Wistwing

What does it truly mean to be “alive”? Does being “alive” mean that your heart still beats? Electricity crackles in the brain, all the necessary organs function....Does it mean you still have a soul? Many intelligent dragons, specialists of science and medicine, will tell you that it is all of these. Wiser ones will gently shake your heads and tell you that, as with every rule, there are exceptions.

“What sort of exceptions?” you may ask.

Come, sit before me, and listen if you will. Take a blanket to warm your skin and pleasant thoughts to warm your heart, for our story is a bleak one. Our hero’s name is “Wistwing”, and yes, he’s a wistful fellow. And the word “wistful” means “melancholy”, “longing or yearning for something”....
Wistwing was once a dragon like you and me. Born in the Sunbeam Ruins, he exhibited uncommon cheerfulness and optimism, even in the face of great danger. He was strong, able to keep going even when other dragons had broken down in tears. His unflagging optimism was like armor, and his teammates and companions came to depend on him, not just for his strength, but also his genial personality. To them, he was like a sun shining in endless darkness, keeping the horrors of the world at bay with his bright and cheerful light.

Horrors? –Indeed, there are many. For Wistwing is not a warrior, not even a necromancer or a priest. His profession is one that only few dragons can endure: He deals with demons. He captures them and keeps them bound...and those of you who have reeled in a fish, only to see it slip away through your fingers, will know how difficult it is to keep things captured and bound.

~ ~ ~
Bright and cheerful Wistwing started his career as a mage. In the Sunbeam Ruins, he learned to harness his innate magic and banish troublesome entities like banshees and boggarts. As I have mentioned, he was well-regarded for his cheerfulness and magical strength, and dragons frequently called on him to aid them.

He found a clan to live with, here in the Starfall Isles. He and the clan leader became good friends, for they were both optimistic and affectionate souls, kind to everyone they met. Wispywing, the leader, laughed gently at the Nocturne’s antics. He told the corniest jokes and was forever stumbling over his own feet, bumping into things. Every time he broke something, he cringed and wrung his paws. She always comforted him, showing him that broken things could be mended. They were mages, and magic could mend everything.

Wistwing’s new clan protected other dragons from fierce beasts and more sinister forces. Shade fragments. Evil spirits. Demons. This last one was particularly troubling. Many dragons broke down just from seeing a demon. The ones who shattered earliest were those who hadn’t had much joy in their lives to begin with. Most of them said at first, “I’ve been through terrible things. I can handle a demon.” But they couldn’t—the wounds on their souls were already too deep, and the demons found these old wounds, sliced them open again, and let the sadness flow.

Those who bore up best were those who had had gentle lives. They leaned against these happy memories, using them to drive away the fear and hatred demons battered their souls with. And Wistwing, the most cheerful of them, became their strongest fighter.

“It’s nothing!” he declared after shaking off a demon’s curse. “Don’t give up—you’re better than they are!” He helped his comrades to their feet, urged them to keep on fighting. He and the clan leader frequently fought side by side, aiding each other, cleaning each other’s wounds after battles. They grew closer, and it was not long before they were a mated pair. Wistwing, the dorky Light mage from the Sunbeam Ruins, had become the co-leader of an Arcane Clan.

He felt the responsibilities of his new role quite keenly. He had seen many fellow dragons break down or perish in their battle against demons. Now that he was a leader, he felt that he needed to do more to protect them. Could he keep them away from battles? Could he shield them somehow?

He could, and he would. He would become a Demon Catcher. When a demon is slain, its curses are left to fester on the dragons it has victimized. These dragons may, in time, become monsters themselves. But if a demon is captured, it can be compelled to lift its curses and use its magic in the interests of dragonkind. Wistwing couldn’t stand seeing others suffer, knowing that the demonic curses would haunt them until the day they died. He would trap as many demons as he could. And he would use them to undo the curses they’d wrought.

His clan received his decision with mixed reactions. He was one of their leaders. He was precious to them; they couldn’t risk him like this!

But he gently reminded them that he had been battling demons for years now. “I think I can handle it,” he said with his usual endearing modesty. He rubbed the back of his neck and smiled gently. “I’ve killed demons before; it shouldn’t be too much trouble to trip them up and keep them captured. If we bind them, we can compel them to lift their curses—perhaps not just the ones they’ve inflicted, but ones inflicted by other beings as well. I believe we’ll be able to save more dragons this way.”

They all considered it very carefully. It was true that Wistwing was precious to their clan...but he had proven himself able to endure the rigors of battling demons and had been doing so for longer than some of them. Most importantly, he had a pure heart. He would not be corrupted so easily, as other dragons, now enthralled by dark magic, had been.

Sadly, there are many ways to become enthralled by darkness. Wistwing had unwittingly chosen one of the less obvious ones.

As a Demon Catcher, he became the clan’s first line of defense against fiends. Many Demon Catchers bind their prey to small, inconsequential objects. Wistwing’s phylacteries of choice were cards, such as the ones you and I might play with together over mealtime. Instead of kings, queens, and jacks, however, these cards were blank. Wistwing used his magic to absorb demons into the cards, and afterwards the blank spaces were replaced by dripping fangs, impossible colors, squirming limbs, and baleful, glaring eyes. The picture you hold...It’s a good enough likeness. Yes, I said “good enough”; I don’t mean to be critical. Trust me, you don’t want to stare at a demon’s true likeness for long. Remember, these are beings that can rake your soul out with a single glance if they so desire.

Did they rake out Wistwing’s soul? Of course they did. –You heard me.

They get to everyone eventually. Demons always do.

~ ~ ~
Wistwing’s fall into darkness was slow and subtle. It was as gentle as sinking into a bed at night and laying your head on your pillow before the dreams begin.

The demons fought back against him. He crushed them all, driving them into tiny paper prisons, and always he turned back to his clanmates with a triumphant smile.

But as time passed, Wistwing’s clanmates noticed small but concerning changes. The times he laughed became fewer and far between, until the dragons realized, with a pang, that they no longer saw him smile.

His mate was particularly worried. “What’s wrong?” she tried to ask him. “Wistwing, are you all right? Tell me how I can help you....”

Wistwing shook his head and muttered a vague reply. His other clanmates posed similar questions. They were anxious....They only wanted to help him. Other dragons would have lost their patience long ago, but not Wistwing. Not anymore. He only looked blankly at them. “Nothing is wrong,” he mumbled. “There’s nothing to worry about.”

His skill in fighting demons remained undiminished. He was agile, quick, and sure—they could not touch him. Until one day...

The demon had taken hold of another Nocturne’s body. In true Nocturne fashion, it mimicked Wistwing, its dead teeth chattering, its wings clapping like hands. The two Nocturnes, both wreathed in darkness, darted and danced round each other. Wistwing’s chants were frequently interrupted as the demon lashed out from its host with frigid claws.

The battle continued. The demon grew visibly agitated, for Wistwing didn’t flag and in fact seemed to be quite tireless. So it attacked more viciously, pressing closer...closer...

At last, the demon was defeated. Its claws scraped at the edges of the card before it was finally drawn in and sealed. Wistwing turned and staggered back home. His clanmates cried out when they saw him, for the demon had inflicted many wounds on him. But Wistwing’s face bore no expression, and no blood trickled from his wounds. Instead, there was only dead gray flesh. It glittered faintly, as lifeless as diamonds and glass.

~ ~ ~
Wistwing kept on saying he was fine. There was nothing to worry about; he didn’t know why they continued fussing. Normally his clanmates would have let him be, but those wounds slicing deep into him, and the lack of blood...His eyes were as dull as clay, too. Wouldn’t he see a physician or a healer? –To reassure his clanmates, if nothing else?

“This dragon died long ago,” the healers gasped, recoiling in horror. The other dragons stopped and stared, but Wistwing remained silent. Apathetic. Uncaring and unfeeling.

Wispywing protested, “But he...he’s standing right there—”

“It’s true. We don’t know when it happened, but his heart’s no longer beating! You can listen for yourself...” The healers fell silent. Wispywing had already turned away in disbelief. Her shoulders trembled as she held back her sobs.

The healers explained, “If his body is not repaired soon, he will not make it.” They hesitated to say this. They knew that the Demon Catcher’s wounds were serious...but they didn’t know if he could still die.

Wistwing took the words in stride. He took everything in stride now. As soon as he had the time, he started experimenting with various objects, searching for materials with which to repair his body. He needed materials that could replace his internal organs, for they would cease functioning, in time....

Wistwing remembered words his mate had shared with him long ago, as they’d laughed and joked together: “Not to worry! Magic can mend everything.” He regarded the memory with no particular affection. It was a solution now, nothing more.

He consulted necromancers of the Tangled Wood, and they turned their magic upon the vines and the thorns of their home. They drew these around Wistwing like a cloak, garlanding him in them. The thorns were sharp enough to stab into his scales, but he neither flinched nor cried out. He thanked the necromancers gravely and they watched, shuddering, as he flapped back to the Starfall Isles.

Wistwing’s clanmates were silent when he finally reentered the lair. The brambles had by then woven themselves into his skin, bonding completely to his body. Over the next few moons, they burrowed into his internal organs, gradually assimilating them, replacing them.

And thus Wistwing is no longer a dragon. Not anymore. Not completely.

Some vestiges of dragonhood remain. He is still fiercely loyal to his clan. Gone are his smiles, his jokes, his kindness and his laughter. But still he battles demons with the same unflinching courage. He continues to defend his clan.

The question now is—for how long? The Demon Catcher has become a demon himself....How long until he turns on his clan, against his fellow drakes? How long until he loses his mind? How long until another Demon Catcher is called up from our ranks to battle him, and we are forced to transform him into another face on a card...

How long until the cycle begins again?

~ written by Disillusionist (254672)

By TheFaceradar