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.
The clock chimed the hour, but lost in his memories, he could barely hear it.
When he saw his father chained, and his brother chained, it was like the entire world had fallen apart around him.
Some of the men had reached for him, their fingers calloused, stained with dragon's blood. They put him in dark, heavy irons. But over the chaos, over his own roars, the Woodland King had heard his brother's screams.
"Leave him alone!" Kolzryrth had shouted, thrashing against the men that held him, clawing and kicking. "Don't you dare touch my brother!"
Kolzryrth had screamed his name, a name that time forgot, a name that he'd abandoned. It had been his last tie to his brother, his family, but if he kept it, it would only bring him misery.
"Please," Kolzryrth had then begged. He'd never heard that word from his brother's mouth. "You can kill me. But my brother—my little brother—he's more than everything I am."
Vaguely, he could remember a whip shining in one of the men's hands before craackk! It struck like lightning from a blue sky, and Kolzryrth went down hard. At the last second, the two brothers sought out one another, but Kolzryrth's eyes turned glassy and emptied out.
Kolzryrth. Brother. His brother, the only dragon who had befriended him. As he slumped backward, the trees listened, and they screamed their fury.
The Woodland King's world had slipped from beneath his feet, shattering before him, but somehow, impossibly, he was still standing. He was confused, numb, like something vital had been torn out of him.
Take me to your darkest places, and I'll stay the night, Kolzryrth had said. Brother, come to me with a splintered spine and a fractured heart. Look at me with swollen eyes, and I'll take you as you are.
But who would come for him now? Kolzryrth was gone—no, dead. Taken. If he fled, swallowed up by the clouds, would anyone care? If he fought, would anyone bother to stop him? He couldn't harm humans, he knew. The code forbade it.
He had two choices: kill the men and live, or stand down and let him—and his family—die in vain.
The men had bound him with iron chains, but he couldn't fight back. Harming a human was like treason. Their broadswords shone like sunlight over water—subtle warnings.
But a single swipe of his lethal claws could kill them all in seconds. Could he harm humans and become a disgraced Fire-Dancer? His entire family would disapprove, even his brother.
His brother, who laughed like lightning, who flew like an eagle. Kolzryrth was gone.
No, he was taken. Taken by humans, the people that dragons had respected for centuries.
No, he thought as he was dragged to a caravan. There's nothing waiting for me but misery and hunger. What's the point of fighting?
No. Vengeance was waiting, and he had to fight to claim it.
The Woodland King tipped his head back and roared the battle cry of a god.
I'll choose to live freely as a man-killer rather than die as a slave.
So the Woodland King fought. He tried not to think about the guilt he'd have to live with, disobeying a sacred rule of the code. But these men were the people who had killed his family. Fueled by white-hot, blinding rage, he couldn't listen to reason. The human men had brittle bones and paper skin, and they fell apart easily.
One by one his claws flashed and men fell, each step bringing him closer to Kolzryrth.
His brother's eyes were wide and empty, staring at a vast blue sky. "Don't leave me," he'd wanted to say, but he was too tired to grieve, to beg.
He'd tried to pull Kolzryrth's body out of the wreckage, but it was too heavy. He thought of nights beneath a lacquered silver moon, days spent in the skies, flying over green hills and jagged mountains. He remembered closing his eyes and wanting to die.
He'd taken to the skies, but his wings trembled and his body was frail. He'd only been a fledgling, an adolescent, cautious and frightened and unsure, and he was quickly defeated by the winds as they dragged him down, down, down into the sea.
The waters were cold and salty. He was being pulled under by their azure, seafoam-frosted hands, pulled into an eddy of darkness. With one splash he broke the waters, gulping great mouthfuls of smoky air and—
The grandfather clock cawed again, and the Woodland King snarled. He'd gone too far into the dark depths of his memories—his heart was hammering and his breathing was labored.
Weak, he chastised himself, trying to ignore the tear in his heart. He'd let his shields down, allowing a fresh torrent of emotions to surge through him. How could he ever go outside and conquer his pain if he let a single flashback tear his heart open? He wanted to live without his armor. But now, he wasn't sure if he could.
Time was running out, and he had to find a way to save himself.
But to save himself, he had to let go of his armor and embrace his pain.