Cursed

2. Not Lost, Not Found-1

2Not Lost, Not FoundAldor didn't awaken suddenly, the world leaking back into his system like soupy molasses. His vision eventually returned along with his sense of time—by the dim outside, it was probably around midday. Sweet-sour smells of a kitchen frothed around him. His stomach churned; not even the scents of lush, royal food to return his hunger. He didn't want to open his eyes. He didn't want to do anything.

It was the pain that brought him fully about. Hot throbs emanated from his shoulder. His body might've shut down, but the criptos wound hadn't… Criptos wound?

His eyes blared open in a panic. The forest had vanished. He lay in a bed a bit too elaborate for his taste. As he'd practically grown up in the Dagon castle, he had it in mind that he knew the premises well. He'd never been in this place before. He wore the same clothes—or at least a cleaner version—he had on when escaping with Tempest. The sizzling slit in his shoulder brought the memories slamming into his head. Just because his wound was dressed didn't mean that it had fully healed—at least the pain was enough to convince him that he wasn't dead.

“Feeling better?”

Aldor turned, expecting to see Jon, but his jaw parted open when his eyes fell on a gnarled figure peering at him from the edge of the room. The man squatted in his seat like a statue, something of the past. Aldor couldn't decide what was stranger: the world he awoke to, or the way this man gazed at Aldor as though he were a specimen.

“I… guess? I'm too confused to tell.”

His eyes were dry. Aldor rubbed them as he propped himself up on an elbow, the grinding sound of the man scooching his chair closer felt like knives to his brain. Aldor gritted his teeth, trying to shut out the sounds.

“Welcome to Alyeth.”

Alyeth, Longford. Last he checked, the forests of Dagon dwindled on Longford's border, nowhere near to the capital city, Alyeth. Was this the criptis' doing? How long had he been out of it?

“Alyeth…” It sounded like more of a question than a statement. “What am I doing here, sir?”

“You were wounded and lucky enough for one of my men to find you and bring you in. Still, though… You should've died long before you passed through the city gates. You're a living miracle.”

“One of your men?”

The elder rolled his eyes. “Well, woman. You saved Tempest's life, Rowan-son. You're to be given everything you need, completely free of charge.”

The number of questions clogging his mind crushed him harder than the memories. Aldor could only imagine how horrid he must've looked there—frazzled, handicapped, and disoriented. The apprehension melted a bit when the man spoke of Tempest; if this was a friend of hers, he couldn't be a hundred percent evil.

“Tempest? Is she around? And how can you make a promise like that?”

“Because, believe it or not, Tempest answers to me. I'm King Rolav.”

“No way.” Cold shock squeezed all other senses to silence; at least he knew now that this wasn't some kind of mafia boss, and Aldor so happened to know how to treat royalty. The room swam, Aldor leaning his head against the bed. He was safe here. He could relax. “Sire, it's an honor to be here. Thank you for graciously hosting me for so long—” Aldor broke off at Rolav's unseasonal chuckle. He waved his hand as if wafting Aldor thanks away. “Please, Aldor, really, I nearly refrained from telling you who I was because I was afraid of how you'd speak to me. Keeping things constantly formal can be rather tiresome.”

Aldor's shoulders sagged in relief. “So, Tempest brought me here? I'm guessing she told you about me, judging by how much you already know.”

“That's right.” The king stood up. Though slightly shorter than Aldor expected, the king wasn't withered at all. A heavy scabbard weighed down his belt, his scraggly beard reminding Aldor a bit of the expensive wire he used to set mousetraps back at home. Rolav's skin personified cracked leather, his face toppled by something strong beneath the heavy, false grin. The smile itself was probably taxing Rolav by a lot, but Aldor felt reassured knowing the king did it for Aldor's sake.

“Tempest told me you saved her—you fed her, gave her shelter, and managed to smuggle her through one of the densest forests there are, expecting nothing in return. Shortly after you insisted on separating for her own protection, Tempest had nearly reached the edge of the forest when her emotions won her over—she couldn't leave you to the wolves. She returned to find you dying, the cripti gone. She managed to transport you all the way here, to Alyeth, where you were placed immediately under my care. To answer your question, no, Tempest isn't around. She's back on duty.”

“Pardon me , sire, but I've got a question.”

“Ask as many as you like. Your head must be about to combust.”

Aldor smiled for the first time since meeting Jon in the dungeons several days ago. Boy, did that feel far back. “Tempest told me what her mission is, so to speak, and that there's a chance of Farthan coming back. Is that true?”

Rolav's gaze turned cold. His heavy golden scabbard jingled at his side, a hand resting on the sword's sheath as he stepped to the open window in the side of the wall. Aldor craned his neck and shifted in the bed so he could see properly: two peaks laced with snow erupted on the horizon. It wasn't a range of any kind, the two solitary mountains a bit out of place in the midst of the stitched, yellow plains of Longford. The Twins.

“Unlike your King Saul,” stared Rolav gravely, “I've accepted that things are taking a turn for the worst. Farthan has been silent for a long time, so it's difficult to say as of now. The truth is, bandits and orcs are only a small part of the problem. Besides, I've already got Tempest among others in position and keeping fixed watches on the ruffians.”

“So the problem is?”

“You're not entirely free from danger here.” Rolav turned back to the Twins, shaking his head slightly. “If you wish to stay, you must be aware off a—er—pest that’s been bothering us for some time. This is the first time it's been active since I was a child… A mere coincidence in times like these? Doubtful.”

The knot that had been slowly rolling itself into a monster like a rabid snowball tightened in Aldor's tummy. “This isn’t a common pest, is it?”

Rolav looked at Aldor miserably and opened his lips to utter one word, a word that made Aldor quiver like a falling leaf: “Dragon.”

He'd never get used to the acrid taste of fear in his mouth. Aldor stared, dumbfounded, at the king for at least several minutes, Rolav watching him closely for a reaction. “Sorry, you lost me when you called a dragon a b****y pest.”

Rolav laughed, but there was nothing funny about it. “This is the real world, Rowan-son. If you aren't prepared to endure dragon fire, I suggest you leave as quickly as possible. Like I said, you'll be provided with everything— I owe you that much—and a warning of exactly how much risk you're taking by staying here.”

Then, Aldor had a different idea. He opened his mouth and closed it again several times before he plucked up enough courage to spill the beans. He cleared his throat, catching Rolav's attention. “What happened the last time the dragon was active? Can you remember?”

Rolav took a deep breath. “Nothing. It destroyed most of the city before going back to sleep. We packed ourselves in bunkers dug into the tunnel systems beneath Alyeth and prayed for the best.”

“But surely you can't sleep at night with that monster dozing right next to you!”

“We have been for the last several decades,” defended Rolav stiffly. “People forgot about it. It happens. Only when I saw the smoke frothing from between the mountains did I start growing concerned. The dragon's been seen, too, roaming the northern plains of Longford. It hasn't made any attacks. Yet, I think it may be waiting for orders.”

“If you don't exterminate that creature, it'll just keep coming back for more. it's already got a taste for Alyeth's blood.” Aldor crossed his arms. “You need a solution. A permanent one.”

Rolav stared at him. Hard. “I couldn't ask anyone for that kind of sacrifice. it's suicide.”

“Well, I think I know someone who'd be willing to take care of it for you.”

“Oh? Who?”

Aldor's face twitched. “Me.”

Rolav narrowed his eyes. Blood drained from his face, heart pounding hard enough for Aldor to nearly hear it, or so he could imagine. He didn't speak at once, telling Aldor that Rolav was at least weighing the options. Aldor wasn't even a citizen of Longford and the dragon was threatening siege anyway. There was nothing to lose. “What's in it for you? I'm already in your debt as it is with you saving my best—for lack of better word—spy.”

“I've been meaning to leave Dagon, my childhood home, for a very long time.” Aldor stopped, considering his answer before speaking again. “I have to start making friends, building connections. I need that in case this entire conspiracy with Farthan is true. That, and I'm trying to figure out what I'm going to do with my life, which is a lot harder than I thought it would be. I wouldn't mind if it started with a little adventure. And who knows, maybe I can become a part of your ‘secret police,’ too. I'll do anything to live up to my father and make him proud.”

Rolav gave him a funny look, and it took him a moment to say, “I bet you will. But, unlike Rowan, you aren't a warrior. Tempest assured me of that.”

“No, but I did survive the cripti. That counts for something.”

“This is surely a bad decision on so many levels. You're untrained, young, and stupid. All youth like you are the same— why should I trust you not to mess this all up? All you have to do is give the dragon a good poke, and it'll come straight for us. You don't know what you're doing.”

“I've served King Locke of Dagon before!” Aldor protested. He conveniently managed to leave out the part that it was all volunteer work that Jon forced him to do. He needed Rolav to give him this chance to prove himself. This could all lead to a position—a job, perhaps—some kind of path to greatness. If he steered this right and made the relationships he needed, he knew he'd be on the right track. Rolav's trust made all the difference. “I've helped exterminate countless creatures near our borders before. I have experience. I could bring someone else who knows the dragon's behaviors well. You don't have to worry, I promise.”

“Strong words, Rowan-son.” Rolav watched him with an unreadable expression: cold, curious, and contradictory. At last, chewing the inside of his cheek, he murmured, “Get yourself ready. The guards outside will direct you to my throne room when you're prepared. I have to consider this further.”

Aldor closed his eyes and leaned up against the headrest as the noise of the king's staunched footsteps died away. He hated the pain bubbling to life under his skin, hated the regret and self-doubt murmuring in his head. A bit too late for that now.

Still queasy from the criptos wound, Aldor slid out of bed, cringing as his feet touched the frozen floor. His heart raced, straightening for the first time in what felt like days. His knees wobbled, forcing his weight upon them and limping across the room to put on something decent.After he'd gotten properly dressed, he wandered outside into a courtyard paved in porcelain-colored stone. Trees covered with blossoms fluttered, their bark also white. The bleached appearance of his surroundings gave off a clean aura—something Dagon lacked. Aldor needed no guidance from the guards; the way to the throne room was self-explanatory.

The castle itself was built on the highest incline of the city—its center point. The air hung heavy with pollen from the gigantic blossoms everywhere, but it didn't last on the white-washed architecture due to the heavy rain Alyeth, Longford often received. The palace itself was quite empty—only guards and attendants. The real life of the realm lay outside the city gates, something Aldor wasn't used to, as the castle gates of Rorick, Dagon were typically open to the public. He probably wouldn't have ever met Jon in the first place if the palace gates hadn't been opened wide.

Across the courtyard barred two oaken doors. The wood stood without a scratch, and Aldor couldn't help but give a moment's hesitation before laying a grubby paw on it. He pulled at the brass rings, the doors opening with an expanding c***k.

Unlike the majesty of the outside, the throne room was simple, as to not distract its visitors from the king himself. All was made of wood, the tapestries painted with thick coats of dust. Rolav sat on a high, sculpted seat center, the floor cobblestone. There were no decorations—only the stinging smell of growing mildew. There were few windows sealed by purple, velvet curtains—all except for one facing north, one Rolav beadily squinted through.