Chronicles of Den'dra - Spencer Johnson Page 0,157

wall even was gone. The confusion dissipated as the dragon made its way over.

“I spared you and the ones that fought by your side because of your elven blood. Also because you were keeping the iron shells away from Setur. Explain yourself.” Spirion thought to shake his head his head, but even admitting existence unleashing a torrent of pain that coursed through his body. He knew that the dragon wanted an answer, but words were hard to come by with your body rigid with spasms of pain.

“The gold one said that he would let us into your village if we kept an eye on the sleeping dragon.” Elgis was barely able to stagger.

“I asked the elf.” Elgis didn’t seem to care when the dragon snarled at him.

“He is dead. Can't you see that? No one can survive wounds like that. He died protecting your dragon friend over there.” Spirion pondered the words. The pain had retreated and he was careful not to make the mistake of thinking about moving again. From where he lay, he could see Samir climbing down from her vantage point with Kliven. She briefly paused before turning away with sorrow in her eyes. Spirion wondered why. A moment later, he saw her propping a listless Sjad up. Her hands glowed strangely as she placed them on a bleeding gash over his gut. The blood ceased to flow and she turned to Elgis who shrugged her off and returned her attentions to drawing Sjad back from the edge of life and death. Odd that Samir had never mentioned being able to heal. He had known her for nearly an hour now. So near a lifetime.

“He still draws breath. Answer me elf. What is your purpose here?” The gray one hovered with her maw mere inches from Spirion’s face. He could nearly feel her hot breath. He could have if he weren’t so intent on ignoring what his body had to say. What it was distantly screaming.

“I might have been able to heal him if he wasn’t dead. Look at him. He has even stopped bleeding.” Samir ignored the dragons and stepped up to Spirion. She leaned down and looked into his eyes a moment before declaring him dead.

Spirion would have continued listening except he grew distracted. Being dead was not what he had expected. It seemed boring. Trapped and helpless. Doomed to watch without interacting. Something nudged at his thoughts. Something that didn’t feel like it belonged. As if turning away from a set of windows, he looked over his mental shoulder. There was a light. Drawn closer he saw a single stem growing from a dark, undefined, and misty floor. Above a small spray of fine leaves, a rose bloomed. The petals were red, except they emitted a light verging on green. Verging on green, red, white, yellow and blue. Looking at one petal, you could see one color of light yet shifting to another revealed a new shade. Looking back at the first petal discovered a new color. After coming to the realization that there was an infinite number of colors, something else caught his eye. A form dimly visible in the light from the rose. It drew closer until he recognized the face.

“Mother? You are here. We are both dead now.”

“No, my precious child. She is dead.” Spirion felt like a child again as she placed a tender kiss on his brow.

“But I heard them say I was dead.”

“They don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand. If you are dead and I am not, what is this place? How are you here?”

“I am not here. Nor there or anywhere.”

“I don’t understand, mother.”

“Peace my child. Look at the pretty flower. Don’t think about the rest of it. Forget the pain. Embrace the core.”

“But…”

“Everything is all right, my darling. I promise.” Content with the promise, Spirion focused on watching the fascinating shifts and subtle hues of the rose. All other sensation dimmed until the rose was all that existed. A glorious feast of color, it supplanted every sense. Smell was inundated with the scent of a thousand roses bursting into bloom under a summer sun. A fragrance so strong, he could taste it. The light grew until it blocked out the darkness, until it had enveloped him. It awakened memories of a happy life long forgotten, caressed his skin, as soothingly as his mother had when he was a child. He could even hear the light as melodious strains of music, like songs once known but now only hints