The Dragon Soldier

 



He was called Draig, Dragon in the common speech. None in the village knew his real name. He had arrived half-dead a month earlier clinging to his horse, a bloody mess, his sword broken, his mind delirious. A red dragon was stitched on his leather surcoat.

The village healer, a woman known for poultices and herbs, had nurtured him like a sick calf, and brought him back to the living.

"What do the people say about me?" Draig asked her one day.

"They pity you," she said bluntly.

He thought about that, his brow knotted, as he scratched around a long scab on his arm. "They're probably right."

Draig continued packing a few bundles of bannock bread for his journey.

"Have you remembered anything yet?" The healer dropped some chopped leeks into the stewpot.

"Same as always," he said. "I have dreams, but they fade every morning."

She knew about his dreams. The small cottage had no privacy, and she could hear him cry out several times on most nights.

He donned his leather surcoat with the red dragon stitched on the chest. He patted the dragon and sighed. "Like this," he said, tapping the dragon with a calloused finger. "I remember the first time I put this on. It was at night, and the room was filled with candles. No, people were holding candles. They all wore this badge."

The healer sliced an onion, dropping each circle off the blade into the pot. "And you are sure you want to leave?"

"This is not my home. I must find my home."

She nodded, recalling his fevered mutterings days after he had arrived. He had said things like, "Follow me, boys. One more time, and they'll break. Follow me."

He didn't need to find his home. He needed to find himself. Part of her hoped he never did.




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