Morgan Rice - A Sky of Spells

Thor had mounted Mycoples, Gwen behind him, and had flown off. Ralibar had taken a liking to Gwen, and for a moment, it seemed that he might even let her ride him; but then he’d suddenly, unpredictably, leapt into the air and taken off, heading in his own direction. Gwen was happy he had: she wanted to ride with Thor, to be close again.

The two of them had been flying now for what felt like hours, taking stock of all the landscapes of the Ring, realizing the immensity of the work that lay ahead of them, of all the rebuilding that needed to be done. Finally, down below, through the clouds, there appeared the vestige of King’s Court, and Thor directed Mycoples to dive down low.

Mycoples obliged, breaking through the clouds, flying so low to King’s Court that Thor and Gwen could nearly touch its remaining parapets. Thor saw the outlines of the vast complex, of King’s Castle, of the Legion training grounds, the halls of the Silver, the Hall of Arms, dozens of buildings, the moats and ramparts and endless dwellings of the extended city—and it broke his heart. Here was a place that had once been so dear to him, so resplendent, the very backbone of the kingdom, the bastion of strength, of everything that Thor knew to be power. Here was the place he had always aspired to, the place he had first met and trained with the Legion. It was the place that had once loomed so indomitable in his mind.

And now here it lay: in ruin, a fragment of what it once was. Thor could hardly conceive that anything so powerful could be reduced to this. The foundations remained, the remnants of stone walls, the outline of the greater city; there was certainly a foundation left to build on. But most of its great, ancient stones and statues were toppled in heaps of rubble. Only half of King’s Castle stood.

“Seven generations of MacGils,” Gwendolyn said, shaking her head, “all wiped out because the Shield had been lowered, because the Sword had been stolen. It all started with her brother, Gareth. And now there lies my father’s kingdom. Gareth always wanted to destroy our father: and now, somehow, he has.”

Thor could feel her tears down the back of his neck.

“We will rebuild it,” Thor said.

“Yes, we will,” she replied confidently.

As they dove down lower, circling again and again, this place brought back so many memories for Thor. Here was a place he had been afraid and intimidated to enter as a boy, its gates and powerful sentries looming larger than life. And yet now here he was, no longer a boy, but a man, riding on the back of a dragon, the head of the Legion and already one of the Kingdom’s famed warriors. It was hard for Thor to process all that had happened in his life, and so quickly: it was surreal. Was anything in life, he wondered, stable? Was everything always changing, shifting? Was there ever anything that one could really hold onto?

The sight below brought Thor great sadness—yet it also brought him great hope. Here was a place they could build again, a place they could make even more resplendent. With the Empire finally gone, the Ring finally secure, Thor felt every cause for hope. They were all alive and safe, and that was all that mattered. The stones, they could all go back to the way they were. And with Gwendolyn at his side, Thor felt that anything was possible.

Thor felt his mother’s ring, bulging inside his pocket, and he knew the time had come to propose. The time had come for them to be together, forever. He did not want to wait another moment. He opened his mouth to speak.

“Set down there,” Gwendolyn suddenly called aloud to Mycoples. “I see the knights approaching.”

Thor looked down and saw the men traveling down the road, beginning to filter in through the gates of King’s Court. Mycoples dove down, as Gwen had requested.

They landed right before the incoming army, Mycoples setting down in the center of the courtyard, the men rushing out to greet them. Thor knew that his moment to propose was gone. But it would come again. He’d be sure of it. Before the day had passed, he would find a way to make Gwendolyn his wife.

Luanda marched and marched, exhausted, weak from hunger, freezing, feeling as if her trek would never end. She couldn’t allow herself to stop. She had to make it back, to her homeland, to Bronson. She was still reeling as she thought how lucky she had been to escape, what a close call it had been. She had been looking over her shoulder the entire march back, still fearing that somehow, maybe, Romulus would find a way to take down the Shield, to follow her, to grab her and bring her back.

But he was never there. He was gone now, the Shield was truly up, and Luanda had been safe marching, all this way, through the wasteland of the Ring, determined to make it home. She was relieved, yet she also felt a sense of dread. Would her people take her back in, after all she had done? Would they want to kill her? She could hardly blame them. She was embarrassed by her own actions.

Yet she had nowhere else to go. This was the only home she knew. And she loved Bronson, and ached to see him again, to apologize in person.

Luanda was remorseful for what she had done, and she wished it could have been otherwise. She wished she could take it all back, could do it all differently. Looking back on it now, she didn’t understand what had come over her, how she had allowed her ambition to overcome her. She had wanted it all. And she had failed.

This time, she had learned her lesson; she was humbled. She did not yearn for power now. Now, she just wanted peace. She just wanted to be back with her people, in a place to call home. She saw firsthand how bad life could be with the Empire, and she wanted to get as far away from ambition as possible.

Luanda thought of Bronson, of how much he had cared for her, and she hated herself for letting him down. She felt that if there was anyone left that might forgive her, might take her back in again, it was he. She was determined to find him, not matter how far she had to march. She only prayed he was still alive.

Luanda came upon the rear camp of the MacGils, all of them marching towards King’s Court on the wide road leading West, thousands of men, exhausted but jubilant, fresh off their victory. She was thrilled to catch up with them, to see that they had won, and she weaved her way through, asking each if they knew where Bronson was. She asked them all the same thing: if they had seen him, if he was alive.

Most had ignored her with a grunt, turning away from her, shrugging, ignorant. And those that recognized her, sent her away with disparaging remarks.

“Aren’t you the MacGil girl? The one who sold us all out?” asked a soldier, elbowing his friends, who all turned and examined her with scorn.

I am a member of the MacGil royal family, the firstborn daughter of King MacGil. You are a commoner. You remember that and keep your place, she wanted to say. The old Luanda would have.

But now, humbled, ashamed, she merely lowered her head. She was no longer the woman she once was.

“Yes, that is I,” she answered. “I am sorry.”

Luanda turned and disappeared back into the camp, weaving her way in and out, until finally she tapped yet another soldier on the shoulder, and as he turned, she prepared to ask him if he knew were Bronson was.

But as he turned she stopped cold.

So did he.

All around him the men kept marching, yet the two of them stood there, frozen, staring at each other.

She could hardly breathe. There, facing her, was her love.

Bronson.

Bronson stared back at Luanda in shock. She stood there and, for several seconds, she did not know if he would hate her, send her away, or embrace her.

But suddenly his eyes welled with tears and she could see relief flood his face, and he rushed forward and embraced her. He held her tight, and she embraced him back. It felt so good to be in his arms again, and she clung to him as she began sobbing, her body wracked with tears, not realizing how much she’d held in, how upset she was. She let it all out, crying, ashamed.