Dear Heart

There weren’t always dragons in the valley, at least not ones apart from the paintings and tributes that decorated every wall and building of Sylvie’s beloved village.

In fact, this place didn’t even used to be a valley. This area, formerly known as The Flats, consisted of miles and miles of unobstructed meadow views. Grass seas with speckles of colorful wildflowers that imitated the way the sun glistened on somewhat tame sea. All of it seemed to breath with the breeze, beckoning any onlookers to drown in its forever horizon.

At least that’s what Sylvie’s grandmother told her. There were no trees or bushes, just rolling hills with varying grasses and varieties of flowers. It was straight from a little girl’s imagination. And boy was it hard for her to imagine the steep rocky walls of the valley any different.

Her entire life had consisted of the warm embrace of her comfortable home. It seemed there was not one rock, one tree, or even one blade of grass that Sylvie did not know. The valley was as familiar to her as the maps of her hands. The meadows like the small hairs that graced her knuckles, the alternating surface of the valley walls no different from her curving fingers. Boney from the lack of harvest the past year and cracked from the beating sun. This valley was home.

It never changed even as years aged Sylvie into the twelve-year-old standing today. She supposed any place was familiar if that’s all you’ve seen and nothing else. She supposed it was believable that the valley looked different, just like her from baby to now pre-teen. But still, how could it go from green sea to deep valley?

“Grana, how is any of this possible?” Sylvie questioned, looking up from her familiar hands.

“Well dear heart, for that to be answered one must go back to the beginning. To The Flats. To when dragons were the only things protruding from ground and kissing heaven.”

…

The ground never stopped from trembling. There were always dragons moving about. Immensely big creatures with towering necks and bouldering feet.

With every step they created indentations into the Earth where water could pool. Any time they would find their heads growing weary and in need of rest their huffs and puffs would erode the earth into tiny pieces. Creating seas of rippling sand and expanses so flat the horizon didn’t seem to end. The air of their wings pollinating every inch of rich soil and creating a world so beautiful one would struggle to imagine it.

The dragons were all peaceful creatures. Created by the Gods to be the architects of Earth. Their sole purpose to shape and mold this floating rock into a piece of art. Worthy of something.

Of someone.

They loved doing their life’s work. Creating land formations simply by being. Their existence pivotal to the survival of Earth. But with every great creation there is a great threat. It was not what was in the sky or space that threatened them, but what lied beneath.

One fateful day, a crack appeared in the crust of the Earth. From this crack spued lava so hot it burned any dragon in its path to ash. Leaving seas of black sand. All the water abiding dragons used all their resources of water to try to battle this lava but all it created was flooding and pockets of molten liquid that would soon harden to boulders.

For days on end dragons flew their wings to the point of utter exhaustion, trying to both avoid flame and suffocate the path of it. This was known as the 7 Day Destruction. It wiped out almost all life.

Only four dragons remained. One of water, one of rock, one of air, and one of root. The rock dragon, Ockniam, the largest. And the water dragon, Manyala the smallest. They worked effortlessly to try to stop this encroachment of lava. To stop the jaws of flame from engulfing everything they had spent their whole existence working for.

It was not until the 7th day when they found slow peace in their fate. They could see the glowing on the horizon and had nothing left to restore their energy. They had reached the end, they had witnessed the destruction of everything they found themselves attached to, and all they had left was time. And even that was a fuse on fire. Ticking away with every hungry breath.

Ockniam looked around to his fellow dragons. He could see tears rush from Manyala’s eyes. Could hear the sighs of defeat from Wintida, the air dragon. And could understand how Knythian spread roots from his wings into the ground, creating vines that outstretched. It seemed that Kynthian was the only one who found calm in the end of things.

This left Ockniam to feel stuck between a hard place and a rock. And then it hit him. Stuck. Rock. Between.

The sun began to shine through a small part of the smoke clouds that covered all of life. Ockniam knew that out of all he had created on this Earth that this would become the moment where it would become everlasting. He, being the largest of the four, spread his wings and encouraged the group to huddle by the vines and root-center Kynthian had created. Manyala encouraged her own tears to dry and found her way to one of Kynthian’s wings, Wintida collected herself and followed suit.

Ockniam circled his long body around all of his companions. Encircling the large puddle of water from Manyala’s tears, creating a funnel for the sighs Wintida had created and embraced the roots of Kynthian’s grounded goodbyes. He had created a giant scaled fortress around what was left of all the Gods’ servants.

The last of the dragons.

They all made eye contact with Ockniam, and in his gaze they understand their final act of service. They bowed in recognition.

As the lava sea crashed into the scales of Ockniams body it came up in a giant wave. Manyala shot every bit of water she had left to combat the wall of lava. Wintida used her last breathes to reinforce this wall and encourage the water to lower in temperature. Finally, Kynthian used every root he had in his power to reinforce the wall, weaving a trellis of strength within the efforts of his companions. Roots penetrated flesh, through scale and scarred courage, reinforcing the now charring body of Ockniam.

With their final power, their final will, they created a small part of land. Untouched by the lava. By destruction.

A dying place for the last of the dragons to carry out a deed without reward or recognition. A beginning of a new form of servant to the Gods. With their sacrifice, scaly formations were protruded from the Earth, roots dug deep enough to instill lasting life, and a body of water to cultivate this life.

From their sacrifice a valley was born. A second chance for something. For someone.

…

“So no, dear heart, there weren’t always dragons in the valley--”

Sylvie’s eyes shined up at Grana. She could not seem to soak up enough of this legendary time.

“--Not because they are myth or legend, but because they are the very backbone of its creation. There weren’t always dragons in this valley, Sylvie, because they were the very souls that created it. Who inspire our depictions of heroism and sacrificial existence.”

With this, Sylvie’s understanding expanded. The lake she played in as a kid was the pooled tears from Manyala, the wind that constantly blew and circulated all the seeds and pollination of the valley were the everlasting sighs of Wintida, the rocky walls that always kept her safe were the actual scales and bones of Ockniam, and the large tree that sent roots to every other living tree within the valley were the lasting goodbyes of Kynthian.

This valley was filled with life and sacrifice beyond recognition. And somehow, when Sylvie looked out to the stone walls of her beloved home, a home she thought she couldn’t seem to get to know better, did she finally see it for something bigger. Something even more beautiful than she could imagine.

“Grana, I had no idea!” she shot up, beginning to bob up and down with excitement. Spreading her arms like the wings of Wintida. Circling her grandmother as if to imitate the heroics of Ockniam, she danced around the room.

“Alright, alright—” Grana giggled. “It’s past your bedtime, and your mother would have me drown in Manyala’s tears if she knew I kept you up this late. Let’s say goodnight.”

“Goodnight Grana…” Sylvie smiled, her mind already wondering to her sleepy imagination.

“Goodnight, dear heart, love be with you…”

“Love be with you…” She returned, muffled and slurred by a yawn. The heaviness of sleep washing over her.

Sylvie dreamed of the 7 Day Destruction. Of the dragons and their sacrifice, and the evil lava that began their creation’s downfall. Her dream flew her over ruin and over the great valley. Her dream flew her around the entirety of Earth’s scorched land, all the way to the crack. The rift that began it all.

She floated above it. Its darkness eerie and the ground around it burned beyond repair. It was mesmerizing to her. So much absence of life. But as she stared at it longer, she started to notice a bright orange glowing. So brilliant she could feel the heat radiating from it. It rose from the rift faster and faster with every lingering moment. She tried to move away from it. To fly back to the valley, but she could not move. It grew closer and closer. Brighter and brighter till it was almost blinding. She reached out to cover her eyes but was met with a burning pain from her fingertips to her elbow. She screamed.

A voice echoed in her mind. Away Sylvie. Away!

Then a jolt and her eyes were open. But instead of the calm darkness of her room she was greeted by bright, hot spuing of lava. The shock overtook her and distracted her from the fact that her arm had been burned from laying carelessly off the side of the bed.

She screamed again. And again. Her mother on her trying to wake her and avoid the jaws of heat that poured in from every available crack of Sylvie’s room.

“Awake Sylvie! Awake! We must get away!” she roared.

Sylvie jumped out of her mother’s grasp and they both ran from her room and out of their home. Avoiding drips and pooling of hot liquid at every corner.

Screams echoed across the town, across the valley. There was bright orange lava seeping from every crack in the valley walls. They were surrounded by hot destruction.

How could this be happening?

Sylvie’s beautiful valley, her home, was being engulfed. Just like the dragons, burning with every inch of molten liquid. Turning to ash and scars. Her hand beckoned for attention, practically screaming for her to notice the shooting pain that ate at her arm and into her body. But she was frozen. Her mother stopped in her tracks, as well. Both taking in this, although bright, absence of light. This growing absence of life. This hell.

“Grana. Ma, where is Grana?”

Her mother just looked at her with tears in her eyes.

No. This is all happening too fast. It was just a story. None of it was real. This isn’t happening.

She closed her eyes and let the tears sting as they begged to be set free. She refused to look. She refused to recognize the reality that burned before her. She thought she was brave. But brave wasn’t the courage she needed enough to face death. To stare into its eyes and welcome it. No, she wasn’t brave. She was stubborn. And stubbornness would be her only comfort in the end. She would not open her eyes.

She wished she could drown out the screams, the cries and she wished for nothing but cold water to wash this nightmare away. The thought of coolness drenching the heat and keeping it at bay. She let herself notice the breeze.

The thought of Wintida’s sigh was a comfort. She focused on that image, let the idea of her wings flapping become a reality in her head. Let the gusts of winds cool her. She sighed in response. A tiny sliver of peace.

But then the flapping got louder in her mind. The gusts became stronger, and she couldn’t help but open her eyes in response to her powerful imagination. A trembling sent her and her mother to the ground. Their peace, her imagination, disrupted.

As Sylvie looked up from her fallen position, she could only see scales. Deep brown scales that looked much like the textured floor of her grandmother’s room. A texture that always puzzled her. Her eyes adjusted out, leaving the details in the smoke.

It was then that Sylvie realized that those gusts of winds and flapping sounds were not her imagination at all but a real-life dragon. Standing merely feet in front of her. Her mouth dropped.

This definitely can’t be happening.

And for what felt like slow eternity faded away with a familiar voice. A hand outstretched to her.

“Sylvie! Get your mother and get on! We are getting out of here!” Her grandmother urged her. A smile appearing on Grana’s face as Sylvie took everything in.

“There weren’t always dragons in this valley, dear heart…”

And with that, Sylvie grabbed hold of her mother, climbed up next to Grana and flew out of destruction on the wings of what was more than a legend, more than the foundation of her home, but now the beginning of something.

Of someone.