Time flew. Draken was occupied by watching the older and scarred man do deeds that were most likely steeped in evil purposes, but who cared around here? In fact, if you weren't doing so and had no plausible excuse, you likely did not belong here.

Doing evil deeds, sharpening a newly forged blade, reading one of the tales of battles, a more recent account, about those shadow evils - that is what Zachariah did, until the sky darkened and the chimes sounded, and it was night once more. Here, days always seemed to go by so fast. It was just another of the things that Draken was so sick of. Meaningless days that passed in a blink of an eye, without anything much of importance regarding him happening. Hardly anything differentiating those uneventful days... That alone was enough to drive Draken off the edge. 

They talked a little, and Draken marveling at the wealth of knowledge Zachariah possessed, and the fact that such a person, renowned for his cruelty, and well, lack of interest in being even remotely kind to others, would want to spend time with the first-child of a rather known and respected man, but who wasn't much by himself, and his only notable skills being forging metals and the quick mastery of the basic and more complex fighting arts. It was a great honor, one he tried to never squander.

'Twas very lucky that day, on an ordinary day like this one, except storming outside with the seas and oceans letting the wrath of the gods be known, he'd almost been overtaken by a group of six masked bandits, all clothed in the black dress of the Southern lands, their pointed and already bloodied swords aiming for his throat, his heart. It had been when he was a mere child, barely let out of the house, and being trapped out in the cold, dark world, pressed up against a wall whilst his heart pounded in fear of what he knew would be his death, trying vainly to not show fear and pain - his father had already started lecturing on appearances, on esteem, on being brave despite the odds - when a dark shadow had jumped down from a building, the outline of a staff-weapon in his hand.

That stranger had been Zachariah, an avenging fighter who did not take kindly to some cutthroats, hardly tried, committing a grave sin by even coming near the first-child of a family that had the prestige of searing brands already that powerful on Draken's infant skin. It must be noted, though, that when Zachariah had jumped down, disarming and disposing of the filth, thinking only of the harm that should not come to the small, cowering child with his features lost in the darkness of the storm, he had not known that it had been Draken Stellam Matutinam - a person who he'd been watching and keeping track of. This was an action that spoke legions about that man, whatever he had done in previous wars, whatever he did and continued to do as part of his lifestyle and occupation.

Reluctantly heaving himself up from that chair, muscles cracking, clothes ruffled, Draken dragged himself up to pick up his belongings, sheathing the sword in his belt, like that, since there was not a scabbard lying around, knowing he had to get back to the ancestral familial home, back to his family. Zachariah rose also from where he had been working, to light a candle in order to pierce the dimness that had slowly shrouded this room; one minute, all was well. 

Then Draken saw Zachariah stiffen, frozen with an expression he'd never seen on that face. Draken fell backwards, trying to keep his balance, as a strong arm pushed him back, its owner surging in front. They were now facing a thick-paneled window, covered with the usual protection because, this was part of the Eastern Isles, after all, and Draken had no idea what was going on. It had to be bad, though, since Zachariah was now clutching a serrated dagger in one hand, and a sword in the other, and his body was tensed, as if for a very important and deadly fight. Zachariah's ears were pricked, body tensed because of sounds Draken could not make out; he knew one thing, though. First of all, Zachariah always knew when there was trouble, so there was never any doubting him, and secondly, Draken would fight alongside him, whatever the danger may be. But what was the danger?  

A roar pierced the air, making Draken gulp in dread. What was this creature? With a decisive movement, he drew his sword, and together both he and Draken pried open the window, jumped out, landing hard on the stones below. It was dark, but few torchlights illuminating nearby streets provided a bit of light. One of the first rules of battle; if possible, never do it in cramped quarters-do it in open spaces that ensure more freedom, less casualties, and less damage to the inside of buildings and homes.

It was a monstrous beast, straight out of lesson books taught to Ever-Soldiers - or so Zachariah said - with spikes and wings and venom; not a drakon, and not a shadow either. Some creature of myths and dark magyks. Squinting through the darkness, Draken attempted to make out Zachariah's figure; he'd know what to do, and Draken knew enough of battles to follow the ones in charge and with experience. Decisively, Zachariah motioned, with the hand that held the knife, to retreat behind buildings, and possibly draw out the creature. Following the command, they ran for cover, the continuous roars following them; adrenaline was pounding through him, he wasn't sure of anything, and a part of his mind wondered why no one else was noticing - but this was the Eastern Isles of Xeverron, after all. Live and let die, as they say. They were being followed by the beast, that was sure, but for now, panting and leaning behind a blessed-metal building, there was a brief moment of respite, of rest.

"Why are we not fighting or attacking? Why are we hiding away? Surely our best plan is to draw out attacks, goad the creature, manipulate it to go where we want it to go?" Draken, pushing down the thrill and fear of facing such a danger, demanded it to Zachariah, someone he considered as family, even more than as family - perhaps a favorite relation, or a substitute father (not that his father was shameful or not active in his life, though). He could not fathom why a man of his reputation, with the skills and experience he had, would cower, run, hide!

Sharply, Zachariah turned to Draken, a look that was reprimanding. "First of all, this is your first real fight. No, no, no, no interruptions-" he said, waving a hand at Draken, who had been about to protest-"I will not tolerate it. Do you know of this creature? It is lethal, poisonous, dangerous. You cannot win against such a creature without at least paying a small price, whether tarnishing your skin, or an injury that will forever stay, or death of yourself or the person fighting alongside you. You are not prepared!" He swore a few times, words that cut and that betrayed his loathing. "We are in a rather abandoned area, and no one - unless you see some wandering Ever-Soldier - will help us. They will be either occupied, or too frightened, or forbidden by oaths and blood vows. Do you understand? This is suicide!"

It was then that Draken let the panic fill him, even for just one moment. He had never seen Zachariah Evillier so frightened, so anxious and unsure, and he'd certainly never seen that expression in the older man's face when gazing upon Draken.

"This is why I have to tell you something. You are my godson."

"What???" Draken's voice tore out of his throat, livid, disbelieving.

"Or, at least, I should've been, would've been. There was a long time ago, I worked with, fought with, a man named Trevant. Your father; such a noble, aspiring, loyal man. We were close; we shared the bonds of family and brotherhood. We did not talk about the future much - no one did. No one does when they live like that, every day their last. But he wanted to have children to dote on, and he had promised - no blood, but his promises were always better, were always more genuine, trustworthy, than blood. He had promised to make me your godfather. To let me look after you, as a second father. Yet, it did not come to pass."

Draken was numb, mind reeling and unable to feel anything. Gone were the throbbing of his hand, gone were any connectivity to his limbs. He struggled to take it in, struggled to understand and untangle it. Hollowly, he turned to face Zachariah, whose face was pinched and spoke of raw pain.

"You told me once that you never wanted to have any children, that you never even deserved it. But, one person from your days in the regiments and armies, fighting and living a half-life, was close with you and made a vow that you were their family, that you would be part of any future additions to the family. That is, before that horrible betrayal, that infernal web of deceit and lies that happened too swiftly to find a good grounding. Before you did the most awful thing, against the friend, against his family, and whether they still hated you after time's healing and understanding the whole situation, you never approached them again to know what they thought of you now. That not only you'd been robbed of the promise of a godchild, of a family, but that you lost a great friend, the only friend." He gasped. Realization had finally sunk in. "That man... he was my father?"

A nod. A jerky, almost unrecognizable nod. That was all it took. Fury pounded through Draken, shock and betrayal and anger of the deception, of finding the one he'd always fully trusted had lied.

"Look; when I rescued you that day, I'd honestly no idea that it was you. I had been watching you grow ever since the night you were born, but could not approach you, did not deserve to. Everything that I have ever done and said to you was genuine, real."

"It does not matter!" Draken was seething, screaming. He started to pour his anger at Zachariah, who flinched at every word. He'd have gone on, and on, and was in the process of telling Zachariah that he never wanted to see him again when the man in question stuck the knife in his belt, grasped Draken's arm, and dragged him forward. Roars, very close, too close, sounded nearby, and they now ran, Draken not fighting Zachariah anymore. They rounded a corner, now lost in an impoverished sector - not that this whole place was all glamour, like the inland of Xeverron.

It was right behind them, and Draken was forced to brace himself with his sword, against an enormous, spiked tail that lashed straight at him. He spun around, and held the sword horizontally, like a staff, pushing all his energy into keeping that tail away from him, the spikes and scales glistening and thrashing just mere distances away. Out of the corner of his eye, Zachariah was prowling around, occasionally striking at the exposed underside of the beast, keeping the creature's attention from Draken. His heart pounded so loud, he could not seem to grasp anything that was going on, and he had no idea what to do. This was the first time he'd faced a battle that could not be won, if not by him by Zachariah or his father or brother or mother or friends or officials. The first time he'd faced a terrifying creature like this, something that all his experience was not sufficient enough to prepare him for.

His knees buckled under the pressure, and the sounds of the creature rang out in his ears. Using the last of his strength, he thrust the sword forward and let go, the momentum pushing the deadly tail away for just a few moments, leaving enough time for Draken to scramble back, stand properly and find balance. Realizing he had no weapons, he suddenly remembered something; he reached into his boot, keeping a fighting stance and keeping track of the beast's every move, and pulled out his knife, his ankle knife. It was already unsheathed, and the metal of the blade reflected glints from the scarce lighting.

Zachariah leapt back from the beast, and they ran some more, taking paths that would confuse the creature and lead it away from inhabitants and families. Draken had a stitch in his side, sweat was rolling off him and drenching his shirt, and his arms were scraped, hands red and bleeding and cut from holding the sword like that. Still pursued, they found refuge behind yet another building, and Draken started to scream at Zachariah, still not comprehending what he'd been told. The surprise news, the attack that had no good outcome...

"If it was all real, and everything, why tell me now! If you haven't told me already, me being already of age and already a man, and not planning on telling at all, why now when we're being hunted by this creature? Why?"

"Because." Zachariah's face was drawn, filled with agony and hurt and pain. "That is what you do when you are in a situation where you could die." The words were clear, harsh. The words that Draken would never be able to forget.

It was time to fight again, for the monster was too close. Draken clutched the knife, and readied to fight. It was brutal, and every second was his last. He took the left flank, Zachariah the right, and they kept on darting in, slashing, darting out, dancing around in a deadly game. Soon he was flecked with blood, and had sustained many cuts and scars and scratches. And still he kept on, not wondering about how long he'd been doing this. Parry, block, duck, sidestep, dart in, block. Over and over he fought, he and Zachariah circling the beast, tiring it, wounding it, until the snarling creature was panting and shook off blood with every twitch and move. Draken tried not to think, tried not to panic or show fear. Not letting himself feel fear.

That tail - how Draken now hated that tail - lashed out once more, and this time what happened made Draken howl with fury. The spiked tail rammed into Zachariah, who managed to keep the poison from reaching his skin using his sword, like Draken had. However, Zachariah was not so lucky; he was pushed into the air, flying out of sight. They were near the docks, one of the many that ran around the Isle, and with a splash and a roar of anger, Draken knew that Zachariah had been propelled into the waters. Numb with shock, he forgot to pay attention to the enemy. Worst mistake. Next moment, he was flying through the air, too, in the opposite direction of the stormy waters, crashing on his stomach, winded, hurt, back burning as if lit with magyk fire.

The creature roared, howled, and advanced to the prone figure of the black-clad young man, and would have ripped him apart to shreds if not for the lithe person that suddenly appeared. It stands to reason that with all this commotion, all this dark magyk rolling off of the creature, someone would have taken notice. The person, shrouded in a common black cloak, rushed up fearlessly, with a practiced air, and plunged a spindly-looking blade into the heart of the creature. Death was instantaneous; with a last roar, and a black stain spreading all over the spiked, scaled body, the monstrous beast collapsed on the stones, finally stopped.

One thought was spared to the man who had been thrown in the waves, but it was only one thought. There were more important things to focus on.

Biting his lip, the figure threw off his hood, and ran towards the prone black figure. Turning the man around, his worst fears were confirmed. The black eyes were delirious, and the torn fabric on his back showed the skin where the poisonous tail had struck. He hissed. Taking a hand covered with many rings, he slapped the face of the blond-haired man; he stirred, groaned.

"Name's Rapier. You should be dead - hell, you'll wish you'll be dead, soon enough. I've been tracking you for a long time now, but let me tell you; you are in a whole load of trouble." 

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This part is dedicated to @RosesnWater, who dedicated a part of her story to me, which meant a lot.