"Water the Flame" by Samuel V. R. Joseph

Milton tugs at his father's breeches. "Father, father, I want to stay for a story!"

His father sighs. "All right, lad, but don't be too long, or your mother will be worried!" The boy claps his hands happily and runs to the fireplace, where an old man sits in a high-backed chair. Milton joins the other children, sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"They love his stories, don't they?" old-Thomas stands next to Milton's father in the quiet tavern. "My Thomas and Leah always look forward to them."

Milton's father nods. "My boy always wants to stay behind for a story. Reminds me of when I was his age, believing in dragons and witches and warlocks. Life was simpler then. Now I have to worry about harvests and feeding my family."

Outside, the winter howls her distress, as a woman wails for her departed child. The snow swirls thick against the groaning timber. Old-Thomas takes a long pull from his ale flask, and runs a meaty hand through his thick beard. "It looks like a long winter this year. Skies alone know how I'm gonna be able to make my harvest. Seems a daunting task, me with four mouths to feed, you with three --"

"Two," says Milton's father. "Just the two of us now."

Old-Thomas draws in a sharp breath. "I am truly sorry, my friend. It seems a poor excuse to say I forgot --"

"Think nothing of it. It's time I moved on, anyway."

The two farmers sit for a moment in silence, listening to the wind; and by the crackling flames their children listen as well. The old man leans forward, his long white beard flashing orange-gold in the firelight...

* * *

The sun was just rising over the horizon, but the chill of the night still lingered. The fields of tallgrass lay shivering quietly in a gentle breeze, coated with a light frosting of dew. Through these fields wound a small country road, and up this road came two people, a mother and her son. Their names were Leah and Eli. Leah's uncle had just been taken ill, you see, so she and her son were leaving the town of Rache for the outlying village where he stayed.

Eli tugged on his mother's skirt. "It won't be much further, Eli," Leah replied. She ran a tender hand through her son's hair. The two of them had grown very close over the years. Eli's father had left them after the birth of his son, who was mute. Leah had raised Eli herself, all alone, working long hours and sleeping little.

They continued down the path. Suddenly, Eli raised a hand and pointed to the east. Following his outstretched finger, Leah saw a speck in the sky, bobbing and weaving. "That's a bird," she said, smiling down at him. But the boy shook his head and continued pointing. Leah turned again, and frowned. The speck was growing larger. She could make out wings, a long tail. She stiffened.

"Eli, run to the village. Come on!" She grabbed his arm, and they ran. To their right the winged creature grew steadily nearer. It had large wings made of skin, a thick body and a slender tail that flicked from side to side. Its head was adorned with a ridge of horns sweeping from a point at the end of its snout back to the tips of its ears. Its large eyes were a pale yellow, and they stared balefully at the scurrying figures on the ground.

The dragon gained on the quickly, swooping low as it neared. Leah flung herself to the ground as the shadow fell across them, pulling Eli down with her. A gush of searing flame shot over them. Eli's eyes were wide, his mouth noiselessly open. The patch of tallgrass on their left caught fire with a crackle, and the fire spread rapidly as the dragon wheeled around in the air, its great wings beating rhythmically.

Leah grabbed Eli's face with both hands, forcing him to look at her. "Eli, listen to me. I want you to run. Run, Eli! And don't look back!" She shoved him forward, but he stood staring at her. Tears stained his face. She risked a quick glance; the dragon had turned and was bearing down on them once more. "Eli, please! Go! Go!"

Eli ran, stumbling, between the tallgrass fields. Behind him he heard a piercing shriek. He turned. The dragon was hovering in the air, wings beating powerfully. Wave after wave of red flame streamed from its snout. The tallgrass was violently ablaze; Eli could feel the heat on his face from where he stood. He strained for a glimpse of his mother, but there was only fire.

* * *

Leah pouts. "It's not fair! How come I always have to die?"

"That's all girls are good for, silly," teases young-Thomas, giggling. Milton's eyes harden, his hands ball into fists. Thomas turns to him suddenly, eyes wide. "I'm sorry, Milton! I didn't realise -- your mother..."

Milton says nothing, only looks away. "Let him alone, Thomas," the old man says gently. "Let me continue."

* * *

It was noon in the town of Rache. A man stepped into the governor's office. He was tall, broad-shouldered and grim-faced, clad in light armour with a sword swinging by his side and a shield strapped to his back. His name was Milton, and he was a dragonslayer. With him was his assistant, Thomas, a similarly tall man but slim, with a lanky figure. He wore a healer's pouch on his hip, and an unruly shock of dark, curly hair on his head.

The governor motioned them to enter, and sat down behind his heavy teakwood desk. The floor was richly carpeted, and the walls adorned with paintings. Expensive leather chairs were set in front of the desk. "I'll get straight to the point," the governor began. "We have a dragon problem. Over the past few weeks there have been many sighting, and two people have gone missing. Initially we assumed the dragon stories were just exaggerations, and it was really just highwaymen or bandits, but this morning a boy and his mother were attacked. The boy survived. He's a mute, but he followed the dragon and apparently it vanished into the woods to the north. He drew us a map."

The governor slid a piece of parchment across the table. Milton strode forward and picked it up. It was a crude map, but legible. "You'll pay us handsomely, I suppose," he said.

"I spare no expense for the safety and happiness of my townsfolk."

Milton snorted, glancing around the office. "I'll take care of it." He rolled up the map and strode from the room. "Come, Thomas!"

Dragons were rare in those times. They had been steadily hunted over the years, and it seemed as though the ones remaining were becoming more and more vicious. Now dragonslayers like Milton and Thomas travelled the land, hunting down and killing the dragons that threatened cities and towns.

They made their way north of the town, following the path indicated on the map. They fields on either side were burnt to the ground in a large circle around the road. Fires still flickered here and there, and farmhands worked to quench them. The road itself was blackened, and to one side lay the charred remains of a human skeleton. Milton crouched down and prodded it with a finger.

"Don't look now," he said without turning, "but we're being followed."

"Followed? By whom?"

"Who do you think? Who gave us this map?"

"What -- that boy who was attacked by the dragon?"

Milton nodded.

"I don't remember seeing anyone," Thomas said.

"You were never very good at remembering things," Milton retorted. "We'll wait here for him."

"Why would he -- oh." Thomas' eyes fell on the smouldering skeleton. "His mother."

They did not have to wait long. They boy stepped out into the circle of burnt tallgrass and walked towards them.

"Perhaps we should leave him alone."

"No." Milton stood, moving gracefully despite his bulk. "I want to find out more about this dragon."

"Why? All you've ever needed to know is where to find the next one."

"Don't patronize me, brother." His eyes surveyed the devastation. "Call it a hunch."

The boy had reached them by then. He crouched down next to his mother's corpse and placed a trembling hand on the soot-covered bones. Milton bent down. "The dragon killed your mother. Murdered her. All that's left of her is her skeleton! She can't be properly identified, so she won't even get a proper burial. Now, the governor tells me you only followed the dragon as far as the woods, but I don't believe him. I think he just wanted to make sure we wouldn't take you along. He wanted to keep you safe in the town, maybe. But I know if something like this happened to -- to my mother, I'd hunt that skies-cursed dragon to hell itself, just to see it suffer! So I'll make you a deal. I know you've seen the dragon's cave. Take me there, and I'll let you slit its throat yourself."

* * *

"Tell me more about the dragons!" young-Thomas pleads. "Are there still dragons now?"

"Ah! Dragons as you think of them are all but gone. If anything, they exist in a different form now."

"What do you mean?"

"That is a long story, child, for another time."

Old-Thomas calls to them from where he sits. "Thomas! Leah! It's getting late!"

"Just a little longer, father!" Leah replies. "The story's almost done!"

* * *

They arrived at the woods without incident. It was evening, the sky growing dim as the sun faded towards the horizon. Milton told them to wait at the outskirts while he scouted ahead. Drawing his sword, he vanished between the trees.

Thomas knelt down next to the boy. "I hope you didn't take what my brother said to heart. He is blinded by anger. Our parents were killed by a dragon too. Rage and the desire for vengeance drive him, but always they threaten to consume him. He has no life outside of this slaughter."

The boy looked questioningly at Thomas, who sighed and lowered his head for a moment. "I am driven by love. I help my brother when he is injured, but I cannot cure all his ailments. Listen to me, child. I am a healer. I have many potions to heal wounds and diseases, but only one thing can heal a broken heart. Forgiveness. Remember this, please! I don't want you to spend your life in endless pain." Thomas glanced quickly into the woods. "There is a curious thing about dragons. Their breath is deadly, a killing flame, but their blood, if they are minded to spill it for you, can heal any wound, and illness. That is why they were hunted so fiercely, and that is why they retaliate so viciously."

There was a rustling, and Milton appeared. "The path ahead looks clear," he said. "Come, boy. Lead the way."

Eli led them through the woods. The drooping sun glimmered orange-red between the trees, casting tall shadows across the undergrowth. There was barely a sound but the rustle of leaves and the cracking of twigs as they walked. The dragon's cave was set into the side of a large rock face that loomed ahead. Dragons carved these caves themselves, melting the rock from the outside then scraping it away with their claws. They were typically small, just large enough to hold the creature. Dragonslayers had known for years that the easiest way to kill a dragon was to attack while it was in its cave, where it was particularly vulnerable, because the small enclosed space meant that the dragon could not breathe flame without hurting itself.

They paused at the mouth of the cave. Milton, sword in hand, motioned them aside. "Wait here," he whispered, and entered. Eli ran after him, breaking away from Thomas. The cave was small, and dark. The dragon lay curled up, wings folded, its long tail wrapped around its body. "Look at it," Milton whispered fiercely. "So smug, so satisfied after its killing." He started towards the beast, but his foot struck a small rock, which clattered loudly across the floor. The dragon opened a large yellow eye.

"Thomas, get him out of here!" Milton darted forward and plunged his sword into the eye. There was a tremendous roar, the dragon heaved itself up, slamming into the ceiling. The cave shook violently. A large forelimb swung sharply towards Milton. He snapped his shield up. The claws shrieked harmlessly against the smooth metal, but the force of the impact flung Milton hard against the wall. The bloody sword fell from his hand. He scrabbled for it, leaping over the creature's swinging tail. Thomas grabbed Eli and dragged the wide-eyed boy outside. He held his arms around the child as the ground shuddered. The cave echoed with shouts and roars, and the clang of metal against bone.

Finally the noise subsided. Thomas and Eli ventured in once more. Milton was leaning against the wall, holding a bloody arm across his chest, panting heavily. He looked up at their entrance, and dropped his sword. It clattered to the ground. "Here, boy." He kicked it towards Eli. "Finish it." The sword slid to a halt at Eli's feet. Milton put his arm around Thomas, and the two brothers staggered out of the cave.

Eli picked up the sword, holding it two-handed, and turned to the dragon. It lay on its side, wheezing, one of its forelimbs cut off, its soft underbelly lacerated, its eye gouged out. Eli stepped forward and held the sword against the creature's throat. He leaned forward and stroked its head, before dragging the sword across. Thick blood spilled out, the dragon shuddered and lay still. The boy cupped his hands, and drank the dragon's blood. He whispered, "I forgive you."

* * *

"I think that's all we have time for tonight," the old man smiles.

"But the story isn't finished!" Thomas cries. "What happened to Milton and Thomas? And Eli?"

"Why did he drink the blood?" Leah chimes in. "That's icky!"

"Oh, Milton and Thomas went on to fight their own dragons. And Eli... he lived a long and prosperous life."

Old-Thomas approaches the fireplace. "Come on Thomas, Leah. Time to go." He holds out his hands to the two children.

"All right, father." Reluctantly, they take his hands and leave, waving goodbye. The old man turns to Milton.

"What did you think of the story, Milton?"

Milton shrugs. "It wasn't about dragons, was it?"

"Not quite. It was about forgiveness. Do you understand, child? Forgiveness is like water. It kills the fires of our anger, but it is necessary for anything else to grow."

Milton's father sets down his flask and walks over. "Come on, lad. Time to get going." Milton nods and stands. His father turns to the old man. "Goodbye, Eli," he says.

The old man nods. "Goodbye."

The door opens and closes. A swirl of snow settles on the floor. The taverner comes round with a last mug of spiced ale. Eli turns in his chair and sips the ale, staring into the fire, remembering...

END