Blood over Sun

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Nor was the quiet ever so profound. No one knew how they came to be there or why their reaching serpentine shoots craved blood over sun.

At night, the dissonance of gentle whispers and pleading whimpers from those who have strayed too close thickens the air, creature and human alike. When the night becomes still and the sun hides its miserable face, the power of the moon gives them life. At the edges of your eyeline, they twist into a tableau, knowing the best way to draw you close and lull you into their eternal embrace; a child reaching with gnarled hands, begging you to extend your arms, scoop them up and hold them close - what were you doing that was important enough to allow them to slip out of sight and away from the safety of the yard? You could hold them again if only you turned your eyes. The child shivers, only to rearrange into the one you loved, whispering for you to come to them, your skin warms, craving the fix of their touch, their breath on your neck... They went to look and, even knowing the fate of those that risked the dragons, turned their eyes to bring back your child; they were brave and you a coward. Why must the coward live in their constant state of purgatory, unable to give themselves to the thickets, too scared to do anything at all? You always walk on. You must always walk on.

Do not falter. Do not hesitate. Do not turn, for their warmth, their fire will lull you to stillness as they slither around you, thrust inside you and tear every last moment of you apart to suckle at your nectar - no spill wasted as it bleeds into the ground, nourishing their roots. Their coils are bioluminescent, leaping like embers into the sky after being ripped from the warmth of the fire. They are goading you to look, even just for a moment, drawing beautiful patterns, like fireflies dancing across the black. Some choose now to walk past the Valley blinkered like horses, no longer free to see the world in its entirety.

You cannot even touch. One brush will light you aflame and no matter how far you run or how deep the hole you cower in, you will burst alight, brilliant with your own life force, each droplet consumed by greedy little thistles; another beautiful little dragon to join the thunder. Their wriggling arms crawl across the earth like maggots feeding upon a carcass. They stretch for you, but are stumped by the earth's hold. Always allow enough distance for they creep further than you think. Everyone keeps clear now, mostly, but you know the animals and fools continue to spread it further and it is no longer contained to the Valley.

During the day, they lay still, empty, innocent, silent. You walk through the dull parasites, sleeping like old oaks standing guard for hundreds of years. They are haggard and grotesque, hiding beneath their thickened outer layers, but you can feel them humming beneath, twitching... waiting.

You search every inch whilst the sun shines, but you do not find what you are looking for. They hide their secrets well and you remain powerless. You hack at them and they emit an orchestra of screams, then refortify; every hack you take elicits thrice the vines to cover the wound. You burn them, but they crawl around themselves and smother the flame, engulfing the fire and doubling in strength and reach the following night.

You cannot fight them, you must stand clear and get as far away as you can. But, you cannot leave because you believe that one day your loved ones will return to you. You cannot leave this burden to others and risk it spreading past your small corner of the world.

Each touch, a dragon. Every look, a dragon.