Above Desolation

There was no hope now. And no turning back. We had come all this way for nothing. A nothingness. My finger nails dig into my palms. If blood were to be drawn I would not find it surprising. But I would not care. Chargrind perched, wings splayed behind me, his copper scales luminescent in the dusk. The only friend I have left. They fought and lost. The battle had raged on for an age. To be the last living souls is an odd sensation. That sense of loss, but also of suspension. Detached. It has not yet sunk in.

Two warring sides had killed for so long they forgot what they were fighting for. Now, both parties had succeeded in achieving what they aimed for. Peace. Or some twisted meaning of it. Winning everything, losing all. Looking down at my hands, I have in fact drawn blood. But it is barely distinguishable from that of all the others. Blood on my hands. An overused metaphor for my own enjoyment, only the dragon to witness it alongside me. Surveying the stripped land below, maroon and black, all I can feel is repulsion. This self-manifested exile I will carry until my last breath. Pity no such moment will come.

It was certainly kinder, was it not, to let the doomed race perish as it had, only too eager to see to its own destruction? It had barely needed my encouragement. The vile cruelty and vicious nature of those who called themselves people who violated the earth, abused it, and suffocated it, ripping it apart. Not even their own were safe. It had ended in the only way it could. The wounds would heal and they would be forgotten. Only a fading ringing in my ears remains. The sudden quiet as loud as the last battle cry. My own breathing was perturbing as I held the last remnant that kept me here.

The locket was bronze, an ovaline heart shape, the elaborate decoration suggestive of its origins. The chain that carried it was thick and heavy. I would have willingly shackled myself to a mortal with that chain. It was irksome, to think I had almost fallen. Almost fallen like that locket as I drop it over the edge. It plummets down the cliff face. Once a symbol of connection, now only a reminder of what could have been if the hearts of mortals were not so easily corrupted. They had been great, but not so much so that they should remain with me, and not die like all others before. But I am finally glad for it.

There is a balance, that when disturbed, fights to be righted. And now it has been seen to. Now, all was free to move on. The cleansing over, the scent of death is pushed away from us by a caressing breeze, scented with fresh spring grasses. Chargrind breathes down my back and I reach to place a hand on his cheek, the texture of slate. All else has left this realm but we are very much alive.

Chargrind straightens, arching his plated neck as I press my back into his chest. Intense heat surrounds me, saturating my heart, it beats stronger and slower. Few have merged with dragon flesh and blood, to see from their eyes. They rule the skies but they are the bellows of this world, its very life force. Kilned from the coldest earth in the hottest of flame. And I do not, for one moment, regret. We launch into the pale air, well above the desolation. The wind rushes against our scales, skating beneath us and guiding us to light.

No hope for the doomed race. And no turning back for us.