The Seasons of Sissera

Nokkland

Perkin opened his mouth to speak but Molly beat him to it: "See? He doesn't see anything unnatural about it either. That's three to one now, Perkin. I think you'd better accept the fact that it isn't caused by that dragon you thought you saw earlier today. Besides, dragons are all dead anyway, thank goodness!"

Involuntarily, Nokkland leaned forward when Molly mentioned a dragon. His scar turned white-hot before subsiding, causing him to hiss softly. So, he had been heading in the right direction after all. That was comforting.

"I know what I saw," hmphed Perkin, reminding Nokkland very much of his father.

Turning towards the bar, Clarence called: "Is the soup up yet? We're starving over here!"

"Coming!" called a female voice, and a girl maybe one or two years younger than Nokkland appeared with three bowls of steaming stew.

As she walked towards them, Nokkland noticed that she walked hunched over, taking tiny timid steps. Her long flaxen hair braided down her back framed a meek face with dull blue eyes. She hurriedly handed a bowl to each and retreated towards the door next to the bar.

The fragrant smell of onions, potatoes, carrots, and bay leaf made Nokkland's stomach rumbled audibly. Molly burst out laughing.

"Lyren, dear, could you bring out another bowl of soup?" she inquired, "It looks like we'll be here for the night anyway."

The girl nodded briefly and vanished only to emerge with another bowl. Nokkland finished its contents almost as soon as his fingers touched the clay. He ate his way through a second and third before finally feeling full after a fourth. Each time, Lyren brought him a refill silently, never meeting his eyes.

The storm showed no sign of subsiding so he, Perkin, Clarence, and Molly spread spare blankets on the floor next to the round fireplace and bedded down for the night.

"Goodnight Da, goodnight Rothgar," Nokkland whispered before closing his eyes, fervently hoping his family was weathering the storm successfully.

***

Bells ring out violently then stop.

Darkness clouds his visions. His chest tightens and he feels himself shake and heave. His muscles might be non-existent for how weak he feels. Should he attempt to move, Nokkland feared he would crumble where he stood.

He must have grown because he looked down at the members of his village, alive now, with their rakes and hoes flashing in the brilliant white light of the ice-dragon fire. Pain ripples through him from various strips of his hide and one of his legs burns white-hot.

Before him, the tiny frame of his daughter pelts towards him, dodging the knives which are thrown at her. One catches up with her and she screams as it slices open her back, making light work of both muscle and sinew. Nokkland feels himself hobble towards her, keening, fighting to protect her. He inches forward, straining against the pain and struggling to keep his balance. His daughter forces herself forward across the frozen plain, leaving a crimson trail behind her.

Fatigued and trembling, she doesn't manage to avoid the second knife which plunges itself into her shoulder. Her legs give way and her small body crashes to the ground. Nokkland reaches out, trying to force the humans back, wishing he could take her place but to no avail. He is not strong enough to protect her and he is forced to watch as the blades tear in and out of her young innocent flesh.

His heart became so heavy he feared it had frozen but a small spark of anger kindles within its depth. Heat fills his belly and he opens his jaws, pitching forward as he gave all that he had left to the flames which consume her tormentors. Maybe, just maybe... But when the flames extinguish and he could see before him, his daughter lies still, her carcass a stranger to her true form without its wings and innumerable cuts in their stead. The ice beneath her blushes with heart's blood as it gently flows from that which was no longer living.