Fire and the Flood

An ominous thunderhead was looming on the horizon, promising to bring with it a harrowing storm. The hour was late and the susurrus winds brought with them vows of vengeance. Persiphonex knew what they said, for he was a thore—and the message tore him asunder.

He no longer felt the beating of Bryn’s heart in his breast.

“My Lord. Sire of the skies, God of the flame. Killer of kings, Eater of mountains! These are but a few of your many names, my king. I beg, why doth the kingdoms of Elteria crumble at the very sound of your name, yet you would show pity for the son of the high king of Andorn? The heir to the crown that plots against your very existence! He will one day sit upon that throne and command armies! He may be the one to deliver a spear through your heart or shoot true an arrow into your sclera. He may be the one to flay you with a dauntless army of men hungry for the blood of the last of the Thorn! What such madness has overcome you to let live such a threat?!”

Persiphonex did not immediately address the concerns of his companion known around the valleys and foothills of Andorn as The Huntsman. Theonis was his name. Instead, he watched the fingers of light webbing across the sky in the distance, drawing ever nearer with each breath. The low, ominous rumble could be heard across the planes, threatening.

Theonis waited for a satisfactory explanation.

Persiphonex lowered his crested head so that it was close to the small, red-faced prince that he had discovered in the dwindling light of dusk. The boy had been moments safe from the jaws of hungry Elwolves. Now, the child shivered in the evening air, snot running into his pouting mouth. Here, Persiphonex remembered how susceptible untrained humans were to the cold. Finally, he lifted his head and addressed his ardent companion.

The breeze picked up and rustled violently through a nearby copse.

“Threat?” Persiphonex bellowed. His sonorous voice echoed through the valley and the Selguin woods, a deafening sound rivaling that of the approaching thunder. Theonis startled and the child began to whimper. “The child poses nothing of the sort! It is not in the name of madness that I keep his heart beating.” He took a pause here to calm his voice. “It is by madness that I would still it.”

“But my lord—“ the hunter began. He was cut off by an imposing sound ripping from Persiphonex’s throat.

“You’ll speak no more of it, Theonis! Now fetch some kindling for a fire.” The hunter reluctantly obeyed the command. It was a well-traveled knowledge that Persiphonex had a penchant for devouring insubordinate companions.

As Theonis made his way to the nearby copse to collect some tinder, Persiphonex began to sing, low and angelic. The depth of his voice rivaled the ocean. It was a voice that could bring down castle walls and splinter the very air, but it could also comfort wild beasts and bring peace to the dying. It soothed the boy and his wining stopped as he stared at the great thore in wonder.

The lullaby was in Ryn’Thorn, the ancient language of the Thorn. The young prince was pacified quickly by the melody.

Theonis returned with the kindling and placed it near the boy as instructed. Persiphonex proceeded to gently light it with a whisper of flame from his nostrils. He was a master of the art of the flame and could even dictate the shape of it to a magical degree. The kindling caught instantly and the red glow lit the child’s sleeping, tear-streaked face. Such a fragile creature, Persiphonex thought. Theonis sat next to the fire himself, rubbing his hands together to create friction and thus warmth.

The boy had almost met a very different fate if not for his mother’s last gift.

Persiphonex had been passing through the airways above the sacred forest of Selguin when he caught on the breeze the scent of death. He followed its trail until he came upon a ravenous hunting party. The beating of his great, bat-like wings alone was enough to scare off the ferocious pack of Elwolves. As he came down upon the scene the ground shook. He gazed upon the carnage. The Elwolves had been feeding upon a battalion of Andorn soldiers, all of them vacant of the eyes. Among them laid the queen herself, face down and marred to shreds, still as an unturned stone. Cold as one too, likely.

It was not unusual to see troops of men patrolling these woods, but for the queen of Andorn to be among them was particularly peculiar. Persiphonex wondered at her presence. He would not eat them. He did not fancy the taste of human flesh, though he was not above devouring those deserving.

He was about to take to the sky when he was stopped cold. That was the moment that Persiphonex felt the flame of Bryn extinguish. He stumbled, delirious in his grief. A rage hotter than his fiery breath roiled through him like molten lava.

He directed his head to the sky and let it bellow out of him in the form of fire and thunder. His mighty roar was simultaneously the saddest and most ferocious sound to ever rip through the sound barrier. It was a haunting sound, a deafening sound. The flames reached further into the sky than they ever had before, burned hotter. The plume could surely be seen past the Andorn Mountains, all the way to the many edges of Elteria.

When his world-shattering cry finally ceased, all was silent, sharing in his melancholy and cowering from his fury. It seemed for a moment that Persiphonex truly had shattered the concept of sound. The wind itself had stilled. There was however, one sound that followed the wrathful shout, muffled as it was. He knew the sound, for he had heard it many times before.

He followed the sound until it brought him to the queen’s corpse, back skyward and torn to shreds. Her limbs were sprawled in a protective manner. The muffled cries were surely coming from beneath her unmoving body. Persiphonex turned her over with the end of his snout and discovered a blue child beneath. The baby boy choked and gasped and the color slowly began to return to his face. His cries waned and he stared up at Persiphonex with the widest of eyes.

“A mother’s sacrifice is oft unmatched.” He said to the little runt, using the language of the child’s kind, unsure if he would understand either way. He pondered what to do with the babe. If he left the boy alone he would surely perish before nightfall. If the elements themselves did not take him then a beast would. Perhaps the very same Elwolves that gnawed his mother to pieces would come back to finish their interrupted meal once Persiphonex was long and far away.

A queen’s son was the king’s son. A king’s son would one day be a king of men, hellbent on hunting down the last thore. He would learn to call Persiphonex’s kind dragons of course. He would be filled with hate and bloodlust. His mother’s sacrifice would be in vain.

It was settled then. Persiphonex would take the child to the people of the mountains, the Shiloh. First, he would need to take the boy to Theonis, who was hunting nearby and surely had acquired an unyielding ringing in his ears from the echoes of Persiphonex.

He scooped the frightened child into his massive palm and held him carefully so as not to crush him—it would be so easy. As he looked closer at the babe, he noticed a strange mark creeping up the child’s neck and peeking over his pudgy jawline. He didn’t believe in fate, but this mark threatened to alter his credences.

He found Theonis quickly. The hunter had dispatched two Elwolves—massive furred creatures with a distant kinship to the common wolf. Persiphonex wondered if they belonged to the pack that had ravaged the child’s mother. At the sight of them, the boy had cowered into Persiphonex’s gigantic hand, suddenly unafraid of the thore’s unfathomable talons. Persiphonex realized here that the child had witnessed at least some of the horror that had befallen his fellow men before his mother had shielded him.

Now, the boy slept peacefully by a gentle flame. Persiphonex watched over him and Theonis as they slumbered. It was too cold a night to fly them to the mountain. The babe would surely freeze to death before they reached the entrance. Theonis had cut the furs from the Elwolves and swaddled the child with one, while wrapping himself tightly in the other.

The winds grew stronger and the growling thunder drew nearer. He would only need it to hold off until morning’s first light.

Morning did come before the storm and Persiphonex flew Theonis and the child and the two skinned Elwolves into the mountains.

It was true what the tales told of Persiphonex, eater of mountains. He ate his way through the side of the Andorn mountain called Vale—the Shiloh word for “far seeing”—and created a home for himself within. This connected with the tunnels and caves of the Shiloh, who worshipped Persiphonex as their god. From the colossal hole in the mountain face, the kingdom of Andorn could be seen in the distance. Beyond that, the Sea of Mir, bathed in a silver sheen.

They watched from the gaping mouth Persiphonex had chewed through the face of Vale as the skies opened and a ruthless rain followed.

The Shiloh had a dozen small children then, so the prince was scarcely bored and adapted quickly to Persiphonex’s presence. The other children were all too excited to see the thore, having grown accustomed to his presence since birth. Persiphonex made a show of creating intricate shapes with his flame. There was a ship, a nightingale, a castle, a gildenflower, among many others. The children stared in wondrous awe each and every new time like it was the first they were seeing of it. They would erupt in a fit of giggles and screeches afterward, but Persiphonex didn’t mind. He would never admit it, but he enjoyed the sound.

The children would cry out “Persi! Red flower!” Persi was what they called him for lack of being able to pronounce his name in their unpracticed tongue.

So the boy started calling him Persi as well.

The storm continued to hash out its wrath across the land in the name of Bryn.

As time went on, Persi shared the stories of Bryn the Fearless with the Shiloh. They had never met her, but she was the last of Persiphonex’s kin. Her flame was blue as the autumn sky, her coat of scales the most beautiful emerald green, gilded at the edges. Her death was surely one of honor.

He told the children many stories of the Thorn, some that the Shiloh knew well and some that they didn’t so even the wisest Shiloh sat around to heed the tales, new and old. He taught them the few words they could pronounce in Ryn’thorn and gave them meaning to the words they already knew. Thorn, for one, meant children of the stars while thore translated to star child. The Thorn first came to be in a rain of fire that came from the closest star. There were eleven in total. They could feel each other’s hearts no matter how far the distance between them. One by one, years between, Persiphonex felt their hearts go still until remained just one other.

The day the storm started brewing was the day that Bryn’s heart stilled. It was the day that Persiphonex had become the last of the Thorn. And it was the day that the Andorn prince was spared from a violent and premature demise.

Before long, the future king was enamored by Persiphonex. He would climb up the great thore’s tail and sit upon his head among his crown of horns. The child even began growing on Theonis, who had once suggested using the boy as bate for Elwolves. Persiphonex would catch him telling the boy stories of their adventures together.

The tribemothers in the mountains treated the boy as their own and even gave him a name. Thorakin. Star child’s son in Shiloh. In the common tongue of Andorn it would be translated to son of the dragon. Only those versed in the forgotten language of Ryn’thorn would know the meaning behind his name. To all others, it would be naught but a strange name.

When the storm came to an end two years later, there was a new sea left in its wake. The castle of Andorn could be seen in the distance, towering above the waters. Persi would fly the Shiloh peoples west to Eluin, but many refused to leave their mountain home. Those that stayed behind would surely starve to death, but that was not for Persi to dwell on. He had offered them his wing.

In Eluin, Thorakin was taught how to craft tools and weapons from the earth. He was taught how to hunt and which plants and animals to avoid. He met a girl his age in the village named Mara that he befriended and as years passed by he would fall deeply in love with.

Persi flew them over the clouds and told Mara the stories that Thorakin already knew. How his kind were born of fragments of the stars that fell to the world in what was known to mankind as the Great Rains of Fire. How men became greedy and coveted their scales and bone. He told of how the Thorn ruled over the lands for centuries before the first of them was felled. Their kind had been feared by men until then. The Thorn had their fire and flight and strength, but men had their numbers and devices built for destruction. He told of how Thorn could not create new life from their own flesh as humans could, so their numbers were finite.

The first felled was Maw. They cut his teeth from the soft flesh of his mouth and used them to penetrate the scales and cut away the horns. Once men had discovered the exploit, the Thorn knew fear for the first time and they became the hunted. Some retaliated and met their ends, impaled by the very bones of their kin—the only thing in existence that could pierce the flesh of a thore.

He told Mara of how Thorn could feel each others’ hearts from anywhere in the world. He told of how his was the only heart left. He knew not where the last heart apart from his was when it stopped beating, only that it was in the valleys of Andorn somewhere—where the storm sought its vengence. He could only draw the conclusion that it was at the king’s hand—Thorakin’s true father. This suspicion he did not share with the boy who was now fourteen years living—twelve passed since the onset of Bryn’s storm.

The years between were but a glimpse of time for a creature as old as Persi.

Word soon came from Andorn that the waters had finally receded. What followed was a year-long draught.

One night after the news was received, Persi bestowed upon Thorakin the truth of his lineage, reluctantly so. The boy had a right to know and the secret ate away at Persi like he had eaten away the face of Vale a hundred years before. On learning this, the young man wanted to meet his true father, the king of Andorn. Persi begrudgingly promised that he would take Thorakin to back to Andorn to fulfill his wish. They were to leave in three day’s time.

It pained Persiphonex, but he held so much love for Thorakin that he would give the world if he could.

When the third day came, Persi was restless. Relief washed over him when Thorakin confessed that he was not yet ready to meet his father. The relief did not last, however, as one year later Thorakin confessed that he was ready. He came to Persi one evening, a look in his eyes that Persi immediately understood.

Persiphonex and Thorakin left Eluin for the mountains of Andorn, leaving behind them Theonis and Mara. When they reached Vale, they could see that the once waterlogged valleys of Andorn were now scorched and brown. The leaves of the trees wilted and dried in the unrelenting heat.

The once lively mouth of Vale was barren, no sign of life. The Shiloh were thought to have starved to death in the tunnels, their dry bones the only remnant of proof that they ever existed.

That night, under the cover of darkness, Persiphonex would take Thorakin to the Selguin fields outside of the reach of Adorn’s torches. He told the young man that he would be watching from the shadows, just beyond the red glow.

Thorakin was sick with nerves as he made his way through the fields to the kingdom. Up close, it was much bigger than he had ever imagined. Men lined the walls and in towers on either side of the gate were massive contraptions that held what looked like spears.

When he arrived at the gates announcing that he was the long lost heir to the throne, he was met with snickers and sneers from the gatekeepers. “The king’s only heir was devoured by Elwolves when he was a babe. You are a fool to think we would fall for such tall tales.” The keeper to the left bawked.

“Bring me to the king then. Let my father decide.” The keepers exchanged mocking looks. They wore spellbinding green armor, glinting with gold. It was hard to look away from.

“Step further into the light.” The guard on the right ordered. Thorakin followed the command. As he moved forward, the guard’s mouth fell open. “He has the mark.” He pointed out, incredulous. Both guards looked to the large birthmark clawing up Thorakin’s neck.

After the initial shock began to wane, the guards bent at their knees, which Thorakin found a strange gesture. They stood and led him through the gates. People looked on, confused and curious. Thorakin had never been inside such a city before. He followed closely behind the guards, his eyes wandering to and fro in wonder.

The gatekeepers took Thorakin to the servant’s quarters, where he was dressed in royal garb the likes of which he had never seen. He was told it was a punishable crime to meet the king in such rags as what he arrived in. From there, he was escorted to the dining hall where the king feasted and carried on with royals and nobles. Next to him sat a lady in crown, but not his mother. Persiphonex had told him of her heroic death. He must have rewed since.

“What matter could be so important to interrupt a royal feast?” The king barked at the nervous servants. As the two of them kneeled, revealing Thorakin standing behind them, the king’s eyes flooded with recognition.

“I would know my own blood from a sea of men, even if not for the mark you bore at birth!” The king exclaimed. “Come here at once and sit beside me.” He prattled. He gestured for a man in sequined robes to relinquish his seat to his only begotten son. The man hurriedly removed himself and Thorakin obeyed his father’s request.

“I cannot believe it so!” The king shouted. He reached out to clutch at Thorakin’s shoulder as if to assure his realness. “My only son returns after thirteen years in the wild, unharmed.” He raised a goblet and red liquid sloshed over its brim, splattering to the table. “To the return of the prince!” All of the people at the table raised their goblets in unison and toasted to the prince’s unexpected return. Then Thorakin was given food and wine. He drank and feasted to his heart’s content and then some. He was unaccustomed to such overzealous feasts.

The king pulled in one of his servants to bark another order. “Go and tell the whole kingdom of prince Audric’s return! Send word to all of Elteria!” Thorakin was wrought with confusion for a moment.

“My name is Thorakin.” He corrected his father.

“Nonsense! You are Audric, son of Auburn.” Thorakin did not bother to correct him again, understanding that he once belonged to another father who named him. “Now tell me, son. Where have you been all these years?” The king asked. Thorakin at first did not wish to answer. He grew nervous at the thought of sharing the truth. “Well go on then.” His father prodded, eagerly learning forward. Thorakin gulped down more of the wine. He liked the way it made him feel. Suddenly his nerves vanished and he told his father the truth.

“I was found by a thore—dragon, I mean—and I am bonded to him as a son.” He admitted. His father narrowed his eyes and sat back, thumb and forefinger dancing on his chin.

“A dragon?” He guffawed. “Impossible! I killed the last dragon thirteen years ago! You are the son of Auburn and no one else!”

“No you did not. How have you not seen him flying over the mountains?” Thorakin argued before taking another swig of wine. His head was swimming, vision blurring.

“You are mistaken. You have been in the wilderness too long, you must have grown delirious. A dragon would have devoured you the moment it set its eyes upon you.” The king insisted. His words deepened Thorakin’s confusion.

Emboldened by the wine coursing through his bloodstream, Thorakin stood. “You know nothing of dragons then!” He bellowed. “They are not even called dragons—they are Thorn!” The king stood then and towered over Thorakin who had not yet reached his full height.

“Were you not my blood I would strike you down where you stand. You dare to question me! I have slayed many a dragon in my time and you dare to challenge what I know to be true about them? You are a foolish, confused child.”

“No! I speak the truth!” Thorakin cried, the wine taking further hold of his senses.

“Come, son. I will show you something.” Said his father as he grabbed Thorakin by his collar and pulled him along, leaving the long table full of gaping faces. Thorakin swiped a cleaned chicken bone from his plate and tucked it beneath his newly acquired robes as Auburn ripped him away from his chair.

The king walked his son out of the dining hall and into another. They came two massive doors at the end of it. The king pushed them open to reveal a long room with a single oversized chair at the end of it. Thorakin knew this was called a throne and couldn’t understand why he needed to see it. His estranged father directed his attention elsewhere and Thorakin’s stomach began to constrict when he saw what the king meant to show him.

Mounted upon the walls were the heads of seven Thorn. The largest was mounted above the throne, an emerald green beauty, gilded at the edges, teeth bared ferociously, mouth held open by a massive pike. Thorakin grew sick in an instant and stumbled backward.

“You see? These are dragons! You cower back at the very sight of them yet you would argue that you have bonded with one!”

Thorakin looked into his father’s cavernous eyes then, clutching his chest, face red with anger and streaked with silent tears. “It was you.” He spat vehemently. He forced his eyes back to the the severed head of Bryn the Fearless, the last heart felt. She stared back at him with an unfathomable maw and dead black eyes. The king looked baffled.

A memory came back to Thorakin here. The day his mother was killed she was fleeing the castle on the king’s orders. A dragon was attacking the castle. Bryn the Fearless was seeking vengeance for the desolation of her kin—the other six Thorn that lined the walls. “It was you!” Thorakin cried again, louder this time. He pulled the chicken bone from his robe and lunged forward, sticking the sharp end into his father’s stomach. It was not a fatal wound, Thorakin knew. Not hardly.

He did not hesitate. He ran back through the halls of the castle, all the while the king shouted after him. He made it to the gates before the guards were wise to his attempt on their king and they let him out without question.

As he slipped outside, an uproar of commotion broke out behind him, and he heard the king’s voice over it all.

“Ready your bows!” Then came the nocking of dozens of arrows. Men flooded from the gates behind Thorakin, swords drawn. “Kill him!” The king screamed and Thorakin heard the sound of fifty or more arrows loosed into the night. He dropped to the ground in anticipation of the barrage when he heard the beating of great wings against the night sky. Persiphonex shook the ground when he landed and some men fell and others ran as he shielded Thorakin from the cascade of arrows that rained down from the sky.

The arrows were expected to shatter against his impenetrable scales. Instead, they pierced through and Persi immediately understood. He saw the gilded emerald armor that adorned the men and shuddered with rage as his long-festering suspicion confirmed itself before his eyes. The weapons they held gleamed with thore essence.

He unleashed the mightiest roar accompanied by a merciless spray of fire, which he bathed every man beneath. Bryn’s scales deflected much of the flame, but the flesh they did not shield was reduced to ash.

Once the swordmen outside and the bowmen on the walls were incinerated, Persephonex took to the sky over the city of Andorn and rained his flame down in a mad fury, cremating all in its path. From two towers flew spears from unnatural contraptions, one piercing his chest, the other just grazing his flank. With his furious tail he smashed the towers into oblivion.

The people of Andorn screamed out as they uselessly attempted to damper the flames that consumed them. Persiphonex spotted the king fleeing for the keep and he flew down to meet him with his teeth. He chewed twice—reveling in the sound of the bones crushing in his gigantic maw—and swallowed.

Soon, the entire kingdom was aflame and Persiphonex flew weakly out to the field where he had last seen Thorakin. He found him staring straight ahead, unblinking. His wide eyes reflected the carnage, brilliant against the darkness.

“We must get to Vale.” Persi choked out over the roaring of the flames, which were eating their way across the dry field to where Thorakin stood. For a moment, Persiphonex saw the baby boy he found thirteen years before. Thorakin said nothing as he climbed atop the thore for probably the thousandth time and Persi took flight, lacking the grace he possessed on all of those past thousand flights. Thorakin braced himself a few times, afraid they were going to fall from the sky. When they made it to Vale, Persi crash-landed into the mountain’s cavernous mouth.

After landing, Thorakin saw for the first time the damage that had been done to Persi. Dozens of arrows penetrated his flesh to their feathers, but those were hardly as concerning as the spear that struck him directly in the center of his chest. Persiphonex collapsed then, driving the arrows in further. He let out a single groan of pain as he looked out over the valley, the flames devouring quickly, taking all in their path.

Thorakin broke from his daze and began pulling the arrows. It took several agonizing yanks just to get one arrow out. Another broke inside. Thorakin was starting on the third when Persi pulled away from him. “Leave them.” He grunted. “Thorakin… You must kill me.” There was silence, then Thorakin saw the peril in his eyes.

“I won’t.” Thorakin refused with conviction.

“You must.” Persiphonex insisted.

“I don’t understand.”

“The tip of this spear is inches from my heart. Run it through.” Persi growled.

“I can’t!” Thorakin cried. “You are the last of your kind, the last of the Thorn!” His face fell then, somber. “The closest thing I have to a father.”

“The time of the Thorn has come to an end. You must be fast and true, Thorakin.” Thorakin watched as the flames below spread across the dry land.

“Your flame burns brilliant in the valley.”

“It will consume all in its path. It must be stopped before it’s too late. It will swallow the world. This is why you must kill me.” They watched in silence for a few moments as the embers burned on below.

“We could leave here. Go west. Let the flames take what they will.” Thorakin pleaded.

“No!” Persiphonex scolded. “You will not outpace it. I can no longer soar. My wing is broken from the landing. My blood is letting. Fast and true, my child.”

After it was done, tears soaked Thorakin’s face. A hand touched his shoulder and he turned to see several Shiloh huddled together. Their faces mirrored Thorakin’s despair. They had survived the long flood after all—It would be revealed that there was a river that ran through the mountain bearing fish aplenty.

The sky opened almost instantly.

Thorakin watched from the mouth of Vale as the Sea of Mir rose from the ocean and crossed the shoreline into the burning city of Andorn. All things in its path were crushed to oblivion. By dawn, Persiphonex’s flame was extinguished.

The thore-shaped birthmark on Thorakin's neck burned then. He would always remember the last heart.