Heart of Flame

XXXIII. The Cost

Sorne almost didn't hear the shrill screams of whistles as the Imperium's legions quit the field, leaving it in possession of the eastern warriors. She didn't feel the ache of her broken ribs as she knelt down beside a still, dark form. "Pretty girl," she whispered softly, running her hand over that familiar muzzle. Nirsal was still hot to the touch, just barely still breathing. She was dying, and Sorne knew the damage was beyond saving. Nessa had said as much. She could see the wounds from the lightning bolt where flesh had ruptured and burned to the point of charring. The sight of wings punctured by arrows and gashes opened by the spears that Nirsal had taken every time she swooped down made something break inside Sorne.

She still remembered breaking apart the pieces of Nirsal's shell so the struggling little dragonling could work her way out of it, the chirping and cooing that had turned to deep purrs as she grew. She bore scars across her shoulders from that first night when Nirsal had dug her claws in deep during the fight. How many times had Nirsal saved her life? Countless. But now, when it mattered most, Sorne couldn't do anything in return. Her hands were a killer's, not a healer's. War was all she knew.

Nirsal had attacked a Prince of Iron to save her. Now the wound she had taken on Sorne's behalf was killing her. Sorne knew from experience how agonizing burns were. She stroked the scales behind Nirsal's horn and one golden eye opened, glazed by pain. There was a small, broken sound from the dragon, full of fear and suffering. Sorne felt her heart ripped out by that one, discordant note.

"It's just me, pretty girl," Sorne whispered, gently lifting Nirsal's head into her lap. They'd sat like this countless sunny afternoons, basking in each other's company. Usually after Sorne had forced her to take a bath so her clothes didn't end up covered in blood from Nirsal's most recent meal. She rested her head against the top of Nirsal's, positioned so her throat and chest were next to Nirsal's ear.

Sorne hummed, the same tune she'd heard growing up, the same one she'd hummed when she'd tucked Nirsal's egg under her chin to offer warmth and security before the dragon even hatched. One last lullabye as Nirsal slipped from this world to the next. Sorne stroked small scales and hummed until she felt the shuddering and struggling breathing slow.

In...out...in...out...

And then, Nirsal's breathing stopped.

Sorne couldn't keep humming. It turned into sobs. She'd lost Nirsal, Áshildr, and too many others. Somewhere across the field, she knew Khagra, Ardashir, and Zajar were gone too. As her body shook and she screamed, she regretted her choice. Nessa had granted her life, allowed her to keep fighting, but for what? The Princes of Iron were dead and gone, leaving in their wake just grief and suffering. How many others were gone? How many lives cut short? Sarom had burned and with it most of Ethilir.

She didn't want to believe it was true, that they were really gone, but evidence enough of the reality was the bloody head in her lap, the golden eyes that would never see another sunny afternoon. Sorne could see her reflection in their clouded surface. She wanted the spark back, the life.

"Wake up," Sorne begged. She wasn't certain if she was talking to Nirsal or herself. "Please. Don't be gone. I need you." How selfish had she been? How many would have given their everything to be spared death, to be reunited with their loved ones. Sorne had been spared, and for what? Her home was destroyed. They had followed her to their deaths, gladly, and she had not been able to save them. The others kept their distance until she lost her breath.

This was the pain that Nessa had promised her. Sorne felt like she was drowning in an ocean of grief. "Fire-Heart," Dálkr said, his hand touching her back.

Sorne flinched, but she didn't pull away. She felt like she was choking, struggling to breathe. She was vaguely conscious of the fact that her few remaining friends were around her, Vridash on one side and Dálkr on the other. Tóla was approaching, supporting Cecilie.