Ash and Steel - Duke of Disaster 4 - Ebb Tide

 The cabin was warm and smelled faintly of woodsmoke and old leather. Gideon (46) was sprawled near the hearth, laughing at some jest Acreseus (46) had just made. Anaya (48) sat nearby, sharpening one of her twin daggers with quiet, focused strokes.

Suddenly, Gideon froze. His roguish gray eyes lost their light, clouding over as his gaze fixed on a point far above the wooden ceiling. His face, usually so animated, went slack. He wasn't looking at the sky; he was receiving a direct, private communication from Porphyreus via the dragon net.

Anaya and Acreseus, instantly sensing the profound shift in his energy, watched in silent stillness. The dagger stopped halfway through a stroke on the whetstone.

Gideon finally blinked, the color returning to his eyes. He shrugged his broad shoulders, a forced attempt at casualness.

"What is it, Gideon?" Acreseus asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

Gideon glanced toward the dagger in Anaya's hand, then back at Acreseus. "My father died. Duke Gavin."

A heavy silence settled over the room. Acreseus’s face softened instantly with genuine sorrow. "Oh, Gideon. Not Duke Gavin. I'm so sorry."

The words acted like a spark on dry tinder. Gideon’s composure shattered. His eyes flashed with a sudden, hot hostility that stunned both his friends.

"Why do people always say they're sorry?" Gideon snapped, his voice rough and loud. "It ain't like it can be helped! What's 'sorry' gonna do? Make him less dead? It’s stupid, sappy nonsense."

Acreseus flinched back instantly, recoiling as if Gideon had just scalded him with boiling water. He clamped his jaw shut, his intelligent blue eyes wide with surprise and hurt. He knew this hostility wasn't directed at him, but at the sheer, inescapable fact of loss.

Anaya, her focus now entirely on Gideon, spoke with clinical calm. "Was it peaceful, Gideon?"

Gideon rubbed the back of his neck. "Porphyreus didn't say. Only that Garth sent the word."

"Will there be a funeral?" Acreseus asked quietly, having recovered slightly.

"Of course there'll be a damn funeral," Gideon scoffed. "Garth wouldn't miss a chance to wear the black and preen over his inheritance. The whole March will be there, watching. Probably some damned parade. It’ll be a whole week of weeping and formalities."

Acreseus, still gentle, still trying, offered, “You could speak. Say something at the service. People would listen.”

Gideoin shook his head sharply. "Hell no! I ain't goin'!"

He pushed himself up and stalked toward the backdoor, which slammed shut behind him, leaving a profound, uneasy silence in the small cabin.

Anaya and Acreseus sat perfectly still, staring at the closed door, sensing the raw panic and hostility in their friend.

Anaya and Acreseus exchanged a grave look. They knew they couldn't allow him to avoid this.



The Long Night
The barn door slammed shut, shaking dust from the rafters. Gideon didn't stop moving; he marched straight for the stack of kegs in the corner, his boots stomping a heavy rhythm of frustration on the floorboards.
Behind him, the barn door creaked open again, just a crack. Citron slipped inside like a silent, oversized cat. He padded over to a stack of hay bales a safe distance from the splash zone, curled his tail around his feet, and watched.
//I’ve infiltrated the perimeter,// Citron projected calmly to Anaya and Acreseus back in the cabin. //Gideon is currently wrestling a barrel of ale. The barrel is winning.//
Gideon grunted, finally wrenching the bung loose. He didn't bother with a mug; he tipped the barrel back and drank, the dark ale spilling down his chin.
In the stall next to him, a massive purple head lifted from the straw. Porphyreus blinked a sleep-crusted eye, his scales scraping against the wood.
//Thou art disturbing my slumber, knave,// Porphyreus broadcasted, his mental voice echoing with cathedral-like resonance in Gideon’s skull. //And thou art hogging the swill.//
Gideon wiped his mouth, glaring at his dragon. /It ain't swill. It's the good stuff. And I need it./
//Nay, say not so,// Porphyreus intoned, dragging his bulk upright. //Thy heart is heavy. But a dragon’s thirst is a bottomless abyss. Share, or I shall sing the Ballad of the Weeping Willow until thine ears bleed.//
Gideon groaned. /Fine! You dramatic grape!/ He grabbed a barrel, filled it from the keg, and shoved it toward the dragon’s snout.
Citron watched the exchange, his amber eyes unblinking.
//Negotiations have concluded,// Citron reported to the cabin. //They are now drinking together. Porphyreus has requested a bucket. Gideon is complying. It appears to be a cooperative spiraling event.//

Two hours later, the mood in the barn had shifted from angry silence to loud, slurring philosophy.
Gideon was sitting on the floor, his back against Porphyreus’s front leg, clutching the keg like a teddy bear. Porphyreus had his head resting on a crate, his eyes swirling with drunken colors.
/I ain't sad, Porpoise…/ Gideon sent, gesturing vaguely with a half-eaten apple. /Just... annoyed. Yeah. Annoyed. Fifteen years I kept that seat warm. Fifteen years! And the moment I leave to get some peace, he dies. It’s like he waited for me to go just to make me feel bad./
//All the world’s a stage, Gideon,// Porphyreus mused, puffing a small, hiccupping smoke ring. //And thou hast played the Duke poorly. But thou playest the fool magnificently.//
/Hey!/ Gideon tossed the apple core at the dragon's snout. It bounced off harmlessly.
//I speak but the truth,// Porphyreus continued, unfazed. //Thou wert never meant for velvet and ledgers. Thou art a creature of sky and steel. Why weepest thou for a cage thou hast finally escaped?//
Gideon stared into his ale. /Cuz I left ‘em in a bind, Porpoise, just left ‘em there./
Citron, observing from his hay bale, tilted his head.
//Porphyreus is attempting therapy,// Citron transmitted. //It is surprisingly insightful, though he is slurring his mental projection. Gideon is expressing guilt over the succession. Also, Porphyreus just tried to light a torch with a sneeze and missed.//

By the fourth hour, the philosophy had degraded into chaos.
Gideon was standing on a crate, swaying dangerously, using a pitchfork to conduct an invisible orchestra.
"And then I told him!" Gideon shouted at the rafters. "I said, 'Garth! You bastard! I'll kill you!' And he just... he just stood there! He didn't even blink!"
//Garth is a man of stone!// Porphyreus bellowed, thumping his tail against the wall in a disjointed rhythm. //He hath no poetry! No fire! He is a dullard, Gideon! A dullard of the highest order!//
"A dullard!" Gideon cheered, nearly toppling off the crate. "That's the word! You're a genius!"
//I am a scholar and a gentleman,// Porphyreus agreed, resting his chin heavily on the floor. //And thou art... thou art... what art thou?//
"I'm the King of the Barn!" Gideon declared, raising the pitchfork high.
//Hail Gideon! King of the Barn!//
Citron watched as Gideon lost his balance and tumbled backward into a pile of loose hay. Dust puffed up into the air.
//Status update,// Citron projected, his tone dry. //The King has fallen. Long live the King. They are now singing. It is off-key. I recommend you do not listen to the mental link for the next hour.//

Eventually, the energy ran out. The ale was gone, the bucket was empty, and the grief had been momentarily drowned in noise.
Gideon stumbled toward Porphyreus, his legs rubbery. He collapsed against the dragon’s neck, burying his face in the warm scales.
"I ain't goin', Porph," Gideon mumbled into the dragon's neck, his voice fierce despite the slur. "They can't make me. I ain't seeing the grave. I ain't seeing Garth. I'm staying right here until the end of time."
Porphyreus blinked slowly, his eyelids heavy. //Time is a river,// he murmured sleepily. //And we are but stones at the bottom. Let the world pass us by, my liege. We shall not move.//
"Damn right," Gideon slurred, his eyes closing. "Not moving. Not... ever."
//Sleep well, sweet prince,// Porphyreus projected, his thoughts fading into soft static. //And flights of dragons sing thee to thy rest.//
The purple dragon let out a massive, sulfurous belch, curled his tail around his rider, and fell instantly asleep. Gideon was already gone, snoring softly against the dragon's side, resolute in his refusal even in dreams.
Citron stood up and padded silently over to the heap of sleeping bodies. He sniffed Gideon’s boots, then looked up at the barn rafters.
//Silence,// Citron announced to the cabin. //The targets are neutralized. They are unconscious, they smell terrible, and they are at peace. But be advised: Gideon’s last statement was a refusal to mobilize.//
In the cabin, Anaya stood up and looked at Acreseus. "He's not going to wake up willing."
Acreseus sighed, staring into the fire. "No. Which means tomorrow morning... we go to war."

The Morning After
The sun crested the peaks of the Dragon's Tooth Mountains, sending a spear of brilliant, unforgiving light straight through the gaps in the barn walls.
Inside the cabin, Citron lifted his head from his paws.
//Proximity alert,// he announced.
Anaya stood up, brushing a speck of lint from her tunic. She looked fresh, sharp, and utterly merciless. She picked up a bucket of ice-cold mountain water. Acreseus stood beside her, looking weary but resolved.
"Ready?" Anaya asked.
"No," Acreseus admitted. "But let's do it."
They marched to the barn. The smell hit them five paces from the door—a noxious cocktail of stale hops, sulfur, dragon musk, and regret. Anaya didn't flinch. She grabbed the heavy iron handle of the barn door and threw it open with a crash.
The reaction was immediate. From the hay pile, a massive purple wing shot up to shield a reptilian eye. Gideon curled tighter into a ball, pulling a saddle blanket over his head.
Anaya marched over to the lump of misery. She hefted the bucket.
"Rise and shine, you drunkards!" she shouted, and upended the freezing water directly onto them.
"GAH!" Gideon sputtered, thrashing in the wet hay as he scrambled to sit up. He looked like a drowned rat, his hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes bloodshot and wild. "Anaya! Have mercy! I'm dying here!"
//The light!// Porphyreus shrieked mentally, his voice cracking but thankfully not shouting. //It burns! The sun is a vengeful god!//
"You're not dying," Anaya said, crossing her arms over her chest. "You're hungover. Get up."
"I ain't getting up!" Gideon roared, then immediately clutched his temples, wincing. "Ow. Loud. Stop being loud."
He flopped back down into the wet straw. "I told Porph. I ain't goin'. You can't make me. I'm staying right here until I rot."
//I concur,// Porphyreus moaned, resting his chin on a water trough. //My head is the size of a castle. Flight is impossible. I shall become a purple hillock upon the landscape. Leave me to return to the earth.//
Anaya stepped over a broken crate, looming over Gideon. "You are pathetic."
"I'm principled," Gideon mumbled into the mud.
"You're a coward," she corrected. "You're hiding in a barn because you're afraid to look your brother in the eye."
Gideon cracked one eye open to glare at her. "I ain't afraid of Garth. I just... I hate him. And I hate that place. And I ain't going back to play Duke for a day just to make everyone feel better."
"Then don't play Duke," Acreseus said, stepping forward. He reached into his tunic and pulled out a fresh roll of parchment, sealed with red wax.
Gideon squinted at it. "What's that?"
"The Abdication," Acreseus said. "We drafted it while you were screaming at the rafters last night. Citron remembered the terms you shouted."
Gideon propped himself up on one elbow, water dripping from his nose. "You did?"
"It's all there," Acreseus promised. "It transfers the title, the lands, the debts, and the headaches to Garth, effective immediately. It is Royal Law, sealed by the King."
Acreseus crouched down, holding the scroll out like a lure. "Here is the deal, Gideon. You fly to the estate. You hand Garth this paper, and you say, 'I quit.' Then you visit the grave, say goodbye to your father, and you walk away a free man. No more guilt. No more 'Duke Gideon'. Just Gideon."
Gideon stared at the scroll, wavering. "I can't face him, Cres. Not with the way I left things."
Acreseus softened his voice, placing a hand on Gideon’s wet shoulder. "You won't have to face him alone. We're coming with you."
Gideon looked up, surprised. "You are?"
"We're flying with you," Anaya confirmed, her voice losing its edge. "Acreseus and I will stand right beside you when you hand it over. If Garth sneers, Acreseus will out-talk him. If he yells, I'll glare him into silence. We don't let our own walk into the fire alone."
Gideon looked from Acreseus to Anaya. He saw the loyalty in their eyes—a King and a Queen willing to stand in the mud of a funeral just to hold him up.
He snatched the scroll from Acreseus's hand.
"Fine," he grumbled, shoving it into his wet belt. "But if Porph pukes on me mid-air, I'm killing both of you."
//I make no promises,// Porphyreus projected weakly. //But if I must vomit, I shall aim for a cloud.//
Gideon groaned and grabbed the edge of the stall to pull himself up. "Citron!"
The orange dragon peeked around the doorframe. //Present.//
"Find me some mint," Gideon rasped. "And maybe a rock to hit myself with. We're going to a funeral."

Arrival and Recognition
They set down quietly near the Southern Marches estate just as the sun was beginning to set, landing in a wooded copse a discreet distance from the Keep. The silence of the Dragon Riders’ arrival was broken only by the rough gravel crunching under their boots.
Anaya led the way, her sharp hazel-green eyes immediately scanning the grounds. She was looking for guards, for signs of Garth's cold reception, but she found something far more unexpected near the west wall.
She stopped dead, her hand rising to gently stop Acreseus.
A small boy, perhaps nine or ten, stood tossing a ball against the stone wall. He was thin, focused, and wore the somber black of the funeral party. But it was his face that stunned her.
He was a perfect, miniature blend of the two brothers—the sharp angles of Garth, but the wide-set, earnest eyes and the burgeoning burly structure of a young Gideon.
"Acreseus," Anaya murmured, her voice barely audible. "Garth has a son."
Acreseus followed her gaze, his blue eyes widening in surprise as he immediately saw the striking resemblance.
Gideon, unsteady and slow to focus, stumbled up beside them. He squinted at the boy, then shook his head roughly, trying to clear the fumes.
"Wha' is it, Cres? Why'd we stop?" Gideon slurred.
Gideon followed the line of her finger. The boy turned as his ball bounced away, revealing his full face to his unknown uncle.
Gideon’s eyes snapped wide, his tipsiness vanishing in an instant of raw, emotional shock. He saw himself, thirty years younger, standing in the funeral shadows. He hadn't seen his brother in fifteen years, and he had certainly never met this child who had been raised away at River Run.
"Holy shit," Gideon breathed, the shock finally anchoring him more effectively than any sober thought. "He looks... like me."
"He looks like both of you," Anaya corrected softly.
Gideon stared, his shock turning to profound, dizzying realization. He had run from his legacy, but here was the physical embodiment of that very past, standing alive before him. The confrontation with his brother was about to begin, but the field had just been reshaped.
Garth was the first to react to their presence. He detached himself from the wall, his black mourning clothes stark against the stone, and walked toward them with rigid, controlled fury. The boy remained beside the wall, his eyes fixed with wide curiosity on the large, wobbly man who looked like an older version of his father.
Garth stopped a few paces away, his voice a cold blade meant only for Gideon.
"You're late," Garth stated flatly. "Father was put to rest hours ago. But then, you've always been late for duty, haven't you, Gideon?"
Gideon, anchored now by the cold shock of seeing the boy, found his footing. "I came, Garth. That's more than you expected."
"I expected nothing from a man who hoarded the Ducal seat for fifteen years while I rotted in River Run, only to abandon it the moment I was allowed to return," Garth sneered, his gaze flicking contemptuously toward Acreseus. "You sat in the big house doing nothing, Gideon. And the moment Dad got sick—really sick—and needed to come back to the Keep, you sent a runner with a note saying 'See ya' and ran off to the mountains."
Garth took a step closer, his voice dripping with venom. "You forced a dying man to move back into the drafty Ducal suite because you wanted to go play house with your soft King and your whore Queen."
Anaya's eyes narrowed dangerously, her hand twitching toward her blade, but she held her ground.
Gideon didn't rise to the bait; he let the insult to his friends die on the air. He reached into his belt and pulled out the rolled parchment.
"I didn't come to argue, Garth," Gideon said quietly. "I know I left you with the mess. I know I was a coward. That's why I'm givin’ you this."
He thrust the scroll into Garth's hands. "It's the Abdication. We wrote it this morning. I never did it before because I couldn't break Dad's heart while he was still breathin’. But he's gone now. You've been the one holdin’ this place together for months. Now it's official."
Garth stared at the scroll, then at Gideon. There was no gratitude in his eyes, only a bitter, twisted satisfaction mixed with resentment. He snatched the scroll from Gideon's hand.
"Fifteen years too late," Garth hissed. "But finally correct."
Suddenly, the Keep door opened, and Garth's wife rushed out. "Garth, stop this! Not now!" she pleaded.
Garth shoved the scroll at her without looking. "Take this inside, Elara. It seems my brother has finally done one useful thing."
Gideon’s attention snapped back to the boy, who had moved closer.
"Who’s the boy?" Gideon growled, pointing at him. 
"My heir, Gundric," Garth retorted, pulling the boy slightly behind him. "He’s everything you aren't: dedicated, disciplined, and he will never run from his name."
A strange, painful expression crossed Gideon's face. He saw the cold training in his nephew's eyes. He looked at Anaya, who only gave him a quiet nod.
"He's a kid, Garth. Leave him out of your miserable fight," Gideon commanded.
"No," Garth hissed. "He is the future. And you are a regret. Now get off my land. You are not welcome here."
The insult hung in the air, cold and deadly. Anaya’s hand instinctively drifted toward a dagger.
Gideon stepped forward, cutting the space between the groups. "Fine," he said, his voice quiet. "We’re leavin’.”
He turned his back on his brother, walking away from the estate with Anaya and Acreseus flanking him. He left behind the titles, the anger, and the cold, small boy who was the spitting image of his worst self.
The legacy was settled, but the emotional war was just beginning.


A Secret Admirer

Gideon, still reeling from Garth's furious condemnation, walked away from Riverrun Keep, flanked by Anaya and Acreseus. They had retreated to the secluded copse where Rory and Porphyreus waited.

Gideon needed air. He walked right past his friends and straight to his dragon. Porphyreus, sensitive to his rider's raw emotion, lowered his head with a deep, rumbling sigh.

"I need a drink, you purple lump," Gideon muttered, rubbing his temples. The anger at Garth was dissolving into a hollow, familiar ache of failure.

//Th needest to fly, Gideon. I do not enjoy drinking thy misery.,// Porphyreus grumbled mentally.

It was then that Anaya noticed the quiet trespasser. Gundric, the boy who looked like a miniature version of both brothers, had followed them through the copse. He stood just at the edge of the clearing, his small hands clasped tight, staring not at the imposing Queen or the scholarly King, but at Porphyreus.

Gideon finally noticed him and scowled. "Wuddya want, kid? Did your father send you out here to give me another lecture about duty?"

The boy shook his head, looking down at his funeral shoes. Anaya spoke softly to Acreseus: "Let’s leave them. This is Gideon's alone."

Gideon sighed, his exhaustion overriding his anger. "Well? Speak up, boy. Before your miserable father realizes you've run off."

Gundric took a single, brave step forward. His voice was thin but clear. "He didn't send me, sir. I... I came to see the dragon."

He looked up at Porphyreus, then glanced furtively at Gideon. "My father says dragons are savage beasts. He says I must study governance and forget the sky. He says no son of his will ever go near a beast that might burn down the March."

Gideon felt his hostility drain away, replaced by profound surprise. "He's full of it," he admitted quietly.

Gundric took another step, now standing close enough to the massive dragon that he had to tilt his head back. He looked Gideon directly in the eyes.

"Sir," Gundric said, the small word heavy with the weight of his young future. "I turn thirteen in three years. I want to try for the Trial of the Tooth. My father thinks I'll take his title. But I hate the title. I just want to fly. Will you teach me?"

Gideon stared at the boy—the spitting image of the past he hated, yet embodying the pure, defiant hope he once had. In that instant, Garth's legacy and the Duke's title melted away.

Gideon grinned, a genuine, rogue's grin that lit up his eyes. "Well, I'll be damned," he rumbled. He walked over and clapped a hand on Gundric's small shoulder, the warmth of his touch a promise. "Looks like you and I have a lot to talk about, Gundric. Start by telling your magnificent Uncle Gideon exactly what your miserable father is doing wrong."


Nobody’s Son

The cemetery plot behind Riverrun Keep was solemn and quiet, the newly turned earth next to the older, settled grave of Griselda dark and cold beneath the waning light. Gideon (46) stood before the graves of his parents, Duke Gavin and Griselda. He wore no ceremonial black, only his travel-stained leather, and he was finally, completely sober.

He spoke softly, his voice rough with emotion and regret, meant only for the dead.

"Well, Dad," he murmured, his gaze fixed on the new headstone. "You finally got the quiet you wanted. And Mom..." He glanced at the older grave. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I was such a selfish bastard all my life. Sorry I couldn't be the Duke you wanted, or the son you needed. I just—I didn't know how to be anyone else."

He wiped a hand roughly across his face. He felt the sting of tears, not from sorrow over their death, but from the raw, humiliating truth of his own failures.

A gentle rustle of leaves announced a presence. Acreseus approached, stepping carefully around a small stone angel. He stopped beside Gideon, not speaking, simply offering the quiet solidarity of their long friendship.

Gideon remained silent for a long moment, staring at the twin plots.

"They won't get no peace outta my regret, will they, Cres?" Gideon whispered, his voice cracking. "And my guilt won't bring 'em back."

"No," Acreseus said softly. "But you are here. And you have found your honest farewell. It is enough." He rested a hand on Gideon’s shoulder. "The dragons are ready. Anaya is waiting. We should go, old friend."

Gideon turned from the graves, his gray eyes wet and shining with unshed tears, looking at his childhood friend. The man who was a Prince and a King, yet stood beside him with nothing but loyalty. The finality of the goodbye—the truth that no parents remained to judge or forgive him—hit him with devastating force.

"I ain't nobody's son no more," Gideon said, the grief in his voice profound and absolute.

Acreseus did not offer a meaningless platitude. He simply met Gideon's tear-filled gaze with his own honest, blue eyes.

"No," Acreseus affirmed, his voice gentle but firm. "You are not. You are a Duke, you are a Dragon Rider, and you are my brother. And you are Gundric's mentor now. You are exactly who you are supposed to be. Now let's go home."

Gideon nodded, accepting the new identity forged in the cemetery. He wiped the tears from his eyes one final time, turned his back on the graves, and walked away with his friend, leaving behind the son and embracing the man he was finally free to become.

Fin