King of the Woodlands

Chapter 16

People said that time healed all wounds.

It was a lie.

Time was a thief. Time saved people, but it stole everything.

He closed his eyes and held his breath and drowned himself out, thinking about Lilibeth and her useless hope.

This girl, this strange girl with a green thumb. Why was she so good, so kind? Why was she a holy saint wrought in bright colors, a saint with hair like autumn? She'd kept her hope, her goodness, even when the world had tried taking it from her.

The Woodland King knew that he was a monster. He'd heard Lilibeth spit the words in his face. She'd never understand what it was like for him to see Birgit laugh with her, see her talk with his servants like they were friends. She'd never understand how much it hurt him to watch her laugh and smile, knowing that he could never draw nearer, even if he wanted to.

He released a heavy, mournful sigh and turned back to the clock. If he wanted to live, he would have to put down his armor, let it go. He would have to "accept his pain", like Lilibeth said. But would he ever gather the courage to step into the light again, go outside and feel the earth beneath his feet? He'd fallen in love with his solitude, his life in the dark.

Why do you fear the humans with their fragile flesh and tangled hearts? his brother had once said to him when they were just wyrmlings, dragon-children, just learning to unfurl their wings and catch an updraft.

Because they have swords made of steel, he'd said to his brother—Kolzryrth, his name had been. And I am just made of scales and skin.

No, brother, Kolzryrth had laughed. You are made of fire.

He remembered everything about his brother, even though he wanted to forget.

He remembered days wishing on four-leafed clovers, days taking to the skies, the wind at their backs and turbulence snatching the breath from their lungs. He'd give anything to have those days back, to feel no pain, to be back with the only dragons who didn't think him strange—his family.

He remembered nights when the clan was asleep, nights when he and Kolzryrth spread their wings and flew, unable to suppress their unquenchable energy. They'd ravaged and lusted after life, hunting and dancing until their ribcages burst and their breaths burned bright in their lungs. They'd lived the way nature intended them to: free and unapologetic, the mighty beat of their wings against the air a song of brotherhood.

On the day the human archers came, the Woodland King had woken not to the smells of valley streams and highland mist. He'd woken to the smell of smoke, grey and thick, a billowing veil. He heard man-shouts and dragon cries, and it took a while for him to realize that his brother was gone.

He'd crept out of his nest to find the hatchlings all huddled in a trough, mewling and slithering over one another, flapping their barely-formed wings frantically as if those little stumps could carry them into the sky and to freedom.

The Towering Timberlands were in ruins. Upon the forest floor lay pieces of tree bark and splintered wood. They were like fallen gods, defeated by an ancient storm. As he drew closer, kicking past scraps of driftwood twisted in patterns that reminded him of seaside waves, he unveiled a horrifying sight.

Irsenth, his mother, was in chains, her coal scales shining with black blood. Two men in leather armor and green feathered caps stood around her with bows and arrows. Other men clad in shining silver stood around them, holding broadswords.

No, he'd thought to himself. His mother, who laughed like the rain, with a fiery heart as big as a sunflower. His mother, who had taught him to hunt and fly. As she died his breathing hitched, his lungs split, and blood rushed out from under his tongue.