Ashes of Dragons

There weren't always dragons in the valley. Like dark clouds carried on an angry wind, they came, with gigantic wings, stretching across the sky; so thin, you could see the intricate veins spread across their leaf-like wings like a spider’s web. These winged beasts followed the invaders, feeding on the dead.

I lick a droplet from my parched lips, which dripped from a solitary leaf of a barren tree beneath which I lay dying, a broken arrow lodged in my side. Bodies are scattered all around me, some still burning, others already reduced to ashes that dragons are inhaling. Their eyes glow as the ghostly cinder enters their noses.The smell of charred flesh hangs in the air, mixing with the stench of rotting corpses.

A dragon sits, staring at me, waiting for my death so it can turn me to ash.

The dragons appeared when the great war began. Their arrival over the battlefields sent soldiers fleeing in terror. Soon, we realized that these creatures had no interest in the living, only the dead. For years, my homeland, nestled between the small mountains to the south and the high mountains to the north, was peaceful and prosperous. The people and the land were plentiful, a beautiful place now in ruins, villages and farmlands on fire, and many people homeless and starving.

I linger at the doorway of death, refusing to take the last step, going in and out of consciousness many times. I've seen the sun set and the sunrise so far. Whenever I open my eyes, the winged reptile sits closer. Centuries of lines etched into its ashen, leathery skin. It cracks and flakes like dying tree bark. Around its neck, however, is a ring of dark gray scales. Perhaps once, its entire body was covered in scales. In our folklore, they are known as sorrow wraiths. We thought they were a myth, stories told to impish children.

In the midst of great tragedy, they shall appear, consuming victims of violence and anguish that have perished. With their wraith-fire, they turned corpses to cinder then inhaled their ashes.

I am motionless. My eyes pause in the distance, watching clouds gather over the northern highlands. Saffron flashes illuminate the mountain tops, then a distant rumble. The grey reptile snorts a smothering puff of air in my face. It burns my lungs, and a ragged cough inflames my side with pain.

The creature looks at me, its head crooked to the side. Its annoyance at my slow death flares on its face. Yes. I am still alive.

The dragons follow the savage march of our enemy, the Death Breed, a foreign invader from an unknown land. They care nothing for life. Their religion is death.The Death Breed destroyed many kingdoms in Noralund, leaving a path of death and destruction leading to my homeland. The dragons follow their carnage, feeding on the dead. Every battle I fought, they circled above as the invaders slaughtered us. Our army had never faced a foe such as the Death Breed, who welcomes death so gladly.

My eyes are heavy, a slow death weighing them shut. I force them open again and see the dragon sitting closer still. Its amber pupils dance with yellow and orange hues. It just sits there, waiting for my last breath. Instead, all it sees is defiance. Each breath I draw feels like an accomplishment.

The Death Breed revere these creatures and believe it is a sign of divine providence whenever dragons appear in combat.

For the Death Breed, dragons represent a conduit for the departed to cross over to the other side.

I believe these creatures don’t care about my soul. They are like carrion birds, a function of nature, drawn to the battlefields simply to feed off of death, and the Death Breed offer them an endless feast.

The dragon sits up, yawns, its two rows of jagged teeth stained yellow and brown. This creature is built for murder. What twisted God created such a creature that doesn’t hunt?

As the dragon stretches, its wings tremble, like fabric hung to dry, fluttering in the breeze.

The sound pulls up harsh memories.

I stand amid the clothing hanging on a line, admiring the yellow and white dress that my sister wore to her first firelight festival two cycles ago. I would’ve worn it to my first festival, but then the soldiers arrived at our farm that day.

Now I’m in a caged wagon, huddling with my sister beside other wailing children, our two cows following close behind. For the war effort, they say.

Our soldiers started dying off quickly, so the army enlisted boys, but they died much faster in battle, so they went to villages and farms, grabbing anyone able to swing a sword, including children barely weaned from their mother’s tits, old men, women, and starving peasants barely able to swing a sword. I see my mother being carted off with other parents in the opposite direction, hoping her eyes would meet mine. Instead, with tears streaming down her face, she focuses on my father, who is upright, leaning limp on a soldier’s spear wedged in his chest. I suppose killing a man trying to protect his family was also for the war effort.

My memories drift to the camp where we were taken. My sister and a few of the older girls are being led away. I, on the other hand, is shoved into a line with other villagers.

One by one, they hand us weapons. The last weapon is placed in my hands a rusting sword, loose at the hilt.

As I walk away, I smell the familiar stench of his breath before I recognize his voice. Gralen, a man from my village, demands he be given a weapon. He complains to the weapons master that a man of his pedigree should at least be given a chance to die with some dignity.

The soldier considers Gralen's complaint for a second, then shifts his gaze, searching. He marches over to a pile of firewood and then grabs a stick.

With three quick slashes of his sword, the soldier whittles the end down to a point and tosses the sharpened stick to Gralen.

“There,” the soldier said. “Now you can die with some dignity.”

The soldier’s words seem to echo in Gralen’s head, as he looks down at the sharpened stick in his hand.

The people around him, many from our village, laugh, enjoying the cruel respite from their cruel faith.

Dignity was something Gralen would never have again, not now that he had been made a fool of in front of many of the villagers he looked down on.

Anger and shame boil in his eyes. With a surge of energy, Gralen charges toward the soldier, screaming, holding the stick high above his head.

The soldier easily sidesteps him, and with a flick of his wrist, sends the man sprawling into the mud.

People laugh even harder.

In my village, Gralen was someone of importance, a big fish in a small pond unaware of the ocean. But here, in the ocean, he is like the rest of us, a nobody.

So, he did what any small man of importance does: prey on the week. He grabs my sword as he shoves me to the ground, leaving me with the stick.

A memory of my first battle. I see Gralen take a sword through his spine as he tries to flee. He lays there gasping for air as life slowly ebbs away from him; knowing that death had come not from battle but from cowardice. In spite of everything, relief seem to wash over him as darkness claims him forever; and, I think for the first time, I saw the real Gralen.

The memories turn harsher. The first man to die at the end of my stick that day did so without so much as a grunt of pain or protest, but with a smile, and then it was over.

A life taken by my own hands just as easily as if I were plucking an apple from a tree branch.

I keep stabbing at anything close in the chaos of battle.

The memories come faster, crashing against my mind.

People are screaming and running around; swords clashing against each other; armor ringing like bells in the air; horses neighing and stomping on bodies as they run by; so much blood, noise, and madness.

The sound of the dragon’s gurgling pulls me from my memories and back to the business of dying.

Even though it’s been eight days, the bitter memories feel so distant, like from another time, another world, as if I’m witnessing someone else’s life.

It’s an odd feeling, looking back and not recognizing myself.

The military claimed it is our duty as citizens to defend our country, but the invaders didn’t come to conquer, they came to destroy.

For some reason, I survived two battles with my sharp stick, but my faith, like many in this now forsaken land, is upon me. Now here I am, dying against a tree.

This last battle was to slow the invaders’ march towards the capital, or at the very least, kill enough of them. I doubt we did both. The only thing we did well was die.

The dragon regard me for a moment, then turns and walks away. Perhaps it thinks I’m being too unreasonable in denying it my death. There were other battlefields, other people dying of misery and violence. It probably thought I was not worth the boredom.

“Dying too slowly?” A weak cough accompanied my question.

The monstrous beast stops, turns, and faces me again, its eyes digging into my soul. It gives me what I think is a scowl. So, there are thoughts behind those savage eyes. I’m not sure.

I don’t know what compelled me to tease the beast. Maybe I am also bored with my slow death. Maybe I don’t want to die alone. I want someone, something, anything, to be with me while I pass beyond the veil.

Or is it that I’m tired of the shadow of my sister and mother haunting me?

I hold to this reality, hoping to see them again.

‘It's a fool's hope,’ I tell myself. Yet, it kept me alive through two battles.

It’s possible, they are beyond the veil already waiting for me. I know my father is. His deep dimpled face, like my sister, is waiting there.

It comforts me thinking I we see them again.

A stale breeze ruffles the dry leaves around me. I smile at the dragon, then, gathering up the last of my strength, I pull the arrow out. The warmth of my life oozes down my side.

A part of me still wants to fight for a few more breaths. Yet, I resign myself to my faith and begin falling out of consciousness. I am done. This world is just one big shit hole, and everyone takes a shit in it, and they walk around wretched and confused in the stench.

It’s unquestionable that my death is of no great importance, and although I may never understand everything about this wretched life or what comes after, one thing remains certain: my love for my family never ends.

As I drift away, memories collide against my dying mind in waves.

First comes the memory of my father bracing against a soldier’s spear, his dark skin going pale as life drains from him.

Then a memory of my mother bathing in the evening sun, her earthy complexion and rope-thick honey-colored locks set ablaze by the waning light. She smiles at me with ocean eyes, so deep they drown me in their depths.

Another memory, this one of my sister, a crafted measure of beauty. From across the dinner table, she winks at me. All her features seem deliberate, as if my parents took all of their redeeming qualities and used them to create her. And then there is me—not quite so beautiful or graceful; something unfinished that would never be completed.

I grow cold and then numb to the stillness of the world. I fall into the quiet of the abyss. I see no father, no mother, no sister. A darkness falls upon me in the darkness.

Then, a spark of light in the blackness. It is calling to me, no, singing to me. I am scared, but its sweet melodious siren lulls me to ease. I go towards the light. It grows larger, then slowly, the light surrounds me. Like a gentle stream, I float in its warmth, going back, as if I’m a candle being unblown. As I blink back into the realm of wretched stench, I see the dragon before me turning into ash.

My name is Weriem. From the ashes of a dragon, I was death born.