Chapter Text
The snap of burning timber sounds like bones breaking.
He hadn’t even seen the wyrm up close, the beast content with razing his home to the ground and go shrieking back into the air to wreak more chaos. Did it even know this place had a name, that the people here had never slain a dragon in their life?
All that remains of Ferndale is the crunch of charred wood under his feet and the stench of broiling flesh.
Estinien stops.
Stares.
Wonders if this truly is a nightmare brought on by the midday heat.
His feet start to move on their own, yank his already exhausted body forward and make it stumble over searing hot stone and grass that slices at his ankles like white hot needles. His house is a ten minute walk from the village. Less if he runs, cutting it down to seven if he were to guess. He does it almost every evening, delighting in how he could make his brother shriek with laughter as he clings to Estinien’s back, demanding he go faster and squealing when Estinien pretended to drop him in the water trough.
There are bodies everywhere. Some reduced to charcoal, one with an arm helplessly outstretched as if begging him for help, another that’s nothing more than a pile of ash in the middle of the road. The stench of flash fried pork gets stronger as he approaches one of them, and he realises with a sickening lurch that they’re still alive, skin peeling and bursting from their limbs like overcooked sausages, in too much pain to scream.
He whispers a “sorry,” to them as he sprints past because that is no longer somebody he knows, someone he’d wave to as he passes by their home in the mornings or to drop fresh fruit off to when they had some spare. Landmarks and familiar sights – the orchards, the village square strung up with ribbons and dried flowers, the tiny library box built from old crates and carefully stashed under the town hall’s porch to protect the precious contents from the rain, the playground that all the craftsfolk had come together to build – all of these are gone, crumbling into embers and ash that paint everything with a sickly sunset glow.
Smoke is blocking out the sun, shrouding any familiarity in its premature cloak, and for a moment the panic threatens to wriggle out of the stranglehold he has it in, because this is not the home he loves. This is an alien, hostile star dredged out of a calamity where everything has turned downside up, where oxygen has been replaced with smoke that’s clogging his throat and the smell of cut grass has been exchanged for cooking meat.
Somewhere in the distance, a child is screaming.
Estinien starts moving towards it before his mind can say otherwise, ignoring the shrieks of his instincts to pull away from the towering inferno, away from the gloom where the embers drift past like fireflies on a summer night. The burning debris flashes past in his vision, skeletal trees and dying karakul blurring into one as he staggers through the smoke, following the wretched keening like it might bring him any salvation. Any vague glimpse of familiarity is whisked away by the transformed land, but as he automatically marks the familiar twists and turns, deep in his soul he knows he’s heading towards home.
His brain isn’t capable of stuttering anything more than “please,” over and over again while his lungs heave for air, begging Halone to grant him solace, just this once. You aren’t supposed to lose everything when you’re only twelve.
This time, he gets there a few minutes earlier.
This time, Halone answers his prayer.
Another piercing scream rips through the air, tapering off into a hitching sob, and it’s that part that tips him off because Estinien knows that cry, knows the pattern of childish whimpering because it had been the exact same cadence a few days ago when his brother had skinned his knee and –
‘Hamignant!’ he yells into the smoke, eyes streaming as he stares at every flickering shadow, trying to turn blurry shapes into living, breathing little brothers. ‘I’m here!’
The familiar wail starts up again not a few yalms away, a shriek that descends into more crying and a distorted howl of his name. Estinien stumbles into the dark, the smoke so thick now the only things he can see are lit by the undulating flames. They lick up the sides of the buildings, wood smouldering in a sickening parody of a smouldering hearth and –
… there’s a body on the front porch. The top half of the person is burned to cinders but he can just about make out the delicate embroidery on the skirt and the worn boots –
‘Mam – ‘
He clatters past as his mind screeches to a halt like a book snapping shut, like he can make this all go away if he doesn’t look because Estinien knows if he looks he’s going to start screaming and he might not be able to stop.
Their cottage is three rooms, just enough for their small family. The side of it is completely gone, smashed by fang and claw, the roof beams exposed and windows shattered. The lower walls are threatening to go, the bricks cracking as the heat climbs higher, and as he’s stumbling through this unrecognisable wasteland he realises he’s at their shared bedroom door; once a place of solace, now it’s a gaol.
The frame is barely clinging to what’s left of the wall, and the door has warped and turned brittle but it’s a strong piece of wood that doesn’t crumble easily. When his feeble attempts to kick it in fail, Estinien steels himself and grabs the white hot handle with both hands. The scream claws free before he can stop it, the burning hot melting sticking to his hands and scorching the skin down to the bone, but Hamignant’s in there and that’s all he can think about. He takes a deep breath and starts throwing his entire body against the wood until it finally splinters at the top just enough to show a way forward.
The tiny room is almost pitch black, so full of smoke it hurts to breathe, and he can hear Hamignant coughing in between the sobbing. Estinien hauls himself up and through the broken door, topples over the other side, and lands on something surprisingly soft. He scrabbles to his feet, squinting through the haze, and recoils as he realises what’s been blocking the door.
His father’s body sits sprawled out, a dead weight in front of the exit. His skin is starting to bubble and blister, sliding down his face like wax, eyes that were always so kind collapsed in their sockets.
A choking cry diverts his attention, and he finally lays eyes on Hamignant. In a way, he’s lucky – he’s face down, pinned by the fallen debris right at the back of the room, shielding him from some of the heat. In seconds Estinien is hauling it aside, ignoring the burns on his palms howling in protest and the soft rain of lead and stone scorching holes along his shoulders, his back. As soon as the larger pieces are hauled from his torso, Hamignant begins reaching for him, and it hurts as Estinien forces himself to ignore him, concentrating on clearing the rocks crushing his brother’s legs. Every time he gets one out of the way it’s replaced with three more, the wall’s groaning becoming increasingly louder as his brother’s whimpers begin to fade.
Finally, finally the rocks are gone, a tiny path but just enough. Estinien kneels down, reaches for the boy, feels tiny hands wrap about his neck, and drags his brother into his lap. They need a way out but there’s no time, and even with an extra person to help clear the way Hamignant will be no help; his legs hang awkwardly like splintered sticks, and the way his arms are held so unnaturally, it's clear that there must be something else wrong. His brother is watching him with pale, terrified eyes, expecting him to fix this because Estinien can fix anything and –
- later, when he thinks back on this, it would be the first time he’d made the dragoon’s jump, terrified and desperate with no other options. A lance isn’t the same weight as a child but the same panicked thought was there all same;
“don’t let him die oh Halone oh Fury don’t let him die – “
He lurches to his feet, shifts Hamignant to his back, his brother’s arms like a stranglehold, legs dangling crooked and useless –
‘Hold on to me and close your eyes,’ he yells over the fire’s roar, his voice scratchy and just about fading. His brother nods, buries his face in Estinien’s neck. They bolt for the door and Estinien throws everything he has into the jump, yanking them both over the gap and praying that his little brother hasn’t seen the spectre that lies below. He lands badly, crashing to the ground and scraping his side, nearly sending Hamignant toppling off but that doesn’t matter because there’s a clear shot at the outside now. There’s no real break in the flames but he can dodge some, dart over others, the fresher air mere ilms away –
He’s back on the front porch, stumbling past his mother’s corpse, clutching his brother’s hands and chanting ‘don’t look don’t look don’t look,’ over and over, blundering into the smoke until his legs finally gives out and they both topple over. Estinien hugs his brother close, buries his head in Hamignant’s hair, still repeating his mantra like he can make all this disappear too, one last mercy in this hell.
Not a few moments later, the house collapses in on itself, the bedroom reduced to nothing.
Not a few moments later, Alberic Bale finds two terrified children at the side of the road.