The Last Dragon

         The old man stood for hours—long after the flames had died down. He watched the books’ ashes stir in the winter breezes and scatter hopelessly as the ashes of so many books before them. The old man stood in silence and was still except for the small tremors that often come with so many tears. It seemed that every time he burned the books, the flames burned his resolve, and mixed up his reasoning. Then the tears would come and wash away the sharp pains, only to leave him exhausted and apathetic. Many thoughts wandered through his mind—thoughts that were only entertained when the fire devoured his will and his motives.

         He wondered why he was doing something that was so painful. He wondered how something could be right that went against everything that seemed reasonable. Anger welled up within him. Why have I followed a hopeless cause so far and destroyed so much? Behind him stood the small town from which he had gotten the books. They would forever be without a record of his people. Unless he could get them to pass on the verbal stories, they would be without knowledge of the protectors that the maker—the Architect—had appointed. It seemed counterintuitive to him that destroying a record would fix anything. His family was forgotten and destroying the record seemed to discourage any hope that they may ever be remembered.

         It was only after the thoughts each had their moment, been recognized, and addressed that his mind quieted and the immortal man moved on. He shuffled through the snow and cold to his next destination: a moderate-sized city that was sure to be rich with books.

         The old man approached the city. The large stone walls built around the city were in obvious disrepair, the flags that flew at the bastions were tattered and the main entry was a rotting wooden door that looked as if it had once been a formidable defense. He knew that the city walls were only maintained to keep thieves and wild animals at bay. He wanted so badly to help them.

         The old man stepped through the city gates and grumbled to himself. All those questions he thought, I question myself enough as it I, why must everyone else do the same. He knew it was the formalities to enter any city, but he could see that they didn’t believe in the simple laws that were meant to protect. What do all those questions mean to them anyway? They will do nothing with the answers I give them. It does them no good. There had been so little disturbance for so long that the people were slackening their efforts to uphold protective laws. They felt they had no use for the laws, just as they had no use for government or officials. Only tradition was keeping the guard going, and tradition would also be gone soon as if their will was fading away with the winter winds.

         The old man sighed and pulled his oilskin cloak close around his shoulders. It didn't offer him much warmth, but was sufficient in keeping the snow from soaking his clothing. It was a particularly cold winter and he hated it. It was too cold and too snowy for him here. He had always liked the warmer parts of the world; but his mission brought him here, and it was here that he needed to be.

         He tried to look into the faces of passing people, but none of them looked at him. It seemed as if nobody ever saw him anymore. Except, he thought, when they were asking him all those pesky questions. He pulled his hood farther over his head to keep the snow away from his face.

         The old man soon found himself in the aristocratic district of the city. He approached the first home and began up the walkway. He grumbled to himself; he hated talking to people. There was a time when times had been brighter—times when he loved and served the people. But the people he served had been gone for hundreds of years and their descendents no longer believed in the ancient tales of the Divine Protectors. At another time, when he had been buried in hatred, he would have used magic to get what he wanted from these people, but magic seemed old and worn out. He was tired of it. Magic wasn't as exciting as it once was and seemed an inconvenient exertion that he didn't want to deal with anymore. Aside from magic, his love for the people was starting to grow again. Sometimes he even wondered if he was closer to liberating everyone from the awful darkness that had overcome the land. But alas he would not allow himself to entertain thoughts that offered him either too much hope, or too much dismay.

         He knocked and the door opened with a young woman peering cautiously out the door. She looked cautious about the flurries of snow outside and she watched them as if she was a little nervous. He smiled at her kindly. "I beg your pardon miss, but if I could; I am a book collector and I would pay your family great sums of money for some of their books."

         The young girl only stared at him for a moment, her face tightened in nervous thoughtfulness. Inside he chuckled. Such innocence, he thought. After a moment of silence the girl blinked a few times and spoke softly, “Oh, dear. Um, please come in.” She pulled the door wide open and moved to let the old man in. She tried to help him off with his coat, but she was much smaller than he and obviously not accustomed to being the hostess.

         "I'm sorry, but our servants are out. They should be back soon. Perhaps then we can get you something warm to drink and show you our books." The young woman spoke awkwardly, as if she was not sure what to do with him. The foyer she had invited him into was spacious and warmly decorated with several archways leading to various rooms. On the other side of the foyer a stone staircase wound up, to the left and disappeared above his head.          Behind him, the front door opened and in strode a self-important maid. She was middle-age and had brown hair that seemed stuck between delicate curls and a light frizz. The maid stopped as soon as she was in the door.

         "Why hello, may I ask what your business is here?" She spoke very quickly, as if she had much to do.

         He sighed and suddenly realized that he spoke much more slowly than she. "I am a book collector, and there are specific volumes I am seeking. I would pay this family good money if they have and would sell me the books."

         The maid nodded briskly as if she barely heard him, as if she barely saw him. She shifted her rather pudgy body from one foot to the other. "Well, come sir. Step into the sitting room for a moment. I'll return shortly with something warm to sip and the master of the house will be home shortly," she said as she tried to hustle the old man through an arched entryway to the left and into a lavish sitting room. As soon as she was in the room, she turned on her heel and was out again. The old man looked at the plush furnishings and found one that looked rather comfortable. Sitting down he noticed the tapestries on the walls. They depicted historical scenes in a strange way that he hadn’t seen before. It was an odd style and he wanted to inspect it further, but as be began to rise, the maid returned with a warm drink. She handed him the cup and brushed her soiled hands on her apron. He paused before he drank. The maid stood, waiting expectantly to see any pleasure her drink may bring him. The old man took a sip and the liquid warmed his body in a way that almost rekindled nostalgia. It was a spicy herbal drink that tickled his senses. He thanked her for it, chuckling to himself that she would not be released from his presence until he thanked her and commented on the quality of the drink.

         Soon after the maid slipped out, the old man heard the front door open again and a husky voice whispering, "Who is that man? How long has he been here?" The old man heard the young woman reply quickly. "He just got here. He wants to see your books."

         The old man restrained himself from looking at them. He didn’t want to appear as if he could hear them, but he turned just in time to see the master of the house striding into the front room.

         "Good day, what brings you into my home?"

         The old man stood courteously. "I am a book collector and I am seeking particular volumes. If you have them, I will pay you more than they are worth."

         The man stuck his hand out in greeting. “Well, hello, it is rare to meet a fellow book collector. Come into my study."

         The old man followed him into the study where there was a single bookshelf with the few precious books they owned high on the shelf. There were only three books and they were held together by bronze dragon bookends. He smiled—pleased to see dragon statues. He looked closer and decided that these were not likenesses of dragons he had known personally, but had probably been the creation of a metal-worker.

         The old man reached for a book and smiled at the man. "May I have a look?" The man held his breath and nodded. It was a very old book and had cost him almost a full week's wages. The old man handled the book with great care and fingered the pages with delicate hands and great care. As the old man skimmed some of the pages of the book, he soon knew what it contained. This is a chronicle of our final battles. He thought back to the time when the governing deities had challenged the dragons. The deities forgot that the Architect of the world appointed them to govern, and us to protect—two groups to ensure peace and equity among the races of the worlds. Anger crept up his body and began seeping over his heart. They didn’t forget. They wanted complete power. I forgot. I forgot who I was and what I wanted. Anger welled up in him that he was unable to place. It wasn't foreign anger, but so familiar that the old man had forgotten what it meant. It seared his heart and began heating his whole chest. Reliving his past often brought the anger back, but he could subside it. The old man returned to his senses and noticed that the family was watching him expectantly. He cleared his throat and said, "Why did you buy this book in particular? It must have cost you a great deal."

         "I take an interest in the Chosen, the Ancient Ones: the Dragons."

         The old man shuddered inwardly at the formal title of his ancestry. The formal title was often used in mockery. Nobody believed in the Chosen anymore. It was all just nice stories some told their children.

         “I would like to purchase your book and perhaps the others." He turned and carefully pulled the other two books down and skimmed them carefully. He held all three books at the same time—handling them with dexterity and care.

         The old man nodded as he replaced two of the three books on the shelf. “Yes, I would just like this one please. I will pay you sixty-four reinto for it."

         The man seemed a little disappointed. "No, I only paid a little less than that for it."

         "You are correct, books have become worth more since the scarcity hit us. I will give you eighty-seven reinto."

         "No, I don’t think I want to sell the book after all.."

         The old man nodded slowly. He realized he was being too forward. He didn’t deal with people very often, and he realized that he wasn’t as sensitive as he might need to be. Nevertheless, he simply offered more money. "One hundred and twenty-five reinto then. That is all."

         The man opened his mouth to object until he heard what was said. "For the book? It isn't magic is it?"

         "No it is not magic, but a book that I want." He produced a small bag out of a pocket in his coat and spread a few coins on a desk near the man.

         The man counted the coins. They were all there. The old man always enjoyed the response he got when he handled lots of money. The man nodned awkwardly, swept the coins into his hand and mumbled something about the old man leaving.

         The old man looked back at the bookends and felt more memories begging to be addressed. He forced them away. He was angry at those memories and where they inevitably led. He turned to the maid, who stood staring at the two men having forgotten her manners. "You may show me out. Thank you all for your hospitality."

         The maid nodded slowly, showed him to the door and helped him with his oilskin overcoat.

         As he left, the old man skimmed the book again. He wondered how far he was from finding the final book. If I’ve studied the ancient magic correctly, once I’ve destroyed the history of the dragon’s imprisonment, I will be able to gather the power necessary to free them. The old man had to constantly encourage himself so he didn’t lose his direction. So many times in the past he had forgotten his purpose and lost his direction. That, he thought, is why my family has been imprisoned for so many years. After he had initially betrayed them, he spent a great deal of time crying for his loneliness and pitying himself. It wasn’t until something had reminded him of the ancient magic and his divine calling that he realized the deities who were called to govern the creatures on the planet were destroying them. He decided that as the last protector, he would have to do what he could.

         That was when the years of study began. He studied the ancient magic and the magic that had been used to imprison his people. He studied what it would take to free them and what would have to be done thereafter for them to regain their power from the deities. That was when he discovered that the histories inspired by the deities carried the greatest power in the imprisonment. Only by destroying the histories would he be able to weaken the imprisoning magic enough to affect it.

         His mind went back to the bookends. They reminded him of the imprisonment. He shouldn’t have been spared. Anger welled up in him and a little bit of defensive shame. He stopped the memories. Those things had happened in a time far gone. He allowed the pain and the memories to fade and turned to dust. The bitter cold and wind blew away his anger and the dusty memories. Thousands of years, he thought, they all run together like the words on a wet page.

         Although the old man did not move very quickly, his pace did not slacken; he continued from house to house with the same request. He wanted to see and perhaps buy some of their books.

         After he had gathered all the books the city owned on the subject of his ancestry, he passed through the gates and started down the path that took him south. The way was desolate and cold. Before him, nothing could be seen, only the bleak winter wearing on.

         He moved out away from the city and he could feel the guards watching him as he left the main path. He moved into what would have been a beautiful field had it not been covered in snow. The old man began kicking snow aside in his slow methodical manner. The snow was cold and quickly sunk into the tops of his oilskin boots. But he didn't mind. He would be warm enough soon.

         After having completed a circular hole in the snow he put the books onto the bare ground. He crouched down by the ad-hoc fire pit and took a deep breath. He felt nothing as the cold air went into his lungs and caught a deep fire within him. Although not in his original form, he still maintained a few abilities.

         With little effort the old man quickly had a large fire burning. It quickly dried his boots and melted much of the surrounding snow. The old man felt uncomfortable with the guards watching him. They would soon know what he was doing. Nobody ever reacted well to their books being burned, especially by a foreigner.

         As the flames grew from tiny embers, the old man felt the memories well up inside from dark places where they had been hidden since the last time he had burned the clues to his history. Memories arose that at any other time were banished to the outer reaches of his mind. As the flames reached great proportions, the memories came to life; memories of his brothers and dear sisters—a time when they had all loved and been friends. His betrayal hadn’t hurt them so much as it had hurt him—he was young and didn’t understand immortality or the burden that it brings. Shame consumed him as it never could. [The dark burning that tore at his soul and cried for something to be done. He let the repressed feelings run rampant; the fire would burn them out soon enough.

         He fought the anger, and the confusion that inevitably followed. I know why I’m burning the books. I have a good reason. The tears began flowing as they always did. It is all for a great purpose. He continued to try and remind himself. He looked back at the city which had become distorted by the tears in his eyes. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but it is all for your good! He coughed over some tears that were coming out faster than he could breathe. I promise, it will all be all right in the end. The old man fell to his knees—almost falling into the fire. The pain was too much for just tears now. It grabbed hold of his heart and his mind. The pages of the books were gone now, he couldn’t save the people’s histories, or the labor that so many had gone through to record them. His world began spinning and he felt as if it were closing in around him, clawing at him in hatred.

         As he huddled by the fire, a familiar sensation made his fingers tingle. It was a sensation he hadn’t known for at least 1200 years. He looked down at his fingers curiously and realized that he could almost taste the spices used to activate ancient magic. That is it, he thought as the feeling of the ancient magic began to consume him. I have released the lock. I can now save my family. He looked around as if someone close might also be able to feel the sensation that was spreading all over now. But nobody was nearby.

         He stood and set his jaw. He had almost forgotten his family and his purpose too many times. He knew what he had to do now. He looked down at the books’ ashes stirring in the winter breezes. They scattered as the ashes of so many books before them. He knew what they represented: it was the oppression of the deities. His people had been called to protect the people, and now he saw that it was possible. He smiled as the words to ancient magic began to play on his tongue. He let them flow and he was quickly spinning through the air towards his home where his plans to free the rest of the protectors were ready.