Ash and Steel 12 - Gideon Goes Out With a Bang

 On a windswept battlefield in a small archipelago, Gideon, at 72, and Porphyreus were defending a small village caught between two warring lords. The fight was a chaotic symphony of shouts, clashing steel, and dragon fire. In the midst of the swirling melee, Gideon’s keen gray eyes caught sight of a small child who had stumbled from a burning hut. A burly, axe-wielding soldier raised his weapon, ready to cut the terrified infant down. There was no time to maneuver Porphyreus, no time for the dragon's fire.

"Not today, you bastard!" Gideon bellowed, a primal roar ripped from his chest. He launched himself from Porphyreus's back, hitting the ground hard. He threw himself between the child and the descending axe. The blow landed with a sickening thud, not on the child, but squarely on Gideon's chest. He felt a searing pain, the world tilting, but the child was safe. A faint smile touched his lips as he saw the flicker of triumph in his eyes.

The light faded from his eyes, leaving them still and vacant. At that moment, a psychic shriek of pure, unadulterated anguish tore through the Dragon Net from Porphyreus, a wave of profound sorrow and loss that impacted every dragon-bonded human across Rhodos. Anaya, Aella, Ryla, Orin, and Gundric all felt the devastating jolt, a familiar, cold grip seizing each of their hearts.

Anaya, reaching out through the Dragon Net, felt a profound, tearing sadness, but Porphyreus's mind was a maelstrom of raw, incoherent grief. She found no words there, only the searing pain of a bond violently severed. Ryla and Orin sent out their own frantic inquiries, but met with the same wall of anguish.

/Porphyreus! What has happened?!/ Anaya commanded, but received no answer, only a wave of overwhelming emptiness.

With a guttural roar of defiant grief, Porphyreus launched himself into the sky from the archipelago. He did not fly to mourn with his family in the mountains, but rather with the family he had, to the Southern Marches. He landed in the courtyard of the ducal estate and lumbered to the stone cellar. The scents of a hundred forgotten harvests and a hundred happy drunken nights with his rider filled his senses. With a mighty heave of his snout, he broke through the stone wall, pulling out a row of ale barrels. He then proceeded to drink every last drop. He lay down on his back in the sticky mess, letting out a series of low, mournful moans.

Gundric felt the shriek of sorrow rip through him and knew immediately what had happened. He and Blizzard flew directly to the Southern Marches, their hearts heavy. They landed in the courtyard. The scene before them was one of utter wreckage: a massive hole in the side of the stone cellar, a pile of shattered barrels and spilled ale, and the great purple dragon lying beside it. Porphyreus was there, his enormous body trembling with silent sobs. His eyes, usually twinkling with drunken mischief, were now red-rimmed and filled with a profound, consuming sorrow. 

Gundric simply sat beside the dragon, his heart aching with a shared grief. He didn't scold him, didn't try to reason with him. He knew Porphyreus was just "drinking his troubles away." As he sat, a new, jarring thought tore through the DracoNet. It was a clear, vivid mental image, sent not from Anaya, but from Porphyreus himself. The dragon let out a low, mournful sob, and a fractured, incoherent mental blast slammed into Gundric's mind.

//He’s gone! Left me with this… this burden! The pretty, pretty roses! At the cabin! The cabin in the mountains! The home! He told me to protect them, to guard them! And he’s gone, gone, gone! Woe is me! Woe is me!//

Gundric's eyes went wide with shock and grief, a jumble of locations and emotions clashing in his mind. The roses. A secret he had never known. A secret only Anaya and Acreseus and Gideon had shared. They were a living piece of his uncle's life, a sacred trust passed on to the old dragon, and now, to him.

/Anaya.../ Gundric sent, his mental voice quiet and uncertain. /It's Porphyreus. He's drunk on ale. I found him by the ale house. He's broken. I don't know what to do./ 

Anaya’s mental voice, a sharp, steady hum, came back immediately. /Do not try to move him. Do not try to make him feel better./ Her thoughts were a command, leaving no room for argument. /Let him grieve. Do not try to solve it./ 

/But... he's hurt./ Gundric returned, his heart aching for the old dragon. 

/He is,/ Anaya said, her mental voice softening just a fraction. /A wound that deep, you cannot simply dress. Gideon was the other half of his soul. The pain he feels is a living thing. You cannot fight it. You cannot heal it. You can only witness it./ 

/I understand that, but there's more. He said something about a cabin, that he was supposed to protect some rainbow roses, from a valley... and now he can't, and he's broken because of it. He's scared that they'll die. What should I do, Anaya? He needs me here, but also wants to save the roses./

A long beat of silence stretched between them, a stillness in the DragoNet that spoke louder than any words. Anaya felt a pang of something akin to annoyance; a secret she and Acreseus had cherished, a place and a symbol sacred to them, had been blurted out in a moment of drunken grief. But the feeling vanished as quickly as it came, replaced by a profound understanding and a deeper sorrow for the poor dragon. Porphyreus hadn't meant to betray her; he had simply lost his anchor.

/What you are feeling is compassion, Gundric,/ Anaya's voice returned, now filled with a deep, ancient wisdom. /He has given you a precious and sacred gift. He has passed on the mantle of a trust he can no longer bear. He has chosen you as his successor to this task./

/But what do I do?/ Gundric insisted. /He needs me. I'm here. I have to help him./ 

/And you are, simply by being there./ Anaya's voice took on a deeper, more profound tone, one that held the weight of a life lived through unimaginable grief. /You are his anchor, his stillness in the chaos. Lie down beside him. Talk to him. Not with words of logic, but with the quiet comfort of your presence. Let him feel your heart. Let him know he is not alone./ She then added, her voice a low vow, /I know what it is like to feel that you have nothing left. And he's in that place now./ 

Gundric felt the profound truth of her words settle in his heart. With a weary sigh, he moved to the side of the vast, inert dragon. He gently laid his hand on Porphyreus’s flank, then, with a profound act of shared grief, lay down himself in the sticky, spilled mess, his head resting against the rough, purple scales. Porphyreus let out a low, mournful moan, a sound of profound loss and quiet gratitude. Gundric didn't speak. He just lay there, a small, solid anchor in the old dragon’s vast ocean of sorrow.

A bit later, Gundric set to the tedious task of sobering up Porphyreus. It was a long, arduous process, a battle against a thousand barrels of fermented sorrow. He fetched a steady stream of water, which the dragon accepted with a mournful sigh, his enormous body trembling with silent sobs. There was no theatrical bluster now, only the profound, agonizing pain of a soul that had lost its other half.

It took the better part of a day, but as the last of the sun bled from the sky, Porphyreus was sober, his eyes red-rimmed and filled with a quiet, overwhelming remorse. With a quiet, shared understanding, Gundric mounted Blizzard, and they launched into the twilight air, a silent, solemn procession. Porphyreus, with a low rumble, took the lead, guiding them to the cabin that was once Anaya's home and Gideon's sanctum, its location now a precious, sorrowful secret between them.

They arrived under the cold light of the moon. The cabin was exactly as Gideon had left it, an echo of a life now gone. And in the garden, the rainbow roses, a living testament to a love that had defied despair, seemed to glow with a faint, ethereal light.

/We're here, Anaya,/ Gundric sent, his voice low and solemn on the DracoNet.

A long moment passed before her response came, a mental hum that was stronger and clearer than ever before, filled with the vast silence of the North. /Listen closely, Gundric,/ her voice commanded. /Dig not for roots, but for the life around them. The soil itself holds the secrets. Use your hands. Feel the balance./

Anaya then instructed him with a precise, almost surgical detail that astonished him. She told him which roses to take, and how to prepare them for the journey. When the time came to divide the living treasures, her voice, filled with a profound sorrow, came through the bond once more. /Keep half for yourself, Gundric. They are a piece of your uncle, a living testament to his steadfast heart. Please, bring the rest to me./

A lump formed in Gundric's throat. He worked with a new, fierce reverence, a purpose reborn from grief. As he dug, a new thought echoed from Anaya, a soft command that filled the quiet space between them. /And Gundric... the cabin is yours now. Gideon looked after it after Acreseus died and I left it. He made it his home. It is his legacy now. He would want you to have it./

With a nod, Gundric and Porphyreus gently separated the rosebushes, each a perfect testament to the love and friendship that had grown there. 

With the knowledge of the roses’ location now a shared burden, Gundric worked swiftly to prepare them for the journey. Anaya’s mental instructions came in waves, a stream of precise commands that cut through the physical and emotional distance between them. She did not just tell him what to do; she showed him, projecting mental images of how to gather insulating moss from the north-facing sides of the pines, how to weave a tight-fitting basket from supple willow branches, and how to pack the roots with snow and moss to keep them in a state of cool hibernation without freezing.

Gundric and Blizzard worked meticulously, while Porphyreus, now sober and humbled, assisted with a solemn grace. The old purple dragon used his immense body to shield the plants from the harsh wind as Gundric prepared them. Once the container was ready and the roses were safely nestled within it, the three launched into the sky.

The journey was long and somber, a silent, heartbroken procession. Porphyreus, his grief a tangible, heavy presence, flew lead, a massive purple silhouette against the snow-covered peaks. Gundric and Blizzard, followed close behind, the precious cargo secured to Blizzard’s back—a living, vibrant secret against the desolate landscape.



They found the Hoarfrost Den nestled deep in the mountains, a cluster of stone and timber that blended seamlessly with the rock. The air was frigid and sharp with the scent of pine and ice. As they landed, the warmth of the communal fires soon filled their senses. Waiting for them were Anaya, Vora, and Aella.

And there, a solid anchor against the harsh terrain, was the earth-dragon family. Citron, the great, wingless orange dragon, was curled near the den entrance, his enormous body a mound of earth-toned comfort. Flanking him were his mate, Thallra, her scales a deep, matte slate gray that matched the mountain stone perfectly, and their son, Rime, whose jagged scales shone like white quartz against the dark timber.

They watched the landing with intelligent, ancient eyes. Citron let out a low, continuous rumble—a sound of profound melancholy that had not left him since the day he lost Acreseus. Thallra shifted her weight, the sound like grinding stones, offering a silent, grounded presence, while Rime watched with a solemn stillness, learning what grief looked like on the faces of the elders.

Anaya’s face, etched with grief and new wisdom, softened at the sight of the roses. There was a silent, raw moment between them—Anaya, the Sky Strider, and Gundric, the newly anointed guardian—a shared understanding that words could not contain. Porphyreus lumbered forward and gently nudged the container towards Anaya, a soft, mournful rumble in his throat speaking of his sorrow and his fulfilled promise to Gideon.

She looked down at the blooms, their vibrant petals of red, gold, violet, and indigo defying the grey stone of the den. She remembered a morning long ago, standing in the mud outside a hermit's cave, when she had told Acreseus that a rainbow was just light hitting water—useless because it couldn't stop an arrow. She brushed a thumb over a velvet petal, realizing how wrong she had been. Gideon had known the truth. He had taken the fleeting promise of that morning storm and rooted it in the earth, ensuring that even when the sun went down, the bridge of light would remain.

Anaya laid a gentle hand on the purple dragon's snout, then turned to Gundric. /Thank you,/ she sent, her thoughts quiet but firm. /You have honored him/.

Citron uncurled himself, shifting his great weight with a quiet grace. He lumbered forward to stand beside Anaya, his snout nudging her gently, a silent offering of strength. Thallra moved with him, her slate-gray bulk creating a protective wall against the wind, while Rime stepped forward to sniff the roses curiously, his crystalline scales catching the faint light. Citron knew the burden of a severed bond better than any, and his family stood with him to share the weight.

Vora, with a stoic nod, led them all into the heart of the den. A special place had been prepared—a small, enclosed grotto, warm with the glow of geothermal vents and lit by the soft light of phosphorescent moss. The ground was rich and dark with soil, ready to receive the plants.

Anaya knelt and, with her scarred, tender hands, carefully began to guide the roots into their new home. Gundric, Aella, and even Vora worked with her, their hands moving with quiet, respectful care.

Citron and his family came to the edge of the grotto. Their earthbound strength was needed. Using his immense, blunt snout and powerful forelegs, Citron helped gently shift and tamp the prepared, rich soil into place around the new roots. Thallra worked beside him, using her narrower, slate-colored snout to dig the precise depths needed for the roots to take hold, while Rime, eager to honor the moment, used his quartz-clawed forelegs to sift the soil, ensuring no sharp rocks would hinder the delicate growth.

Their work was meticulous and surprisingly delicate, a profound act of shared care for the legacy of his rider’s friend. Porphyreus, sober and humbled, assisted by using his tail to smooth the final layer of soil.

The grief was still there, a constant companion. But in this quiet, shared act of creation, it was no longer consuming. The roses were not just being planted; they were being given a new life by a new community, with Anaya, their Alpha, at the very heart of it all. Citron, Thallra, and Rime—the faithful earthbound family—were the foundation of that community, their presence a living reminder that love and life endure, even when the hearts that planted them are gone.


With a renewed sense of purpose, Gundric returned to the Southern Marches. The flight was a grim, solemn procession, with Blizzard carrying him and a specially constructed sling for the three rose bushes. The journey was long and arduous, a testament to the weight of his new responsibility. Porphyreus flew alongside them, a silent, heartbroken companion. He was a constant reminder of the profound loss they had all just experienced, but he was also a living, breathing link to the man who had been the anchor of his life for so long.

Upon their arrival at the ducal estate, Gundric wasted no time. With the help of his staff, he had a special section of the royal gardens prepared, a sheltered, sun-drenched alcove that would be perfect for the delicate roses. He personally supervised the construction of a small, glass-paned shelter to protect them from the elements and a specially designed irrigation system to keep them properly watered. This was a completely new experience for the Duke of the Southern Marches, who had spent his life in the field, not in a garden. But he did it out of a profound sense of duty and a deep, abiding love for the man who had been his uncle in all but name.

When the roses were finally replanted, their impossible colors glowing under the soft light of the late-afternoon sun, Gundric felt a profound sense of peace. The roses were a tangible reminder of the life his uncle had lived, the love he had shared, and the legacy he had left behind. They were a living memorial to the man who had been the architect of his soul, the one who had taught him that even in the face of death, there was still hope. The roses were a promise that some things, no matter how fragile, could be saved.

After the work was finished, Gundric stood alone, a solitary figure in the garden, with only Porphyreus for company. He looked at the roses, their colors a vibrant tapestry against the soft green of the garden. The grief was still there, but it was no longer a raw, open wound. It was a quiet ache, a constant companion, but it was also a source of strength. He was a duke with a new duty, a man with a new purpose. He was the caretaker of a legacy that was both beautiful and heartbreaking. He was no longer just the Duke of the Southern Marches. He was also the guardian of the rainbow roses. And in his heart, he knew that Gideon would have been proud.

Fin