Page 22 of Upon Buried Embers
My eyes are glued to the animal, and a familiarity weaves its way into my being for some reason. It’s almost like I know it, that it’s a friend.
It suddenly stops its scraping, and its head turns, eyes on me. I stare, locked in some sort of connection as it makes a noise.
I go still, Rohan coming up beside me.
“Is it true harts are the elves’ animal?” he asks, and I let the words sink in.
It’s called a hart?
How fitting.
“I’m not sure,” I say softly. “Is that why I want to go to it, perhaps?”
He makes a noise from his chest. “Maybe.” A pause. “Do you really not know?”
“I-I don’t know a lot of things about my people,” I say sadly, watching as the hart begins to walk away. I lift a hand and touch my ear within the hood, feeling its small point. “I think that may be true though because—”
All of a sudden, a large jaw appears, swooping down between the trees, and the hart is enclosed in a dragon’s mouth, its cries tearing me apart.
One moment it’s there, and then it’s not.
Rohan moves me along with a shove on my back. “Drogonah was hungry.”
I feel like there’s a warning in his tone, and dread fills my stomach as we pass the snow now splashed a bright red.
“Don’t like dragons to be fed?” Rohan asks when I release a stuttering breath. I shake my head, looking away from the blood. “All have to eat, Elf.” He scowls. “Even you.”
He passes something to me, and with frozen fingers, I take it tentatively.
It’s brown in color, stiff, and I look it over.
What even is this?
He sighs and takes it, shoving it against my mouth. I claw at his hands, but he pinches my nose and as I take a breath, he shoves it in.
“Chew,” he says, almost angrily, and I do.
Oh. This is food.
It’s hard, and my jaw begins to ache quickly, but the subtle saltiness of it bursts across my tongue and I lick my lips, enjoying it.
“Do you even know how to take care of yourself? You’re like a hatchling.” He rips more off a long strip of, I don’t even know what, passing it to me and I stuff it in my mouth, my eyes closing briefly.
When I’ve finished and look to him for more, I see he has none in his hand and my mood sours.
“Pick up the pace,” he suddenly orders, and others repeat it through the clan.
He seems to have one on the smaller side, I think, from what I overheard from Master over the years. Clans usually have a hundred, if not more.
Rohan’s clan seems very small in comparison.
Night begins to fall, the sky brightens with colors of reds and oranges through the falling snow, and I can barely walk straight.
My eyes try to close more often than not, and the rope attached to me is pulled almost constantly as I falter behind him.
Torches are lit in front of me, carried by members. The dragons still take the sky. Not like they could walk in this forest anyway with how dense it is in places.
I watch Drogonah with his wings spread wide, tail pulling to the side with his maneuvers. He’s the biggest one here, andthe dark color shimmers in the dusk sky when he passes right overhead before he flies off.
