Chapter 26 – Clawdia
CHAPTER 26
CLAWDIA
N isha greeted me again as I opened my eyes in the dreamscape, but she wasn’t in her home. Instead, we stood outside, and sunlight gleamed on the roof of a viking farm house.
“Something else I need to see?” I asked, and her eyes were full of sorrow as she looked at me. It unnerved me, but I concentrated on the area around me.
The farmhouse was long and shaped like a ship, and a man, wearing a long tunic and trousers tied with a rope belt around his waist, paced and scrubbed at his head. He yelled something, but the words weren’t clear. Like listening to something said underwater, I could gauge the gist but not hear the voices or words.
“Hreithmar,” Nisha informed me.
I vaguely recognized him but couldn’t understand how or where I might have seen him.
“I feel like I’ve seen this. Before.” I muttered and tilted my head as I watched a little boy heave open the huge front door and hurry out into the farmland. The wind blew his long and untamed hair, and his threadbare clothes pulled up mid-thigh as he walked. He patted a sheep that lingered near the wooden fence by a dirt road, but his expression didn’t brighten and his pace was slow and labored as he headed past us.
My eyes widened and my breath caught as I realized I’d seen this boy and man. But it had only been a flash. It didn’t feel like a vision. Like this. But as Sigurd spoke of Fafnir’s past on the island, I saw them in my mind’s eye. Reeling, I whispered, “I thought it was my imagination.”
Nisha didn’t ask what I meant. She seemed to understand and closed her eyes briefly. “I’m sorry, my child. I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry?” I didn’t understand her reaction and frowned.
She ignored my question and pointed back to the boy, Fafnir, who was now in the distance and continuing to hobble down the dirt path. “Pay attention now. You need to know this.”
My mind couldn’t align the man I knew as Fafnir with this sad young boy, but if the secret to his defeat was in his past, then I would watch and use the knowledge to bring him down.
Nisha and I followed wordlessly as Fafnir came to a village. I gawked. It wasn’t like anything I had seen before. I felt like I was walking through the set of a film. The large wooden buildings were spaced far apart, and people shouted to each other over a fire in the center, which seemed to be a hub for the community.
When I refocused on the child, I noticed the effect he had on others. People stopped talking when they saw him. They stared and glared. Children jeered and threw rocks at him. My heart hurt for the child who was the outcast of a community and treated so poorly.
But the little boy-because I couldn’t think of him as Fafnir at this point— said nothing. He acknowledged nothing and no one, he just continued walking as though he was a ghost. We followed him to a building, and he sat underneath with his back to a slightly ajar door. It wasn’t until I looked inside that I could understand what he was doing.
Children sat in a circle and an adult waved his hands in the center as he instructed them on how to cast spells. One child, blond and blue eyed with a kind of smug expression, seemed familiar. Sigurd. Only adult Sigurd, who’d died and been reborn three times, had far more fragility and less confidence than the child version.
At my aghast expression, Nisha explained, “They didn’t allow him to learn magic, and his father also didn’t teach him about his drakorian heritage. He was a ship adrift. A lone island. Between two worlds. Part of neither.”
The scene changed in a dizzying swirl, and suddenly we were in a shed with cows. Fafnir sat cross-legged in the hay as he held his hands out toward a calf that stumbled around in its small pen. He wasn’t much older than we’d just seen, but his clothes were even more threadbare and his breath was visible as he huffed his frustration.
He muttered, and I recognized the spell he was trying to cast. He was intending to move magic from himself to another being. To the cow. For what purpose, I wasn’t sure. The calf seemed well enough. Maybe he was just experimenting.
But it wasn’t working.
With a frustrated huff, he shook out his hands and offhandedly said the spell the wrong way. My eyes widened as sparks flew from his hands. The calf stilled and, like spilled blood, magic poured from an invisible wound. It was horrifying to watch, and Fafnir seemed to agree. He made a guttural noise and jumped to his knees. His hands shook as they hovered over the animal. The magic that pooled underneath him climbed without him noticing. It slipped into the holes in his trousers and his eyes widened as it seeped into his skin.
“He took magic from a calf?” I asked, aghast. “How does a cow have magic?”
“There is magic in everything. It’s minimal, but there. Enough that without it, it would die. What is magic if not an energy source that can be wielded?”
“It went into him.” I paced as my mind whirled with the discovery. “Sigurd suggested he was collecting magic for his hoard and wearing it like a cape. I should have realized when we learned what Karin was doing with the wards. If the defected witches gave her that instruction, it was probably from Fafnir, correct? He’s been doing it through dark magic.”
“Yes.”
“He hasn’t been getting stronger, though. Has he? So what has he been doing with it?” My mind flashed back to the warehouse when I confronted him and he drained me.
“If magic isn’t his hoard, and he’s not consuming it for food, then what is?” And could that also be a danger to us? If he hoards weapons that the hunters could use against us, we would be in serious trouble.
“I haven’t seen that.”
“He said he was hungry. He made it seem like he needed the magic for food.”
“A lie.”
“Why lie to someone he’s about to kill?” I asked, exasperatedly.
“Because lies protect the truth. The truth makes him vulnerable. He’s been building a story for centuries and he can’t afford to allow anyone to know his true motives.”
“What-”
“Watch.”
The scene changed again, and we were in a secluded wooded area, but smoke rose in the distance from Fafnir’s home village. The picturesque landscape of trees, hills, and a beautiful stone well shook from the screams and jeers from the witch children who descended on Fafnir like locusts.
They shoved him until he fell, then kicked him until he cried. With the swellings, cuts, and bruises already forming on his skin, I saw a flash of yellow eyes and automatically stepped back. He muttered something and one child fell and then another one and magic crawled through the grass to find its new home in Fafnir.
“Are they dead?” I asked behind a shaking hand.
“No. He’s learned to control it.”
We followed a broken and bruised boy with empty eyes back to the center of the village. A Fafnir stared past the adult man that screamed at him. It was so subtle, almost unnoticeable, when he muttered something and the man abruptly stopped talking and frowned, knowing something was wrong but not exactly what.
A little boy stumbled onto the scene, and he looked down at the ground. Everyone’s gaze followed his, myself included, and saw the shimmering of a tiny trail of magic as it crawled toward Fafnir. The little boy’s brow furrowed, and he bent down and reached out a hand to touch it, but the man pulled him away before he could grasp it in his small hand.
The man’s expression was not one of confusion. It was horror. He looked at Fafnir, to the magic, and then Fafnir again and suddenly he wasn’t horrified. He was furious. He moved the little boy out of the way and charged toward Fafnir. Fafnir jumped back, shaking, and I watched as the man grabbed him by the throat and threw him against the wall. Spittle hit his face as the man screamed at him and Fafnir clawed at the man’s hands and squirmed against him, but couldn’t escape his grasp.
Then his eyes flashed yellow, and his body seemed to explode. The man blasted away and fell right on top of the little boy he’d moved to safety, while Fafnir changed, transformed into his dragon form.
It wasn’t as big as I remembered, probably because he was a child, but he was still bigger than the biggest hut and formidable looking. Fafnir glared and steam blew from his nostrils as the man began screaming and scrambled away, leaving the little boy he’d crushed, lying on the ground, with a sizable dent in his chest.
Children screamed at the sight of him and more men rushed to the scene with pitchforks while the woman stood back with their hands ready to cast spells. But he didn’t fight them. He batted his wings to fly off, and they threw all they had at him while he tried to leave.
Once he was in the sky, I turned to Nisha and said, “So he didn’t kill the boy or drain him of his magic.”
“It seems not.”
“Sigurd lied.”
“Perhaps the man didn’t want to admit he was the reason the child died. Maybe he didn’t want to seem weak by admitting that a child had stolen magic from him without realizing until the little boy had spotted it on the ground.”
“That sounds plausible.” I nodded and turned away from the scene to face Nisha as nausea stirred in my stomach. “Why are you showing me this?”
“This doesn’t help you understand his power?” She frowned.
“It shows me he was a traumatized, alone, little boy that needed someone to hold him. But he didn’t have anyone. And turned to gather power any way that he could.”
Her gaze softened as she looked up in the direction the small dragon had flown off. “Despite what might be inflicted upon us, we are responsible for the darkness in our own hearts. And we must live to heal, to fill the darkness with light, and allow it to leave us, in managed, controlled ways, so it does not slip into anyone else.”
I blinked, and the scene changed again, and I gasped, gripping Nisha’s forearm in fright as we flew through the sky following the same small dragon. He drifted through the sky until his wings shook and he descended, fast and hard, into a meadow.
He changed form and the naked, muddy little boy stared at his hands for a long while.
I wanted to know what he was thinking. Was he shocked? Was he upset? Or glad to have changed and saved himself?
He began walking when the wind pimpled his skin and we continued to follow until he stopped by an old camp where the remnants of a fire left inside a stone circle. He scooped up the burned wood and soot from the fire and rubbed it over his body. He patted ash and dirt into his hair, making himself even more mucky. Then he continued walking, although now it was slower and with a limp.
Eventually, he came to another village and called out weakly. A tear fell from his eyes as he drew attention to himself. As people turned, a woman let out a gasp and then they descended upon him, enveloping him in the cloaks from their shoulders and checking his body for injury. Fafnir pointed at the sky and tears fell freely from his eyes as he described … a dragon attack?
The growls and angry sounds from men as they listened closely to his tale only got louder as they began talking amongst themselves, their fists clenched and their eyes narrowed on the skies.
“… attacked by a dragon. The poor boy.” I heard a woman say as I concentrated on her mouth. I gasped as I realized the meaning of her words. He’s blaming his dragon form for his state. I suppose it’s not a lie.
But are these people witches too? Will they see the deception?
“We’ll need to do something. This child lost his family. His village.” Someone jeered from the back of the crowd and they agreed.
“Could you take us to it? Do you know where you came from?” A man closest to Fafnir asked. He was fierce to behold, riddled with scars, with his dark beard and hair braided, and he stood looming over the boy with an ax in his hand.
“I can’t be sure.” Fafnir swallowed, a quiver in his voice. “It was dark, and I was scared.”
The man’s blue eyes softened and he patted Fafnir’s shoulder. “It’s all right, boy. We’ll make sure you’re taken care of and we’ll end this dragon. For your family, your village and for what it’s cost you.”
Fafnir’s eyes glittered with tears, and he swallowed back the emotions. Clenched his jaw and sniffled. “I want to help. I want to fight it.”
It was a strange reaction, especially when he knew the dragon was himself.
The man grinned. “We’ll make a man of you yet, boy. What’s your name?”
“D-darius.” He stared at the man with worship in his eyes and I realized this man was probably the first to ever be kind to Fafnir.
I knew how attached you could get to a person who proves your fears wrong.
“It’s good to meet you. My name is Regin, and this is my village. You are welcome here. Now, go wash up with the women, and we’ll begin tracking the dragon tomorrow.”
The scene changed again, and I was feeling ill with the constant shifts in visions, but I exchanged smiles with Nisha as we watched a group of baby ducks follow their mother into the lake. The village was now lush and green, and heat rose in curls from the ground. Children screamed, and a hammer clanged noisily behind us as we walked behind two men toward the woods.
I stopped asking questions about what I was looking at and why it was important. I trusted Nisha to show me what I needed to see.
“Witches? Here? So close to the village?” Fafnir’s voice asked, with the odd prepubescent squeak. He turned his head up to gaze at his companion and I recognized him, too. Regin. The leader of the village.
“Anonymous reports came in of a suspicious person visiting a village a day from here. I believe they could be a witch. You aren’t ready for battle, but I trust you to watch and report back.”
Wait. Is Regin a hunter? Promising revenge on the dragon could have been empty reassurances to a young boy who lost his family. But if they were hunters, if they knew about supernaturals and dragons … And to have reports of witches?
I s this why he wanted to rejoin the hunters? Because they were his first family? It was understandable, but he was both a witch and a drakorian. How could he be one of them?
“Only watch?” Fafnir wined. “I’m ready. I want to fight. I can be useful.”
“Of course you can, my boy.” Regin patted his back again and handed him the sack. “But Brunhild will have my head if I send you to fight alone. Go to the village, watch for a few days and report back. If you do well, and discover the witch, you can go with the hunting party.”
“How will I know if it’s a witch?” he asked.
Regin didn’t miss a beat. “Remember your lessons. Strange happenings, small animals, females leading and prescribing medications. Watch for effects on the village.”
“And if I don’t have evidence?”
Regin shrugged. “The leader is concerned. Even without evidence, if you agree with him that something untoward is happening there, we will strike. Those creatures can’t be allowed to live.”
Fafnir was quiet for a moment, and they continued to walk through the woods. When he spoke, it was a quiet whisper in the wind. “What if I were a witch?”
“You aren’t.” Regin didn’t take the question seriously and continued walking, even when Fafnir stopped.
“But what if I was? You’d kill me?”
“Darius, if you were a witch, I would kill you with my bare hands. Witches are evil. I told you my story, how I got these scars. Magic ruined my life and took my family, and I won’t rest until every unnatural being in this world is dead.”
He didn’t notice Fafnir’s hand shaking as he nodded and followed his leader.
The scene changed to a dark hall where Fafnir was drinking from a pitcher and looking introspective. He didn’t look older than the last scene and he was wearing the same cloak, so I thought it couldn’t have been too long after.
Another man with perfect porcelain skin pulled back a chair and sat opposite Fafnir, looked up and then double took. “You—”
Did they recognize each other?
“You,” the other man said with a smile as he eyed the arrow embroidery on Fafnir’s sleeve. I hadn’t noticed it until now and the clear symbol of the hunters confirmed everything for me. “How interesting that you decide to hide in plain sight of the hunters.”
Fafnir turned white. His eyes widened, and his hand clenched around the handle of his weapon. “You won’t tell them,” he growled.
“Won’t I?” the man raised a taunting eyebrow and smiled.
“Are you the reason they sent me here?” Fafnir whispered, looking around at the other people whispering and glancing over at the pair.
He leaned back in his chair and took a casual swing of his drink. “Probably. There are no other supernaturals in this village. Just you and I.”
“They’ll kill you.”
“They are welcome to try. I’m not as easy to kill as a witch.”
Fafnir paused. “You’re not a witch?”
“I’m faei.” And as he said it, I could see it. “I’ve been roaming this realm since the Fall.”
“Since the Fall of the Titans?” Fafnir’s mouth dropped open, all his indifference and cool vanished. His eyes were wide with awe.
“You know your history. That is good. You’ll need it.”
His brow furrowed. “What does that mean?”
“You have an interesting heritage, and possibilities swirl around you like a hurricane.” The faei’s eyes clouded as Daithi’s did. “You cause a Fall of your own.”
Fafnir leaned over the table and whispered, “How do you know that? What do you mean?”
“I have visions of the future. Of the past. Of present. You are a person of great interest to the Fates.”
“The Fates know of me?”
“They know of us all. But you have many futures, many possibilities, and there are decisions only you can make, only you can control.” The faei’s voice was all mysterious and low, but it was vague and Fafnir’s awe faded as skepticism creeped into guarded eyes.
The faei continued speaking with white eyes. “You want to know how you can love the hunters who have treated you so kindly, yet be their enemy. You wonder if the witches still look for you, and they do. Sigurd is being trained, built up with portal magic to prevent you from going to other realms. You wish for acceptance, love, worship, but you will not find it in this life. You will die, either by the hunters or the witches.”
“I’m going to die,” Fafnir repeated blankly.
“Yes.”
His jaw clenched, and his lip wobbled. “If I weren’t a dragon …”
“If you weren’t a dragon, you’d still be a witch and hunters kill witches. And if you were a human hunter, supernaturals would hunt you. It is the way of this realm.”
“I just want to be …” He couldn’t say it, but we all knew what he meant. He wanted to be human. He wanted to be a hunter.
The faei shook his head. “You are a child.”
That shocked Fafnir out of his melancholy and he responded defensively, “I’m a man.” Yet, his voice broke, proving his youth.
“I don’t say it to insult you. You might be an adult here, but in Drakor, you would still be a boy. And mateless.”
Fafnir bared his teeth and hissed. “I don’t want a mate. I don’t want to be a dragon. If I could cut it out of me, I would. I can’t stand it’s incessant whining, the pushing to change, to hoard. I can’t stand it. I ignore it because the hunters are who I’ve aligned myself with. They … care for me.”
He hates the dragon? He wants to cut it out?
Knowing Dralie as I did, it made me feel sorry for the poor drakorian locked inside Fafnir, ignored and despised. But equally, I could understand Fafnir’s resentment of the beast. It caused the death of a child and made him leave the only home he’d ever known and unable to truly be loved by the people in his new home.
The faei smiled, and he leaned across the table. “What if I told you there is a way?”
“A way to what?” Fafnir asked despondently.
“Be accepted by the hunters. A way to truly be one of them and lead them into a new era.”
“Lead them?” He sat up. “They don’t find out about me?”
“They do.”
“But they don’t mind?”
“Answer the question, boy.”
He bit his lip, and his hand trembled on the table. “I would do anything for that to come true.”
“Anything?” A gleam in his eye made me certain that this faei was the true villain of the story. I shuddered.
Fafnir nodded firmly. “Anything.”
“Even die?”
“Die?” He swallowed nervously.
“Twice.”
“It kills the dragon?” Fafnir asked hopefully.
“No. You will be revived in a time when it is possible. When spells have evolved. When dark magic is used during a great war. And this magic will lead you to answers on how to achieve your goal.”
“Tell me what I need to do.” He ordered.
With mania in his eyes, the faei exclaimed, “Become a legend. Make the dragon responsible for the dark magic you use. Tell lies. Stir rumors. Convince your enemy to come to you and kill you because, after death, you will be reborn, and then the work really begins.”
“This all sounds too good to be true. How can I trust you?”
The faei laughed and drew more stares from the other people in the dim hall. “You can’t trust me. I’m a faei seer and I have my own agenda, but you interest me. Allow me to aid you. I have seen what is possible, and I am curious to see how far you’re willing to go.”