As dawn broke over the abandoned garrison, Tomas Reed found himself doing something he couldn't remember doing in years—laughing.
Not the grim chuckle of a soldier amused by dark irony, or the careful polite laugh used to maintain camaraderie in the ranks. But a genuine, full-throated laugh that echoed through the empty barracks.
The cause of this unusual outburst? He'd caught his reflection in a polished shield while sorting through armor left behind by the departed garrison, and the sight of his youthful face with its mismatched expressions had struck him as absurdly funny.
"I look like I'm playing dress-up in my father's armor," he snorted, trying on a breastplate that hung loose on his younger frame.
I fail to see the humor in practical concerns about equipment sizing, Skaravosk commented, his mental voice tinged with confusion.
This only made Tomas laugh harder. "Of course you don't, Skarry. You're too serious."
Skarry? The ancient dragon's mental voice carried a note of incredulity. You dare diminish the name of Skaravosk, Sword Dragon King of the Crimson Skies, Terror of the Western Realms, with a... nickname?
"Yep," Tomas replied cheerfully, continuing to sort through armor pieces. "Skaravosk is a mouthful. Skarry is easier."
I have been worshipped as a god, feared as a demon, and respected as a sovereign power. Never in my millennia of existence has any being dared address me with a diminutive.
"First time for everything." Tomas found a set of lighter leather armor with steel reinforcements that seemed better suited to his new build. "Besides, we're sharing a body. Seems like we should be on familiar terms."
A sense of bewildered resignation filtered through their mental connection. You were not this... irreverent... when we first conversed beyond the veil of death.
"I know," Tomas acknowledged, his voice growing thoughtful even as his hands efficiently adjusted the armor straps. "It's strange. For twenty-three years, I trained myself to suppress anything that didn't directly contribute to survival. Humor. Hope. Joy. They were liabilities in a war zone—distractions that could get you killed."
He paused, considering the unfamiliar lightness he felt within. "But this body—my body from before the wars hardened me—it doesn't have those emotional defenses built into it. The muscle memory of suppression isn't there."
Fascinating, Skaravosk mused. The reconstruction of your physical form appears to have impacted your psychological state as well. I had not anticipated this side effect.
"Side effect?" Tomas grinned, fastening the final buckle on his armor. "I'd call it a bonus. Do you know how exhausting it is to stay vigilant every moment of every day for twenty-three years?"
The dragon was silent for a moment. Perhaps I do, in my fashion. Millennia of imprisonment offers its own form of crushing vigilance.
Tomas sensed the weight behind those words and felt a surprising pang of sympathy for the ancient being sharing his consciousness. "Well then, Skarry, we both deserve some lightness, don't we?"
The resignation in the dragon's mental sigh was almost palpable. I see that resistance to this nickname would be futile.
"Completely futile," Tomas agreed cheerfully, pulling a dark hooded cloak over his armor. The garment would help conceal both his youthful appearance and the occasional crimson gleam that flashed in his eyes when his emotions ran strong.
Over the past few hours, as he'd prepared for departure, Tomas had found himself experiencing emotions and impulses that had been buried for decades. The urge to whistle as he worked. The appreciation of a sunrise not just as tactical information about visibility conditions, but as something beautiful. Even the simple pleasure of stretching his young, powerful body, feeling muscles respond without the accumulated aches of aging and injury.
It was disorienting. But not unpleasant.
Where do we go now? Skaravosk asked as Tomas finished gathering supplies. You mentioned a city.
"Harrowgate," Tomas confirmed, consulting a map he'd found in the command tent. "Trading hub about three days' journey southwest. Large enough to disappear in, small enough to avoid heavy military presence. And importantly, not in the direction the garrison troops were heading."
Purposely avoiding your former comrades? the dragon inquired.
Tomas nodded, folding the map and tucking it into his pack. "The army would have too many questions I'm not ready to answer. Better to establish ourselves elsewhere first."
A pragmatic decision, Skaravosk approved. Though I suspect there are emotional considerations as well.
"Maybe," Tomas admitted. "It would be... complicated... to face people who knew me before. Who mourned me, perhaps."
He shouldered his pack, adjusted his cloak, and strapped on a longsword he'd found in the armory—better balanced and sharper than his old blade had been, though he suspected he wouldn't need it much with his new capabilities.
As he stood at the garrison gates, ready to depart, Tomas felt a sense of freedom he hadn't experienced since he was a boy. No orders to follow. No squad relying on him. No rigid protocols dictating his every move.
Just open road and limitless possibility.
"Right then, Skarry," he said aloud, setting off at an easy lope that ate up distance without tiring his enhanced body. "Let's see what the world has to offer two dead legends in one body."
Must you continue with that nickname? the dragon grumbled.
"Absolutely must," Tomas replied with a grin.
They traveled through the day, Tomas moving at a pace that would have been impossible for a normal human to maintain. His enhanced endurance meant he barely needed to rest, though he did pause occasionally to take in views or examine interesting features of the landscape.
It was during one such pause, at the crest of a hill overlooking a small farming valley, that Skaravosk made an observation.
You're different not just in demeanor but in awareness, the dragon noted. You've stopped constantly scanning for threats.
Tomas realized with surprise that this was true. For decades, he had never truly relaxed, even in supposedly safe areas. His eyes had always been moving, cataloging potential dangers, identifying escape routes, assessing tactical advantages. It had become so ingrained he hadn't even noticed he was doing it.
"I suppose when you're sharing a body with an ancient dragon king, ordinary threats seem less concerning," he replied, plucking a wildflower and twirling it between his fingers—another action his former self would never have wasted time on.
Perhaps, Skaravosk agreed. Though I would caution against complete complacency. We are formidable, but not invulnerable.
"Noted," Tomas said with a mock salute that made the dragon emanate feelings of exasperation through their connection. "But surely we can enjoy the journey a bit?"
Before the dragon could respond, a scream echoed from the valley below. Tomas's head snapped toward the sound, his enhanced vision quickly locating its source—a small farmstead where several mounted figures surrounded a family of farmers.
Bandits, Skaravosk identified. Taking advantage of the war's chaos to prey on unprotected civilians.
Tomas observed the scene with analytical precision that contrasted with his recent lightheartedness. Six armed men on horseback. Two adult farmers—one already wounded, the other standing protectively in front of two children. The bandits were laughing, toying with their victims rather than finishing them quickly.
In his former life, Tomas would have made a cold calculation about intervention. Assessed the threat level against his capabilities. Determined whether engagement served his mission or survival.
But now, without conscious thought, he was already moving, racing down the hillside at a speed no human could match.
Interesting, Skaravosk commented as they closed the distance. Your younger emotional state appears to include impulsivity.
"Maybe," Tomas replied, not slowing his pace. "Or maybe I just feel like beating up some bandits. Been a while since I've had a good fight."
He reached the farmstead perimeter in minutes, slowing to a walk as he approached the scene. The bandits had dismounted now, forcing the family into their small home, likely to search for valuables before deciding their victims' fate.
"Hey!" Tomas called out, pitching his voice to carry across the yard. "This seems like an uneven match. Care to try someone who can fight back?"
The bandits turned, startled by his sudden appearance. Their leader—a scarred man with a patchy beard—recovered quickly, eyes narrowing as he assessed this unexpected interference.
"Walk away, boy," the man growled, gesturing dismissively. "This isn't your concern."
Tomas felt his lips curl into a smile that held no warmth. "Actually, I'm making it my concern, Patchy."
Patchy? Skaravosk's mental voice carried a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Are you nicknaming everyone now?
It seems to irritate people, Tomas thought back. Tactical advantage.
The bandit leader's face darkened at the disrespect. "Kill him," he ordered his men, turning away as if the matter were already resolved.
Two of the bandits advanced, drawing swords with confident grins. They moved with the cocky assurance of men accustomed to overwhelming frightened peasants.
Tomas stood relaxed, waiting until they committed to their charge before moving. When he did, it was with a speed that left afterimages in human perception. One moment he stood ten paces away; the next he was between them, each hand grasping a bandit's sword arm.
"Too slow," he commented mildly, before squeezing.
Bones cracked beneath his grip. The men screamed, dropping their weapons as their wrists shattered in Tomas's hands.
The remaining bandits froze in shock. Their leader whirled back around, disbelief etched on his scarred face.
"What in the hells—"
Tomas interrupted him by casually tossing one of the injured men into him, sending both sprawling in the dirt. The other wounded bandit he simply released, watching dispassionately as the man clutched his mangled wrist and backed away in terror.
"Anyone else?" Tomas inquired pleasantly, directing his gaze at the three bandits who hadn't yet engaged.
They exchanged glances, then as one, turned and ran for their horses.
Efficient, Skaravosk commented, a note of approval in his mental voice. Though perhaps unnecessarily theatrical.
I'm embracing my youthful impulses, Tomas replied silently, striding toward the bandit leader who was struggling to his feet.
"You," the scarred man spat, drawing a dagger. "You're dead."
Tomas couldn't help himself—he laughed. "Funny you should say that," he remarked, easily dodging the man's desperate lunge. "I actually was, quite recently."
With casual precision, he caught the man's dagger arm and twisted. The weapon fell to the ground as the bandit dropped to his knees, face contorted in pain.
"Now," Tomas continued conversationally, maintaining his grip, "here's what's going to happen. You and your friends are going to leave these people alone. In fact, you're going to find a new line of work entirely. Perhaps something constructive—I hear the army is recruiting."
"The army's for fools," the bandit gasped through gritted teeth. "Fighting and dying for kings who don't care—"
"Fair point," Tomas conceded, increasing pressure until the man whimpered. "But consider this alternative: leave this valley, never return, or I'll show you exactly what I'm capable of. And trust me—" his voice dropped to a whisper as he allowed a flash of crimson to illuminate his eyes, "—breaking your arm is the mildest outcome available."
The bandit stared into those momentarily inhuman eyes, face draining of color. When Tomas released him, he scrambled backward, then turned and ran without looking back, following his companions who had already fled.
Most entertaining, Skaravosk commented as they watched the bandits gallop away. Though I would have preferred eating at least one of them.
"We talked about this," Tomas replied aloud, turning toward the farmhouse where the family cowered in the doorway. "No eating people."
A regrettable restriction, the dragon sighed.
The farmer family—a weathered man bleeding from a shoulder wound, his wife with a bruised face, and two wide-eyed children—stared at Tomas with expressions caught between gratitude and fear.
"Are you... a Hero?" the younger child asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Tomas realized how he must appear to them—moving faster than humanly possible, dispatching armed men with ease, speaking aloud to no one they could see.
"Not exactly," he replied, softening his voice and keeping a respectful distance. "Just a traveler who felt like testing out my new abilities. Those bandits provided a convenient opportunity."
The family looked slightly taken aback by his casual honesty, but their gratitude quickly overcame any confusion.
The farmer's wife stepped forward cautiously. "You saved us. We have little, but you're welcome to share our meal and shelter for the night."
Accept, Skaravosk urged. I wish to experience this 'home-cooked human food' you mentioned.
Tomas smiled, both at the dragon's enthusiasm and the family's generosity. "I'd be honored," he told them. "And perhaps I can help with that wound," he added, nodding to the farmer's bleeding shoulder.
An hour later, Tomas sat at a rough wooden table, savoring a bowl of simple stew as if it were the finest delicacy. For him, after years of military rations, it nearly was. For Skaravosk, experiencing human food for the first time, it was a revelation.
This is... extraordinary, the dragon marveled. The mingling of flavors, the textural variations... why did no one tell me humans had developed such arts?
Because you were too busy eating the humans whole? Tomas suggested silently, suppressing a smile as he accepted a second helping from the grateful farmer's wife.
The family had begun to relax around him, particularly after he'd helped clean and bandage the farmer's wound. The children, initially shy, now peppered him with questions which he answered with selective honesty.
"Where are you going?" the older child asked.
"Harrowgate," Tomas replied.
"Are you a soldier?"
"I was. For a long time."
"Did you fight monsters?"
At this, Tomas paused. "Yes," he said finally. "I fought many monsters."
And now you are part monster, Skaravosk added. Ironic.
You're not a monster, Tomas countered silently. Just very, very cranky after a few thousand years of imprisonment.
He could have sworn he felt the dragon mentally snort.
Later, as the family slept and Tomas sat by their hearth, keeping watch more from habit than necessity, he reflected on the day's events. His intervention with the bandits had been impulsive, driven by a desire to test his abilities and the simple pleasure of exercising his power.
"Is this what normal people feel?" he murmured quietly to Skaravosk. "This... immediacy of emotion? This freedom to just do what feels good in the moment?"
I am perhaps not the best authority on normal human experience, the dragon replied dryly. But I would note that your responses appear more balanced now—tactical when required, emotional when appropriate.
"Balanced," Tomas repeated thoughtfully. "I'm not sure I've ever been that."
Few beings truly are, Skaravosk observed. But perhaps this unexpected merging offers us both a path toward such balance. You gain power beyond human limits; I gain perspective beyond draconic isolation.
Tomas poked at the dying embers of the fire, considering this. "That's unexpectedly philosophical for a being who wanted to eat bandits a few hours ago."
I contain multitudes, the dragon replied with what Tomas could have sworn was a hint of humor. Also, I still maintain that eating at least one would have been justified.
Tomas laughed quietly, careful not to wake the sleeping family. "We'll find you something to eat tomorrow that isn't a person. I promise."
I shall hold you to that, Tomas Reed.
"Just call me Tom," he suggested impulsively. "If I'm calling you Skarry, seems fair you get to shorten my name too."
A long mental silence followed. Tom, the dragon tried eventually. It lacks the gravitas of your full name.
"That's the point," Tomas—now Tom—replied with a smile. "We're both starting fresh. Might as well embrace it fully."
As dawn approached, Tom prepared to continue his journey. He left most of his remaining coins for the farmer family, keeping only what he'd need to establish himself in Harrowgate. They protested, but he insisted.
"You helped me remember something important," he told them as he shouldered his pack. "Life's more fun when you can do what you want."
Back on the road, moving swiftly toward Harrowgate, Tom felt a lightness that went beyond his enhanced physical capabilities. Twenty-three years of warfare had stripped away everything but the ruthless calculus of survival. Now, in a body that remembered joy, with a mind unburdened by constant threat assessment, he was rediscovering parts of himself long thought lost.
And guiding him toward Harrowgate—toward whatever new future awaited—was the voice of an ancient dragon who had never tasted stew before yesterday, and who was now eagerly cataloging all the human foods he wished to experience.
I have been informed that something called 'apple pie' exists, Skaravosk noted seriously. We must investigate this as a priority upon reaching civilization.
Tom laughed, the sound echoing across the empty road. "Skarry, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
If you continue with that nickname, the dragon king replied with dignity, I cannot guarantee the 'beautiful' part.
But Tom could sense, beneath the dry response, that Skaravosk was experiencing something as foreign to him as emotion had been to the hardened soldier—a genuine connection with another being, based not on power or fear, but on shared experience and growing understanding.
Two dead legends, one body, and a world of possibilities ahead.
For the first time in memory, Tom wasn't just surviving.
He was living.