Dolores of Alasia

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Multiple clans arrived three months ago on a gray day with low clouds – their brilliant colors slashing through the gloom to land in the field nearby.

The clans had come to pay respects to my father, silent and pale in the wood boat coffin, so different from the intensely charismatic man he had been as the leader of our people. The last call for an alliance between men and dragons had ended twenty years ago, so our newest generation, including myself, had never seen one in person. I wanted to fall to my knees and thank them for remembering Baba, but everyone knew overt displays of emotions insulted dragons. I remained straight-backed, gracious, but slightly distant – all the markings of a well brought up Alasian leader. I was my father’s heir apparent.

The ten days of funeral festivities commenced after Baba was set down our river and a well-placed fire arrow set his boat ablaze. He would travel down the river until he reached the Ocean of Sorrow and then to the Great Beyond. Everyone who was of age drank themselves sick making tributes to my father. The fire pit outside the meeting hall never died down as freshly prepped animals continuously rotated on spits until they became crispy brown and devoured with bare hands. The dragons had their fair share of our goats, pigs, and cattle, but often it wasn’t enough for all of them so hunting parties went out at night and came back with mouthfuls of dead deer, wolves, and bears.

On the fifth day, the sky opened up and the gloomy weather was replaced by sun and sweet wind. People became more raucous and a few tested out racy jokes to their listeners. By the end of the fifth day, it seemed as if I was the only one that was still grieving, still raw from the absence of my father. It was to be expected, but it was still difficult to see and feel.

The sixth day’s dawn called me to walk down one of our quiet herb paths, usually occupied by our elders gathering cooking and healing plants. The sharp tang of fragrant leaves made me breathe in deeper as I walked through the soft dirt, wet from morning dew. My shoulders hunched down for the first time in days. I gave in to the sadness.

Do not be afraid of emotions, Baba used to say when I told him I was frozen by what I felt. You are meant to feel afraid. You are meant to feel anxious. You are meant to feel happy, angry, or sad. However, there is a difference between feeling and acknowledging and being controlled by them. You have to push through. The answer comes at the end of the emotions.

What was at the end of grief, I wondered to myself. Acceptance? The ability to remember someone without crying? Right now it was too fresh, too opaque. There were no answers for me yet.

The loud thud of wingtips and claws landing on earth vibrated through my body, startling me out of my thoughts. I wiped my face and looked toward the noise. There were three dragon heads visible over the rise of the herb path. They were communicating furiously, but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. How had I missed their low flying? The audible flaps of their large wings?

“Is everything all right?” I called out to make myself known. As I approached, I recognized one of the dragons as the leader of the Scarlet Kings. She was a good three meters longer and 20 kilograms heavier than her counterparts. Her red scales were richer, seemingly velvety in texture, but to mistakenly touch one of her jagged scales would mean losing a hand against the serrated edge.

“Lady Dolores,” said one of the Scarlet Kings. The leader, Evaine, turned her head and the look in her eyes made me stop.

“Is everything all right?” I asked again. No one answered as Evaine continued to stare at me. The other two dragons looked away. I looked down at what Evaine was holding in her left claw.

It was a young man.