CHAPTER 58: TO WALK UPON THESE ASHES
On the early morning of the 16th of Sun's Dusk, snow and ashes fell over the ruins of Riften.
Ghostly steps threaded over the burned ground. It had been third days since the dragon attack, and the once so lively town was now eerily quiet. Corpses were freezing on the streets. Most of the townsfolk had seen the great, red-scaled dragon leaving the scene, and in fear of its return, they refused to crawl out of their shelters. That was not good. Unless the explosions had cleared out the vermin problem down in the sewers, the ruins would soon be swarming with rats.
He had warned them about this.
Gildarts grunted as he took another step over a pile of blackened wood. Pain radiated from his severed leg like thorny vines creeping up on his body, snaking around his insides and squeezing them tight. The new ghostly prothesis carried his weight poorly now that his both legs were gone. Today was the first day he was able to walk properly, though with great labour and struggle. He had some business to arrange, so he pushed through the pain, and kept going.
Silent, haunted pairs of eyes stared at him when he passed by: soldiers on watch, orphans trying to play in the fresh snow, elders looking through the ruins of their homes in search of any personal items. Someone found a ring, some other found an amulet of Arkay, but that was mostly it. Gildarts sensed their desperation in the atmosphere. How could life go on after this? How would they make it through the winter? Death would reap its harvest long after these ashes had gone cold, and they all knew it.
Though famish and disease threatened to steal the rest of Riften's lives, efforts for preventing it were done. In the aftermath of the destruction, partly of Gildarts's influence, the doors of Mistveil Keep were kept open for those looking for temporary refuge. The Jarl offered food, drink, and warmth to her people. Calls of aid had been sent to other settlements in the hold. The orphans and elders would be evacuated to Ivarstead or other nearby villages, but every able man and woman would partake in rebuilding Riften.
To Gildarts, that felt like a distant dream – a noble thought, to restore the age-old city to its former glory, but as he walked upon these ashes, truly seeing the vast destruction and sensing what loomed ahead, he knew that it would stay as a distant dream.
A chunk of crumbled wall blocked his way, but he moved it aside with telekinesis. Gildarts grunted in frustration: the stone was heavier than usual, as maintaining three magical protheses was rather costly. He'd better spare the little magicka he had. He'd need it later, for he had a long way to go, many things to do.
His journey had begun from Mistveil Keep, where he had stayed with the others for the last days, healing his wounds and restoring his strength. Now, he had two destinations in mind. First, the Bee and Barb. Second, his quarters down in the Cistern. He didn't have much hope for either of them, but there were some things he had to either retrieve or confirm to be destroyed. Sooner or later, the Thalmor were bound to examine the ruins. The damn elves had been rather interested in Helgen, collecting ashes when the dead should've been left to rest in peace. Perhaps they were on their way already.
Leaving faint footprints on the freshly-fallen, ashen snow, Gildarts moved along the stone walls, struggling to navigate among the ruins. Riften had once resembled a labyrinth, but he had still known it better than his own pockets. Now, the familiar landmarks were gone, the trees he had curved profanities into as a child were burnt to coals, everything, everything had been just… wiped out.
Glancing over his shoulder and comparing the distance from his current spot to the tallest watchtower to his memories, he found the place where the inn had been. He remembered the sight: when he had walked out of the inn's doors, most often drunk, he had seen the watchtower standing tall towards the southeast. As he stood there now, only the tower and the castle were as they used to be. He stepped to the inn's rock foundation, turned his eyes away from the tower, and began searching.
Here, he was after the Annals of the Dragonguard.
Earlier, Gildarts had gone to Oblivion and back – well, just Cyrodiil, but that journey had equalled a trip to Oblivion when it came to hardships and annoyances – to retrieve that book from the demolished archives of the Blades. That held the most valuable secrets of the Dragonguard, including the location of Sky Haven Temple, where the Akaviri recorded the folklore of Alduin's defeat on the great carved wall. Such information couldn't fall into wrong hands.
Perhaps ironic, he had bestowed to book to Natsu, who never even laid his hands on it.
He should've known it by then, when the young mage entrusted the readings to his companion, who happened to be the Dragonborn instead of him. There had been a small seedling of doubt within Gildarts by then, but that was smothered by the trust he held for the boy. But well, he understood it now, and who was he to judge others for keeping some secrets. Hiding Lucy's true identity had been smart of them. These days, it would be foolish to trust anyone, and Gildarts had been a fool.
But now, the book was somewhere in the ruins of Bee and Barb, where those young lovers had spent their time – most likely not reading some dusty old books, gods knew how busy they had been – before setting forth on a long journey to the Reach. They were supposed to be on the road by now, but as Gildarts had learnt long ago, life didn't go as planned. It had a strong tendency to go straight to the Void. And oh, Void's where it was, with the Dragonborn captured by the dreadful cultist, and Natsu still unconscious and imprisoned in the dungeons of Mistveil Keep.
Gildarts let out a pained sigh.
The upstairs of the inn had collapsed, so he searched through the ashes, trying to find any piece of paper amongst them. He found tin tankards, shards of mead bottles, bones and burnt, scaled skin of the Argonian innkeeper, but no books. Light enveloped his ghostly arm as he cast a detection spell to aid him with his hopeless search. He imagined his target in his mind to the utmost detail, and then sent forth threads of magicka to attach to the object corresponding to his mental image. It was supposed to get a soft red gleam when the item would be found, but no, the ashes just trembled from the vibration of magic, and remained as grey and cold.
His mind grew dark.
Blankly, he stared into the ash. He still couldn't believe that the bastards had arrested Natsu. They had almost tasted the sweet victory when Odahviing suddenly returned, shouted them to defeat, and stole Lucy away. Gildarts had been drifting in and out of consciousness, for never had he let his magicka run as dry as during that battle. He wished he hadn't. He hadn't been any help when Odahviing's Thu'um drained the life out of Natsu, nor when the guards had dragged him to the jail for 'arson'.
What a damn mockery. It was the dragon they should've arrested for arson, but the people needed a scapegoat to point a finger at. A few soldiers and civilians had been caught in Natsu's firestorm, but some had witnessed it, and survived. Some even believed he had caused the explosion in Ratway, which was obviously a false claim, but explaining the flows of underground gases would be too complicated for the commonfolk. Just like with the Great Collapse of Winterhold, people always blamed the mages.
For the last few days, Gildarts had been talking to the guards, the court wizards, even to the damned priests, but no one seemed to hear him. They all said how the young mage was a danger to the whole of Skyrim. Gildarts had just wanted to see to his wounds, heal him, so that he could survive to a trial that they didn't seem to be giving him. The execution was still up for debate. The guards said he could die on his own if they just waited.
Gildarts had been so close to crushing their heads in that instant, but decided that he could wait, too. But not for long.
He took a slow turn to the left, where the stairway to the upper floor had been. He cast the spell again, and then, under the coals of burned stairs, a faint red gleam glimmered. Air got stuck in his throat. He stilled, gazed at the light, and walked closer. He crouched and moved aside the blackened rubble. Below them, he found a small leather bag. He dispelled the magic and he picked up the bag. The leather had curled and shrunk, smudged from the edges, but it had miraculously resisted the flames.
No wonder why. As he loosened the strings on the bag, he felt familiar magic within his fingertips, the energy of an ancient artefact: the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller. Combined with incredible luck, its aura had kept the bag from burning, and protected the books as well. A thin journal, most likely belonging to Lucy, some spellbooks, and the Annals of the Dragonguard.
Gildarts sighed with relief. He tied the strings, and put the bag into a bigger backpack he was carrying. That was meant for salvaging objects worth salvaging, and until this moment, it had been empty. He turned away and left the ruined inn behind, heading towards the chasm in the centre of the city. Shivers ran down his spine every time he saw it. He could still hear the screams, still feel the embers raining on his skin, still see the crippled boy disappearing into the flames. For his last words to his brother, Haming had told him to run.
Since then, Gildarts had seen the ginger-haired lockmaster in the Mistveil Keep. Loke kept sitting alone at the threshold of the castle and staring into the dark skies, still veiled in black clouds that blocked out the sun. Gildarts felt so bad for the boy. When he had tried to talk to him, he didn't answer. Juvia had also visited him, for she had been there when Haming had died, but Loke just ignored all attempts of comfort. Nords grieved alone, and they grieved in silence.
And when Gildarts reached the chasm, sorrow took over him. He, too, was alone and quiet, so small and humbled in front of this immeasurable grief.
Bereaved, he gazed into the nothingness. His long black cloak fell to the snow as he crouched by the ledge. He grabbed a stone with his remaining hand, and dropped it to the chasm. A moment of silence, then a distant splash as the stone fell to the bottom far below. The embankments had collapsed, and lakewater had flooded into the old tunnels, what little was left of them anyway.
Gildarts sighed at the hopeless sight. If that's what was left of the entrance, what had happened to the Ragged Flagon? Had Brynjolf, his old friend, been there when it happened? Were there still some unlucky folks trapped and dying? Just to be sure, Gildarts cast a Detect Life spell into the chasm, and no lights sparkled in the darkness. What a relief, he thought, then turned away.
Even with his skill, it would be too dangerous, perhaps impossible, to go to his chambers from here. There could still be leaks of the gas underground that would combust from a single spark. Getting incinerated wasn't on his agonisingly long to-do list today.
He left the scene behind, and headed to the east. There was a secret passage to the Cistern in the graveyard, behind the Hall of the Dead and the Temple of Mara. Those areas were beyond the explosion's reach, which gave him hope. Many stone doors sealed the Guild's quarters from the rest of the Ratway, so they could have blocked the leaked gas as well. Of course, fires must have ravaged most of the tunnels, but if some of his study would be salvaged, he'd be glad.
As he went, his mind kept drifting into desperate realms, so dark he had to remind himself that something good had come out of this nightmare. The city's lead had finally taken action. To his surprise, the Jarl had reached out to him late yesterday evening. In fact, that meeting set into motion the chain of events that lead to this moment, his current plans.
The Jarl, Laila Law-Giver, like most of the other survivors, knew that a Dragonborn had been present during the battle. Lucy's Thu'um had reached through the strong walls of the castle, and the dying growls of Milmurnir had echoed across the city. The rumours of the Dragonborn had started to get flowery, but the Jarl was surprisingly close to the truth. Laila Law-Giver knew that the Dragonborn was a young woman in mage's robes, who'd been seen around in the city in the company of a pink-haired arsonist they had arrested. But after killing the smaller dragon, the red one returned and captured her. Wherever she was taken, nobody knew.
Except Gildarts.
He knew for certain that she'd been taken to Forelhost.
A while ago, when Gildarts had been investigating the increase of activity in the old monastery, he had asked for the Jarl's help. The Jarl had just laughed at him. 'The Dragon Cult is nothing but a legend,' she had said, but now when they had captured the only one who could save them, Gildarts could only say, 'I told you so.'
But Laila Law-Giver had a plan. She was a powerful woman, and despite having sided with the Stormcloaks, she wasn't a fool. The dragon attack had finally opened her eyes to the harsh reality, and the time had come to act. Upon the court's agreement, letters had been sent to each hold of Skyrim, to every leader, to call upon an emergency council to work for a truce between the Stormcloak rebels and the Imperials. Only when they'd turn their swords from their brothers' throats to the skies, Skyrim would prevail in this disaster.
Gildarts had listened with great interest. Ulfric Stormcloak and General Tullius had been invited to the meeting as well – their presence would be most important. If the Jarl's suggestion would go through the other rock-headed idiots, the council would be held in Dragonsreach, Whiterun, by the end of the year.
But as the Jarl herself had said, even if the brothers and sisters of Skyrim would unite their strength, without the Dragonborn, the dragons would win. So, she had bestowed a special mission to Gildarts: he was to rescue the Dragonborn from Forelhost, and bring her to the meeting. The Jarl had even organised a group of warriors to aid him in the dangerous mission, and they were ready to leave at any moment. Gildarts had agreed on one condition. The only man he truly needed for the mission was still locked up in the dungeons. If they'd release Natsu, then he'd do it.
The Jarl had refused.
Gildarts had stared at the woman in silence, but the stubborn Nord wouldn't change her mind. The decision wasn't hers alone – a dangerous pyromancer wouldn't be released from jail anytime soon. The world was unfair to powerful wizards, especially to those who hadn't learned to fully control their power. But as the Jarl and her court would soon learn, iron bars and locked chains were no obstacle for powerful wizards.
So, last night, Gildarts had mastered a plan. Some details were still left to arrange, but most preparations were done. He had sent a raven to the College of Winterhold to inform them of the upcoming emergency meeting. The mages should be present in the council as well. Fortifying buildings with magical wards, enchanting the defence weapons of the city, posting frostcasters to fight the spreading fires, the list of how mages could participate in the upcoming war was endless. The time had come to show that the wizards of Skyrim weren't just a menace to be frowned upon.
In the letter to the College, Gildarts wrote that he'd bring the Dragonborn to the meeting, but didn't mention her name. He told that they had some… hardships on their way, but they'd make it there. It was a promise Gildarts intended to keep, even without the Jarl's supervision. Tonight, he would begin his mission.
This morning, Laila Law-Giver had sent her men to rescue the Dragonborn, but Gildarts knew none of them would be coming back. Those idiots barely knew what had happened there in the First Era, how the dragon priest had poisoned their water supply and killed most of his own cult. Without anyone with actual knowledge of the place's grim history, that rescue group would follow the fate of the besiegers, thousands of years back in time.
Going to Forelhost alone would be a suicide, that's what he had once said to the Jarl. He still agreed to that. A bunch of idiots wouldn't be any better either. However, Gildarts wouldn't be going there on his own – a few good men would be enough.
So far, he had been careful with recruiting folks to his small rescue squad. First of all, he'd be releasing a death-sentenced prisoner from jail, but gladly, some people sided with him. Gajeel, the vampire who had evacuated the townspeople to the lake when the fires began spreading, had been his first recruit. He had grown fond of 'the halfling', as he said himself, and when he heard what happened to Natsu and Lucy, he had been eager to offer any help he could. The vampire surpassed even Gildarts when it came to Illusion magic. Altering the minds of the guards who kept Natsu imprisoned, or detecting the psyche-shattering attempts at Forelhost, would be the keys to success.
Gildarts had also asked Juvia if she'd be willing to help them. She was, as her heart bled for their fates, but she had to stay with the children. With Constance and Grelod dead – the old crone had died in somewhat shady conditions, it seemed – there wasn't anyone to take care of the increased number of orphans. A temporary orphanage had been settled in the castle's dining hall. The children loved playing in the castle, and they loved Juvia. She'd be better off with them. There was always a risk of not returning from this mission, and the orphans couldn't bear any more losses.
So, Gildarts had decided that would be enough. There wasn't much they needed. He was certain that once he'd tell Natsu that his beloved Lucy had been captured by the dragon cult, the whole mountain where the monastery stood would be blown up to the wind. In fact, Gildarts was afraid of the boy's reaction when he'd finally wake. Not just slightly, but a lot. He didn't know if he could sew him back together this time, but he knew there would be no holding him back – a thousand armies wouldn't stop him. When it came to Lucy, Natsu wouldn't be afraid of the dragon cult.
The dragon cult would be afraid of him.
On his way through the ashen ruins, Gildarts's mind wandered here and there. He kept thinking about the boy, the firestorm he had cast, the connection to the dragons that was still shrouded in mystery. The threads slipped past his fingers, and he knew not how to untangle that mess. Maybe tonight, on their way to Forelhost, he'd have a long talk with Natsu. There had to be something he had missed, something he had lost, something that would bring them closer to the truth.
Until then, the questions were all he had. But when he arrived at the graveyard, crowded by both living and the dead, his mind finally went silent.
Guards, soldiers, and other able men had been tasked by the Jarl to clean out the corpses, and parts of corpses, from the streets. They wore pieces of cloth over their faces to fight the stench of burned flesh, but their eyes were hollow, devoid of all emotion. Men carried the frozen bodies from piles to the freshly-dug graves, a priestess in a black mourning gown gave them their last rites, and then another body was thrown into the pit. Any little dignity to the victims of dragonfire was given, but gods, there wasn't much of it left.
Gildarts heard a commotion on the edge of the graveyard. Wailing, he recognized, and turned his gaze. A priest guided forward a young man, who carried a bundle of blackened burlap in his arms. Gildarts squint his eyes. The man writhed, trying to escape the hold of the priest who dragged him towards the gravesite.
"You can't take her! She's going to wake up soon!"
"I'm sorry, my brother, but as I've told you dozen times, your daughter is dead," the priest said calmly. "She's not going to wake up. Shake your fist all you want, but dead is dead."
As they walked past him, Gildarts saw two small feet hanging from the wraps, charcoal black.
"But you can't put her into that pit! Not like that! She deserves a place in the Hall of the Dead with my fathers –"
"The crypts are full, but weep not for it. She's going to be with the gods," the priest consoled the weeping man, "Come spring, trees will be planted on this place. These ashes of the innocent will turn into a beautiful oak, full and green, and in its shade, we will remember them, forever and always…"
The man collapsed on the edge of the grave as his child was taken away and lowered into the pit. Gildarts couldn't bear to look. The girl was as small as Cana had been when he had left home. If he'd be in the place of that man, he knew he'd follow his daughter to that pit. He'd lay there by her side, hold her tiny hand until the gods would take him as well. There would be no life after a loss as great as a child.
On the edge of the graveyard, a red-haired man dug through the rubble. He was barely visible, hidden in the entryway of a crypt, and didn't seem to be interested in the ongoing burial. Gildarts furrowed his brow, then relief fluttered in his chest. The man was Brynjolf, certainly, thank the damned Arkay. Gildarts walked across the yard, quiet like a ghost until he reached his old friend.
Brynjolf sensed his approach. He glanced over his shoulder, hollow eyes suddenly brightening up. "Damn it, man, didn't expect to see you again!" he rejoiced, stood up, and closed Gildarts into a brotherly embrace, patting his shoulder. "You are indestructible, Clive, aren't ya?"
Gildarts grunted in pain. "Almost," he answered, then pulled away. "What are you doing, Brynjolf?"
The man sighed. He placed his fists on his hips, shook his head, and stared at the site he had been digging with a shovel. "Fuck it, I don't even know. I left to arrange some business in Ivarstead a fortnight ago. Then I heard that a dragon attacked Riften, so I rode right back. The rumors were true, it seems. Damn it all."
Gildarts nodded. "You have a horse?"
Brynjolf's brow furrowed. "Yeah, why?"
"I'll buy that from ya," Gildarts answered. "All the horses in Riften are either grilled or running halfway to Hammerfell."
Even Brynjolf, who had known Gildarts for ages, seemed like he'd lost it. He stared at the old mage for a while, then cocked his head.
"What do you need a horse for?" Brynjolf asked then, half muttering.
"Do you also have a cart?"
" – yeah, gods, but what's going on, man?"
Gildarts snickered. He couldn't quite explain that he was going to release a prisoner and ride with him to the ancient monastery of the dragon cult, rescue the Dragonborn, and then head out far into the Reach to break into another forgotten monastery, then be back in Whiterun for an emergency council meeting, and he'd have to do it all in a moon and a half, couldn't he?
"I've got some business to arrange just nearby. Get your horse and the cart ready to leave at nightfall," he said.
"And what are you going to pay me with?"
"By preventing the end of the world," Gildarts grinned. "Ya know, the usual one."
Brynjolf rolled his eyes, then they stood there in silence. Brynjolf leaned to his shovel, and let out a long sigh.
"Would you help me clean out the rubble first?" Brynjolf asked then. "The route to Cistern is somewhere here."
Gildarts nodded.
To both of their surprise, the Cistern was almost unscathed.
When Gildarts moved the last objects away with telekinesis, and a ray of sunlight descended down to the bottom, a sudden rejoice filled the hall. The members of the Thieves Guild had been trapped there for days, getting fat on all the cheese and mead they had stored on their shelves. They had thought they'd remain there forever, so they could as well eat all the food and drink all the alcohol.
However, when they made it to the Ragged Flagon, they found the tavern badly burned. The explosions had collapsed the tunnels that connected the tavern to the rest of the Ratway, blocking all exits. The Guild's wizard had cast a ward on the stone doors and other airways to keep the smoke out from Cistern, but in that panic, no one had got them open when they realized there were still people on the tavern's side. People in the Flagon were scorched alive as flames licked the wooden rooms. One body Gildarts found behind the remains of a bar, hands still holding a tin mug, and he knew Vekel the Man had been a man until the bitter end.
While Brynjolf tried to recognize the corpses with the surviving members of the Guild, Gildarts headed to the warrens. The fires had devastated these paths as well. The madmen and exiled criminals that had lived here, lived no more. Thankfully, the stench of the gas had dissolved, giving Gildarts a small peace of mind.
Eventually, Gildarts arrived at the door of his quarters. His wards and locks were still in place, but in the chaos of the battle, Gildarts had lost his keys. He placed his hand on the chains, and shattered them, breaking apart the wards and runes at the same.
The door opened.
The wards had protected the room from the fire, but nothing had kept it safe from chaos. Books and notes were scattered around the floor, no surface was visible of his desk, and the map on the wall was full of scribbles and drawings. He laid his eyes on the spot near Riften he had surrounded before. Forelhost, his next destination. What a self-fulfilling prophecy.
Gildarts could recall most information about the temple from memory. He had spent the last month investigating the place from old writings and making expeditions nearby, but he had never dared to get closer. The rise of the Dragon Cult was a severe issue – now, more severe than ever – yet he had thought that focusing on his own mission, finding Sky Haven Temple, and learning how to defeat Alduin, would be the best weapon against the Order. He had been wrong. The Order was steps ahead of him, and now they had won.
Even if they might've gained one victory, the war was still far from over.
Perhaps it had just begun.
Gildarts let out a silent sigh, and laid his gaze on the wall where he had used to stare for so long. These were his father's old quarters, his only heirloom, a burden he had carried for decades. This would be the last time he'd be here. Gildarts had no plans of coming back to this rat's nest. So, he dropped the bag on the floor, and began collecting his things.
Books, parchment scrolls, piles of notes, rolled maps, enchanted items and alchemy potions, three bottles of mead, and a decades-old letter from Cornelia. His fingers traced the faded ink of her handwriting. She had written this for him soon after their first night at Bannered Mare. A faint grin rose to his face at the lewd wordings – by Shor, that woman had had the desires of a cave troll in heat. Lingering on the memory, Gildarts folded the paper, carefully put it into the bag, then closed it.
He stared at the lumpy burlap sack, counted the most important items in his head, and decided he had everything packed. If he'd forgotten something, he wouldn't need it. Then he gathered magicka upon his fingertip and traced patterns on the bag's surface. It began to gleam with a faint purple glow, and suddenly, it disappeared. It should be safe in a certain spot of Oblivion, but if not, may the Daedra have fun with the lusty love letters.
When he was done, he stepped back, and set his chambers on fire.
He pushed the stone door shut and went. The flames devoured his past, turning evidence of his existence into ash, but Gildarts didn't stay to watch it burn. Black smoke began to linger in the long tunnels, escaping from the small vent on the door. When he reached the Ragged Flagon, Brynjolf was there waiting. He asked what had happened to his quarters. Gildarts answered he wouldn't be coming back.
Then they sat there on the burned bar desk, drinking the meads Brynjolf found from the Cistern, and talked. Gildarts had known this man for years, but only today, he told him his real name. He told him about the Blades, about the bloody heritage he had carried in silence, about secrets that had burdened his heart for a long time. Gildarts had been a man who had lived in fear. Now, that had to come to an end.
At nightfall, Gildarts told him farewell.
The castle was quiet and dark when he made it there after the sunset.
As planned, the vampire was waiting for him in the entrance hall. The few guards didn't seem to mind his presence, or even notice his vampiric features, faded by simple Illusion spells. Gildarts greeted him with a nod.
"Are you ready?" Gajeel asked as he reached him.
Gildarts nodded again, then he cast a faint soundproofing spell around them. Any eavesdropper would hear only silence. "Yeah. I arranged a cart for us. It's waiting at the stables… or what's left of them."
"I could probably run faster, but thanks anyway," the vampire answered, then lowered his gaze down to Gildarts's missing legs. His eyes grew dark. "… oh. Well, forgive me. A cart is a good idea."
Gildarts sneered. "Thought so as well."
Gajeel studied him in silence. For sure, he could smell the alcohol in his breath, but a few meads did nothing to him at this point. Besides, they'd be starting the fun part of their mission: breaking the boy out of jail. If everything would go according to the plan, no bloodshed would be needed. The seriousness, and the bloodshed, would follow in the upcoming days.
"Shall we begin?" Gildarts asked. "Remember everything we agreed about?"
Without saying anything, Gajeel turned, and began heading towards the Guard's barracks. Gildarts followed him across the castle's lightless aisles that still reeked of fear.
"So, what happened to your leg?" the vampire asked suddenly. The spell of silence had already dissolved, but perhaps keeping a regular conversation on until they'd be near the dungeons would be less suspicious than silence.
Gildarts lifted a brow. "Which one?"
Gajeel let out a dry laugh. "The new."
Gildarts remained silent for a moment. The exact memory of how he lost another leg was lost in the misty fields of pain. He remembered the battle with Milmurnir after Natsu had ran to the orphanage. He remembered a mistake, remembered falling down, crawling backward, and a sharp lash of a horned tail. It must've been then.
"It turned out that dragon's tail can cut like a sword," Gildarts muttered. The mead had dulled the pain just a bit, but if Haming was still around with his sleeping tree sap, he'd surely bum him some. "Gotta be more careful next time."
Gajeel nodded. "By Molag Bal, just watching that from the lake was terrible enough. I'm glad some of you made it alive," he said. "But I guess it won't be getting any better, am I right?"
"It certainly won't."
Then, they went on without saying a word.
When they reached the end of an aisle, where a stairway to the dungeons was supposed to begin, there was someone standing in front of the door, glad in a guard's cuirass. The man carried a torch. Firelight danced on his ginger hair. Gildarts recognized him before he spoke.
"I knew I'd meet you here," Loke said, turning his eyes to them. The sadness in him made Gildarts flinch. "I've been waiting for a while."
Gildarts knit his brow in wonder. "What are you doing, boy? Ain't here supposed to be a guard on a post?"
"I am but a guard now," Loke answered. "The Jarl sent the man responsible for guarding this door into some special mission. I had nothing else to do, so I took the place."
Gildarts and Gajeel exchanged a confused gaze. This wasn't in their plans, but before they said anything, Loke spoke again.
"Juvia told me," he whispered. "I know what you're up to. And I… I want to help."
Just to be sure, Gildarts cast the shroud of silence around them again.
"So you know we're getting Natsu back and riding to Forelhost tonight?" the old mage asked, and the boy nodded. "You want to join us?"
Loke remained silent for a moment, his chin trembling.
"Yes, I want to," he answered then. "I'm sick of… this. Doing nothing. Crying. Wondering what in the Oblivion happened to her. I… I've gotta do something. Take me with you. I couldn't save my brother, but I can try to save Lucy."
Gildarts didn't have to think twice. The boy wasn't a capable warrior nor a skilled wizard, but he had his heart in this. If anything, he could open any lock in the world, even those protected by magic, and locks they surely had on their way. Gildarts glanced at Gajeel, who nodded in agreement.
"It's a dangerous mission, you know that? We don't fully know what we are up against. I could be none of us is leaving that place alive," the vampire asked. "Are you sure about this?"
Loke looked him into the eyes, his face growing still as a stone. "I'm sure."
No more words were changed. Loke turned to the door he'd been guarding, pulled a key chained onto his belt, and opened the lock. Cold, humid air flooded from the dungeon. He took a deep breath before gesturing at the tunnel, as if welcoming them.
Then, the three men walked down the stairs into the darkness.
A/N: Hi guys, hope you liked this chapter!
Personally, I'm so glad the long dragon battle is over. Writing the aftermath, especially in Gildarts's POV, felt very nice for a chance. This chapter served as a transition bridge between these two arcs. Also, this was the second chapter in the entire story when Natsu or Lucy aren't physically present, so I can kinda keep telling the story "around" them.
A little sneak peek to the next chapter:
Gildarts: "Natsu, they're going to execute you for arson."
Natsu: "Aw shit, here we go again!"
