver the news when their somber faces had already told him everything.

“How is she?” Marehnu asked, on the off chance that there was more news than what Cyra’s still unsteady breathing had already told him.

The head healer didn’t even turn to look at him. Her large hands were massaging her temples, fingers moving in slow, small circles.

“No better,” she sighed. “We’ve all but run out of options for her wounds. Our supplies are running low and even taking shifts, we can’t keep up healing at this rate much longer. We’re doing everything we can, but it’s like her body just won’t fight to get better.”

Marehnu nodded wordlessly, though what the healer told him didn’t make much sense. In the time that he had known Cyra, she had never seemed to be anything but a fighter. He had been on the front lines with her facing Keltarian forces far better equipped and supported. A wise retreat was not beyond her, but once Cyra was locked in battle, she fought like a wild beast. Marehnu had seen her bring down fully armored foes almost twice her size. The idea that she wasn’t fighting to heal her injuries just didn’t seem right to him.

Marehnu looked once again at Cyra. She hadn’t moved at all since he had seen her last. Not for the first time, he noticed how small she looked. Without the commanding presence that came from her confident words, her strong stance, or the flash of her eyes, Cyra seemed diminutive, even fragile. At least as far as Marehnu could see, the healers had done their job well. Cyra had been covered in dried blood and unhealed wounds when they had found her. The healers had cleaned her up and the worst of her injuries were either healing or reduced to mere scars. Still anyone who hadn’t seen her in the Ullok dungeon would even now think she was badly hurt. The muscles of her face tensed as they did every so often. Marehnu was certain she was fighting some inner battle, but how could it not be enough to bring her back?

“Is she at least no worse?” asked Marehnu.

With great effort, the head healer rose to her feet. She ambled slowly over to Marehnu’s side. Though there was little point in trying to keep a secret in such a small space, she spoke to him in a hushed tone.

“I have to be honest,” she whispered. “We’re running out of time. It seems like every time we make some progress on one injury, two others get worse. Like I said, it’s like her body just won’t work with us. If there isn’t a major change very soon…”

The head healer trailed off, not even wanting to mention the near inevitable outcome. Marehnu said nothing and the entire room fell silent.

“What’s that?”

Marehnu looked up to see one of his men pointing at a scar that ran the length of Cyra’s cheek. Marehnu wasn’t sure whether the soldier was honestly curious or was just looking for some way to break the silence.

“Some kind of knife wound, we think,” the head healer answered. “We aren’t sure why it left that much of a scar. Infection that we didn’t catch in time, maybe.”

The head healer seemed slightly reenergized and made her way back to Cyra’s side, checking the patient for wounds that needed further attention. Marehnu stayed where he was, lost in thought. He knew the healers were doing everything they could. The head healer hadn’t slept for more than a few hours in the past few days. Soon enough, even she would have to rest. But it wasn’t enough, not even to stabilize Cyra’s condition. Even the head healer had all but admitted it. If something didn’t happen fast, Cyra would die.

“All right,” he said allowed, causing everyone in the small room to turn and look at him. “Clearly what we’re doing right now isn’t going to work. The healers are all working themselves to exhaustion, but Cyra’s still dying. I need you all to think. Is there anything that we haven’t tried yet?”

Silence answered Marehnu. He wondered if he had done the right thing. Trying to hide from what all of them knew obviously wasn’t helping. Marehnu had hoped that openly stating how urgent the situation had become would force someone to think of some idea they hadn’t yet considered. But maybe all he had done was confirm that Cyra was going to die and that nothing could be done.

“Well, there’s a healer.”
Everyone’s eyes went to the youngest of the three healers, who had been mixing a new set of potions at the little table. He looked nervous with all of their attention suddenly on him.

“What healer?” the head healer snapped. “I brought in every local healer we could even consider trusting.”

“He’s not local,” the young healer answered hesitantly. “And he’s a little…different.”

The head healer’s eyes widened and a look of something like disgust crossed her face.

“Oh no,” she said, shaking her head firmly. “No. Not the dwarf.”

The young healer turned to Marehnu as words began tumbling from his mouth in frantic bursts.

“His name is Joren and he’s a dwarf healer. He’s based around Orkanholt. A lot of other healers don’t like him, but he can help us! I know he will!”

“Absolutely not!” boomed the head healer. “I will not have some lunatic dwarf with delusions of healing ability coming in here and making things worse!”

“Joren’s nothing but a sparker,” the third healer added. “I hear he can’t even make potions. He’ll only make things worse.”

“I’ve seen him heal!” protested the youngest healer. “This man was attacked by trolls and Joren healed him! And I saw him use a potion!”

“That’s how sparkers work,” the third healer retorted. “I bet that guy was his accomplice. He stumbles out of the woods pretending to be hurt, the sparker ‘heals’ him, and the whole village starts requesting his ‘services’.”

“Even if we were going to let this….this trickster work on Cyra,” the head healer began, “how would we find him in time? Orkanholt is two days ride at least, and that’s assuming you don’t run into any Keltarian soldiers.”

“The dragon!” Marehnu’s Rannak translator had spoke up. “If we can direct her there, the dragon can get us there and back much faster. I’m sure she’ll help us.”

“Don’t you start,” growled the head healer. “We are not bringing the dwarf and that is final.”

But the argument went on. The rest of Marehnu’s troops joined in and soon enough, everyone was shouting just to be heard. Marehnu strode purposefully over to the small table.

“Enough!” he shouted, slamming his fist down on the table. Potions shook and everyone turned to look at Marehnu, wide eyed and silent.

“I am still in charge here and I will make the decisions on our next move. As I said, Cyra is dying and that’s not going to change if we don’t start doing something different. Unless anyone has a better suggestion, I say we go find this Joren and see what he can do for us.”

Marehnu paused, just in case anyone actually did have another idea. No one said a word.

“I don’t like this any more than any of you, but we are out of options. If the dwarf really does have a different way of healing, then he may be our best hope. If he is just a sparker, then we’re no worse off than we were before.”

“What if he’s worse than a sparker?” the head healer challenged. “What if he does something that makes her worse?”

The thought of Marehnu’s future legacy briefly entered his mind again before he pushed it away.

“If it comes to that, as commanding officer I will assume full responsibility. I know that won’t fix anything, but Joren is looking like our last chance and I’d rather risk it than sit here and watch her die.”

The group murmured their assent, though Marehnu could tell some were less happy about it than others.

“Peren,” he began, turning to his Rannak translator, “take Garel to the dragon and head for Orkanholt as fast as you can. Saman, inform the troops of what we’re doing. And….”

Marehnu stared at the head healer for a moment. She returned his gaze with one of irritation and slight confusion.

“I don’t know your name,” Marehnu admitted.

“Tolla,” she replied shortly.

“Tolla. I’m sorry. Just keep her alive.”