King of the Woodlands

Chapter 36

Gannon the Gallant, a very well-to-do mage, pinched the bridge of his nose with his fingers, trying not to sneeze at the strong smell of burning liquorice around him. He could barely stand to open his eyes. Lilibeth Faren had freed that dragon, and he'd fallen into the girl's trap like a rabbit to a snare.

Oh, what would the everyone do if they saw him like this? He was Gannon Yellowclaw, for gods' sakes!Tales big and adventurous always sprouted from the lips of everyone he'd ever passed by in his life. That's Gannon Yellowclaw, they'd say. He was the one who had banished the Giantess of White Hill from her home. A legend, a king, a force of nature.

Finally, he opened his eyes. He was in the alchemy room of his tower. Dragon's blood, a basilisk's tongue, bundles of basil, and old faerie wings stared at him through corked glass jars.

He hadn't expected the Woodland King to survive. It was the doing of the girl with blazing hair like autumn leaves and cheeks like apple blossoms. It had been her doing. She was made of sunshine—not the kind you shielded your eyes from, but the kind you wanted to drench yourself in. It had been her doing. Gannon's plan had failed.

What had his plan been? To have the dragon die alone, buried beneath clods of earth, forgotten and lost and miserable. Gannon had been foolish, reckless. He wanted to amuse himself by watching the Woodland King desperately search for someone hopeful enough to befriend him and break his curse. And just when Gannon was green with glee, just when he was sure the Woodland King would die, Lilibeth had come and ruined everything.

Gannon changed into his nightclothes and helped himself to some rhubarb crumble before heading up a winding set of stairs and to his bedroom. He climbed into bed and tucked the blankets over his shaking shoulders.

Oh, where had his life gone? A month ago, he'd been a powerful mage, one of the most respected in all of Llewellenar. He'd worn the purple cloak spangled with golden stars. And now? He felt too ashamed to wear the cloak. It felt like a farce.

Gannon Yellowclaw hated feeling so human and longing. He'd once thought of himself as invincible, brilliant, blessed by the gods themselves. But he was no one now.

He turned towards the one lone, round window that reflected the outside world. From his tower, all he could see were rolling green fields and bleak mountains. He glanced at the potted blue foxglove he'd left on the windowsill. His favorite thing to do had been to pluck a petal for each day the Woodland King grew weaker.

Gannon shivered. He'd have to throw the wretched plant out now. It only brought him dreadful memories now, memories of days where he thought he'd succeed, days where he'd pour himself cool glasses of whiskey and watch the clouds roll past the sky. Now he was weak and sickly, shadows smudged beneath his eyes, his cheeks red with rage, like roses blooming beneath his skin.

When he slept, he was plagued with visions—a dragon that rose on wings of flame, twigs and leaves crowning his head. Sometimes, it was a girl instead, a sword in her hand. Her eyes were fierce and angry as she brought the blade down on his head.

And although it sounded foolish, he feared her—feared her with his whole marbled heart.

But he would come face her one day. There were too many stars in the sky to count the things Gannon was promised but never given. He couldn't give up, not in this way, not now. He'd fought, bled, and killed all for this little piece of bitter glory, and it would take more than a foolish girl to make him give up.

And in the end, he would get his glory. He would be great again, be Gannon Yellowclaw again, not this pathetic shadow hiding away in a tower. And this place smelled awful, like a sink full of unwashed dishes, or a bowl of old soup. But he would get himself out of here. He'd wear the purple mage's robes again, build himself a kingdom of men like him.

But for now, he had unfinished business. He'd planted the seeds of war, and now he'd enjoy his harvest.

The End