Author’s note: This is a story that has been nibbling my mind for a long time now, and I thought I’d finally let it out. It takes place in the same world as “Dragondust”, but centuries before the events of said story.

And, no, I have not abandoned Dragondust. I just had to rewrite some unposted chapters because I did not like where it was going. Will update soon, I promise.

Enjoy, and please review!

CHAPTER 1: Lethe

“O Wine, play my flute, and Ale, lead my hand,

Of dragons now sing, of Making and Calling.

Say naught of the silence that fell on the land,

When Death and Despair from ashes came crawling.

Where now the long days of unruffled bliss?

Ashes and dust in a burning abyss.”

- Day of Fire, Old Bardic Song

- - -

“Jarred first gazed upon the face of his demise during a desert storm.”

Not even sparrows dared to chirp when Thrain, the bard, paused and took a sip of water. Under a multicolored tent at the edge of the market of the village of Drogar, the bard glanced around him and saw wide-eyed people hanging from his lips, eagerly waiting to hear the rest of the story. They had probably heard Jarred’s saga countless times before, but the magic of the tragic story still held the hearts of the people of the desert. Children, beggars, common folk, even guards, they all sat around him in the heat of the afternoon, oblivious of the dust and the merciless sunlight, thirsting to hear him recite the story of the Watcher and the Witch.

Thrain knew the words by heart, having told the story in countless markets and camps. On that day, however, he had a different story to share.

The bard cleared his throat. “This is how the story began. Now, my good people, you will hear how the story ends.”

Gasps followed a heartbeat of stunned silence.

“We know how it ends,” said a woman in a white kaftan, a wicker basket filled with small bulbs on her lap.

“Yes, they all die a bloody death,” said a teenage boy a few paces away, his tanned face crowned by strands of greasy hair. His words stirred a burst of chuckles from the other boys beside him.

Thrain’s lips curled to a sad smile and his fingers traced the stripes of his worn kaftan, waiting for his audience to cease talking and chuckling. When once more the crowd fell silent, the bard’s eyes stopped in each and every face as he continued his tale. “Quite right, my young friend; a bloody death indeed. But is death where it all ends?”

Once more, his words had weaved a web and the townsfolk of Drogar had been caught in it. In silence, they waited to hear more.

“The caravan masters of Madagala know the southern territories as an empty, desolate place. In the reign of dust and heat, nothing survives, and a single oasis lies in this vast wasteland; an oasis with a pool of crystal water. Yet no traveler rests there; the caravans follow the longer coastal route, for strange rumors surround this place: rumors of grief and shadow.” Thrain closed his eyes as old memories resurfaced. “I traveled to that place. An old grave rests there.”

Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled. A gush of wind brushed against his face and he opened his eyes to see an entranced crowd around him. He took another sip of water before continuing his tale, and stretched his back – his aged bones hurt every time the wind blew from the north, carrying the scents and the whispers of distant lands.

“I spent some time there, under the shade of the palm trees, making friends with the animals that dwell there. The days were calm and the nights free of strange incidents. No ghostly wails or the grip of the damned troubled my sleep – until the dark of the moon.”

Someone in the crowd gasped. A toddler clutched his mother’s dress and hid his face in her bosom.

“Under a moonless sky, I started from my sleep by a sudden grip of dread. I shivered, with my throat dry and my head drenched in sweat. All my senses screamed to hide my face under my blanket and stay there until dawn, for something otherworldly walked the land that night. But I am a man – a fool man, and I looked.”

Had the heat of the afternoon sun lessened? Or had his words brought chill to those people’s hearts? Many had paled, and a few rubbed their arms.

“Out of a hole in the heart of darkness, a long shadow emerged at the other side of the pool. I lack the words to describe this presence – picture it as a tall man clad in a black cloak, if you will. Yet darker than his cloak was the air of utter grief and terror that hung around him. The animals of the oasis – the wild dogs, an owl – fled from his path as he took the route uphill.” Thrain paused and rubbed his arms, his elbow joints hurting badly. Age had finally caught up with him, and soon he would sit in the Halls of Nemmo, the God Protector of bards, and his eternal feast of mead and wine. But not before he told this story.

“In all my time there, I had never explored the hill. Why? This I cannot tell. Each time I followed that trail it seemed as if the sunlight dimmed. Then I looked over my shoulder and saw the pool water crystal and inviting, and the dates ripe and sweet. So each time I turned back, forgetting of the lonely hill – until that night. That night, this fool followed the cloaked shadow uphill.”

Agape, the townsfolk of Drogar waited for the bard to continue, their daily chores forgotten.

Thrain took in a deep breath, for longing over friends long lost had gripped his heart. “I followed the presence from a distance,” he continued. “Chilled to the bone despite the warm breeze, I saw – and my teeth clattered – that everything his shadow touched perished. The thorn bushes, the grass, even a small, careless mouse; they all withered away, turning to ashes and dust the north wind carried away. And still I followed, until he reached the crest of the hill. Under the thin branches of a long dead tree, a grave lay.

“The cloaked man towered over the tombstone, its surface rough and broken, victim to the winds and Time. Crouched behind a bush, I saw fleshless fingers tracing the cracks and the crevices on the limestone, and suddenly I knew: I was in the presence of Death. And still I stayed.”

Now most of his audience gazed at him wide-eyed, pale, some even trembling. Yet none dared to move, stand and walk away; such was the magic of the bard’s tale.

“Death circled the grave twice, his hooded head cocked sideways, as if in disbelief. Then he knelt and his bony hands traced the lines of the rough surface, as if searching for something; a name, an epitaph, perhaps? But how could this be? Had Death himself forgotten of the person buried there? Then he saw it.”

Thrain shut his eyes to keep tears from flowing. Something of the desolation of that hill had reached through time and space and gripped his heart. “I stretched my neck to see what had surprised Death enough to make him stand and pace backwards. When I saw it, my throat closed on a cry that turned to a sob. A flower grew there: a simbalin, a desert plant that only grows after the rare desert rains, valued by herbalists and apothecaries all over the land. Upon that dry hill, under the shadow of Death, the flower swayed in the night breeze, its roots deep in the grave, fresh and living.

“As if in a dream, I saw Death kneeling, his outstretched fingers reaching for the flower. Then… then did my aged eyes trick me? Did my terror-stricken mind fool me? I cannot tell. But, my good people, I swear that I saw the flower leaning its fragrant bud closer to Death’s touch, the touch of putrefaction and decay. A gush of air, perhaps, moved it? I never found out, for a greater shadow soared above us, and Death screeched in rage. Only then did he realize – and so did I – that he had no power there. Where his sister walks, even Death dares not tread.”

Thrain dared a glimpse to his audience. Had he gone too far? Had he scared these people too much? Despite the pale faces and their wide eyes, none moved, waiting for him to continue. He drew in a deep breath, took another sip of water, and finished his tale.

“Death fled. All I saw were black, stretched-out wings that shaded the starlit sky before my frantic escape downhill and into the desert, away from that forsaken place and the crawling shadow that now circled the grave. Feared even by the Gods, Oblivion has taken her revenge on the Watcher and the Witch, keeping them apart even in death: one buried, one forever yearning death in the form of the flower he loved.”

Thrain hung his head, no longer able to restrain his tears. “Simbalin Jarred called her, his Witch, his comrade, his love…”

His voice died away and he sat still, drained, the rustle of the tent above the only sound breaking the silence. Lyona… You deserved better, little one.

A woman’s voice made him look up. “Is this how their story ends, Master Bard?”

Thrain gazed at her wide eyes and her wet face and wiped his cheeks with the cuff of his kaftan. “I think not, my good woman. But this story has not been written yet.”

“Did you ever meet them, Master Bard?”

The boy’s inquiry startled him. No one had ever asked him this before, and he managed a sad smile. “Indeed, boy, I did.”

Now the horror-stricken eyes of the crowd glowed with renewed excitement. A myriad questions flew around him.

“Was she really as beautiful as the songs say?”

“Was he really the most feared man in Madagala?”

“Did she cast a spell to win his heart?”

Thrain smiled wider and raised his hand, requesting silence. “So, my good people, is it time for another tale? One of valor and love? Of bloody duels and desperate passion?”

The nods of countless heads warmed his heart. Jarred, Lyona… as long as I remember, the land will remember you, in songs and tales. As long as I remember, Oblivion will not prevail; until the crawling shadow catches up with me.

Pushing back the grim thoughts, Thrain began another tale.

I remember. I always will.