All That Was Lost

"There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Long ago, it was home to all manner of…sinister creatures.”

The flames from the fire leapt high, obscuring Vern’s view of his sons seated on its other side. He heard one of them gasp; Lien, most likely. Once the flames settled, Vern could see his youngest son tightly clutching his older brother’s left arm. Gil scowled, then nudged Lien slightly. “Cut it out,” he whispered. Lien didn’t loosen his grip. Vern smirked.

“In the days before the Awakening,” he continued, “Zaladar’s Touch was heavy upon our land. Nothing grew that was not withered and rotten. Nothing breathed that was not twisted or broken. Nothing…”

Gil cleared his throat loudly. Vern raised an eyebrow, peering around the fire to meet his son’s eyes.

“Yes, Gil?”

“If nothing breathed that was not twisted or broken, then there were no humans,” Gil said. It was not a question. Vern nodded.

“That’s right; this was before our time.”

“And if there were no humans, then how could you, or anyone, know what happened back then?”

Vern smirked.

He has his mother’s brains.

“Well, my son,” Vern answered, “Some of these broken creatures were, unfortunately, quite intelligent.”

“More intelli…intellige…” Lien spurted out. His brow furrowed in frustration as he struggled with the word. Gil pulled his left arm away from Lien’s grip and gently rested a hand on his shoulder.

“In-tell-i-gent,” he said, nodding at Lien encouragingly. The younger brother closed his eyes, then tried again.

“In-tell-i-gent,” he said slowly. He opened his eyes, looking at his brother for approval; Gil nodded. “More intelligent…?”

“More…intelligent,” Lien continued, “Then us?”

Vern nodded. “More intelligent than us.”

“More intelligent than the dragons?” Lien asked.

“No,” Gil answered. “There are no creatures more intelligent than the dragons.”

Vern’s fists clenched at his sides. He took a slow, deep breath to calm himself as he struggled to hold his tongue.

“But these creatures aren’t,” Lien argued. “They were.” Gil tilted his head to the side.

“What does that even mean?” He asked. Lien furrowed his brow again. “I’m saying that…”

“They were not more intelligent than the dragons,” Vern interjected firmly. Gil nodded, turning towards his brother.

“See? I told you.”

“No you didn’t!” Lien started. “I…”

“Do I hear fighting? I better not!”

The boys hushed up quickly at the sound of their mother’s voice. She stepped out into the night from the front door of their cabin, arms crossed over her chest. She looked at her sons and raised an eyebrow inquisitively.

“I won’t ask again,” she said. Lien and Gil shook their heads. “No, mom,” they answered in unison.

“Good,” she said. “Now, get ready for bed, you two.”

Lien gasped loudly. “But…but mom! Dad was going to tell us about the intellig…the intelligent creatures! Can we finish the story, pleeeeease?”

The mother looked toward Vern, her expression bemused. “Intelligent creatures? The dragons, you mean?”

Vern’s jaw tightened.

“The ones that came before the dragons,” Gil said. “Supposedly.”

“The humans, then?” She asked. Vern stood and cleared his throat before Gil could answer.

“Sadly, boys, your mother is right. ‘The Night is Dark, and Dreams are Waiting.’”

The boys reluctantly stood, Lien frowning dramatically and Gil muttering something about “make-believe” under his breath. The two boys walked over to their mother, who kissed them both on the head and ushered them into their home.

“To bed, boys,” she said. “Don’t dally.”

“Okay, mom,” they answered, their voices trailing off as their mother closed the front door. She stood there, arms crossed, waiting for Vern to come to her. He stayed put, his eyes glued to the fire and smoke before him.

After a moment, she walked towards the fire, stopping beside Vern.

“Much has changed,” she said, laying a hand on Vern’s shoulder. “It was not so long ago that the you’d rather freeze to death than start a fire, let alone stare at one.”

“Let me be, Lorna,” Vern said firmly, keeping his eyes on the fire. Lorna took her hand away from him.

“I didn’t mean to…” she started, trailing off. “I never mean to…”

“I know,” Vern said softly, his words nearly lost in the crackle of the fire.

Oh, how much I have lost in fire.

They remained silent for a while, Lorna holding her words back, Vern straining to control his visceral fear of the flames before him. Beside him was a large bucket of water; if the flames leapt toward him, he could drown them in an instant.

And if you’re too slow?

Vern flinched slightly, his hands prickling at the thought. Lorna started, turning to face him.

“Are you all right?” She asked. “Are your wounds acting up again?”

“I’m fine,” Vern grunted.

“I have plenty of salve if you…”

“I’m fine,” Vern growled, cutting her off.

It was not his wounds that made him flinch; it was the memories.

Standing in the Valley with my brothers, fighting, believing we stood a chance.

How wrong we were.

Vern rubbed a hand over his eyes, willing the memories away. The skin on his fingers felt alien still; rough, deformed.

The war had stolen much from him.

“What story were you telling the boys?” Lorna asked suddenly. “I am sorry to have cut you off, but it’s late, and…”

“I was telling them of the days before the Awakening,” Vern interjected. “Of Zaladar’s Touch on the world.”

Vern sensed Lorna’s tension immediately, though his eyes remained on the flames.

“Vern…” she said slowly.

“You needn’t worry,” he interjected. “I did not speak the truth. I am no fool.”

“To speak of Za…of him at all is not…”

“I know!” Vern snapped, turning towards Lorna. Her face tightened with anger.

“Then why would you do it?” Lorna said. “Do you have a death wish? You are a father, Vern.” He scoffed.

“Don’t start with…”

“NO! You will LISTEN TO ME!”

Lorna stood firmly, her arms stiff at her sides. Never before had Vern seen her so upset; never before had he heard her raise her voice in earnest.

“Lorna, the boys…”

“If they hear, they hear!” She yelled, eyes fixed on Vern. “Look, I know that this is not what you want,” she continued, gesturing towards the cabin. “I know that this isn’t what you had hoped for, what you had planned for, but it’s what you’ve been given. We are lucky to have what we have.”

Vern scoffed scornfully. “Yes, I am well aware of that,” he replied. Tears welled in Lorna’s eyes as they shot daggers at Vern.

“Look, you can punish me for the sins of my family all you like…”

“I have not done that,” Vern interjected, his fists clenched beside him.

“You have, Vern,” Lorna answered. “I have tried to love you, tried to make your life better, but you punish me for deeds that are not my own and I do not deserve that.”

A familiar heat grew in Vern’s gut. He rose slowly from his seat, turning towards the mother of his children.

“Deserve?" He said, his voice hardly a whisper. He glowered at Lorna; she did not look away.

“Yes,” she answered. “What I deserve is…”

“What YOU DESERVE?”

Vern rushed towards her, grabbing her shoulders roughly. She cowered in his grip, though she did not take her eyes from his. Tears rolled down her cheek.

“How dare you speak to me of what you deserve,” Vern said, his voice tight with anger. “Your family is to blame for what has happened in the Valley, for the death of thousands. For the death of my entire family.”

Lorna’s eyes went wide. She shoved Vern off of her, nearly falling.

“Your entire family?!” She shouted. “Your sons, our sons, are very much alive. What is done is done, Vern; there is nothing you can do to change the past. We are your family now.”

Vern’s opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself.

There is nothing you can do to change the past.

For a moment, his world stood still. The fire did not dance, the creatures of the forest did not speak, the mother of his children did not breathe.

There is nothing you can do to change the past.

As he closed his eyes, his mind drifted back to the war, shortly before the Awakening.

To his youngest brother.

“What is it, Arsham?”

His brother smirked devilishly, mischief dancing in his hazel eyes. Vern hadn’t seen his brother this excited in months, since before the war had begun.

“A gift, from the Eleni,” he said, his voice smooth and calm. Vern raised an eyebrow.

“A ‘gift,’ brother? Given willingly?” Vern asked. Arsham shrugged.

“Well, perhaps ‘gift’ isn’t the right word,” Arsham admitted with a wink. “Regardless, I have reason to believe that it can help us.”

He lifted his right arm slowly, his fist closed. Vern glanced at his fist anxiously.

“It has Power, then?” Vern asked. “What sort of Power?”

Arsham smirked wider as he opened his palm.

“The Power to change everything.”

Vern was jolted from his reverie by the sound of Lorna shouting his name. He shook his head, then gazed up at her with a nearly blank expression.

“Are you even listening to me?” She pleaded, her arms spreading wide. Vern stared through her for a moment, thinking.

Should I do this? Can I?

“I have to try,” he mumbled, walking briskly towards Lorna.

“What did you say?” Lorna demanded. The question fell on deaf ears as Vern brushed past her and opened the door to their cabin.

“Vern? VERN!”

The mother of his children’s voice receded as he walked through their home, past their kitchen, past the door to their sons’ bedroom, to their own bedroom at the back of the cabin. He pulled the door open forcefully, then came down to his knees as he approached their bed. With difficulty, he pulled an ornate wooden chest out from underneath it, made from oak and gilded with gold.

“Vern!”

He turned his head towards the door, distracted by Lorna’s harsh whisper. Vern could sense that her anger was abating. Now, she sounded concerned.

“What are you doing?”

“I need the key,” he said. “Where is it?”

“I don’t know, Vern,” she answered. “Perhaps it…”

Vern grabbed the hatchet leaning against the nightstand beside the bed, turned the chest so that the lock was facing upwards, then slammed the hatchet into it. Lorna gasped.

“VERN!” She whispered harshly. “THE BOYS!”

After four tries, the lock broke with a metallic crack. He pushed the chest open and sifted through it, his hands rubbing up against his old quilt, made by his mother on his first birthday. Pounds of foreign coins, useless to him now. A small dirk, in its sheath, that hadn’t seen the light of day since the war.

Then, his right hand found it.

“Vern,” Lorna demanded. “What are…”

He tuned her out as he slowly lifted the object from his chest.

In his brother’s palm was a small sphere, hardly an inch in diameter. Its color was so dull as to be unclear, though Vern would have guessed it was scarlet, or perhaps orange. Vern’s brow furrowed.

“It does not appear to have Power,” he said. “Is this not just an ordinary stone?”

Arsham chuckled slightly. “No, brother, it is not. It must be imbued with Power; filled, if you will.”

Vern could not take his eyes from the stone, dull though it was. While he dreaded the answer, he asked the question.

“How?”

Vern flinched slightly as he felt Lorna’s hand on his left shoulder. She backed off, then slowly returned her hand to him, as if approaching a wild animal. Curiosity graced her face as she looked at the stone.

“What is that?”

Vern cleared his throat, closing his hand around the stone.

“Nothing,” he said, his voice nearly shaking. “It…it was my brother’s. Arsham’s.”

Lorna took a deep breath, then nodded her head slowly. A moment of silence passed between them, nothing to be heard but the wind through the trees outside their window.

Then, light footsteps.

Lorna sighed, then rested her head gently on Vern’s shoulder.

“I’ve got it,” she said, pushing herself up to standing. “Take all the time you need.”

As she stood, Lien appeared in their doorway, rubbing his eyes.

“Mama?” He said quietly. “Are you okay? I heard noises.”

Lorna scooped him up, patting his back with her right hand as she told him that everything was fine, that she would put him back to sleep. Before she returned him to his room, his eyes met Vern’s from over his mother’s shoulder.

Vern’s heart lurched.

No, he did not love Lorna; not anymore, if he ever did. But he loved his sons.

Can I do this?

As Lorna carried their son back into his room, closing the door behind her, Vern hung his head low, staring at the sphere in his hand. His thoughts drifted back to his brother, to his return.

“Arsham! I thought you dead; where have you been? Are your children safe?”

Arsham wrapped his brother in a firm, almost painful embrace. He was much thinner now than when Vern had last seen him, just four days ago. Vern pushed away from him, looking into his eyes.

They were haunted.

“Brother.” Vern nearly started at the sound of Arsham’s voice. It was quiet, yet intense, devoid of mirth. Something was very wrong.

“What has happened, Arsham?” Vern asked, holding his brother’s shoulders. “Let me help you.”

“No one can help me, Vern,” he answered coldly, staring blankly at the ground. “No one.”

“Where are Lier and Delin, Arsham?” Vern asked, speaking slowly. “Your sons. Where are they?”

A look of confusion crossed Ashram’s face as he lifted his head to face Vern. “My…sons? My sons?”

Vern sighed deeply, burying his face in his left hand. A storm was brewing in his mind.

Through the wall, he could hear Lorna speaking softly; telling Lien a story, he was sure, to put him to sleep. Gil was surely still deep in slumber; he slept more heavily than Vern himself.

Can I do this?

He thought of Lien, of Gil. He wished more than anything that they could have been born into a world that was fair, a world that was whole.

Any other world but this one.

Vern looked down at the sphere, at his hand. His ring and pinky fingers were mere nubs; the remaining fingers, while whole, were horribly disfigured.

The war had stolen much from him.

Vern thought of his sons, but he also thought of his brothers. Of Shale, stabbed through the heart in battle. Of Georn, burnt to ashes by the flames of Ra’shiik.

Of Arsham.

Vern steeled himself, gripping the sphere tighter as he rose to his feet. He sighed, then stepped quietly towards the door to his sons’ room, laying his ear against it. He heard Lorna’s voice more clearly now.

“…in all the land. Var’siil asked the humans, ‘Why do you scorn me so? We wish only to live in peace with you, to share this land.’ The humans, spiteful as they were, said, ‘No. We will not share our land, for it is….’”

Vern backed away, his fist clenched tightly against the sphere, his lips pursed in a thin line.

“No more lies,” he whispered.

He left the cabin swiftly but silently. The evening breeze swept up as he stepped outside, fanning the flames of his fire. He made to grab the pail of water and snuff it out, then stopped himself.

“It must be imbued with Power; filled, if you will,” Arsham said.

“How?”

Arsham’s grin slowly faded as he eyed the sphere, rolling it across his palm.

“Fire.”

Vern set down the pail, then grabbed the tongs from his tool bag resting beside the front door to the cabin. He gripped the sphere with the tongs, difficult though it was to keep a hold on, then walked back towards the fire. His arm shook slightly as he stretched the sphere out towards the flames. Starting a fire was one thing; reaching out towards one was another.

“Shit, shit,” he muttered, inching the tongs closer. Finally, the edges of the flames licked the sphere, their reflections dancing off of it. Vern inched the sphere further, bracing himself. The sphere was now immersed in the fire, as were all but the handle of the tongs. His heartbeat quickened as they heated up in his hand.

“Come on,” he whispered.

He held steady, wiping sweat from his brow with his left hand. After a moment, the tongs grew so hot that even his burned, calloused fingers began to feel their heat. He pulled his hand back, dropping the tongs to the ground. The sphere rolled towards him, stopping against his bare left foot.

It was cold, and dull still.

“Shit.”

Vern crouched down to grab the sphere, his knees popping in protest. He turned it around in his hand, searching in vain for even a hint of luster. Perhaps if he let it sit in the fire for longer, if he nestled it between the logs? He nearly shivered at the thought. Besides, how would he then retrieve the sphere? The tongs were not nearly long enough to reach the logs, and dousing the fire with water would surely extinguish the Power within the sphere, wouldn’t it? While he knew next to nothing of the mysterious Eleni and their magics, he felt sure that he was missing something.

He stood suddenly, grunting in frustration as he turned west towards the forest and brought his arm back, ready to throw the sphere into the trees and be done with this foolishness. He stopped himself.

Though he was a safe distance from it, he now faced the his old home.

His stomach dropped and his heart began to race as it dawned on him.

“No,” Vern muttered. “No, no, no.”

He rubbed his left hand across his face, his blistered fingers roughly scraping his dry skin. In that moment, he nearly doused the fire, went back inside his cabin, buried the sphere deep in his trunk and went to sleep. He wanted so desperately to end this day as he had ended every day these last eight years: in bed with Lorna, his children sleeping soundly in the next room.

No; I have to try.

He willed himself to see his brothers’ faces in his mind: Shale’s sharp nose, wise eyes, wispy blond hair. Georn’s craggy brow, his full lips and cleft chin. Arsham’s hazel eyes, his constant smirk. He saw the faces of his brothers’ sons and daughters, his beloved nieces and nephews. The faces of his friends, his comrades in the war. He saw Lii, the woman he planned to marry once the fighting was done.

Dead, all of them.

A single tear dripped down his right cheek as he stared into the forest. Before he could convince himself to stay put, to live another day in this broken world, he walked into the trees.

— — —

In the full dark of evening, Vern awoke suddenly.

Arsham was gone.

Try as he might, Vern could not will the memory away as he walked west, leaving his home, his children and Lorna behind. The breeze seemed only to strengthen the further he walked, egging him on.

Vern sprinted out of his tent, darting his head left, then right. He quickly found his brother standing by a small fire, alone.

He held a knife to his own throat.

Vern shook his head briskly, grunting. He walked faster now, rushing towards his fate.

“Brother,” Vern spoke softly, creeping towards him. “What are you doing? Put the knife down. You just need rest.”

Ashram shook his head slowly, his hand shaking. Moonlight glinted off of the blade, twinkling. His other hand was held by his side, clenched tightly.

“Open your hands, brother,” Vern pleaded. “Open them!”

Vern’s heartbeat quickened as he began to feel the path beneath him slope steadily uphill. Fear gripped him, but he kept his pace, moving with purpose, with strength.

Towards the Valley.

Relief flooded through Vern as Arsham slowly lowered the knife away from his throat. A tear fell from his cheek.

“That’s good, Arsham,” Vern said, walking slowly towards his brother. “Now open your other hand. Drop the sphere.”

Vern looked down at the sphere in his hand. Though it was still dull, a hint of luster burst through the night at its very center. He damned himself for being right.

Its Power could not be awakened by ordinary flames.

Vern reached the edge of the forest, the lip of the Valley. A thousand memories coursed through him at the sight of it. He thought of his first home, just beside Derk’s Stream. Of the birth of Shale’s first son, Rill, countless years ago. He willed away the memories of death, of loss, of fire.

Then, he threw his head back and screamed.

He clenched his fists tight and howled, releasing years of anger, heartbreak and hopelessness into the Valley, his true home. He fell to his knees as tears streamed down his face, as his screams became sobs.

Soon, his cries were answered.

Arsham looked down at his other hand, a quizzical expression on his face. Then, he shook his head, smirking.

As Arsham opened his hand to drop the sphere, he quickly raised the knife to his chest. Vern lunged forward.

“BROTHER!”

Vern felt no fear when the dragons came for him.

They ascended towards him from the floor of the Valley, from their home they’d stolen from the humans. Vern’s screams were soon drowned out by their screeches as half a dozen of them came within his line of sight. The largest of them, its scales violet in color, its eyes red as blood, hovered before him.

Its mouth opened wide as the flames from its gullet moved through its throat.

Before Vern could reach him, Arsham plunged the knife through his chest. Vern fell to his knees, unable to speak, tears welling in his eyes. Before he died, Arsham spoke.

“We cannot change the past.”

Vern looked down at the sphere.

Its orange light shined brightly now, washing away the night.

As the flames roared towards him, Vern spoke softly.

“I must try, brother. I must try.”