"The tragedy of twelve years ago still lives on in the minds of those who lived and lost and had to make hard choices. But for one of the four who lived, the sacrifice weighs on their mind very heavily."


Chapter 5: The Doxantha


“Good evening, Ignitus,” Hunter greeted warmly as the Guardians began to enter the grotto, “Glad to see you have safely returned.”

“And to you, my friend,” Ignitus replied equally as he saw the four faces of the young dragons appeared behind the Cheetah. He smiled to each of them in turn as the other guardians walked through into the room, sharing greetings with Hunter.

“Hello, Ignitus!” Spyro beamed cheerfully as he strutted out from behind their caretaker,

“How did it all go?”

“Hello, young dragon,” he replied softly, sitting down as an exhausted sigh escaped his body, “Politics… Politics!” he exclaimed exasperatedly, “Is there anything in the world more loathsome?”

“Errrr,” Spyro choked hesitantly, “No? Yes? I mean, well…”

A rumbly laugh vibrated in Terrador’s chest, “Any trouble we need to know about?” he asked Hunter squarely. The eyes of the Cheetah narrowed as he turned his head and regarded the innocently beaming faces of the four young dragons. He curved his lip as he formulated his response, Spyro and his friends collectively holding their breath through their forced smiles.

“No trouble at all,” Hunter replied, his left eye winking to the relieved youngsters.

“Well, jolly good then,” Cyril chipped in contentedly. A suspicious look resided in Terrador’s eyes though he said nothing else on the matter. Cynder, Flame and Ember joined Spyro by the edge of the Pool of Visions.

“Well then,” Ignitus declared finally, “As you all know we shall have some more guests arriving in not too long for the ceremony tomorrow. Will you be staying the night Hunter? You are more than welcome to join us.”

“Thank you but no,” Hunter replied shortly, “Chief Prowlus insisted that I be back before tomorrow. Besides, I feel that it is not my place to be part of this ceremony. I have my own to attend.”

“Of course,” Ignitus nodded understandably, “Once again you have our thanks.”

“Anytime,” Hunter said readily, “And of course you have my condolences for tomorrow.” Spyro watched the conversation curiously, nothing the sudden stillness that overcame the Fire guardian after Hunter’s expression of condolence, all except for his eyes. It was not his usual stoic appearance that he was used to, but more like his eyes had beheld a ghost that only he could see. Terrador’s booming voice seemed to bring Ignitus out of his curious state.

“Will you require a ride back to Avalar, Hunter?” he asked dutifully, “I would be happy to volunteer.”

“Thank you, Terrador, but I have already sent a falcon for a courier. Besides, you have all had an exhausting day and I’d hate to impose,” said Hunter as he picked up his leather backpack and hoisted it over his shoulder. The Cheetah warrior then approached the four young dragons and took a knee beside them as they gathered around.

“Thank you for behaving so well, my friends,” he said, eying Cynder knowingly as she averted her gaze, “I shall see you all again soon?”

“Yes,” blurted Flame nervously, “Right after our visit to Warfang!”

“Yes, after the ceremony,” Spyro added solemnly. Hunter smiled cheerfully as he rose back to his feet and readjusted his backpack.

“Well, I shall wait outside for my courier to arrive,” he announced, “Good evening, my friends.”

“Good evening to you Hunter,” they all said in turn. The Cheetah nodded firmly as he walked briskly out through the dojo to wait on the balcony. Once the door closed behind him, Ignitus cleared his throat and all eyes focused on him.

“Our guests will be arriving soon. When they have, we should all endeavor to make them as comfortable as possible. Then I think we should all have an early night; tomorrow is a very important day. Well, I’ll see you all then,” he said wearily and began walking around the pool towards his quarters. The other Guardians all went about to different tasks; Terrador turned about and strolled into the dojo presumably to train while Volteer and Cyril walked together through to the sparring area to continue bickering. The four young dragons watched them go about their business until only they were left standing in the grotto.

“I don’t understand,” Ember pondered aloud, “Why did Hunter say it wasn’t his place to attend? Everyone would be happy to let him pay his respects.”

“Because no Cheetah’s were involved in the defense of the temple,” Cynder answered briskly, rolling her eyes as she yawned exhaustively, “I barely feel like I can stay awake now.”

“Well you’d better freshen up,” Spyro told her seriously, “There is going to be a lot of people who will need our help soon.”

“Oh, great,” groaned Flame sarcastically.

Sure enough, two hours later and after dinner, the twin moons had risen into the sky and against them a curious sight appeared on the night horizon. The clear starry sky and luminescence of the Celestial Moons allowed for great visibility as Spyro and the other dragons stood waiting on the temple’s outside balcony, including Hunter who was still waiting for his courier. In the distance a pair of white sails from a great mast rose high into the sky, as did the entire vessel which rested not on the sea but floated high above it, flying on a direct course towards the temple. The airship took on the appearance of a seafaring galley, with a pointed bow and long flat deck with a square poop deck at the rear that rose above the main deck. The ship’s bottom hull was painted an olive green while the rest of the ship was a deep brown, save for the rails which were painted gold. Flying high above the mast was a large, ornate aqua blue flag bearing the golden silhouette of a dragon’s outstretched wings and head leaning back towards the sky. Before each wing was the image of Mole soldier standing with square blades at the ready, signifying the military and diplomatic alliance between the dragons and moles.

As the ship closed in, it swung about to port but continued to move straight on to the temple even as the ship became sideways; a sight Spyro found never ceased to amaze him. The ships closed gunports came into view, a single row of twelve halfway down the hull ran down the length of the ship along with more cannons sitting on the deck. The technology that allowed for this floating marvel came from the lush green jungles of a realm known as ‘Tall Plains’, a rain forest that grew atop a collection of extremely high plateaus, many of which towered above the clouds. Legend had it that this was the ancestral home of the Earth dragons, though few still lived there. The native population, the Llama like creatures called the ‘Atlawa’, used flying gondolas to travel between the isolated peaks of Tall Plains, remarkable given that their use of technology was rather limited as they preferred a more simplistic, natural way of life. Their ability to engineer levitation through their relationship with their seasons, crops and plant life and their deities was not something they shared lightly and it was a great privilege that the means to do so had been shared with those they usually referred to as ‘outsiders’.

Lining the deck were ranks of Mole at arms standing to attention, the ships now legible nameplate read ‘Doxantha’ as it moved sideways foot by foot, the top of the handrail of the main deck floating a few feet above the top edge of the temple balcony. There was a tense moment as the ship moved the final few inches to the end of the balcony, the silent, floating leviathan coming to a complete halt in the air, barely an inch of space between the hull and the temple. Spyro, Cynder, Flame and Ember all glanced to one and other excitedly as onboard the Doxantha an order was shouted and several moles lifted a wooden gangplank over the railing and pushed it over until it met the stone floor of the balcony. The gangplank was tied to the ship for safety before the Moles returned to their ranks. An order to attention was shouted as a single Mole approached the gangplank and began to walk slowly down it to the awaiting Guardians. Ignitus stepped forward as the Mole stopped just before the end of the plank and waited for him to approach.

“Sir!” the Mole saluted briskly. Ignitus bowed his head in response before the Mole moved his hands behind his back.

“Good evening, Captain,” Ignitus said formally.

“And to you, Master Ignitus. I request permission to disembark the honor guard, sir.”

“Permission granted,”

“Very good, sir!” the Mole Captain replied, saluting a final time before he about turned and marched back up the gangplank, shouting orders to his troops. Standing alongside the young dragons, Hunter leaned over and whispered,

“Most impressive. It’s a pity I cannot stay for the whole event.”

“Well, for us it happens every year,” Spyro replied softly.

“Of course it does,” Cynder said plaintively, “We wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for what happened.”

“For what they did,” Ember said solemnly.

“Yeah,” Flame added sincerely, “Those guys who died to save us.” If there was one thing that the four of them agreed upon unanimously, it was the importance of the remembrance ceremony that occurred every year on the anniversary of the attack on the dragon temple twelve years ago. It was the events of that night and the actions of those who made the ultimate sacrifice and of course of Ignitus and Volteer that any of them existed. In particular, the story of Pyra, Ignitus’s former squire, had a profound impact on the minds of the young dragons as he had only been three years older than them that fateful night. The story of his sacrifice had become engraved into long annuals of heroes and martyrs that took up a far too large a part of their history.

As the only survivors of their batch of eggs, it was something the group had taken to heart from a very young age. It was also why as a group, even with their squabbles and petty rivalries, they were near inseparable when attending lectures or social events in Warfang, they were really only acquainted with the other dragons their age and few they could truly say they were friends with. As orphans with no living relatives, it was customary they lived at the temple with the Guardians rather than with the bulk of the dragon population on the mainland. They knew they had gained a certain fame or perhaps notoriety because of this; the group being known to many as ‘The four survivors’ or ‘The four who lived’. This fact was also reflected in the four day holiday that followed Remembrance day, something that their counterparts in Warfang, even those not friendly to them, were happy for.

The quiet reflections of the four young dragons was interrupted by the sound of a pair of wings beating hard against the night sky as from behind the ship a dragon came into view. It was evidently surprised by the presence of the Doxantha as it flew cautiously around the bow of the ship before coming into full view. The dragon was not as large as the Guardians, with dark green scales and bright orange wings and narrow orange head, he glided slowly down onto the open space behind Spyro and the others. On his back he wore a brown leather saddle not unlike that of a horse. Upon seeing Spyro his eyes nearly popped out from his head.

“Master, Spyro!” he gasped, “Forgive my intrusion but I was told I needed to collect someone…”

“That would be me,” Hunter put up his hand irritably, “If you would take me to Avalar, please,” he said as he strolled toward him.

“Oh,” said the courier abashedly, “That is quite far sir. And with night rates I’m afraid it will be rather costly.” Hunter groaned reluctantly as he began to unfasten his bag to look for his coin purse. As if acting on a bizarre impulse, Spyro suddenly stepped forward.

“Really?” he exclaimed as he stepped up to the courier, who’s orange face seemed to go pale as the purple dragon approached him. Both Hunter and the other young dragons watched curiously.

“What’s your name?” Spyro asked with feigned harshness.

“F…Finbarr, sir,” he replied trembling.

“Well, Finbarr,” Spyro replied cautiously, “Hunter is a good friend of mine. And he has been waiting for a very long time and must get home quickly. I think he can pay you later.”

“But the company rules state all payments must be on the spot…”

“Are you really going to trouble my friend?” Spyro scowled menacingly, “Are you going to make trouble for me?” At that moment, Cynder stepped up beside Spyro in support, soon joined by Flame and Ember as the four of them stared down the terror-stricken Finbarr.

“You really want to make enemies with the mighty purple dragon?” asked Ember pointedly. Finbarr’s legs began to visibly shake as the thought sank into his mind.

“No… No charge!” he burst out frightfully, “I would be honored, and so would my employer, to do this favor for you, Master Spyro.” Hunter looked to the purple dragon, both amused and amazed as a broad grin danced across the Cheetah’s face. Spyro seemed equally astounded as what his bluff had achieved, flashing a quick wink to Hunter as he slung his pack back over his shoulder and grasped hold of Finbarr’s saddle. The hapless courier continued to eye the group of four anxiously as his passenger straddled his back and grasped the handles on the front of the saddle.

“We’d best make haste, then!” Finbarr said speedily, holding out his wings pre-emptively as Hunter turned and gave a cheerful wave to his young companions.

“I’ll see you in Avalar!” he declared heartily, the green and orange dragon he rode making a short leap before his wings went into action and propelled them both over the side of the ramp, the four friends watching as Finbarr banked sharply to the left and took off towards the mainland.

No sooner was he out of sight that the four friends turned back to the docked airship, from which the first of the Mole Honour guard began to disembark. As the soldiers stepped down the gangplank, Cynder leaned across and whispered to Spyro,

“What was with the extortion?” she asked wryly.

“Hey, I thought he’d just let him pay later. I didn’t think he’d give him a free ride!” he muttered defensively.

“But why’d you do it anyway?” Flame asked in a low voice.

“Because he didn’t tell on us! I was trying to repay the favour…”

“Shush!” Ember hissed, “Be quiet!” Remembering the occasion, the four sealed their lips and stood stiffly as the first of the Honor guard passed them by, carrying their personal belongings as others carried ceremonial standards and weapons. In due time some carried flutes and drums of the guard’s band to be played during formal ceremonies and marches. Each of the Mole soldiers acknowledged Spyro in some way, either through simply facing him or nodding to him as they passed. They were all veterans of the last war against the Apes and all had taken part in the defense of Warfang twelve years ago; the battle that had broken the back of Gaul’s army and forced them back to their own lands. Spyro nodded back each time one of them acknowledged him but despite outward appearances, their recognition stirred conflicting emotions within him in a way that it hadn’t even the year before. Though he smiled, every eye that his met gave him the feeling of being judged and following that a feeling of not belonging, as if he was dishonestly standing in place of someone more worthy. He knew why they acted as they did, aside from it being orders. It was the same reason he had, though not expecting the exact outcome, been able to coerce the courier dragon to giving no charge to Hunter; he was Spyro, the Legendary purple dragon, the one who he was assured would one day crush the forces of darkness that plagued the world.

‘You’d think I’d already done that,’ he thought despairingly. From the corner of his eye he caught the gaze of Ignitus, the Fire Guardian’s expression was still and observant. They met eyes for only a moment before the large red dragon turned his head back almost sinfully and watched the soldiers marching down the gangplank. Spyro found himself using every spare moment watching the Guardian, trying to read his face, the same one he had seen earlier in the grotto when Hunter offered his condolences. He wondered if he was thinking along the same lines as himself; if he deserved the recognition of decorated war heroes because of the words of a prophecy that was yet to come true. Or perhaps he was thinking back to the events of that night, when he and Volteer had been forced to flee with his egg and those of his friends, leaving the rest behind to perish with the doomed temple garrison.

‘Maybe,’ Spyro thought mournfully, ‘He’s thinking about Pyra…’

When the last of the Mole at Arms had disembarked the Doxantha, the Guardian dragons followed after them as did Spyro and his friends back into the temple. The soldiers, about forty in total, settled in the sparing ground on the other side of the grotto, pitching their tents and sleeping bags on the earthy floor. They went about this task with expected military efficacy, turning the sparing ground into an orderly albeit makeshift campsite. The Guardians had Spyro, Cynder, Flame and Ember assist them how they could; shifting their supplies or equipment as they needed. Flame took the initiative to use his fire breath to light the campfires of the Moles to save them the effort, a gesture the soldiers much appreciated as it sped up the journey towards dinner and then sleep which they were greatly looking forward to after a hard day’s drill and aerial voyage. The purple dragon’s face was noticeably vacant throughout this as he seemed at times only half awake, his mind wrestling with the conflicted emotions that were pounding against his head and his heart like they were a drum set. The flurry of activity and sound of loud conversations seemed overwhelming to his senses, only further adding to his discomfort. Everything seemed louder to him than to anyone else and his stomach tightened like it was coiled by a serpent. Spyro endured nonetheless though his discomfort was obvious as he and Cynder finished pushing a crate against the wall of the room.

“Are you okay, Spyro?” she asked sincerely.

“I’m fine I just…. feel a little tired, I guess,” he said uncertainly. He saw in her eyes that she was not satisfied with his answer, but even so she did not press the matter, even pushing aside the urge to make a smart remark about his perceived laziness. He sighed deeply as he turned to follow her back to work. The next ten minutes passed at a crawl, feeling more like hours to him as they continued shifting crates and carrying the personal belongings of the Mole soldiers. By that time, most of them were sitting down to eat around the campfires, the moles cheerfully talking and laughing as they boiled soup and drank wine and ale from the stores they had bought with them on the airship. Spyro saw Ember using her Ice breath to chill the goblets of some of them while Flame superheated some of their cooking pots to boiling temperature in a flash. These acts seemed more immediately gratifying than moving boxes and bags, but he and Cynder knew the soldiers appreciated them easing their burden. As Ember turned away from cooling the goblets of the last group of moles, the soldiers all began to sing as a unit, boisterously filling the sparing room with the triumphal war song; Call to Arms, a ballad celebrating the successful defence of Warfang’s walls during the night of the temple raid.

Standing firm in formation,

To the ramparts we marched in the dusk,

We are ready to die for Warfang,

And the Valley’s of Avalar,

Fire at will!

Aim for their Dreadwings!

Counterattack!

Roar of dragons!

Call to arms,

As we all stand united,

Moles and Dragons,

Call to arms!

Spyro and Cynder paused in their toils and watched in quiet admiration of the moles and their comradery . Every one of them, whether they were eating and drinking or playing games around their campfires, they all stood up and added their voices to the song. Though they may not have showed it, Spyro knew that they all carried not just the memories of the battles they had fought, on that night and before, but also the memories of the comrades lost that could no longer share in this merriment with them, like those who had fought twelve years ago on the very same ground that they now stood. Despite always being aware of this fact every day of the year, it always became more haunting the day before the remembrance ceremony. The whole temple suddenly felt less like a home and more like tomb that they were desecrating with their presence. Still deep in thought, Spyro and Cynder resumed their tasks as the singing echoed through the halls of the temple,

In the Year of the Dragon,

we filled Gaul’s heart with fear,

Seven time he attacked on the night,

Seven time he retreated!

Cannon barrage!

Follow the Dragons!

After their King,

Victory we bring!

Call to arms,

As we all stand united,

Moles and Dragons,

Call to arms,

The singing continued for some time with the four young dragons as their audience as they continued their chores. Ember and Flame joined Spyro and Cynder as they kept moving boxes and supplies into the room, somewhat peeved at the knowledge that it was quite a lot to do considering the Mole at arms would only be staying for the night and would be leaving the next morning, but then again the four young dragons were to receive the privilege of being able to travel to Warfang onboard the Doxantha on the return journey. Normally only military and diplomatic persons were allowed to travel on such ships, but they, the four who lived, were something of an exception. With the soldiers finally beginning to bed down, the four young dragons finished their duties and began making their way to the door back to the grotto. As Spyro lead the group, the towering crimson figure of Ignitus suddenly appeared in the doorway.

“All finished?” he asked brightly.

“All done, Ignitus,” Spyro replied dimly, the thrashing taking place on his heart suddenly peaked but an involuntary yawn shielded his unsettled feelings.

“Well done to you all,” he congratulated warmly, “But now it is time for you to retire for the night. It will be an early rise tomorrow.”

“Yes, sir,” Flame said obediently from the back. The Guardian stepped back and to the left to allow them passage. In single file the ‘four survivors’ passed through the door, turning to Ignitus in order to bid him a goodnight. Spyro forced a cordial smile despite his inner turmoil.

“Goodnight, Ignitus,” he wished softly.

“Sleep well, Ignitus,” added Cynder.

“See you in the morning, Ignitus,” Ember bided formally.

“Goodnight to you, Ignitus,” Flame tendered warmly.

“Goodnight to you all,” the Fire Guardian said quietly, looking ahead into the Moles campsite. As the door to the dormitory opened, Spyro paused as his friends wandered on, sighing heavily as he leaned his head exhaustively against the round archway of the door. Exhausted more from the emotional conflict rampaging inside his body than the day’s hardship, he rocked his head back and forth a few times trying to unscramble his brain. He wondered if perhaps he was simply coming down ill and was letting his emotions get the better of him. The presence of Ignitus seemed to only add to his anxiety, the feeling of guilt cloaking him like a heavy black robe.

'Maybe I should talk to him,’ the purple dragon considered reluctantly. Leaning off the archway, he looked over his shoulder to the Guardian who stood in the doorway as before staring ahead at who knew what. He seemed to be deep in thought, the subject of which many possibilities came to Spyro’s mind, some of them unthinkable even a short time ago. Questions about how his mentor viewed him, how his training was progressing and even if Ignitus for some reason held a grudge against him for the suffering that had been inflicted just to prevent his birth. Ignitus had never shown anything but the greatest concern for him, but the thought terrified him just as much as it seemed unfathomable.

His mouth became slightly ajar as he tried to speak but froze suddenly as if a better knowing presence had suddenly taken over his body.

“Spyro?” called a voice from inside the room. It was Flame, wondering why he had lagged behind the group. At once Ignitus looked over his shoulder and his crimson eyes fixed on those of Spyro’s. He raised an odd eyebrow at the curious sight of the young purple dragon.

“Is something the matter, Spyro?” he asked formally. His reaction was stuttered as he struggled to reclaim his lost voice.

“I, er, just wanted to… Nevermind!” he blurted hastily as he ran quickly inside the dormitory, the door clasping shut behind him. He stood panting just inside the room with Flame standing only a short distance ahead of him as the others gathered further down the hall.

“You alright, buddy?” asked the concerned Fire dragon. Spyro drew a deep breath and waved his right paw dismissively.

“I’m fine,” he replied bluntly, “Lets just go to bed.”

Avoiding his questioning stare, Spyro walked onwards down the hall with Flame cautiously following just behind him as Cynder and Ember waited for them. The dormitory consisted of a large chamber that turned to the left a short distance from the door to the grotto and went on straight before another door lead to a hallway that lead to the temple garden. The chamber contained five separate rooms, each one essentially a large rectangle carved into the sides of the chamber with large curtains drawn across for privacy, each one bearing the insignia and colour of the respective Guardian. Flaming torches were hung outside each room which were just large enough to house a fully grown dragon and little else. The first just to the right of the door was Terrador’s quarters, its large green curtain adorned with Earth symbol was half drawn and exposed the basic set up of the rest; a rug covered floor with a large cushion taking up most of the space, colored to match each respective Guardian with a single wall mounted torch for lighting with a bookshelf or table against the back wall. Directly opposite was Cyril’s quarters, its blue curtain closed over as Spyro and Flame joined the others at the turn in the hallway where Volteer’s quarters lay.

“Did Ignitus want something from you?” Ember asked intrusively.

“No, it was nothing,” Spyro replied shortly as the group moved on. Just past the turn was the quarters of Ignitus on the right, its crimson red curtain fully drawn and the interior in full view. Spyro found himself unable to look away, especially since the room he shared with the others was directly opposite it. While they filed through the purple curtain draped over their quarters, Spyro remained standing outside looking into those of the Fire Guardian. His quarters were much the same as the others, a large cushion taking up most of the space with only about an adult dragon’s width of free floor space left. A bookshelf was built into the inner left wall flanking the cushion with a heavy stone table running the width of the back wall. In the middle of the table was a centerpiece that Spyro’s eyes slowly traced from bottom to top. Placed on the table, towering like a great religious alter was a battered, torn battle standard. The red flag was partly burned away at the bottom, with several holes punctured in itself. The pole of the standard was faded and scratched and also partly blackened from fire. But standing out from all the scars and holes were the faded brown blotches dyed into the fabric of the standard; the spatters of blood soaked into the crimson flag.

It was Ignitus’s old battle standard, the one carried by Pyra his faithful squire. It was his blood that stained the standard, the only thing that remained of him after the battle for Pyra’s body was not among the fallen. It was a grisly fact they had been taught the the Apes often kept the bodies of dragons as trophies; keeping their skulls most often as symbols of conquest and power. Such a fate had been that of Pyra and most of the other dragon warriors who fell in defense of the temple.

Spyro looked upon the relic, literally soaked in the blood of one of the many he owed his life to. A dragon not much older than himself who willingly sacrificed his life to forestall the Apes so that the lives of Spyro and his friends could be saved. It was a thing of such magnitude, such valour that the purple dragon could barely fathom it. He could understand perhaps why some would fight to save the lives of their friends or their families. But to do so for somebody they did not know, for someone who had not even been born based purely on the belief that the birth of that somebody would change the world forever and for the better. It was a faith in him that Spyro knew he did not have in himself. A faith he feared Ignitus did not have in him either.

“He earned his praise…” Spyro muttered softly, “How have I earnt mine?”

With that he slowly turned around and with his heart weighing him down he walked through the purple curtain to the shared quarters. He was greeted by the waiting faces of his friends, all comfortably laying on their own individual cushions. Their room was much the same albeit much roomier, the cushions they slept on being much smaller and giving much more free space. Cynder, Ember and Flame all had their beds in a rough semicircle while Spyro’s own was towards the back of the room. He did not look at them as he passed between them and wandered sombrely to his bed. The others all watched with concern as he sat upon the cushion with his back to them, the torch above him casting his lonely shadow against the wall. Feeling their eyes on him, Spyro turned his head to the right enough to show his eye looking dimly over his shoulder to her, the torch half casting his face in darkness.

“We should get some sleep,” he said quietly, “We’ll be up early tomorrow,” he finished with a yawn that sounded more a than a little bit forced. He deliberately kept his back to them, knowing if he faced them, he would be compelled to pour his heart out and he had not the desire or, ironically, the heart for that. He collapsed on his left side, pulling his legs in and his tail into his stomach. His eyes stared ahead into the featureless wall at the back of the room, hearing the sounds of his companions settling down and getting comfortable behind him. He did feel the shade of guilt in not sharing his thoughts with them but he did not want to keep them up with his own inner demons, knowing the friends that they were they would try tirelessly to make him feel better. The last thing he wanted was anyone else burdened because of him. Perhaps deciding to just let sleeping dogs lie, or rather dragons, there was not a word uttered from any of the others as they settled in for the night.

Unknown to Spyro, Cynder surprisingly stayed awake the longest, gazing at him as he remained unmoving with his back to her, save for his breathing. She lay as still as a log as she contemplated the conundrum that was her purple scaled friend long after Flame and Ember were fast asleep. However long it was the torch in the room was nearly burnt out by the time she had finally closed her eyes and drifted away to her dreams. Spyro was still awake long after the torch had finally burnt out, his front paws anxiously stroking the spike of his tail like a frightened hatchling clutching its teddy bear. He wore the same, wide eyed look of despondence from when he had first laid down as if it had become a mask. He tried to not blink as long as he could, hoping the strain would force him to sleep but seemingly achieved the opposite. He found himself listening acutely to the sounds of temple at night; the light crackling of the torches outside the curtain, the distant thud of doors opening and closing outside the dormitory, suggesting the Guardians and Moles were still active later than expected. Eventually he heard the door to the grotto open and the heavy footsteps of one of the Guardians retiring to their quarters. The heavy, throaty rumble of the chest that vibrated through the chamber told him it was Terrador, followed eventually by Cyril and later Volteer. It was odd as they all usually went to bed at the same time, even stranger that Ignitus seemed to be taking the longest of them.

Eventually, Spyro clamped his eyes shut and tucked his chin into his chest and he pulled himself into a ball, trying to force himself to sleep. His mind was still racing with queries and self-doubt, his eyes still bright even behind their purple shades. Whether it was for minutes or hours he didn’t know but eventually he felt his body begin to relax and the fire in his brain dampen down, resulting in a gracious sigh of relief as he sank into his cushion. The creak of the grotto door opening woke him at light speed, Spyro lifting his head alertly as he heard a fourth set of heavy footsteps down the hall. He rolled onto his stomach and gazed towards the curtain as the steps came closer, the others remaining fast asleep. He rose to his feet silently, stepping off his bed one outstretched limb at a time before he tiptoed across the floor, slipping in between Cynder and Ember as he paused with his nose just touching the curtain. The steps and the lumbering weight they carried stopped just on the other side of the curtain, the voice in the heavy sigh that followed confirmed what Spyro already knew. He listened to Ignitus’s feet twisting on the ground as he steered his mass into his quarters, Spyro silently sidestepping to the right and cautiously peeking his head around the end of the curtain.

He saw the Fire Guardian’s tail sweep around as he stood with his back to him, Ignitus staring at the worn banner atop the stone table. The young dragon swallowed, his tongue lifting in his mouth as it tempted him to speak but he remained silent, staring at the Guardian dragon. Ignitus stood in a trance for several slow moments, the banner reaching only just above his head even when on the table, but it seemed to have the same effect as it did upon him from what he observed. The crimson dragon’s head hung low; his normally stout wings drooped slovenly as his head rocked wistfully. A low groan preceded what Spyro disbelievingly thought was a sniffle as Ignitus perched his left paw on the edge of the table and then his right, lifting himself up as his horns finally towered over the top of the banner. Spyro leaned further out from the curtain as he tried to peer over the Guardians’ shoulder, watching intently as his chest leaned over the table, his mighty right leg turning on its side as his massive paw reached out and carefully grasped the scarred pole of the banner. He rested his elbows on the table as he sat his chest down, his left leg following in the right and grasping the pole further up. Ignitus traced his head slowly up and down the relic, his paws clutching tighter as with a mournful groan he leaned his forehead against the tattered banner, his eyelids clasping tightly as if a great pain had suddenly overcome his body.

Spyro pulled back inside the curtain almost immediately, standing in shock of the sight that was near beyond belief to him. He had never seen such an open display of sorrow from Ignitus, his professional and dignified everyday behaviour never gave hint to such things. Though he had never been unkind or heartless, he had never been prone to being openly emotionally, especially in sadness. It was disquieting for the young dragon to see the one he looked up to the most as a source of inspiration and strength to be in such a vulnerable state. One he feared he may have contributed to.

He backed up slowly, stepping back between Cynder and Ember until his feet touched his own bed again. He turned around and flopped down on his side again, pulling himself back into a ball as once again he remained wide-eyed and awake staring at the back wall of the room. He heard nothing of Ignitus for a time until eventually he heard him shuffling around to close his curtain when he finally went to bed. Spyro pulled his head down with his front paws as he closed his eyes and tucked his nose into the cushion, thinking as he slowly succumbed, he heard Ignitus quietly weeping, but lied to himself that it was all a dream.


The next morning...


The Celestial moons were still visible as the as the royal blue sky began to blend with tinges of dark amber from the rising sun. A curve of orange radiance stretched over the horizon with the sun at its centre, the layer of violet perched atop of it slowly dissipated as the sun’s rays stretched up into the sky and the final trace of night lifted like the curtain of an opera. The darkness retreated before the light as it swept across the sea, illuminating the shoreline and over the docked airship resting on the temple’s balcony. Her masts cast her shadow over the grand exterior as the orange blanket crept over the mushroom forest covering the island. After an hour or so of rising, with sunlight shining through every gap and over every crevice, it eventually caught the head of something metallic standing tall in a clearing outside the western wing of the temple surrounded by the towering mushroom forest. A brief reflection shone back into the sky as the sunlight slowly draped down into the clearing over a golden statue facing towards northern horizon. The sculpture depicted a dramatic scene of five figures locked in an eternal battle, one they would never win or lose.

The statue was built to lifelike proportions and likeness, the golden sculpture elevated atop a wide stone pedestal reaching as tall as an adult dragon. The pedestal sat on a large disk-shaped base also made of orange stone, its rim engraved with a thin layer of ancient runes like those found in the temple. On the edge of the base, facing out from the four sides of the statue in a crosshair pattern were four polished crystal balls resting in stone bowls shaped like small volcanoes. Each ball was a misty grey color as if a storm cloud were brewing inside them, turning and twisting like a cyclone viewed from space. The statue was built in the center of a large circular area cleared in the forest, a cobblestone path ringed the monument and an outer path encircled that with rows of colorful flowers and smaller mushroom like plants decorating the surroundings. The dominant figure of the monument standing above the other figures was that of an adolescent dragon, standing with his body turned to the left and his head snapped to the right.

His face was grim with determination, his wings outstretched with his mouth spouting imaginary flames towards his phantom foes. His left foreleg was raised ready to strike as his right foreleg was tucked underneath him, grasping protectively under his paw a precious dragon egg. The dragon depicted was none other than Pyra, the noble battle squire who had served Ignitus until the attack on the temple.

Standing just out from him on either side were the figures of two Mole at arms wielding the bulky square blades that were typically issued to them. Both figures were immaculately detailed down to the scales of their armor and the brush like mustaches on their faces. They stood in the act of preparing to swing their blades at the oncoming enemy while standing at the front of the scene were another pair of Mole at arms with outstretched pikes facing forward. As a dramatic depiction, the figures were positioned so as not to obscure the view of the egg that they all were ultimately in the act of protecting. It was a representation of a desperate, valiant moment forever frozen in time, immortalized in the work of expert sculptures, ingrained in the minds of all free citizens of the realms. On the front of the stone pedestal were carved letters that spelt out a poem in dedication to the memory of those whom the monument was dedicated; the heroic defenders of the temple and the lost dragon eggs that never had a chance to live;

‘But curse on you, evil shadows of hell, who devour all beautiful things: you have taken such a beautiful sparrow from me! Oh what evil deeds! Oh what evil deeds!

I, too, when the final fires have eaten up my frame, shall still live on, and the great part of me survive my death’.

The words were deliberately antagonistic as they were steeped in melancholy, reflecting the sentiments of both anger and sadness of the massacre that night. It was taken from the writings of Catullus, a great dragon poet who himself had fallen in the war against the Apes but whose work during that time, reflecting his own feelings and those of others about the sacrifices made and the seething resentment towards their enemy, had risen to prominence. Several meters before the monument was the top of a short, albeit wide flight of stone steps that lead down into the lower garden area just outside the temple doorway.

The steps numbered only eight but were broad and wide to easily accommodate the feet of a fully sized dragon. The lower garden was a similar circular area with a moss-covered cluster of three mushrooms only a few meters high planted in its center. The rounded doorway opened up into the lower garden facing directly towards the center plant, the cobblestone pathway from the stairs curved around halfway between the center and the wall of giant mushrooms to the door. It was in this lower garden that the attendees of the remembrance ceremony all stood where the sunlight was yet to reach.

The Mole Honor Guard all stood at attention in two formations of twenty comprised of two ranks of ten, all clutching spears in their right hands, facing towards the stair case and the monument. Volteer and Ignitus stood in front of the left-hand rank while Terrador and Cyril stood before the righthand rank. Standing ahead of them at the base of the stairs were two more Moles; the Captain on the left, hands firmly down at his sides and beside him was the other Mole soldier, clutching in his hand not a spear but wooden flute.

Finally, standing in line between the Guardians in the gap between the ranks were the four survivors; Spyro and Cynder, Flame and Ember in that order.


End of Chapter 5

Note from the author:

More Spyro trivia! The name "Doxantha" appears in the Game Boy Advanced version of the Legend of Spyro, the Eternal Night as the name of a city the player never gets to see and is probably what Warfang was originally supposed to be called before the change of developers of Dawn of the Dragon. I decided to re-purpose the name for the story as the name of an airship, which we saw the Scavenger pirates using in the second game.

The song that the Mole at arms sing is actually me rewriting the lyrics to the Sabaton song "Gott Mit Uns" just for a bit of fun like I did for "Seven Pillars of Wisdom" which also inspired the name for this very story. I think this may be a reoccurring theme I may do through the story just for a bit of fun.

The poem on the statue I described is actually taken from the lyrics of the Latin choir used in one of the tracks of the Legend of Spyro: Dawn of the Dragon soundtrack, specifically the music track "Burned Lands" which plays during that level of the game after Spyro and Cynder cross the belt of fire. A discovered this fact completely by accident and thought it would be a cool and fitting Easter egg to put into the story.

Cheers to "pszmeg_double_u" on Youtube for bringing this to my attention!

(Link to video in the description)

Lyrics (for the whole track) 1st part [Catullus, Book III]

Latin: [at] vobis male sit, malae tenebrae Orci, quae omnia bella devoratis: tam bellum mihi passerem abstulistis o factum male! o factum male!

English: but curse on you, evil shadows of hell , who devour all beautiful things: you have taken such a beautiful sparrow from me Oh what evil deeds! Oh what evil deeds!

2nd part [Ovid, Amores, Book I]

Latin: Ergo etiam cum me supremus adederit ignis, vivam, parsque mei multa superstes erit.

English: I, too, when the final fires have eaten up my frame, shall still live on, and the great part of me survive my death...


Link to "Burned Lands" track: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IFwcLfxYfOM&list=PLQ7onRSqoeabnafatRssxpF9LiQU7rAFn&index=26

Sabaton "Gott Mit Uns" (Inspiration for "Call to Arms" sung by the Mole soldiers) : https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yVg28azacaM