Young Writers Society

Once upon a time, the kingdom of Nolin was peaceful, protected by powerful magic. Yet, when the first flare of dragon-fire scorched an entire army of knights, it was more than enough to signal that the second war between Nolin and Dowen had begun.

And once upon another time, a long, long time ago before this war, there used to be a gray wizard, Viska, with gray hair, gray robes and gray eyes. His spells were graceful poems, and he was so powerful that even the gold king of Nolin, Dawn, had to fear him.

No one knew how, yet one day, Viska came back to the palace with a white haired boy. The boy’s name was Fell. Viska helped Fell find a place in Nolin, and get the training of a knight. Many advised Viska against giving so much to a simple boy that he didn’t even know, yet Viska ignored them all, even the advice of Ispen, his long-time friend.

When, one day, Dowen struck against Nolin with other enemy kingdoms, Nolin sent out Viska as the most powerful wizard that the kingdom had. The war lasted longer than anybody had expected, and Viska, along with many other wizards, stayed in the war for over three years.

While Viska fought, back in Nolin, Fell trained furiously. Slowly, as he became older and a skilled swordsman, Dawn came to favor him greatly because of his mastery with words and blades.

Winter came. Now, there was also the risk of freezing to death. It was probably why the moment when the war was at its bloodiest and riskiest, Viska cast a spell. The spell was long, deadly and cold. It pulled the souls of the enemy soldiers into Viska’s own head.

After the spell, Viska fell sick. He was hardly breathing, and his body was clammy. He drifted in and out of consciousness, saying broken spells to himself.

Dawn heard of what Viska had done. It had let him win the war, yet Dawn now had a good reason to be afraid of Viska. He called Fell in secret, and whispered to him fearfully; “Viska has to die.”

It is said that Fell had a brief moment of conflict within himself. Viska had brought him to the palace and given him all the opportunities that he had. He had also heard that Viska was so tired, he could hardly walk a step.

But, at the last moment, Fell decided that the king’s order was more important. “Yes, your majesty.” he told Dawn, and raced to the finishing war with six other soldiers.

When Fell arrived at the camp near the warsite, he saw that, indeed, Viska couldn’t walk a single step. Yet, when he took out his polished sword, Viska opened his eyes and greeted Fell weakly. Something must have changed inside Fell, since he put his sword back in its golden sheath. Then he smiled and greeted Viska back.

Right before Fell had to return to the king with the news of Viska’s death, Fell had another conflict within himself. This time, again, his loyalty for the king won over, and he, this time, took out a pipe filled with red, deadly dried leaves.

Fell told Viska that he now had to leave. Now, Viska was much better. He was regaining himself, sitting up on the bed. As a parting gift, Fell gave the pipe to Viska, who was happy to receive the first gift in his whole life.

After Fell left, Viska put the pipe in his mouth and breathed from it. From years and years of living a harsh life, it didn’t take him more than a mere second to realize that the pipe was poison. He dropped the pipe into his lap, and curled into himself, dropping three drops of tears tiredly. He set a hand against his forehead and began to cast a spell that would reanimate him even after death.

And shall the raven fall, empty, white, into the rising arms of day, was the spell that he whispered.

When the last word of the spell was done, he slowly sank into the bed, closed his eyes and simply stopped breathing. A moment later, Fell glanced into the tent that Viska was in, and saw that Viska was dead. He bowed his head and slipped away.

Not too long after, the beggars on the streets began a song to be sung on the rainiest days. A small gray wizard, dying by his poems, black poison drifts from his pipe. But his ghost still sits on a cliff, over the sea, shedding bloody tears -

A small gray wizard, dying by his poems, a snake of black smoke as his lonely company. Then the beggars would all go deathly silent and stare at the sky; ashen and raining.

And that is exactly how the gray wizard Viska had died forlorn.

__

A tendril of black smoke curled into the air.

Gray lowered the pipe just enough for him to blow out another plume of dark smoke, then closed his lips around the end of the pipe again. A breeze passed him, and his gray hair fell into his identically colored eyes.

He reached beside him and grabbed another handful of red, dried leaves. With a pale hand that had a blue tinge, he stuffed the leaves into the bowl of the pipe and lowered the circular opening into a small lamp that sat beside him in the daylight. When a wisp of black smoke began to come out from the pipe again, he deeply inhaled from it.

The air that swirled around the cliff was cold. Rocks that made the cliff were icy, black and rounded. Below the endless drop of the cliff, the sound of running water came.

A hand reached out from behind Gray. It was slightly darker than Gray’s, with no blue to the skin tone. As quickly as a snake, it knocked the pipe out of Gray’s hand. It spiraled down the cliff so far down that Gray couldn’t hear it reach the water.

Numbly, Gray blinked. It was a couple seconds until he finally muttered, “Pipe.”

Fell, who stood behind Gray, frowned. He had his white hair tied back in a short ponytail, with one gray eye and another white. Unlike Gray, who simply wore a gray shirt and pants, Fell had himself dressed in a red velvet robe, and white, creamy attires in overall.

“Can you say more than one word?” Fell muttered, and tugged Gray up by his shoulders. “Come, Viska. Or Gray, whichever one they call you now.”

“Pipe,” Gray responded instead, and shifted to the side to free himself of Fell’s grasp. “Pain.”

Fell gazed deeply into Gray’s eyes. After a minute, he broke off the gaze and pulled out a long sword from his waist. He grabbed Gray’s right hand, brought it up to eye-level, and ran the blade along the palm swiftly. Black blood ran down Gray’s wrist.

“You’re dead, Gray. You don’t feel pain. Now, tell me if you remember. Friends?” Fell inquired Gray softly.

“Friends,” Gray pronounced. His gray eyes wobbled, and he released a breath that was still partially black into Fell’s face. Fell frowned in disgust and waved the smoke away. “You,” Gray finally choked out. “Betray.”

For a moment, Fell paused, then smiled at Gray brightly. “But the spell you cast on yourself still worked, didn’t it? That’s why you’re still like this.”

When Gray exhaled next, there was no hint of the black smoke in his breathing. He grabbed Fell’s hand and placed it on his own. “Cold,” Gray managed to say. “Blue.”

“I know. That’s because,” Fell stopped speaking for a split second. “You’re dead. Right?”

Three drops of brown and black blood fell from Gray’s eyes. “Friends,” he whispered, “Fell.”

Fell looked at Gray and cocked his head to the side. Then, slowly, he beamed, curving his white and gray eyes. “Gray. How about this?” he whispered, and pulled his hand away from Gray’s swiftly. “I’ll give you a new pipe. I’ll be your friend again. But right now, you need to come with me. I need your magic.”

__

The king’s face was dark and gaunt when Gray and Fell entered the hall. He barely glanced up from the papers on his lap, which he dropped when he caught sight of Gray.

Immediately, his face went pale, and he shot up from his golden throne. “You’re dead!” he stammered. His eyes swerved from side to side in shock and confusion.

Not missing the moment, Fell dropped onto his knees and bowed deeply. “Your majesty, let me explain. Please.”

It took a moment for the king to relax his hands from fists. He took a deep, shaky breath. “You better,” he said, and sat back down into the throne, his eyes studying Gray warily.

“It’ll be a long story, your majesty,” Fell began. “And we have a scarce amount of time, so I’ll shorten it.”

Nodding stiffly, the king exhaled slowly. “Begin. Now.”

And so Fell did. For a time, he told about how Viska had died, then how he had cast a spell to revive himself, and the beggars’ singing that had led Fell to where Gray was. And Gray stood through all of it, unmoving, unblinking, feeling as if the story was not his to own.

The memories that began to dance in his head were like a forgotten dream. It faded away from his very grasp, smiling, icy.

“And he’s now agreed to help Nolin,” Fell finally finished. Gray blinked, breaking free from his thoughts’ grasp.

“Fell, this better be very certain, understand?” the king mumbled, putting a hand against his forehead. “My son has suffered a loss of an arm in this war already. And-”

Cutting him off without warning, the door to the hall burst open.

A messenger in a blue robe hurried inside. He wore a silver armor under the robe, which was dusty and smudged with blood. His hair was wild, his helmet dented on one side. “Your majesty!” he hollered, falling limply onto one knee. “I have a request!”

“What is it?” the king snapped, a shadow of nervousness falling over his face. “The wizards in the warfield are nearly all dead, your majesty. Before I left, the dragons were gaining the uppermost hand. Please, we need more wizards,” the messenger begged. “Or this war will overtake us, your majesty. Please. The dragons are gaining number. They’re covering the sky.”

Gray silently gazed up at the king. Gray eyes met the king’s golden ones in the air.

“Your majesty!” the messenger nearly weeped.

The king gritted his teeth. “Don’t you hear him? What are you still standing here for? Go!” he yelled.

Without any delay, Fell grabbed Gray’s arm and tugged him out of the hall.

__

Gray’s horse huffed out white breaths into the air. Its mouth was foaming at the edges furiously, eyes wild and raging, hooves pounding prints into the ground. Gray’s body shook with each gallop of the horse. He numbly clenched his fingers around the leather reins and stared straight ahead. A sly hill covered a part of his vision.

Right beside him, Fell rode a white mare. He had on a white robe and armor, with his pale hair tied back in a tail. All around him and Gray, the harsh gasps of the horses threatened to suffocate them.

“We’re almost there,” Fell informed Gray with a soft smile. “Can you hear it?”

Even as he spoke, far away, a ground-shaking roar shook the very air itself. Gray’s horse reared slightly, then began to sprint again.

Gray opened his mouth and closed it. Even with the horse underneath him and Fell speaking faintly over the winds, he felt that he was alone. A wave of memories threatened to overtake him.

Shaking his head, he parted his dead, blue lips and muttered to himself a spell.

Not a second later, Fell noticed. “Are you certain that you can speak it out loud?” he hollered. “Because if you can’t-”

“I can,” Gray forced the words out of himself, and shut his mouth before the blood could drip out of it. Fell shot him a dubious glance, his smile nearly gone from his face, yet kept running.

After seven heartbeats later, Gray and Fell’s horses lunged up the hill. The sky opened up into a wider atmosphere, and Gray instinctively glanced down to the field that he was now faced with.

Iron, blood, soldiers, screams, roars, dragons, and the heavy smell of death. It all slammed into him.

Silver soldiers grappled with gold ones, stabbing with swords, disarming, stabbing furiously into exposed flesh. Some rolled along the swamp of blood with their allies. Even as Gray watched, a knight’s head rolled along the ground, and the abandoned horse stood up on its hind legs, screaming.

Then there were the dragons. Gray ones, red ones, gold ones, silver ones - too many to be discerned from one another. Their eyes glinted with fiery heat even from a distance. A sharp blade of wind pierced through a horse and its rider when a blue dragon roared.

Howling in response, even more dragons swooped down from the sky like a swarm of bees. The largest one was white. Its eyes were gray. It didn’t touch the ground, and instead circled the battlefield, every ground that it passed losing a breath of energy and life.

When the white dragon flew over the space right in front of him, Gray’s horse stopped, and trotted on the spot nervously.

On the contrary, Fell gave a last glance at Gray before he raced down the hill without even a hint of hesitation, unsheathing his blade, as white and pale as a bird.

Dully, Gray tried to remember Fell’s eyes from just a few seconds ago. Gray, and white. A message in both of the irises. A farewell - sorrow?

Then it had been painted over with a smile.

For the first time in a long while, the corners of Gray’s lips twisted up grimly. He stared at the white dragon. It arched its long neck around and stared back at Gray. Its jaws quivered, and the pair of gray eyes narrowed dangerously.

“I’m the dead wizard of Nolin, lord dragon,” Gray greeted in a whisper. A dark blob of blood dripped out of his mouth. His already rotting tongue seemed to wither and die even more. “And I’m here to die, upon my, oath.”

Gray’s voice began to crack, and he knew that he didn’t have much words left to speak.

In response to him, the white dragon howled into the air. Its white teeth gleamed sharply like blades. Beneath it, the screams of the soldiers got even louder, as if fueled by the dragon’s roar that would either bring them life or death. The dragon shifted its course slightly to Gray’s direction.

And Gray didn’t wait.

“‘The deaths chase you,’” he said, before he coughed violently. Blood pooled on his horse’s back and his own palm.

His vision wavering, Gray slipped down from the horse and collapsed in a small heap on the ground. He squinted and still gazed at the dragon. “‘The whole way up to the edge. Blades, curses, whispers. And it’s murmuring-’”

He could feel the ground vibrate as the horse raced away.

A particularly wrecking heave shook Gray’s entire body. He trembled, and opened his mouth to let the blood flow out of it, onto the already crimson grass. “‘Dripping bloody tears, and shall you, latch on, to souls… Poor and forlorn… Listen to my, words, listen to this knowledge, listen to, this… poem.’”

Slowly, Gray laid himself on the ground and watched the white dragon advance. He then looked at the battlefield.

There was a glint of white, then it was gone. Bloody tears pooled in Gray’s eyes. Perhaps five hundred years had been a long time to live. Perhaps it was not. His dead body couldn’t recall.

He turned his head to stare, this time at the sky. It reached down at him, and he reached back.

“I swear,” he croaked. The lower half of his face and his torso was entirely soaked with crimson, seemingly dragging him down into the earth. “To the dead man’s, grave… that I’ll lie in my own coffin when he,” he stopped. He gritted his teeth. The tears covered his vision.

In the short second, emptiness settled into his eyes. He shook, and the white dragon roared. There was another flash of white.

Fell?

One word; there was one simple word that he longed to say, but he said instead, “arises.”

And it was exactly the very last spell of a gray wizard who had lost his name.

__

The exhausted sun of another day rose.

The rays of tender light welcomed the dusty faces of soldiers. The sky bathed itself in orange, the thin clouds fading into it.

After a moment of understanding, the soldiers suddenly laughed as loudly as possible, dropping their swords, sobbing in relief, throwing away their helmets, clapping each other on the back and cheering. The horses snorted in exhaustion and nudged their riders’ backs.

The soldiers stomped and danced and hollered in the midst of gold, dead soldiers of Dowen and the massive corpses of dragons. A particularly white one had its wings still spread, the open jaws pointing at the low hill. Its gray eyes were lifeless and glassy.

For hours, the smiles on the soldiers’ faces never left.

Only Fell was standing apart from the celebration. Instead, he stood by himself on the hill right next to the warfield.

His gray and white eyes slid half shut, and he knelt lightly on the ground. With a swift hand, he gathered the gray, translucent ash in his robe. After he did so, he pulled the robe off of his shoulders and tied it into a pouch tightly.

“You should have trusted a person that you could trust,” he murmured. His white hair blew into his face. “And that someone wasn’t me. I killed you the first time, Viska. You were an idiot for casting that spell.”

A moment of silence passed, as if Fell was awaiting for an answer.

When one never came, Fell pulled the pouch of ashes to his chest. “Now see what you’ve ended up as,” he whispered. “I won’t cry for you. I never will. But I’ll do my best to remember. That is all I can ever do.”

Then he stood up, strode down the hill to join the rest of the soldiers, and never looked back once.

The gray ash later ended up scattered in the ocean, beneath the black cliff that Gray had been sitting on.

The sky was gray, the ocean was black, and a man’s hair was starkly white before he turned and left.

__ __ __ __ __ __ __ __ __

[The Book of Wars : page 952 : scribed under the War of Dragons

After the victory had been won by a mysterious source of dark magic, the kingdom sank into celebration, signaling the end of the Dark Era. In the middle of it was the Knight of Light, whose name was never revealed to the world openly.

It is a common knowledge that the Knight had spent a great amount of effort to claim victory in the War. Yet, it is also a widely known and unexplained mystery, for the Knight disappeared completely from records, eyewitnesses and the range of the King’s authority.

At the same range of time, Dowen proposed a peace treaty to the kingdom of Nolin. After days of consideration, the King concluded that the treaty would be accepted - only at one condition; to release or kill all the dragons.

While Nolin settled down into peace, many high-ranking wizards began a search for the castor of the magic that had won the War. After years of the huge search that had went on endlessly, the King finally sent out to the kingdom, that all followers of dark magic would be arrested and interrogated without any consideration to social status. Since the great magic that had sped up time for the enemy soldiers and dragons in the War was considered to be dark magic, one by one, wizards stopped looking for the source of the magic.

Yet, a select few individuals attempted to search beneath the kingdom’s accusing eyes. When discovered a short time later, they were all arrested and muted.

The two things that shroud the War in mystery would logically be these items in history - the whereabouts of the Knight of Light, a widely appreciated and honored war hero, and the dubious existence of a magician who is believed to have cast the dark magic to end the War. ]

. . .

And they lived

happily ever after.

. . .

I’ll tell you that.

Because for some,

It was a happy ending.

History is never written

For corpses,

Understand?