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my shitty submission for the vindictus writing contest.

Guardian of the West

To be called a God is one thing. To be one, is another entirely. Unlike Gods, dragons are beasts, hunted often by man, nearly to the point of extinction. They must learn from the nest what it means to hide and flee, to attack when necessary, and where to feed without being noticed. Near the great mountain summit of Eoleum, during one of the harshest winters known to man and fomor alike, a dragon egg was abandoned by a slain mother. A great battle had been fought and many human lives had been the cost of the death of so great a beast. A black haired woman had then appeared with the flutter of wings and raven's feathers, touching the snow and ice beneath her feet as though with great reluctance, for she had come to do a terrible thing. The falling snow stilled, and the wind stopped howling for it was her will, and the blood from the slain dragon froze around the large cave. With great care, she removed a piece of ice from the blood, but ice it was not, for the thing she held in her hands was nothing less than a dragons egg; a dragon of ice. Splinters and cracks had formed along its' shell, deepening and widening with her gentle pressure and warm breath. He would be born of his mothers own blood, and the woman would be released by his. A thin smile appeared on her lips, but waned as quickly as it had come. This creature was born of sadness and would die in sadness because of her. She knew that he would obey in time however, and that was all she needed of him, for he would be her Keeper for many years. He was to be Beokros, Guardian of the West, Great Dragon of Ice and Keeper of her Seal. Great spines he would have, and fur to keep him safeguarded from the most extreme of climates. Great horns and spikes of ice he grow along his body. All this, she saw in her infinite mind.

A good ruler knows she will die, a better ruler plans for her resurrection.

He was raised by a God, in her own beautiful palace in a forest, but he did not always know this. He knew simply that the black haired woman had always been there, had named herself Morrighan, and had always taught him and kept him safe of the perils of the human world. She told him of his birth when he was old enough to understand. How his mother had died valiantly trying to save him from a band of humans that were weak from her preying on their livestock. She told him of what she had done before that, what lands she had visited, and how he looked so much like his mother, she could scarce tell them apart. The wisdom she gave to Beokros was not without worth, and she knew she had but little time left in the world. Her final act for him was to give him the knowledge of her great prophecy and what had to happen to bring about her return. Afterwards, she had vanished and for many years, Beokros had sworn vengeance on both humans and fomors alike, for no one would ever fell him as long as he lived. He unleashed devastation and great havoc upon the servants of the earth, and they feared him greatly. He was strong, wild, his anger so great that cities and armies fell beneath his mighty wings, tales of his wrath spreading far and wide, kingdom to kingdom. But anger can only last for so long. The pain of loss and of loneliness would soon leave him bitter to the chill of abandonment. Not even a dragon of ice could ward himself from that. More years passed and he isolated himself further, becoming ever more emotionless and distant, thinking of what he once had and how much longer he would have to wait to die. His anger at the humans and fomors had long since died as well. His anger at Morrighan for abandoning him like the mother he had never known was never to be rekindled, for he knew that his time would come and he had grown to accept it. The God of war and vengeance... She was a mighty thing and he knew that to please her, to be accepted back into her graces, he must be ever vigilant of the human that would claim his life and break the Seal of the West with it. As a last act of whatever willpower he had left, a way of making peace with his death perhaps, he went back to the cave where he had been born. The ice was still there, a cold place even to him, and the memories from so many years ago came flooding back. The feathers and blood he remembered most clearly, the vivid red and black against the pale blues and whites of snow and ice, but his mother he could not remember at all. He supposed she must have looked too much like the ice he had grown on his body, his heart… The blood that had frozen unevenly around the cave had long since gone, leaving only snow and ice and coldness, but his mother's bones remained. Her skull was there, smaller than his was now, for he had been blessed by the God of war and vengeance to be larger than any other dragon of his kind. For a moment he almost envied the pile of bones that lay before him, for they had not lived to see nearly half as many years as he had, nor killed half as many innocent lives. He had learned from Morrighan what it meant to be a dragon even though he would never use such knowledge. He wondered if his mother would have been kind to him, loved him greater than Morrighan had. Perhaps Morrighan still loved him... The only way he would ever know, was when he died and met her once again in her great palace in the sky, one he was never able to find. The black haired woman's face was his very first memory, faded perhaps by time, but clear enough that he would forever remember it. She was strong of face, with eyes that were whiter than the spines on his back and far kinder, lips as pink as the flowers she had growing in the temples dedicated to her, and hair blacker than the most starless night. He would bring her back with his death he knew, and he was resigned to this fate. If it must happen to bring such greatness back in the world, then so be it, he thought. His death would mean nothing except to the person who slew him, and to that he was resigned as well. He cleared the cave of his mother's bones, erected walls of ice and stone and etched the powerful glyph that Morrighan had commanded of him, deep into the ground. A great gate guarded by his magic that could only be opened by the so called "hero", waker of Morrighan, was also brought forth, and when it opened, it would wake him, because for now, he would sleep. For many years he dreamed of flying with his mother, with Morrighan as well, and they were happy. But it was only a dream, and with the end of his slumber he knew his time had come. He would die this day. There were footsteps running along the cracked and worn path leading to his sealed gate, breath misting in the frigid temperature. What would these people look like, he wondered absently. How great would they be in order for him to die? Two people, a man and woman from what he could tell, marched steadily towards him, one clad in mail, the other, fabrics with ties to the occult; a mage. He ascended into the harsh morning sky to await their arrival. "Keeper of the fomor God, I know you're up there. Come down and fight!" The male spoke, gleaming in his black armor. His companion, the mage woman, looked on in silence behind him. Beokros could not contain his surprise. "A mortal, here?" he laughed, low and spiteful. The great dragon Beokros was to be bested by humans? So be it. "Yes, laugh. When you're done, come down and fight!" So he had determination did he? Determination alone would not win him this fight. "I know why you've come, but my death is not the answer. Killing me will only seal this world's fate." Would this human heed his words? He doubted it, but the words were needed to fulfill the prophecy. If this human did not fight and win, Morrighan would sleep much longer than intended. "This world can burn! Now stop stalling monster!" This human was fierce, Beokros though, lifting his mighty wings and lowering himself onto the glyph he had created eons ago. The magic still gleamed underneath as though untarnished by the many years it had endured. "Turn around, forget me mortal. My death will only be the catalyst for the destiny you're trying to flee." If the man would not heed his words, then this was truly it. The last fight of his life. The beginning of the reign of Morrighan. "Wrong! Your death will be the beginning of Tieve's salvation!" With a great flap of his wings, Beokros rose from the ground, the human unsheathing his sword and his companion still standing ever silently behind him. His final battle was come, and the great Beokros would die, but not without giving his all. Only the greatest of humans would be able to overcome him, and with a resounding roar, he fired his first blasts of ice. If his mother could see him now, he knew she would be proud, and that was enough to make him fight on.

THIS IS MY WORK. DONT COPY IT

#writing #vindictus #vindi #short story #beokros