They had committed manifold atrocities, but it was the fruits of their assaults, the orchestrations of their chaotic intentions, that spelled their downfall. They had forged a world of horrors, but out of that would arise the heroes, the soldiers, the warriors that would slay the Eight. They had portrayed themselves as gods, and a most cruel pantheon at that; now, the weak mortals they demanded supplication of were rising against them, spilling their blood, and showing for all to see the lies that these demons wore as masks.
They claimed immortality, but quickly we showed them the truth of the matter, with sword and claw.
***
Thirteen Years Ago
***
They knew that someone new was here.
They had tried to escape, and the rough stone pit walls they were in bore the deep gouges of their claws. They had tried to climb, to shake free of the net of chains that surrounded them and held them down. They had tried to climb, over and over, so they could spread their wings, let forth a great jet of flame, and slay the people above.
But the chains had always bound them. The chains, forged by the ever-cursed Sidhe, the finest smiths and magicians, had been made of the stone heart of a mountain, of the unyielding faith of martyrs, of the molten helmets of those soldiers who had given their lives in duty battling them, imprisoning them. They rattled every time they tried to move, tried to stretch their wings, tried to climb. They rattled, an incessant sound that spoke to them, reminded them, of their manifold attempts to escape, and their constant failure.
The men in armor used to feed them, used to pull the chains back and pin them to the ground before dropping a few carcasses in front of them. Now, the men just dropped the carcasses and let them lick the bloody shards of meat off the rock. Those men wanted to stay as far away as possible.
Yet, to the ones formerly known as Rhaedrashah, they could smell the stench of man.
It was a youngling, standing at the entryway to their pit, weapon in hand. Of course, as they saw, this human hatchling wasn't wearing that armor, that steel beetle-carapace defense. Its feet were bare, its hair dirty and messy, but the slingshot in one hand and the gleaming knife in the other meant it was dangerous.
It had come to attack.
"Foolish man-child," one of them rumbled. Another unfurled their wings, and yet another clawed at the ground, eager to taste the man-child's blood. "Do you come to die?"
Its hands shook, and it held the knife in a deathgrip, and its dark eyes were wide as they loomed over him. "N...no." The man-child's voice was shaking with fear, as it should. The hatchling was in the presence of a king, or a bastard... no, no, don't remember, they mustn't remember, it hurts to remember.
They shook their head, shaking the thoughts out as well. "You've come to our place, come to our home, invaded with a tiny weapon. Surely," one of them said, "you come to die."
"No." The little one's voice still shook, but now there was something beneath it, something that almost sounded like the youngling was going to get over its terror. "I'm here to slay you."
"Slay us?" One of them laughed, and they all felt the rumble in their chest. "You? Slay us? Surely you jest! Or else your mind is unfit for this world, and we would be sparing you future agony by devouring you now."
"My mind's unfit?" The hatchling frowned. "There's only one of you, but you're not talking like that."
"Don't... don't... do not talk any more!" With that, one of them tried to lunge for the child, but another was interested and wanted to observe the youngling more. So, instead of them pouncing on the man-child, they kind of jumped, kind of slid on the rock. The youngling let out a yelp and ran to a outcropping of rock, trying to hide behind it.
"You anger me, whelp. Tell me why I shouldn't turn you into ash right now. Maybe that will turn my wrath." Of course, most of them had already decided to kill the whelp. It was eerily similar to that first night that the one ended and the many began... The night that Tesira...
No. They had agreed to forget about that. They had agreed that it didn't happen, and no one was to recollect that night. No, do not. It isn't right, and they can't remember that. They agreed on it that night. That name was stricken from their memory, now and forever.
They felt a sting above their left eye. Immediately, they whirled about to face the little man-child. There he stood, crouched behind the rock, having drawn his slingshot. "You... impudent worm!" Those who were interested in the child of man, who wanted to study it, were now enraged and all of them were unified in desire to slay it. "You dare try to wound me?"
"I'm going to kill you! I'll do it for her!"
That stopped them. Their chuckle reverberated in their chest before escaping from their maw as a giant laugh. "Really? You think to slay us for a girl? This is not a story, and you are no knight in shining armor." They laughed at the man-child. "There was a time, once, for heroes. That time has passed, and only fools like you insist on clinging to it."
"But another can rise again?" one of them asked.
"Yes, but that is not from this whelp," another said. "It is weak and frail and starved. It seeks heroism, but isn't fit to take it."
"We should devour it now, then," With that, they moved as if they were one, and the child was trapped in the cage of their maw.
They felt the sting as the knife dug into the roof of their mouth. They tasted their blood and the dirt that the kid carried in with it. Soon, the hatchling will stop struggling as he bled to death in their stomach, and would be a nice, fresh snack.
And then they felt the wave of cold.
The Change? Now? Something was wrong, before an icy coldness set in their bones. It spread, unstoppable, unable to be assuaged by their use of the Fever Blood, until they shuddered and shivered.
And then the pain hit, coursing through every nerve, and as an act of mercy, darkness overtook them, and they knew no more.
***
They awoke weak, tired, and in pain, but they awoke free.
The chains lay around them like dead serpents, silver lengths coiled around themselves. It was a welcome sight to their eyes.
But how did they cast off those ensorcelled binds? They had tried to melt them to liquid, or at least soften them enough to break them off, but the links of chain never got hot to the touch, let alone grow red hot. They had tried heating them and snapping them with intense cold, but the lack of heat affected them as much as heat. They had tried forcing spires of earth through the gaps in the chain, but the rock snapped before the links opened. They had tried a dozen different techniques, a thousand stratagems, but nothing worked. Nothing had won them freedom.
Except for whatever had just happened.
The memories were hazy at best. Some upstart of a man-hatchling had tried to slay them, had struck off a scale (there it was, sitting over there, surprisingly big) with its slingshot, and stabbed inside their maw as they swallowed the whelp as a snack. Then... No!
They looked down and screamed. Their claws, their claws! They were deformed, each digit lengthened and freakishly articulated. And as they rose, they stood on two legs by instinct, without thought.
It had been the Change. The blasted Change, that had made them into this smaller, weakened form! Whoever had initiated it hadn't had the two, dragon and whatever other race, gathered. He was cursed to be Dragonblessed.
They walked over to the platelike scale that the whelp had knocked off, and picked it up. It was large, almost the size of their head. They could see their countenance in it, staring back at them, face too flat, too human to bear. What had happened to their face, their head?
My head! That was odd. The whelp was trying to assert dominance. They quickly pushed it back down, the frightened hatchling. It was of no consequence yet. Now, it was time to be free, to soar.
They leaped, calling forth Weightless Blood.
It was sluggish, so it took their strange and foreign body some time to get off the ground and free the invisible shackles of gravity. But they did, and bemused guards stared as they flew past them, into the calling blue expanse. Freedom, they realized, was the most intoxicating thing in the world.
They wanted to run past the horizon, leap into waters and soak in the sun. Despite the transformation that bound them to the hatchling's knobby, frail form, they felt amazing, thanks to freedom. They had been imprisoned for... something, they didn't remember (They decided there was nothing to remember, after all). Now, let free of those hideous shackles, they could climb into the sky and be free.
They looked down and saw the massive grate of the Pit left behind, becoming as small as a coin. This was better. They hung here, suspended on air, blue expanse in every direction. There were many ways to go, many places to be, many to kill.
But for some reason, they felt like going south. They forgot the names of those countries there, as they drifted, but they would learn.
They floated in the breeze, drawn towards destiny, though they didn't know that at the time.
***
Author's Note: Happy Good Friday, and Happy Passover to my fans! A quick note on the future of Fever Blood; there is more to this story, but I'll tell more of that in the author's note after the Epilogue! Stay tuned!
-Corey