u/red-fruitopia

Queen Helia seldom discussed the day when her kingdom came to be. She had vowed never to utter his name again – a vow she had kept for many centuries, and one she intended to keep for many more to come. But a good ruler does not keep secrets or tell concocted truths. A good ruler does not conceal her dragon’s history – so this story would be told. 

“Surely this is not all you offer to me?” Helia asked grimly. “A stone, adrift in the cold sea?” The NightWing smiled coyly. The murky water splashed against the small island’s rocky shore, the waves deep blue and gray, a match to the dragon’s cloak of dark scales. 

“Not this, but what is above you,” the NightWing spoke. He pointed upward with his talon, his gesture encompassing the overcast sky as it stretched from the eastern horizon to the far west. Helia’s expression was puzzled – there was nothing to be seen but the islet on which they stood. She watched the thick cover of cloud, drifting high over the water, and spotted a sparse patch of bright blue sky as it peered through the white wisps of mist. 

“Come with me. Up there. And I’ll show you,” the NightWing whispered. His voiced was laced with anticipation, excitement. He struggled to contain his gleeful smirk as it stretched across his handsome face. Helia didn’t hesitate to follow as the other dragon took flight, his heavy wingbeats sending the chilled sea air rushing past her ears as they spiraled toward the clouds. 

“You shouldn’t fool with me,” Helia said, the calculated authority in her voice waning as a breath of laughter escaped her. The NightWing’s form was majestic as his silvery under scales sparkled, the muscles in his legs and wings rippling, his sapphire eyes illuminated by the warm rays of Sun that shone through the cracks in the cloud cover. The damp, cool sensation of water vapour brushing against her outstretched wings sent a chill cascading down Helia’s spine. As she burst above the fog, she basked gratefully in the uninterrupted blue. The two dragons flew in place. Helia admired the Sun, almost regal in its beauty; the champion of dawn skies, glowing faintly yellow, ruling the kingdom far, far above Pyrrhia in complete solitude. 

Then, from the NightWing’s mouth was a sound too familiar to Helia: murmuring, quiet and quick, hardily audible above the harsh maritime winds. She was seized by terror – why would he do this? 

“Your oath!” She cried without a moment’s thought. She rushed toward him, her talons drawing crimson blood as she gripped his shoulders with panicked force, her momentum carrying them down, down, and . . . 

Down, against the clouds, slamming into them as if they were made of earth. Helia thrashed as she untangled herself from the NightWing and scrambled to her feet. The surface was firm as she clawed at it – please, allow it not be true – and as she scratched more vigorously, heat seared her pale grey cheeks, a lump of white came away in her talons. She crushed it angrily, and it crumbled as if made of clay. 

“All yours. For miles,” the NightWing said. 

“What have you DONE?” Helia screeched. He’d used his animus magic. He’d done it, even though he had sworn not to. He’d sacrificed the tiny portion of him that remained. And for what? She hadn’t needed this, she thought – she’d have found another way. She’d have protected her dragons at any cost.  

Just not this cost. 

“I don’t feel it, Helia, I don’t,” the NightWing reassured her. “I’m good. I’m still good.” 

“I won’t believe it,” Helia spat. Scalding acid rose in her throat as she watched his smug expression. She couldn’t bear to look at him as he forsook her so arrogantly; his undefeated self-righteousness had once more trumped the bond they shared. Once more. Again. An unbreakable pattern. Her pointed teeth bared, her sharp eyes focused on the stretch of cloud that separated them, she found herself paralyzed. By rage, Helia had thought, but there was another sensation within her chest – pulsing, aching, warm. 

“You have to believe me – why don’t you believe me?” 

She bit back a venomous retort. She could not find an answer, not a correct one. Not one which was suitable. Not one which could contain what she truly felt, express the emotions that had weaseled their way beneath her scales and began to scrape at her tender flesh. A feeling so new and strange. 

“Come here, Helia, and you will see it is me. As I have always been.” 

Helia hesitated, unmoving, thinking. Thinking of things to come, things she did not want to picture or remember. Thinking of what he had been to her. She steadied herself. 

She approached him slowly, in careful silence. Her thin tail snaked along the ground as she dragged her rigid body to where he sat, poised casually by the small parting in the clouds. He wore a warm smile, his posture relaxed, betraying no anxiety or worry. His dark complexion could not have been a starker contrast from the infinite expanse of land as pale as ivory. 

“I am the same,” he insisted. He brought Helia into his arms, gingerly intertwining their wings. Hers light purple, flecked with gold, and his midnight blue, dotted with silver. His talons laced behind her back, his calm stare clashing with her conflicted gaze. His touch was comforting and familiar. 

Helia’s eyes fixated on the NightWing’s glittering blue irises. She searched for his eyes, the eyes that belonged to him, the ones she had first looked into so many years ago – but these were not them. The pools of rich, royal blue spoke to her differently than his had, and told her a message she did not want to receive. Traitor to be, they uttered. 

She had been right to make him promise. It was true then, undeniably so, that he had become corrupted beyond recognition. And it would not be long before his lust for power consumed his reason and sense. He would return her and her tribe to the NightWings, she was certain. To be enslaved. To be maimed. To be killed. For reward, for recognition. A trail of dark grey smoke slithered out from her mouth as she gasped quietly. 

Helia felt the Sun’s heat warming her exposed back, the gradient of grey and purple scales soothed by the beams of pure daylight. She was gravely aware of what her next move would be. 

“There is not another way,” Helia whimpered.  

From tail to snout, her scales erupted in flame, blazing with vicious heat. The NightWing writhed and screamed; his talons tore at her, shredding the skin of her back, underbelly, and arms as he desperately wrestled for release from her fire. He kicked with his strong hindlegs, striking Helia’s stomach with surprising force – but she did not falter. A cry erupted from the NightWing’s throat. Loud and pained. As she drew him near, arms surrounding his torso in a solemn embrace, the scorched scent became greater than she could bear. She released him with a shove. Her body sparked, sizzled, and was extinguished. 

He stumbled backward. His sinewy figure was deformed by cavernous lesions where his flesh had melted away, the pitch black splotches smoldering and flickering with the light of still-ignited scales. His face was charred – only one eye remained. He scrambled for purchase as he teetered toward the gap in the cloud cover. Through it could be seen the dark seawater, a dim reflection of the shining azure sky. As above, so below, Helia thought reverently. 

He fell. Not a sound escaped him as he plummeted toward the earth; nothing could be heard but the roar of racing winds. Helia sat, still as a stone, waiting for the Sun to sink below the horizon. She did not peer over the edge of the hole, the portal between this new world and the one she had known. Her mind was silent. She paid no mind to the burning ache that radiated from her gushing wounds. When Imperial, Oracle, and Perception bore down on her from center sky, she gathered the courage to look upon what she had done. 

The NightWing’s body rested on the rocky islet. A puddle of maroon flowed from his head. His shape was crumpled, his arms pulled rigidly to his chest, his wings tucked tightly behind his arching back. He was curled in a circle, symmetrical, decorative – he appeared more as an illustration on a tapestry than as a real dragon. Helia waited, patiently watching, as the white-capped waves crashed against the island shore and washed away the spray of blood. As it disappeared, Helia thought: asleep. He was asleep, adrift in a peaceful dream, his artful form captured in a fabric weaving. Not dead. Not at her hands. 

The Haven of the DayWings, concealed amongst the clouds, came to be this way – a good ruler does not overlook such a blessing. 

Has anyone had this experience?

I am a Fido user who lives next to a major provincial park. During peak times (holidays and weekends) my service becomes unavailable. This is a consistent pattern throughout the summer. Service operating as usual Monday to Thursday, and dead from Friday to Sunday. No texts or calls possible. No major outages reported.

What am I meant to do?

*First I would like to mention that I was reminded of this story when I saw this post. So credit to this creator on this subreddit for inspiring me. This was a dream I had one evening (though I inserted details).

https://www.reddit.com/r/Dreading/comments/1u9ojpa/i_always_thought_the_end_of_the_world_would_be/

When I woke up in the morning, the morning of the day which the world would end, I was not alarmed. In the night it had been told to us: there would exist nothing more after this day. While I dreamt I had come to know that this was true, and I felt as if I had always known. 

I was still very tired, so I negotiated a few more hours of rest from my weary brain. Why wake now, if there was nothing to do when I rose? I shut my eyes and pulled my blanket to my chin. I wondered that about what might happen if the world ended while I slept – would I remain forever dreaming? This could be good, I thought, if I always dreamt a good dream. It could be bad if I dreamt of nightmares. 

When I woke again I could not muster enough tiredness to fall asleep once more. It was nine in the morning now, and the world had not yet ended. I tried to think of what time it would occur, but I could not deduce one. So it could happen in five minutes, or in an hour’s time, or it could happen at the stroke of midnight. And I wouldn't know until it had happened already.

I stood up from bed and swung open my curtains. I did not dwell on what was outside – it was my very usual backyard, as normal as any day before. I tidied my bedspread and dressed myself. I did not think that it was odd to do this, even though my bed would never be unmade and I would never be undressed, because I did this every day. And what made today special? The only day that was special was tomorrow; tomorrow would never become today. 

I came out from my room, and there in the lounge was my mother and my brother, embracing on the sofa. Their cheeks were streaked with tears, and they murmured to each other softly: I love you, I love you too, I love you more. So then everyone had been told. 

“Good morning,” I said. My mother looked at me, her eyes red and swollen. She hiccupped and blubbered when she spoke to me. 

“I love you, baby, I love you – come here,” she cried.  

“I love you, too.” 

“Sit with me, please.” 

“I’m hungry. I want to make toast first.” At my comment, she paused.

“Aren’t you – aren’t you worried?” 

“No.” 

In Catholic school, there had been a quote from the Bible I very much liked, a verse from the gospel of Matthew. Who can add an hour to their life by worrying? Something or other like that. Now that I knew the world would come to end, there was no use in being troubled by it at all, since the number of hours of my life had become finite. And was it not true that my limited time would be wasted if I spent it while hungry and miserable? 

When I stepped into the kitchen I saw it through the window above the sink. There on the horizon, just beyond the tree line, was starkly nothing. It was a wall of pure white that reached as high and as wide as I could see. It was moving quickly towards my house and my family; I could see the distant oaks and cedars vanishing as it approached. My neighbour’s house was consumed by it. 

Where did it go? When the world ended, what happened to all that there was? Maybe the white was like a liquid, dissolving everything inside of itself. Maybe it was like an eraser when it lifted the pencil marks from the paper. Or maybe it was like my bedsheets, covering up my mattress, only masking what was still there. 

I turned to face my mother and brother. They looked at me, expressions marred with horror and bemusement at the same time. They were quiet and motionless as they watched what I had seen, their drooping eyelids and slack jaws making them appear sedated, about to be put down. I smiled at them – I wasn’t alarmed. I stared back at the window. The vast white was right outside now, soon to envelop the kitchen wall, and I began walking towards it. 

An odd man gave me a strange gift. It is a box that I can’t open. 

I was walking to the subway station. It was raining, which hadn’t been foretold on the weather channel, so I plastered a stolen newspaper over my head. I looked down towards the wet pavement and away from the onslaught so that my glasses would stay dry. This didn’t work – the water was sliding down my forehead and dripping off of my cheeks. There was a jingling sound. Rattle-rattle. Several coins bounced around a paper cup. I didn’t look up, I just patted my pants pocket as if to say “nothing here”, and kept moving. 

“You’ve got eight dollars and seventy-five cents!” the man shouted. His voice boomed above the sound of the downpour. Yes, I had exactly that. That’s twice the subway fare, I thought: four loonies and a quarter multiplied by two trips. It was a smart trick. I wondered, though, how he knew I was carrying an extra quarter – I’d brought it for the shopping cart at the supermarket, where I’d stop after work. 

“You have something for me,” he cooed. His gimmick had stopped me and now, while I was stood still, he stepped in front of me. His grin showed his horse’s teeth, yellowed and jutting outward. He had a nose like an eagle’s beak; curved, sloped into a drooping point. His ears stuck out and sagged like a cow’s and his long neck arched like a swan’s. He had flaming orange hair that, where it had become damp from the rain, faded into a murky copper colour. He was a very ugly man.  

“I’m sorry, I need it,” I said. I peered at him from above the frames of my glasses. My eyes were cautious; I tried not to portray my frustration. The newspaper flapped angrily as the wind picked up speed. I moved to continue my path – splash, the sole of my rubber boot slapping against a cloudy puddle. 

“I’ve got something for you.” 

I paused again. His smile was wider, toothier, and the golden caps that decorated his molars peeked around the corners of his upturned mouth. He spun and stooped down to his sleeping place. His bed was a rain-soaked and sun-bleached blanket. On it there was a scattering of items: sodden strips of cardboard, a dirty yellow bucket full up with water, an assortment of pens, pencils, and markers. A folded grey jumper served as a pillow. There was one more thing – a large box made of wood. He scooped it up and thrust the heavy trunk into my chest and, wanting not for it to crash down onto my flimsy shoes should he let go, I gripped it firmly with both hands. I watched as the newspaper was ripped away by the tempest, thrashing about in the air, flashing the words Toronto Star at me before disappearing behind the fog. 

“Don’t look inside. Keep the lid shut.” 

“I don’t want this, I can’t take it on the train,” I stammered, and I looked up towards him – but he wasn’t there. My head swiveled left and right. I couldn’t spot him, but I could feel that the ugly man’s gaze was on me, his figure obscured by the sheet of falling water. My glasses were of no use streaked with rain. Crack! A thunderclap sounded, and a bolt of lightning illuminated the street, so I broke out in a run for the metro without another word. 

I was at the turnstile. I tried to fetch the fare that was tucked in my pocket. I couldn’t reach it, I realized, because my hands were full with the box. A curt “hello” attracted the attention of the ticket inspector, and I passed the chest to him as I slotted the change into the machine. Clink-clink. The gate opened. For a moment, a few seconds at least, I thought I might leave the box with the attendant. The wet trunk had begun to soak his crisp white shirtsleeves. He gazed at it intently, his face revealing a mixture of confusion and interest. He was inspecting it in more depth than I had, and I became curious of it myself, so I snatched it back from him. I stepped onto the platform and didn’t meet his eye as he watched me depart. 

While I was sat on the train I tried not to stare at the obtuse, cumbersome thing; I thought that, the less attention it received from me, the less it would receive from other nosy commuters. I glanced around at the weary expressions worn by the train car’s passengers, explained by a quick check of my digital watch: 7:34 AM. Some of their tired eyes twitched towards my box. My head had begun to ache. I was clenching my jaw. 

I watched the dreary cityscape slide by as the train surfaced. The wet window concealed the finer details, but I was familiar with the view; this was my usual route, of course. Slick concrete littered with colourful graffiti filled the foreground. Mirrored high-rises spiraled towards plump, rain-filled clouds and echoed the harsh gray of the overcast sky. Lake Ontario could be glimpsed where a crumbling brick wall had been hastily replaced by a chain-link fence. Without the sun to illuminate its rippling waters, the Great Lake resembled a slab of smooth stone. The window was consumed by darkness as the subway dipped back beneath the street – reflected in the black glass was me, my box, and the man who had silently taken his place next to me. 

“I’ll take that from you,” he said to me. His voice was a low grumble. He was a large man. His hulking figure occupied one-and-a-half seats, and though one sat vacant to his right, his bulk encroached upon my space. He dwarfed me in height; where I was a measly five feet and four inches, his sturdy frame surely exceeded six feet. I tore my eyes from his reflection and did not look at him. I shook my head “no”. 

“Please?” He stretched a thick, meaty hand towards the box, caressing the damp wood. I slapped it away – mine. As he recoiled, I rose from the bench. The metal doors creaked open shortly after I stood. I scurried off the train, several stops before my own, to thwart the would-be thief. I walked the rest of the way to work. One half of a mile, pelted by the steady downpour. 

My rubber boots squelched on the elevator’s carpeted floor. Drip, drip. Water slid off of my drenched suit jacket and trickled onto the rug. I pressed nine with my elbow. I had a meeting, some hubbub about an upcoming project, but I wanted to visit my office first. Numbers flashed on a red seven-segment display as the elevator rose slowly. One, two, three – and then the elevator stopped. The door slid open. There was a scoff. 

“Gee, look at you,” Deuce said. He lifted his arm to his face, covering his mouth, and disguised his mocking laughter as a cough. I couldn’t stand Deuce. I did not offer any pleasantries in response. He gripped his suitcase firmly and entered the elevator without another word, though I could see the edge of his lips tightening into a smirk. His boss, Helen, stood behind him; her gaze was fixated on him, a scowl forming on her face. She nodded to me in greeting. I nodded back. 

The elevator began up, six floors until mine, but just two floors had passed when I began to feel uneasy – Deuce and Helen’s eyes were on me, I could feel it. On my box. I squeezed the chest so tightly that a wooden splinter lodged in my pointer finger. It burned red, painful. Ouch. To protect me, and to protect my box, I turned around. I tucked my head and huddled around the trunk. I stared at the blank metal panels that decorated the elevator walls and the thin black seam between them where they met in the corner. The two shifted; they shuffled their feet, and their heads turned to me, but I shielded the box with my shivering body. Six, seven, eight, and then nine. I sprinted into my office. 

I locked the door, pulled the blinds shut, and turned the lights off. I closed the curtains on the window that overlooked the city. I sat at the desk, the old chair groaning beneath our weight, and really looked at the box for the first time. 

It was wood, yes, but what kind I couldn’t know, as the rain had changed the colour and texture of the grain. There were two leather straps with brass buckles that secured the lid. The edges were worn and faded, the uncured hide visible through the cracks. There were two zip-ties, too, made of ribbed white plastic. There were many elastic bands wrapped around the box. A hundred or more thin strips of tan rubber. There was an very, very small lock on the box’s golden clasp – it was no bigger than the tip of my pinkie finger. 

This strange gift is a box that I shouldn’t open. He told me: do not open it. But what was inside? When I rattled the chest, there was no sound, it sounded empty. Was nothing inside? Why had the man given it away so eagerly – why had everyone wanted it so badly? I wanted to know, I had to know: in this box, what was there? 

I undid the metal fasteners and removed the strips of leather. I turned them over in my hands, and on the soft back, they had been branded with one word each. The first read greed. The second read envy. I tossed them in the plastic waste basket – then I plucked them back out and stuffed them in the locked desk drawer so nobody else would find them. 

I took a pair of scissors to the cable ties. They had text, too. Black permanent marker had inscribed on them hunger and yearning. They went into the drawer, too. 

I used the scissors again on the rubber bands. I could have stretched them around the box, one by one, but I needed to know what was inside of it. I needed to know now. As they shrunk back into tiny fragments of stretchy cord, they made a noise which, if I were crazy, I might say sounded like the word curiosity. But I’m not crazy, so it sounded like elastic bands breaking. Their remnants went into the drawer. 

I stuffed a bent paperclip into the tiny lock. I wiggled it around, jammed it in there, stabbed at the mechanism wildly; it didn’t work. I turned the box onto its side and picked up my metal stapler. I slammed it down, and down, and down again onto the little lock. I held it in place with my left hand, pinching it between my splintered finger and my sweaty thumb. I brought the stapler down again – I brought it down on my thumb. 

“Foolishness,” I cursed beneath my breath. But the lock had sprung open. I threw it into the drawer so quickly that it nearly bounced out. I righted the box and wrenched the lid apart. Creak. The hinges squealed. I was vibrating with excitement, my teeth chattering, when I peered inside. 

There was emptiness. There was certainly nothing at all. 

I reached into the box, thrashing my hand about, and grasped at the lack of anything. But there was something. There was a word engraved in the bottom of the box. I traced it carefully with my finger, felt each letter, searched for more on the four walls and on the top; but there was just one. 

Hope, it said.