Seven Thousand, Seven Hundred and Eighty-two

by Educated Guess

Rating: everyone
Tags: Other, Random, Slice of Life, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic
Length: 5723

A scribe recounts (a small part of) the tale of his tribe's greatest hero, and how their prize was won.

A scribe recounts (a small part of) the tale of the founder of his tribe, and how that founder gained the artifact that defines them to this day.

2nd-place winner of the January Writing Contest of the World-Building Alliance. Prompt: "Pick a race (other than ponies) and write an origin story for that race." Originally, I was going to do dragons, but then this idea sort of... happened.

Published 2013-01-22 18:30:01 UTC
Last updated 2013-01-22 18:30:01 UTC

Seven Thousand, Seven Hundred and Eighty-Two

The Account of Heron, Scribe of the Tribe of the Dragonblessed

The 14th Sun of the 2,714th Moon

Today was the Warming Evenday, and as always, a festival was held. Well, I say was - it’s still going strong, if the noise from the main hall is to be any indication. Geode performed the usual rituals, blessing children born since the last festival, praying for a good harvest, naming the rain, and such. Knowing him, I’m sure he’s keeping his own records of such things.

Thankfully, several things of far more import and interest than Lash and Saffron’s umpteenth child occurred. For instance, as I was walking about the festival grounds, observing, as I do, I noticed a conversation taking place between the most unlikely of partners. Hedge, Prince of the Twin Lakes, and Asp, daughter of the chieftain of the Tribe of the Deeptree, had sequestered themselves behind a stack of barrels - containing Vermin’s famous elderberry wine, fortunately enough for me. They seemed to be quite enjoying each other’s company, which was, to say the least, surprising, given the history between their tribes.

I won’t say that I eavesdropped—

“Dad?” a small voice asked.

The scribe pretended not to have heard the quiet, pitiful plea, and continued to write.

—but I did happen to overhear a good portion of their dialogue. It seems that they are in love! They plan on eloping, and the majority of what I heard was increasingly foolish and dangerous plans for doing so. I asked Geode whether we should attempt to resolve the situation before it inevitably soured itself, but he assured me that it was best to let such events unfold on their own. As is his way.

“Dad.” The voice had moved from questioning his presence to announcing its own, and demanding attention - but still, he ignored it, struggling to control the smile that was pulling at the edges of his mouth.

I also feel it worth mentioning that the legendary Crumble, of the Moon Tribe, once again graced our humble kitchens with her presence this year. I believe I can speak for every citizen of the Nineteen Tribes when I say that her songberry pies are more than worthy of every juicy, succulent note they produce. In fact—

“Dad!”

Heron sighed, allowing the smile to take over at last. Slowly and deliberately, he set aside his quill in its inkwell, and looked up into the small, furious eyes of his son.

“Yes, Hawk?”

With the attention of his father upon him at last, Hawk shrank down behind the edge of the desk, attempting to regain his original, pitiable demeanor.

“Sparrow told me that the Tale of Rag isn’t true,” he whimpered.

“Is that so?” Heron turned in his chair to look at the empty doorway behind him. “And when did my favorite niece become an expert on our history?”

“Oh, come on, Uncle,” Sparrow said, flopping herself around the doorjamb with a fluidity and air of boredom that only a practiced adolescent could have accomplished. “Hawk’s almost as old as I was, when I stopped believing in all of that nonsense.”

“It’s not nonsense!” Hawk shouted indignantly, jumping up and pounding his fist on the table. “It’s true! Rag fought a dragon and ripped a scale right off its nose! Right, Dad?”

“No, that’s not—” Heron began.

“Oh, please. He probably just found an old, loose scale in a cave somewhere, and made up the dragon to impress everyone else.”

“I don’t think—”

“That’s not true! Rag would never do something like that! He was brave, and honorable, and—”

“Now just hold on a moment, you two!” Heron chuckled, pushing himself up out of his chair. “Neither of you have got it right.”

“What do you mean?” they said at once.

“He didn’t claim it in a battle,” Heron continued. “And he didn’t just find it laying about - though, technically, he was in a cave. It was given to him.”

“Really?” they asked together.

Heron raised an eyebrow suspiciously. The only time his son and niece did anything together was when they had some kind of plan.

“Well, since neither of you remember it correctly, perhaps I should tell the story again.”

“Yes!” Both children pumped their paws in victory, and rushed to sit cross-legged in front of the scribe, who began to recite the tale he had told so many times before.

The dawn shone weakly, muddled and dulled behind a ragged patchwork of clouds. Even though it was what he had been waiting for all through the stormy night, the sun did little to comfort Rag. Water stretched out before him in all directions, seeming only deeper and darker for the glints of light upon its surface; behind him, the same pool was feeding a dozen streams and rivulets that crept deeper and deeper into the Great Cavern. Broken pillars, scattered stones, and the shine of gold beneath the water’s surface confirmed his worst fear - the Three Gates had been toppled during the night. The Gates - and what else?

“Ah, the storm has passed at last, I see.”

“Hey, wait a minute!” Hawk protested. “You can’t just go straight to the end!”

“Well, if I retold the whole Tale, it would take several hours - as I’m sure you were aware. You’re getting a pass on your normal bedtime because of the festival, but don’t think you can push that luck into the wee hours of the morning.”

“Told you he’d catch on to us,” Sparrow hissed, elbowing her little cousin.

Hawk pouted, his master plan foiled.

“Now, where was I...”

“Ah, the storm has passed at last, I see.”

Rag turned to see Kit approaching, stepping gingerly over the myriad trickling streams.

“The thunder was loud enough to keep half the tribe awake, myself included,” Kit continued, chuckling. “For a while, I was afraid we’d all be washed away.”

Silently, Rag turned back to the view outside, staring at the drifting clouds as though they were smoke from an approaching wildfire.

“What troubles you, Rag?” Kit asked, clambering up, with no small amount of difficulty, to stand next to his nephew on the Watchrock. “We have suffered far worse storms than this in the past.”

“I’m afraid not, Uncle,” Rag said, gesturing to the wreckage in front of them. “We were not washed away, perhaps - but the Gates...”

“Bah! Naught but stone and gold - they can be rebuilt.”

“Whether or not they will stand again is not of consequence, Uncle!” Rag suddenly yelled, rounding on Kit. “It is the fact that they fell at all!”

“Rag—” Kit placed his paw on his nephew’s shoulder, but Rag winced and shoved it away.

“It is an ill omen, Uncle! You know it as well as I!”

“Rag.” Again, Kit planted his paw, and again Rag winced, but this time, it stayed. “I know that, as shaman of the tribe, it is your duty to interpret the signs and symbols of the world - but sometimes, there is nothing there to be seen.” Kit made a grand, sweeping gesture towards the sky. “Look - there are no harbingers of doom. The clouds are clearing - it looks to become a beautiful day. Rain is rain, and wind is wind. Sometimes they are soft, and sometimes they are hard - that is the way of the world.”

Rag’s voice dropped to a hoarse, fearful whisper. “This was no ordinary wind, Uncle.”

At last, Kit’s face took on a sliver of Rag’s worry. “What do you mean?”

Rag swallowed before continuing. “When the storm began, I took my place here, upon the Watchrock, and made ready to hold it at bay. And when the first of the thunder pealed, I held my staff high, and called out the names of the wind, and the rain, and the clouds, and the sky, and warned them from this place, as is the proper way. But even as I spoke, the staff was... snatched from my paw by the gale, and swept out into the night.”

Rag turned away from Kit, his face more fearful than seemed possible. “That staff - given to me by my father, and his father before him, and his before him, and back, and back, beyond our banishment, beyond even the Division of the Eighteen Tribes - that staff - the staff which moved aside the Flood of the Hidden Valley, the staff which doused the flames of Phornitosk the Firebird - that staff—” He turned his gaze back to his paws, which trembled with generations of shame. “—was snatched from my claws like a leaf from a tree in autumn - like it held no power at all.” He hung his head, defeated. “And this, after everything else that has happened...”

Kit let his paw fall from his nephew’s shoulder, and looked once more up into the sky, towards the clouds which now seemed more to be fleeing from some unknown evil than leaving them in peace. He heard pawsteps behind him, and turned to see Rag walking away from the Watchrock, back into the Great Cavern.

“Where are you going?”

“Assemble the tribe, please,” Rag said, without looking back.

“For what purpose?”

The young shaman stopped, and hesitated a moment.

“I would address them.”

“...You’re not going to recite the whole address, are you?” Hawk asked apprehensively. His recollection of the story past this point, besides the dragon itself, was blurry, at best

“Of course I am!” Heron said with almost comical conviction. “The address is the most important part - even more important than the dragon, in my opinion!”

“I have to say I’m with Hawk on this one, Uncle. If you’re going to start at the end anyway, can’t you just skip to the end end?”

“Hey, who’s the storyteller here?” Heron asked, feigning indignation. “Either we get there the right way, or not at all.”

Sparrow sighed, and let her cheeks slap down on her paws sulkily. Hawk was beginning to regret thinking he could outsmart his father.

As Rag approached the Council Rock, he looked around him at the faces of his tribemates - faces old and young, that had both watched him grow and grown under his watch.

There was Soot, the eldest of the tribe, leaning heavily on his gnarled cane. There were Nest and Rack, holding each other tightly, still filled near to bursting with tears. There were Silt and Lark, struggling to keep control of the six shrieking children that swarmed about their legs. There was Bin, the caretaker, rushing about, checking on the well-being of everyone but herself. There was Bartholomew, the wanderer that had come to them from the distant Steel Towers of the Great Hoofbeasts - ‘Manehattan’, he called it - filled with fanciful tales of magic and danger. There was Rock, and Tale, and Slip, and Yarn - Flan, Jug, Spool, and Gear - Kit, who patted him on the back as he passed - and at the front of the crowd, waiting for him with her warm, knowing smile, was Leaf. On another day, perhaps he would have been climbing the rock to announce their betrothal - but alas, the world had conspired against them.

Standing, at last, above the throng, he raised his paws, and gradually, the crowd fell silent. Quickly, he counted their heads, and was relieved to find all of them present. Eighty-one names - eighty-one lives in his paws. Though he had had the authority of tribe shaman since his father’s passing, he had never before had cause to wield it, and the power weighed heavily on his shoulders.

“My friends,” Rag began. “My family - my kin. This is the first time I have addressed you as the shaman of this tribe - but if you listen, and trust what I say, it need not be the last.” He paused for a moment to set his words in order. “I need not remind you of all that has happened, this past moon. First, there was the stillborn litter of Nest and Rack - a tragedy unlike any that has ever befallen this tribe.” The couple hung their heads in shame, and held each other tighter.

“Then, there was the rockfall that injured Pit and Pin - boulders that came crashing down all the way from the ceiling of the Great Cavern.” The twins held their legs high, displaying their splints and poultices, though there was not one present who had not already seen them.

“But it did not stop there! And how we all wish it did. Only three suns later, the Black Peak itself shifted in its rest, and the resulting avalanche took from us our beloved... Tulip...” Rag choked on the name. “...My mother, and a mother to us all.”

He buried his face in his paws, unable to hold back the tears. The crowd murmured in a mixture of sympathy and confusion towards the purpose of the meeting. Confound it, Rag, his father yelled at him, from somewhere beyond the veil. The tribe needs you to be strong. The wake is over - you’ve grieved enough already.

“Rag.” He looked up to find Leaf at his side, her paw on his shoulder, smiling her unbreakable smile. She gestured towards the tribe - all of them, even the children, were looking up at him, waiting for him to continue.

Go on, son. Rag could almost feel his father standing behind him. This is your time. They need you now more than ever.

“...Eight generations ago, we were cast out from the Kingdom of the Eighteen Tribes. We wandered for many suns, through forest and desert, through plain and swamp, but could find no place to call home. We had lost all hope.” He wiped the tears from his eyes. “But then, one sun, the shaman Gasket - my great-great-great-great-grandfather - saw a light in the distance, at the top of a mountain. Together, we journeyed there - and what we found is where we are now.”

He flung his arm wide behind him, revealing what was impossible not to see. The Black Peak towered over them, mirror-smooth, all knife-edged crags and jagged outcrops. Piled all around its base, littered across the cavern floor, filling every open nook and cranny, was the lifeblood of the tribe - the stuff that had let them survive, and thrive, at the top of this desolate mount. Coins, trinkets, jewels - gold - every piece glittering in the light of the late-morning sun, casting their sparkles upon every surface of the Great Cavern.

“The light of the mountain was the Great Hoard,” Rag continued, now stronger and louder than when he had started. “And as its glory shone upon us, that first sun, we knew that we had found our place. Seven thousand, seven hundred and eighty-two suns have passed since that first - and in that time, we have become one of the most powerful tribes ever known in, or outside of, the Kingdom! Our riches have been our strength, and our fortune has been our might. For generations, we have never wanted for anything!”

The cheering of the crowd bounced around the Cavern, and as the distorted copies of their jubilant voices mixed with the originals, it sounded as though they numbered hundreds, or thousands. Rag allowed them their moment of elation - but soon, he raised a paw for silence.

“But now,” he said, his voice subdued once more, “The light of the Hoard grows dim, and our future grows dark. We are plagued now by tragedy after tragedy. I watched the signs, but I blinded myself to them, hoping against hope that what they told me could not, would not ever be, true - but now, there is no room left for doubt.

“The storm of last night toppled the Three Gates.” At this news, a wave of murmuring swept through the crowd. “Not only that, but my staff - passed down from father to son since before the first words of history were recorded - was snatched out of my paw by the roaring gale, and cast out into the night. It can no longer be denied - not even by Kit—” He allowed himself a small, sad laugh at the jab towards his uncle. “—that our fortune here has run dry. There is only one course of action that we can take.”

He looked out over the raised faces of his tribesmates, silent and creased with worry, hanging on his next words. He could feel them being dragged out of the bottom of his very heart, clawing and tearing as they struggled not to be released.

Come on, son. You’ve come this far - there’s no going back.

Rag took a deep breath, and cast the words out into the void. As he did so, he could swear he heard them scream.

“We must leave.”

Frantic chitters swept back and forth through the crowd like grass tussled by the wind.

“What does he mean, leave?”

“Oh, this is terrible!”

“I’m nineteen suns pregnant - I’m in no condition to travel!”

“Please,” Rag pleaded, struggling to regain control of the assembly. “Let me explain—”

“How will we survive out there?”

“There’s nowhere to go!”

“What’ll we do, go crawling back to the Kingdom?”

“Please—”

“Why are we listening to him, anyway? He’s just a kid!”

“He’s our shaman!”

“Oh, come on, we all know the shamans are a bunch of crazy nutters anyway.”

“Listen to me!”

“Hey! Don’t you DARE talk about my nephew that way!”

“SILEEEEEENCE!”

All at once, the arguing ceased, as eighty-one heads turned to find the source of that deep, commanding shout. Soot merely coughed feebly, and gestured their attention back to Rag, who bowed the elder a silent thanks.

“Even were I not convinced,” he resumed, “as all of you should be, that the Great Cavern itself will eventually be our doom, it is not our greatest danger. The Three Gates are fallen. This morning, for the first time in living memory, their light did not shine out over the Kingdom. The other tribes have always been envious of our power. They will see that the lights are gone, and they will know that our fortune fails, and they will take it as a sign that now is the time to march on us, and claim the riches of the Black Peak for their own.

“Yes, we could placate them with gifts and offerings - but that would only be dooming ourselves to glorified servitude. Yes, we could defend ourselves, but that would only be staving off the inevitable, and at what cost? There is no point or purpose in fighting to keep a home that no longer welcomes us. There is no other choice. I say it again, and I implore you to see reason; we must leave.”

Again, the crowd muttered amongst themselves, whispering, debating. Rag stood, and waited, his heart thumping against his ribs. Leaf squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, reminding Rag that at least one already stood with him.

What are you so worried about? his father asked.

I’m afraid they won’t believe in me. Rag replied.

Do you believe in you?

Yes. Yes, I do. I have no choice.

Then they will believe in you.

How do you know?

Because they must. They have no choice.

Finally, one stepped forward to stand in front of the crowd. Kit - Kit, the Optimist - Kit, the Skeptic - Kit, his uncle.

“Where will we go, Rag?”

“...I don’t know,” Rag admitted. “But neither did Gasket.”

“Wait, so he just gave a big speech and they trusted him?” Hawk asked in disbelief, having managed to stay awake through Rag’s address for the first time in his life. He had expected something far more dramatic, moving, and... well, exciting.

“Of course they did,” Heron said, not understanding the problem. “He was their shaman. A tribe that doesn’t trust its shaman is like a fish that doesn’t trust its pond.”

“You don’t trust Geode,” Sparrow observed casually.

“I respectfully disagree with Geode,” Heron said defensively. “I’m his brother - it’s my duty to disagree with him. But when it counts - if it ever needs to count, the Sisters of the Sky forbid - I would trust him with my life. And speaking of trusting with things," he added quickly, "I think we were about to get to that part, weren’t we?”

“I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Kit and Rag stood together atop the Watchrock, looking out over the heads and backpacks that surrounded them. They filtered out through the mouth of the Great Cavern like a river after a flood, carrying the debris and detritus of their now-ended lives out into the foreboding, twilit unknown.

“I don’t, Uncle,” Rag sighed, counting the heads as they drifted past. “I really don’t. I can only hope that the fates grant me with as much fortune as my ancestors.”

Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six...

Don’t let anyone else hear you talking like that, said his father.

Don’t worry. I won’t.

Seventy-seven, seventy-eight, seventy-nine, eighty...

Eighty?

Rag turned and squinted into the darkness of the Cavern. No one else was coming.

“Someone’s missing,” he muttered. “Uncle, lead everyone else to the bottom of the mountain, and wait for me. I’ll be there soon.”

Kit nodded, and hopped down from the Watchrock. “Be careful, Rag.”

Rag slid down the other side, and walked back into the shadows.

It was silent in the Cavern, now. There was no pitter-patter of children at play - no distant mutter of gossiping mothers - no cooking fires, no singing - only the the dull and lonesome echo of his own paws on cold stone. But then, to his right, he heard a weak, sickly cough - and though he could not quite make out their face in the darkness, he could quite easily make out the shape of the cane they held.

“Soot?” he asked, approaching the hunched and ragged form of the tribe elder. “What are you doing?”

Soot merely chuckled, his deep and earthy voice racked by fits of coughing.

“I’m far too old to go off on some sort of grand adventure. I’d only slow the rest of you down. Besides,” he said, patting the stone beneath him. “I’m far too comfortable to be bothered.”

“Soot, I refuse to hear you speak that way,” Rag said with no small amount of concern. “I’m sure we can find some way for us to carry you. The tribe looks up to you. They need you!” I need you, he thought, but didn’t have the heart to say.

“They’ll just have to need someone else from now on,” Soot said, looking purposefully at Rag.

For a moment, they were both silent, Soot smiling, and Rag struggling against the urge to bundle Soot over his shoulders and carry him out by force.

“You’ll be a great shaman, Rag,” Soot said at last. “You’ll make your ancestors proud.”

“Drat,” said a mysterious, booming voice. “That’s what I was going to say.”

“Wait... is this the dragon?” asked Hawk, confused.

“What else would it be?” asked Heron.

“What kind of dragon says ‘drat’? And how could Rag understand him?” asked Sparrow.

“Shoosh.”

Rag and Soot clung to each other in terror as the Great Cavern began to shake violently all around them. In the dim light of the setting sun, Rag could just barely make out what was happening.

It is said that seeing is believing, but sometimes, the two are very hard to bring together.

The Black Peak was moving again - that much he could comprehend. But it wasn’t just shifting, or sliding - it was turning, unfolding, rising. Gold and gems fell away in a shimmering cascade as the leviathan that had long lain beneath them revealed itself at last.

Legs as thick as old-growth trees stretched themselves, the joints cracking like thunder. Scales slid against each other with the sound of rusty knives against satin. Wings hidden under rock and coin fanned out like fell clouds. Spines Rag had once seen as outcrops twisted and undulated back into their straight, curving rows - and at the top of it all, rising up on a neck like half of an ancient archway, was a sharp, angular head, carrying two giant, yellow, reptilian eyes that...

Well, that looked at him. He couldn’t help but stare back.

For what seemed like an eternity, they stood that way - giant and gnome, mountain and mortal - their eyes locked together. As he began to overcome to sheer mind-numbing wonder of the sight, it almost seemed to him like the beast was smiling - waiting for him to make the first move. Eventually, he worked up the courage to do so.

“What... what are you?” he asked, meekly.

“I am what is called a ‘dragon’,” the dragon said, with a voice that seemed to emanate from the rocks themselves. “My name, if you so desire, is Gar.”

“Gar,” Rag repeated reverently. Somewhere in the back of his head, a gear began to turn.

“I have been watching your tribe with great interest, ever since your ancestor Gasket led them here, all those...” Gar paused, trying to remember the correct terminology. “Ah, ‘suns’ ago. I must say, it has been very entertaining.”

“What were you doing before he came?”

“I was asleep,” Gar said simply.

“...And we woke you?” Rag asked incredulously.

Gar seemed unperturbed. “I’ve always been known as a very light sleeper.”

Finally, the lonesome gear fell into place in Rag’s logic, and he felt himself stiffen in renewed fear.

“But... if you’ve been awake all this time, then... then that avalanche... my mother...”

“Was my fault,” Gar said, a rosy glow appearing in his cheeks. “Indeed.”

“And the rockfall?” Rag asked in disbelief.

“...Yes,” he admitted.

“And the Gates?” the shaman pressed, his anger rising.

The dragon sighed, his voice full of regret. “Rag, you must believe me when I say that I never meant to cause your tribe harm. I only wanted to frighten you away - to cause you to leave, as you are doing.”

“Why?” Rag yelled, furious. “Why now?”

“The Migration is approaching,” Gar said. “The time when all the dragons in the world come together to mingle and mate. Soon, the skies here will be filled with my kith and kin.”

“...How many of you are there?” Rag asked cautiously.

“Last I counted, seven-hundred and seventy-six. And most of them would not be so thoughtful of you as I have been, especially considering the way you’ve been trading away my hoard.”

Rag’s eyes fell at last. “I see.”

“Believe me, were it within my power, I would allow your tribe to live here as long as they wished - but it cannot be so. You will be better off somewhere far away from here.”

Rag said nothing, trying and failing to set his thoughts in order. In one short, unexpected meeting, everything he thought he had known about the world had been torn, roots and all, from the ground, and the ground itself had been shown to be only a thin layer of cracked earth, held tenuously above a dark, unending abyss.

As Gar watched the young shaman think, an idea oozed its way into the back of his brain, and a wide, toothy grin began to crawl across his face.

“I cannot replace your mother, or your home,” he said, “But... perhaps I can atone by replacing your symbol.”

Rag looked back up, confused. “My symbol?”

“Yes - a staff, wasn’t it?” Gar asked, though he knew the answer quite well.

Rag nodded.

“I can give you something better.” With one hand, Gar reached up to the base of his neck and ran his claws across his skin, as if feeling for something. Eventually, he found it, and pulled away holding, pinched between his thumb and foreclaw, a single, large, jet-black scale.

He held it up in front of his mouth, and began whispering. Rag could not understand the words, but he could feel them, inside, in what he could only imagine was his soul. Thin tendrils of golden light snaked their way out from between the dragon’s teeth, wrapping themselves around the scale. When they had finished sinking in, Gar blew a spout of fire to seal the spell, and proffered the still-smoking scale to the shaman.

Rag took it, cautiously, but his worries were, surprisingly, unfounded. The scale, though smoldering, was cool to the touch - and though it looked as heavy as steel, it weighed no more than a flower petal.

“Go, now,” Gar said, smiling. “Go to your people, and lead them back to the lands that were once yours. If any oppose you, you shall tell them that you, and all your kin, have been given the blessing of Gar, the Keeper of Names - and if those opposing do not believe, only hold the scale aloft, and speak my name, and the light that once led your ancestors to this mountain will shine from it for all to see. All I ask in return is that you lead your tribe with the same wisdom and grace of your forefathers, and use the power you gain to found peace among all the tribes of the Kingdom.”

“And that is how we gained the Scale of Blacklight. That is how the Kingdom of Eighteen became the Kingdom of Nineteen, and we, once banished from the Tribe of the Green River, returned, and became the Tribe of the Dragonblessed.”

Having reached the end of the story, Heron sat back down in his chair, groaning slightly.

“How do we know that Rag told the truth, though?” Sparrow prodded, allowing her uncle no rest. “Soot was the only other one that saw it, and he stayed behind."

Heron looked sidelong at his niece, and a mischievous smile crept across his face.

“Go see for yourself,” he said.

Hawk and Sparrow looked at each other for a moment, eyes wide - then, like a flash, they were gone, scrambling off the carpet, out the door, and towards the Hall of Rituals.

Heron closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, and sighed, contented.

The children poked their heads through the doors carefully, but thankfully, the Hall of Rituals was empty. Geode, his work for the day finished, had sealed himself in his back-room study, and anyone else who was anyone else was still making merry at - or at the very least, near - the feast.

Many relics of history lined the walls - the starmetal sword of Long the Invader - the long, pearly fangs of Sarkali the Vile - but the two had seen, played with, and gotten caught playing with these things before, and none, for the moment, held interest. All they cared about was the Scale of Blacklight, which stood, as it always did, propped up on the altar at the head of the Hall.

Despite Sparrow’s size advantage, Hawk got there first.

“Dibs!” he yelled as he touched the tablecloth.

“Ugh, fine.” Sparrow tried to maintain her usual huffy demeanor, but the excited smile tugging at the corners of her mouth betrayed her.

Gently, Hawk lifted the scale from the table. It was, indeed, much lighter than it looked - even to his thin, young arms, it posed little challenge. One side was smooth and glossy, as black as obsidian - but beneath that black was a layer of subdued, shimmering violet, like the light in a butterfly’s wings. In comparison, the other side was very plain - gray, with the texture of rough-hewn stone.

With no further hesitation, Hawk turned to face the hall, hefted the scale above his head, and spoke aloud the name.

“Gar.”

Both children gasped, smiling. The room before them flooded with light as though Hawk held a piece of the sun itself in his paws. Then, they heard a sound like a dragon whispering, and noticed small, golden words forming on the backside of the scale. They said, in a language that read itself into their minds:

A gift - from the last of the obsidian dragons, to the Tribe of the Banished - the wisest mice I’ve ever known.

Epilogue

Gar watched as Rag, carrying a single twinkling scale under his arm, walked out into the evening and disappeared over the edge of the mountain slope. He smiled. It was amazing what a little bit of light in the right place could do.

“Fascinating,” he heard Soot squeak.

The dragon turned to look at the elder, who was, in turn, eyeing him curiously.

“What is?” Gar rumbled.

“You are, of course. How do you speak in our tongue with such grace?”

“Twenty-one years of constant study works wonders for learning languages, I’ve found. I was worried that my lack of practice might cause a brief barrier, but I suppose I have a gift for such things.”

Soot shook his head in wonder. “I must admit, I’m baffled. I have seen many beasts in my time, but I have never met one with such regard for the lives of lesser beings.”

Gar nodded sagely. “If there is one thing that I have learned over the years, it is that all stories hold merit and meaning, no matter how small. To cut those stories short is a travesty even more tragic than the loss of their characters.” He turned back to the dissapearing sun. “Mice, in particular, have always been inspiring to me. You are so quick to find faith - so full of conviction, and hope for the brighter tomorrow. Every being could stand to learn something from you.”

Soot chuckled. “And here I was afraid you were just going to eat me.”

“Oh, don’t worry.” Gar yawned, and set his head back down on his claws with a ground-shaking thump. He looked at the elder with one lidded, mirthful eye. “I’ll still eat you. I’ll just wait until you’re dead to do it.”

Author's Note

Because I wanted to write this scene, but it wouldn't fit in the word-count restrictions.