Though there was no hope after losing Vileram to Feraxia’s inescapable black fire breath, there were some villagers who got to cover under the rubble, under corpses of fellow men, under horses and carriages, some, inexplicably got the lesser part of the blaze and lived.
Among them, a man who once was greatly respected as one of the village’s elders lay there in agonizing pain, shaking from the blazing and monstrous heat that shrouded him.
And though he didn’t want to believe his whole life was set ablaze among the rest of the villagers from a once thriving and most peaceful community in an instant, he couldn’t deny the wake left by the Black Leaf Dragon.
Houses burnt to the ground, the once frugal city was now a crisp cemetery with hollow charcoal walls, the smell of the black fire still rose above the faint smell of brothers, sons, mothers and sisters burning, the sound of animals crying in agonizing pain while the dead who yet remained gnawed them piece by piece, and though every man of Terra is taught not to cry and to be resilient against all tides. He cried.
Yet he stood with soaring pain all around him and inside him, the black smoke had burned most of his throat and lungs, so his breath was dragged and painful, and while most men couldn’t withstand such injuries, he walked.
Crying and helping himself through the rubble, he grabbed a piece of unburnt wood to lean on it, his legs trembled, his eyes blackened and filled with blood, is face ached with every sweep of the dying wind. He slowly moved through the flaming cemetery that was now his city, looking desperately for any survivor, to gather them and rally –My…Vileram…cannot die…like this…- He cried between slurred words and laments.
As he felt his insides telling him the cold grip of death was near him, he strode on with shaking hands, shaking legs and shoulders, but not a shaking will. He made an effort to cry out the names of those he remembered, and while none of those people answered, some others did.
A lady and his boy were stuck under rubble; the side of a wooden wagon fell atop them and prevented them from getting fatally burned, but crushed some the lady’s ribs and the kid was completely out of consciousness, but alive. It stands to reason that a man this beaten and about to die, at that old age and in such conditions couldn’t lift half a wagon when he could barely lift his own weight, but he lifted it.
With crying muscles and aching bones, blood filling his lungs and tears his eyes, he let out a groan that turned to a scream of unending will, as if he asked the unknown Gods for strength beyond a man.
The lady was captivated by reality, the graveyard of black flames and lost souls engulfed her in a sorrow capable of ripping the souls of the bravest. She stood in awe that slowly turned to fear and grief, and while most women would’ve lost their will to live right on the spot, she didn’t.
They continued across the valley of hollow flames, still raging throughout the rubbles and corpses, crying out names, looking for souls still attached to their bodies. And they found a dog, under some pillars and wooden burnt planks. The dog’s barks were desperate and clinging to life, they turned into howls of fear and agony.
The man and the woman pulled out the planks and let the living creature emerge from darkness to the grim surface. As a creature desperate for life and eager to escape such madness, it would’ve done as any other creature presented with apocalyptic events all around it, it would’ve ran as far and fast as four legs allowed, yet it stayed. Thankful.
And so, the man ever slowed down by his own appointment with death gathered his spirit and soul to bear his dying body until he dragged, pulled, lifted, broke and uncovered everything in his sight and hearing to save as many as he could, and while most would’ve died fighting off the living dead still stalking any living to devour it, he didn’t.
He fought, he bled, he fell, he dodged, he crawled, he cried, he yelled, he pushed, he bit, he snapped bones and joints. He saved.
Many were gathered at the square, burnt, maimed, unconscious, crippled, shocked, and disabled. And some about to die, and some about to live, everyone cried and some of them cursed, some of them hugged each other even though they didn’t really knew each other.
And the man continued, for his faint breath gained frost as the night laid a misty carpet over them and then set on the soil, just above his knees, he looked desperately for only one thing he remembered might be alive and might be the whole point to his extended agony.
He had to find his granddaughter, who was a shining beacon for all of Vileram, a sweet girl, innocent as new dawn’s light, warm to the mind and to the heart, whose smile shone even amidst the darkest corners of his troubled mind. He searched and searched, he fought and fought, and he looked and found, nothing around.
Sitting on his rears, he touched the ground under his feet, his lungs were collapsing, and his heart fading strength with every pump, his tears fell to the scorched ground as slow as a second hand moving towards twelve. He closed his eyes, and looked at her, so bright, so small, so innocent, and so happy. He then saw her slipping from his grip when Feraxia’s Fire Breath blew everything away, the memory faded as he himself turned his head toward the house where she had flown to. He needed to die, he needed to rest, he needed to be human and cry himself to eternal nothingness, but he didn’t.
He stood up with burning cane, and limped towards where the house should be if it were not completely destroyed and flamed. He turned the rubble and found the treasure, the treasure was with eyes closed and pale. His will shattered, his lungs collapsed, his mind blank, his breath slid away –Elianne…please live, my little girl…- he sobbed in dying words.
-Grandpa….? - The treasure spoke faintly; his eyes widened and fat tears met his cheeks, and then fell to her cheeks. He hugged her; she thought it was a dream.
The dead lurking rapidly closed in, he breathed with blood and through his nose and mouth, he clenched his fists around his burning cane, he tightened his jaws for life’s worth, because death itself was embracing him in and out. He stood against death’s will.
He fought, he bled, he dodged, he pulled, he pushed, he fell, he resisted, and he broke it in two. He fell once more.
And she stood up, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. – Gran, are you ok? Will you be ok? - And while most men that walked Terra usually talked last words to their brethren, families, soldiers or enemies. Or took an extra effort to stand up and grant life one last action, he couldn’t.
Most men would’ve tried to survive on their own, and tell the tale of how Vileram was reduced to ashes and burning corpses while they were the sole survivor. Most men would’ve tried to live, and struggle for more pain and anguish that comes with surviving amidst the tormented souls still waging war across Terra. But he didn’t, because he was dead.
He didn’t smile at the end, he couldn’t.
He didn’t answer to that last question his precious grandchild had asked, because he had bent death in the most inexplicable ways, he had done what most warriors only dreamt about. He had stopped the flow of life and death by a single thread that hung by a knot around his sheer will.
A common man, with an unusual way to say goodbye. A farewell, to the land that witnessed his first and last breath. For humans tend to bend reality in the face of unfathomable odds, sometimes for the paltriest things, sometimes, for more.
The hollow black fire swept across Vileram with sounds of death and the dying, but a group of survivors walked along the road of Farustia that led to Lebas, with them, a little girl, a dog, a lady and her boy, and many more.
All of them carry now the mark of the fate bending legend, the dragger of death, the common man who was never heard of before. His name was Ezal Auveri.