Sorry for the hold up, I had a bit of writers block.
Chapter 8, Illegally Blind
Mak'tíre cleaned his glasses once more. Oh, how he hated those things! But he needed them. As much as he wished he didn't, he did. Without them, he couldn't see an inch in front of his face clearly. Putting the glass and wire "vision correctors" back on, he turned to look at the egg. Egg. As in, Dragon. It was incredible. Unlike some of the people who had gone before him - he had seen their faces when they learned they would be Riders - Mak'tíre was glad to be a rider. Maybe the riders could fix his eyes! He had seen elves do magic, but they had no common tongue, and he could not ask them to help him. Then again, even if they did have a common language, why would an elf help him, an orphan?
Flashback:
Grace stood and gathered her papers. Like usual, the orphanage was in dire straits. Thankfully, there had been no more children in a whole month, and there was a group of older children who would be old enough to go out in the world themselves next week. If only they could hold out till then, the government would send them money as a thank you for raising the children. Every child who grew up and left the orphanage gave them a bit more money, because there were so few orphanages the government was thankful for every child who grew up. So they got paid. Suddenly, Grace heard a light knock on the door. Walking over, she peeked out the small window, but no-one was there. Then she heard the knock again. Opening the door, Grace saw a small basket with a babe wrapped up in it. Picking up the basket, she looked at the child. An Urgal by the look of it, and male. She carried him into the building. "Hello little one" She said sweetly. "What shall we call you?" She looked at the blanket that was covering him. "A wolf. How about Wolf?" She wondered aloud. Then, because she wished to bless the boy, she decided to name him in the ancient language, in which she only knew a few words, but one of those was the name for wolf. "Mak'tíre" She said softly as she rocked the child in her arms, "Mak'tíre"
...
Seven years later
...
The Urgal baby had grown into a miniature warrior. Even thousands of years of peaceful living had not removed the savage nature of the Urgals. At least, not completely. Mak'tíre stayed true to Urgal nature, yelling fierce battle cries as he charged up the rungs of the slide and as he slid down the slide. He grinned and looked over to where he knew Mama Grace was. They all called her that, Mama Grace. Mama Grace and Papa Fred took care of all the kids.
Mak'tíre ran to Mama Grace until he could see her face, which was pretty close, considering that he was an Urgal, and Urgals were supposed to have really good eyesight. He was, as some healers said, un-curable. But perhaps they just said that because they did not want to expend any effort in healing him. Not that he cared at that age. No, he didn't care. The only thing he cared about was playing, though he couldn't do that very well with his vision impairment. Without far vision, he could not judge the locations of things properly, and had to move close to something to identify it as a threat or harmless. This was why he was alone in the playground, while all the other orphans his age were on a walk in the foothills of the Beor Mountains. He had to stay home. With the babies. Needless to say, this made Mak'tíre unhappy, but he hid his feelings well from Mama Grace.
Mak'tíre ran up to his human caregiver with a grin, concealing the inner conflict that was raging within him.
"Hello, Mak'tíre. Are you enjoying yourself?"
Mak'tíre nodded. Along with his bad eyesight, Mak'tíre was lacking in another early development of Urgals. Their ability to speak. While most Urgal children would be speaking at his age, Mak'tíre could not. Or would not. Only he knew. Grace took the nod as a yes, then asked, "Would you like to have some tea and biscuits with me?"
The young Urgal nodded. One of the only good things about these afternoons alone with Grace was that he got Tea, a novelty in this part of Alagaësia. He was the only child under fourteen who had ever had a taste of it.
Grace held out her hand, holding Mak'tíre's glasses. She always removed them when he played, else he would ruin them.
Mak'tíre put on the glasses and the world came into focus. He smiled up at Mama Grace, took her hand, and they walked into the main building to have their Tea.
End flashback:
As the memory faded, Mak'tíre found his attention drawn to the egg. It was so beautiful, and for once, he was glad for the glasses. The egg seemed to be made of three layers. The bottom layer was a deep blue colour, with a hint of a green tint. The middle layer, only a few millimeters thick, was clear, with patches of green and blue colour mixed in. And the top layer, it was the most exquisite thing he had ever seen, mostly clear with veins of all the colours of the rainbow streaming through it. All together, the three layers could not have been more than a centimeter thick, but they somehow had the strength of diamond. Stronger, in fact. Mak'tíre sighed and put the egg back on the floor. He thought back to his childhood, when life had not been kind to him.
Flashback:
Mak'tire ran through the corridors, hands outstretched to keep from smashing into things. The ten year old Urgal ducked and rolled, turning to run down another hallway. A small stone came quizzing past as he turned, missing his ear by mere inches. He yelped and ducked again, then kept running. As he ran, he held out one hand and moved close enough to the wall that he could feel it. He ran this way until he found a doorway, running in and closing the door, turning the lock. He stood there for a moment, panting, then pulled a small case out of his pocket. Inside was a pair of glasses, which he put on. He then looked around the room. To his wonder and amazement, it was full of books from floor to ceiling. He walked to the shelf and pulled out a thick book. "Domina Abr Wyrda" He read the title quietly.
"Dominance of Fate" A soft voice replied, in the Urgal language. A slim figure slipped out of the shadows in one corner of the room. A female. Elf or Human "A good choice. You can read the Ancient Language?"
"A little" Mak'tíre admitted quietly. "I enjoy reading"
"Odd, for one of your species" she replied, kneeling beside him. "Don't you usually spend your time in athletics?"
Mak'tíre nodded silently. He pointed to his glasses.
"Ah, you are the blind one" She said with a bittersweet smile. "I have heard tales of you"
"Me?" Mak'tíre asked. "Who would care about me?"
"Friendly people. Not all are like I though. Guard yourself, son" The lady replied quietly, then faded away. Mak'tíre looked around, but could not find her. He wondered about her advice, and began to follow it. Instead of running, he ignored the other boys.
...
Over time, Mak'tíre discovered that joking could prevent bullying. So he became the class clown.
End flashback:
And now, years later, Mak'tíre still wondered about that lady. Who had she been? Was she even real? He didn't know, and he supposed he never would know. Never.
Watching a large fly buzz around the tent, Mak'tíre thought contemplatively about his past. As the class clown, he had created a small way for others to like him - they began to like the joking side of him. He had joked and joked, but over time he had begun to be more and more uncomfortable. His discomfort had made him closed off, so he had started to act haughty and arrogant to hide it, and the haughtiness and arrogance had bled into his personality. Now, his first reaction to a negative statement was to remark with a retort. He sighed, then turned back to the egg at the sound of a crack. It was hatching! The egg was hatching. He stared at it, but nothing more happened. He slouched, and was caught up in another memory.
Flashback:
"Do you want to go?" She asked
"Why should I?" He replied grumpily. "It's not as if I have any chance of being chosen"
"You have as much of a chance as any other" She encouraged him. "Please go, Mak'tíre"
"Fine," Mak'tíre agreed after considerable thought. "I'll go. For you, Grace, and no other reason"
"You won't regret it" She replied, giving her adopted son a hug. She had adopted him a few years ago, to keep him close. He had grown so strong, but so distant, despite her efforts.
End Flashback:
Mak'tíre was wrenched out of the memory by another crack. "Are you finally hatching?" he whispered, and was rewarded with a small head popping out of the shell. He smiled. "Welcome, little one," he said, and touched the dragon.