A Whisper On The Winds Of Fate

It’s an odd thing, Saraya mused, knowing that every step I take is another step closer to death. She kept her pace even, straightened her spine, and elongated her posture. She knew that to the crowd, opinion was split. Most thought her mind had rotted away from grief, and that the story she spouted was pure nonsense. Those who believed in the lore of their people quietly waited for her to either become a lying martyr in death or the Seer who foretold the dawning of a new era.

Saraya remembered how it all began. Concerned looks from the villagers as she walked by. Cryptic murmurs that spoke of her lunacy or over-embellished rumors of the coming prophecy.

Word spread like wildfire.

"How could she abandon her baby?"

"Is it possible for a girl to Fuse with a dragon?"

"This is what our ancestors spoke of. A Princess who will free our people."

Except in the desert, there was no brush to burn. So, flame had to jump through people.

Her compulsion belonged to something beyond the physical realm. She wasn’t certain if the vision from her dream had come from the Heavens or the Nevermore, but trying to keep it bottled up felt unnatural. The vision had told her to speak of what was to come. Although Saraya knew precisely what would happen once word reached the Capital.

It was why she was being led towards the gallows, minutes away from execution.

“Stop!” The Prince’s Consort shouted. The Southern Keeper roughly yanked her arm.

Saraya turned, and she could have sworn she caught a flicker of remorse in the Consort’s eyes.

“I’m giving you one last chance,” the Consort said. “Say it’s a farce and be spared.”

Saraya would rather go to her grave in truth than be forced to live and tell a single lie.

"I refuse."

She continued to walk, head held high.

*****

Unable to speak with words, flying became the silent language of the dragons. The roar of the wind rushing over scales, the buoyant lilt of salty coastal drafts versus the tickling icy fingers of what flowed around the highest mountaintops. Subtle variances distinct only to their ears. An ancient collection of dialects that had existed since the dawn of time yet had never been taught. Mother did not pass this knowledge down to child. Much like a fledgling’s first weeks of life, comfortable in its nest but soon overtaken by a white-hot instinct, burning and effervescent in their blood, screaming for them to take the ultimate leap of faith.

The magic of flight was unteachable.

Low-Dweller attempts all ended in failure. Their clunky machines stabbed and sliced and swatted at the sky, crafted with stiff edges where forgiving curves should have been.

They never realized flight was part dance, part ritual. An extension of the spirit. The endless shouting over scrolls scrawled with symbols proved useless in producing anything close to what nature had already perfected.

The dragons did not know why they were chosen to bear this gift.

A marriage of fire and sky. A power so petrifying the creatures of land trembled just from the sight of their shadow. Even flocking birds would scatter by the thousands in their presence, splitting away to yield to their passage.

Ryados did not bother with the Low-Dwellers. They were at most nuisance, rarely a threat. Only once did she have to unleash the dangerous half of the matrimony. The rage and fury burning in their bellies as flame.

She had good reason. To protect her youngest son from attack.

Ryados thanked her ancestors that all nine of her children had made it past the mating age. Despite living amongst the isolated snow-capped peaks of the Corymbrian Mountains, it was still expected to lose a few offspring. The Dragols of the South were subjected to worse. In-fighting much more prevalent along the tributaries feeding into the Capital.

But now the nest was empty.

Roughly half of her children were rearing little ones of their own. Some close by on neighboring mountains, others joining Dragols in distant lands across the continent. But her youngest son chose to Fuse with a Low-Dweller prince. Being a mother, she didn’t sleep quite as soundly, but nonetheless respected his choice. Fusion benefitted both parties. The Low-Dwellers harnessed the power of fire while gaining the freedom of flight. The dragons acquired a repertoire of Low-Dweller knowledge. A rich understanding of their language, customs, and motivations. Once Fusion occurred, two minds and two hearts became one, tethered by an invisible bond broken only in death.

No force was more destructive than a Fused Pair.

Ryados had witnessed it herself. As the matriarch of the Corymbrian Dragol, she rarely left the mountains, but on occasion journeyed to the southern skies around the Capital to keep a watchful eye on her youngest son, Siseru. She would circle high above in the stratosphere, tracing the thin membrane where blue sky met the black of space, far enough so that her son’s nervous system couldn’t register the beating rhythm of her wings, but still within reach if she needed to intervene.

A small army fell to the wrath of Siseru and the Low-Dweller prince, allowing King Ryinthar’s forces to push north. A successful addition to the South’s perpetual encroach into the impregnable desert center of the continent, Santaré. Ryados knew the city as the ancient home of the Low-Dwellers who were native to this land.

Ryados shrugged aside the thoughts of the Low-Dwellers. What mattered most was that her son was safe, and she was halfway home. Soaring this high, she could see the gradual curvature of the planet, the shimmering sea lapping against the black jagged line of the western coast, and beneath her, the thick fog eddying around the treetops of the Garsä Forest dappled in soft violet moonlight.

I don’t remember the violet ever being this rich of a hue, she thought.

She felt a sudden tug at her heartline, the nerve running from her neck to the center of her chest. Then came a peculiar shift in gravity. Something that only those bound to the earth should have felt. A quick glance revealed the planet’s three moons in perfect alignment. From largest to smallest; white, red, and blue. But behind the strong celestial pull, a faint sound arose. Riding along the rushing air with ease, it trickled into Ryados’ psyche, speaking in the silent language of the dragons. High-pitched and intermittent, the sound conveyed no meaning. Yet its cadence reminded her soul of the Low-Dweller’s music. A lonely ballad, a song so full of sorrow it caused tears to slip from the corners of her eye slits.

You are mine, a voice whispered.

Ryados dove headfirst, plunging from the heavens into free fall.

I am yours, she replied instinctively.

Wings pressed tightly against her side, Ryados plummeted at a blistering speed, spanning thousands of feet in seconds. To a Low-Dweller’s wandering eyes, she appeared as a slender mass of shadow falling vertically from the sky, red scales silhouetted by the profuse violet glow of moonlight.

Ryados had never felt such a powerful pulling at her spirit. The fire in her belly seemed to rise up in her chest, igniting the ends of her heartline with joy.

You are mine, the voice whispered wordlessly.

I am yours, replied Ryados.

This exchange repeated endlessly, each utterance amplifying the unknown source’s gravity.

You are mine.

I am yours.

You are mine.

I am yours.

The treetops of the Garsä Forest suddenly reared up to their full size. Ryados spread her wings to level out into a glide. Beneath the swirling violet fog, Low-Dwellers appeared as tiny glimmering jewels; the dragons were able to sense their body heat even from miles above. There weren’t many around these parts. The most wretched creatures called the Garsä Forest home. It was a gloomy place filled with dark magic older than the most ancient mountains of Lurascae. Its worn and winding paths beckoned to exiles wishing to hide or the wayward traveler brave enough to attempt the risky shortcut to the North.

Ryados ignored the scarce glimmering jewels on the forest floor because her gut knew she hadn’t yet found what drew her here—

It’s so beautiful, she thought as she saw it.

A ball of light as bright as the sun. Its rays poked holes through the dense fog, shining like a beacon in a sea of violet. Ryados fanned her wings out to their broadest, each forceful flap stirring up a vortex of dirt, leaves, and mist as she landed.

Before her sat a youngling Low-Dweller.

A gleaming pair of red-brown eyes stared up at her, curious yet oddly expectant. A smile emerged on her round face made of smooth and supple brown skin. The dark ringlet curls resting against the child’s neckline swayed gently in the night breeze.

Teetering onto their feet, the child stood.

You are mine, boomed the voice with resounding clarity.

I am yours, Ryados said, ducking her head to allow the youngling to crawl up its long neck.

She felt her spirit drift outward and mingle with the child’s, beginning a playful dance at the periphery of her being, invisible fibers of the soul twisting and winding until they became woven together as one.

As the two spirits Fused, Ryados received a dizzying flash of memories and realized the child righting itself on her back was a girl.

No, Ryados thought. It’s not possible.

We are the first, the girl replied.

Overcome with a flood of emotions from her Fused half, Ryados began to cry. She now understood the meaning of the high-pitched sound, and why the song it formed was filled with such terrible sorrow.

The girl’s spirit nudged her own and said:

There’s not much time.

She caught the girl gazing wistfully at the aligned moons.

Ryados felt motivation tug at their heartline, and the Fused Pair took flight. They pierced through the highest clouds, leaving ripples of violet in their wake. Beneath them, for a brief moment, the pulse of Lurascae held still. All the critters of the land instinctively raised their heads, pausing to bear witness to this majestic passage.

*****

Saraya intended to face them with dignity. Let all those present see a bit of the woman they remembered. The one who kept an open door to neighbors, was even tempered, and looked people in the eye when she spoke.

She made sure to do that now, too, as the Southern Keeper pushed her toward the makeshift gallows, and she caught first sight of the crowd. A sea of people spanned farther than the eye could see. Some men hocked spit at the ground in front of her feet, rattling off curses in between sloshing glugs of potent desert wine, straight from the bottle. Many elders pressed their pointer fingers and thumbs together to form a narrow triangle, holding it against their hearts, offering her protection with the Sacred Prayer.

They don’t understand, her mind prodded. They never had, and they never would until they see what she has seen. Saraya still couldn’t fully comprehend the why.

If the vision God gave me wasn’t true, why did he tell me to abandon my daughter?

Her foot hitting the first step drew her back to the present.

The thirteen stone steps to the top of the rickety gallows seemed to shrink as she scaled them. Each subsequent raise of her leg felt heavier, as if the muscles themselves could sense the impending doom. She became acutely aware of her breath and realized these were the last minutes with air in her lungs.

As Saraya reached the platform, her eyes drifted to the noose dangling from the wooden beam. Flanking it was the executioner who stared stoically, watching her approach. Unconsciously, she must have slowed. The Keeper nudged her forward.

This is it, she thought, and her heart began to thud percussively against her rib cage.

The executioner pulled a looking glass from the breast pocket of his fashionable robe. Saraya hated the colorless Capital garb. He peered up at the three moons, sliding the glass around to measure their positions. He turned to face the line of Southern Elite that sat at the far side of the crowd and gave the Prince’s Consort a solemn nod.

“Perfect alignment for the next two minutes.”

Saraya felt a hand on the small of her back push her to where she stood beneath the noose. The executioner reached up, took a portion of the rope in each hand, and guided the opening to rest around her neck. He walked around, pulling at the knot to ensure it was snug against her chin.

In her peripheral, she saw the Prince’s Consort stand. His Southern counterparts gave a kneeling bow, and the hoots and heckles and hollers of the crowd faded into an unsettling hush.

“Saraya Vos of Santaré, do you have any final words?”

The faith she had been stockpiling these past two years reached its apex; it bubbled up in her chest and threatened to burst at the seams of her spirit.

Through misty eyes, she spoke:

“To Vasalya, my only daughter. I love you more than anything. I will see you soon.”

She winced as she heard the muted cries of her friends and family in the crowd. They knew better than to shout; it would earn them a brutal flogging. Saraya awaited each passing moment with dread, wondering which breath would be her last.

The executioner pushed her off the platform.

Her stomach dropped for a split second as she fell, and the entirety of her weight caught at her neck with a loud snap. The coarse fibers of the thick rope tightened as she swung to and fro, cinching the arteries in her neck, slowly crushing her windpipe. She could feel the pressure building in the tiny capillaries of her eyes. Her lungs flexed inwards as they became starved of oxygen, heart racing at an unbearable pace.

In the face of the physical pain, Saraya’s body began to break. Her mind grew fuzzy. Breath slowed to a pitiful rasp. But then, a blissful calm began permeating through her. An enveloping warmth that stemmed from the tiny ember of hope she’d long kept burning. She imagined herself standing beneath a starry desert sky, steadily adding to its flame not with kindling, but with the enduring belief that had possessed her since the night of the vision.

A final thought flittered through her failing mind:

My daughter is coming home.

In the empty void of the in-between, she heard a faint beating rhythm. It grew louder until it became an incessant thumping in her ears. Then, blackness morphed into bright white. A searing heat engulfed her; it singed her skin with a burning tickle. Screams erupted all around. The noose snapped, and she fell to the ground. Saraya coughed violently, rubbing her neck where the rope had been and choking from the thickening smoke. Her vision slowly faded in as blood returned to her head. A loud crash came as a wooden beam fell in front of her, its charred ends looking like a burnt toothpick. She glanced at where the gallows had been and saw all that remained was a blurry flame crawling up the dangling end of the rope.

Her breath hitched.

This was how the vision began.

As her eyes fully adjusted, she saw a river of flame arc over her. Agonizing cries came from the Southern Elites as they swatted futilely at their burning skin. The Prince’s Consort had not yet run. He gazed in awe at the scene before him, mouth agape, pale gray eyes flickering with a tawny shimmer.

Good, she thought. He will bring news to the Capital of what he witnessed tonight.

A smile tugged at her lips as she felt the waking world merge with the dream. Saraya began a careful traipse between fire and flame, delicately taking one step after the other, having never felt a stronger connection to the bloodstained earth beneath her bare feet, to the place her people had called home for thousands of Cycles. Gasps peppered the crowd as she neared the behemoth dragon, whose red scales shone brilliantly like the light of the second moon.

As the dragon met her gaze, Saraya burst into tears.

The soul behind those eyes recognized her.

The dragon planted its feet firmly, claws digging into dirt, and lowered its head until its mighty jaw rested on the ground.

From atop the scaled ridges, Vasalya crawled down the dragon’s neck.

“My baby!” cried Saraya.

The moment the crowd saw it was her who had been on the dragon’s back, they began to fall to their knees in prayer. Like the toppling of dominoes, the rings expanded outward, a rippling wave that formed a vast ocean of desert people, until the only two left standing were Saraya and Vasalya.

Vasalya gestured by raising her arms. Saraya scooped her up and rested her against her hip.

“I knew you would come back.”

She nestled her curly hair against the crook of her mother’s neck.

“How?”

“I saw it in a dream.”

Vasalya’s eyes were more red than brown now, glowing with the knowledge of dual consciousness.

“Tell them,” she murmured.

Saraya nodded and turned to face the crowd. A fiery determination burned behind her spirit. The prophecy that she had almost died for had come to fruition.

“All hail Princess Vasalya!”

One by one, each person stood, raising their fists, and shouting to the heavens.

“All hail Princess Vasalya!”

“All hail Princess Vasalya!”

“All hail Princess Vasalya!”

The joyful chanting echoed far into the desert night, until it became nothing more than a whisper on the winds of fate.

They would take back this stolen land.

All of Lurascae was rightfully theirs.