Dragondy

There weren’t always dragons in the valley; they first came when it suited them and left when they pleased, what happened in between those moments of coming and going, no one really knows; there was no one around to see them.

Yet they were there.

In the dusty clutter of a forgotten attic, in a seaside cave gurgling with brine, in the hush before a storm sweeps in; these are the places where worlds overlap, where one aspect can creep into another, like a water droplet seeping through page after page of a book.

So yes, dragons came to the valley. They seeped in through the pages, and soared in the skies of a grassy, golden land. Then one day, through means of which no-one knows, they left, leaving only a cloud of disturbed dust in their wake .

Someone must have seen them, for how can they be known to have existed if eyes had not happened upon them?

But the truth about their presence can be gleaned from a feeling, or from the dust that slowly settled to the ground, or from people who survive all manner of hardships and unbelievable tortures, so to lead anyone to believe that they must be descended from dragons.

If you wish to crawl between the cracks in the words and focus patient ears upon this tale, carry not expectations of a joyful account. Carry at your side your curiosity and a will to delve in unknown lands and see this story to its end, and see for your own eyes if dragons ever truly left.

The walls of the cave were hard and unforgiving in the total darkness. The steam of four heaving, coughing chests made the air hang heavy and wet.

These four individuals, their bodies splayed across the uneven cave floor blinked into the black murk, adjusting their eyes to what little light shone through the small at the top of the debris pile into the cave.

Slowly, each pulled their limbs underneath and dragged themselves away from the large boulders of stone that sealed them in their dark crypt, which only moments before had shattered from their keep above the cave.

The inhabitants of the cave caught their breaths, relying on the pale light sliver that skimmed over the top the rubble to locate one another and alleviate any doubt that yes, one- two- three- four of them had made it into the mouth of the cave before the collapse.

The thin beam from the outside flickered like a flame about to go out, getting blocked by one or many beings that had started to crawl up through the rubble, accompanied by the clicking of claws on stone and gurgle of growls.

The four, who’s ears still rang from the boom of the collapsing cave, register this advance only too late and all light was suddenly extinguished. Pale fingers on clammy palms started pressing and prodding through any loose collection of stones and aggressively pulled away rocks from the top of the debris to gain entry.

“Move, move!” A mans voice hastily demanded as he felt the tickle of claws slashing at the top of his boots.

However, the individuals made little progress in the dark cramped quarters, bumping and scraping up against the unknown obstacles of the cave in a mad scramble. Every length gained in retreat was matched by the hands and arms pressing further through the gaps. The individuals could not see their attackers clearly but they could hear the deep squeals and smell their wet, sticky flesh that stunk like a putrid bog.

One of the four, with a quivering hand covered in pasty mix of dust and dried blood, stopped withdrawing and rubbed his fingers in quick succession along his thumb, producing a small blue flame that just kissed the tips of his fingers.

The cave was transformed with the ghostly blue illumination and the group gasped as the dozens of grasping grey arms swung like writhing tentacles in the crack between the roof and pile.

“Beat them back!” The woman at the end of the four screamed, grabbing a loose rock from the pile at her feet and ramming it mercilessly into the forearm then fingers of an invading appendage.

A horrid squeal in pain pierced the air like a metallic clash and the arm was pulled back outside.

The remaining three took up rocks and even pulled small blades stored in their belts out and stabbed at the fingers.

Each time a hand was yanked back, the individuals shoved any available stone into the gap where it had retreated.

The four worked with panicked cries driving their blows, for ages it seemed, as the individuals fought back the will of the creatures to gain entry into the cave.

Eventually, the arms diminished and the gap that once shed light into the cavern was nearly gone, packed with stones. As the last thin blade of the daylight disappeared by the insertion of a pointed shard, the only sound over the quick breaths of the four was the last attempts of scraping claws upon the rocks and the disgruntled clicking of the attackers as they dispersed.

The four slumped down into the walls and onto the floor, utterly exhausted.

The flame keeper, an older man, with a short, braided grey beard still balanced the delicate light source on his fingertips, which immersed the cave in blue and made the walls glimmer. He crumpled to the ground into the cradle of boulders, throwing his arm over a stone and letting his fingers curl inward like the legs of a dried spider, the flame weakening but staying lit.

The pack looked bloodied and beaten, covered with a thick layer of rubble dust and sweat. This uniform was their cohesion, an indication of the recent hardships they had endured together.

All wore the same dusted face and powered clothes that threw particles into the air as they shifted, all except one, who was distinct from the rest. The man on the end, who was curled onto his knees rested his arms and head upon the ground, his clothing dripping muddy droplets that pooled beneath him. His skin was slick with a mixture of sweat, dust and salt water, his damp cloths clung to every particle of dust making them heavy and dark with filth.

As the three others gasped into the damp air and sunk deeper into their seats amongst the rocks on the floor, this man hid his face in his arms. His crackling breaths were muffled at first, but could not be hidden as he rose his head from its place in his arm. He stared at the floor shivering as anguish crept up his throat and water filled his eyes.

The occupants of the cave could feel something had left the man in that moment; that which had kept him focused only a short time before, took flight and disappeared. Each turned from their own weary preoccupation and glance over at him in concern.

The flame keeper, who’s eyes had not left the man since they had all taken their spots upon the floor, could not help but have his eyes sting with the threat of tears as he watched.

“Septer, my boy” he whispered tentatively, “I’m so sorry, I don’t-

The one called Septer, pulled his head up, his tears halting abruptly. He turned to the flame-keeper, and stared back at him with a hardened face that pleaded for silence. The flame-keeper, who had no words prepared did not press, but only held his gaze until Septer’s turned away and faced downward again briefly before slowly struggling to his feet.

Septer felt at this moment most insect-like. Like a scaly, deplorable creature who had to hide in the darkened damp and escape from anyones sight as penalty. He felt a guilt that gutted him; he had been emptied, it had all been lost in the cold water.

Past the three who sat, past the flickering light, there was darkness waiting with open arms to accept even him.

The irregular boulders had blocked them in the dark but in the pale light he stepped easily amongst them to where the cavern narrowed, almost impassibly, and went down into darkness. This is where Septer walked, stepped down into the dark space and disappeared. None tried to stop him in his somber pursuit to be alone.

Darkness did not stop him from stumbling into the underground ravine. He had not made a sound on his journey here and could hardly remember, if he tried, how he managed to find this chamber without any aid from light.

Once Septer felt the cold of the stream, his feet halted his staggering gait and he let the water re-dampen his legs and a cold creep up his body; a familiar cold, a raw one that seared in his chest. His knees buckled and as if an invisible force had struck he plummeted onto his knees in the icy water.

He wailed, the first real cry he’d issued yet. He screamed and the sound hurt his ears as it echoes around him. He knew no one could hear him, he knew not where he was, but knew at least that he was deep where the others couldn’t find him.

He screamed again, and again, inflicting the pain onto his ears until the resonance of his voice in the cavern began to disappear as he deafened himself. He screamed again and this time a terrible pain erupted in his ear, collapsing him forward as his hand shot up to his head.

He groaned and gritted his teeth, rocking slowly as his ear began to ring and a hammering began to pulse in his head. He felt completely consumed, and blinked wide-eyed in shock at the pain he’d been able to cause himself. Part of him, a part that seemed to grow stronger since his pursuit of solitude, wanted more retribution. Part of him craved more and knew how to get it, so his hand slipped down to his fraying belt.

His hearing began to slowly return and he heard the murmuring of the water and the wheezing of his breath. He swallowed, wanting to scream again perhaps to burst his other ear, but then he stopped, the ringing had nearly subsided and the sounds of the water grew louder, more clear and articulate.

His heart skipped as he registered it was the murmur of a voice saying words over the gurgle of the stream.

He was so wrung of energy and care that he had not the spirit to be overly scared at this.

He paused to listen, but heard no one.

He rubbed his fingers against his thumb in quick succession and feeble light issued from his hand, brightening the underground hollow.

He slowly shuffled on his knees, panning the light across a damp grey cavern wall. The space, which was larger than he had initially thought, hung irregularly with small slick pale cones of dripping stone from the ceiling, reflected in miniature spires that formed on the floor. The chamber was long and slender, much like a great hall divided down the middle by a thin stream of water that continued out of reach of the flames light an into blackness beyond.

“Are you listening to me?” The familiar voice asked so clearly that fear returned to Septers chest.

He turned around sharply but nearly overlooked a figure, almost blended into the stone with the colour of his ragged clothing, sitting on a boulder.

The man wore a ragged, grey fraying shirt and matching pants that were torn unevenly above the ankle. His oily blond hair was drawn back into a loose braid that had forgotten a few strands hanging messily by his ears and eyes. His face was not shaven, but adorned a short light brown beard that roll-over a mouth forming a subtle smirk. His eyebrows were arched over eyes that were a startling green that nearly glowed in the light from Septers hand.

“Well I suppose you can hear me now?” The man chuckled and got up from his seat energetically.

Septer scrambled backwards in a panic, falling onto his side and stopping abruptly as his shoulder slammed again the opposite wall, all the while keeping the light on the man.

“Now now there’s no need for a mad dash, you know this. You seemingly got far more damning things to worry you Septer. My presence should not bother you so.”

Septer swallowed and tried to find words, but residual fear still held strong on his throat. The man, somewhat amused, started to pace slowly up and down the opposite side of the stream.

“Why-why are you hear Meleuve? I thought-

“Yes well we can sit here all day as you regale me with your opinions and what you think, but that will very likely be rather unhelpful”. He smirked again.“So why don’t I start talking, or rather questioning you?”

His voice cut the air, assertive with every word in a matter of fact manner that spoke to his intelligence, just as Septer remembered him.

Meleuve stopped pacing and placed his hands behind his back, “Rather than ask me what I’m doing in this dark cold stone cavern which, let’s not pretend this isn’t my normal habitation, let me instead ask you what you are doing here? So far from that warm sun you were so fond of”.

That question angered him; he knew it was rhetorical.

“Don’t you know?” He gritted his teeth.“Can’t you see all?”

“While I can guess, I instead asked you”.

Septer felt the heat of rage swell in his chest. His nostrils flared and he got to his feet, standing eye-to-eye with Meleuve across the water.

“Stop this! These stupid questions are meant to anger me. Why are you here? Are you even here? Am I…” Septer paused and asked sincerely, “have I gone mad?”

He knew that if anyone knew of one’s breaking point it would be Meleuve.

Meleuve only stared at him and shrugged.

“I don’t think so. But even if you have there are far worse things to see and do if you had gone round the bend, so to speak”

“So, you're actually here”? Septer asked, not knowing which answer he most feared.

Meleuve rolled his eyes and rocked back and fourth on the balls of his bare feet.

“Septer, you know that realities are subject to interpretation. There are things we don’t know for sure and things we may never find out, so let us work with what we do know. You’re here because you sought to be alone, and while that is understandable, what isn’t quite so… shall we say productive, is what you have grasped in your hand now”.

Septers brows furrowed and he glanced at his free hand which in fact was not unoccupied. His fingers grasped firmly onto the small handle-less blade, the sides of the bare metal made a home deep in his thumb and the meat of his fingers sending ribbons of scarlet the floor that looked purpling in the light.

Part of him remembered grasping for something on his belt, but he was still shocked to see the mess it had made.

Septer swallowed and chattered his teeth. That growing, dark part of him couldn't help but laugh.

“Do you have any suggestions then?” Septer began to chuckle manically. He pointed his bloody blade at Meleuve, “I don’t have any reason not to do something if that’s what I want! I am so t-”

His laughs turned to tears and he stumbled back and sat on the cave floor once more and covered his face in his hands, smearing blood upon his cheeks .

“I am so tired and I’ve tried, I’ve tried so hard!” He squeezed the blade tighter, making the stream from his fingers more ferocious. Meleuve just stood and turned his head downward, staring at the trickling water. After a few moments he lifted his head and said quietly, but still matter of factly, “you won’t find any relief if you cut yourself beyond aid, believe me regret does not leave with death, it just stews”.

Septer shook his head.

“I’m at the end, I can’t do it anymore!”

At this Meleuve scoffed and smiled.

“Oh please! If ever there was a man, proof of the bloodline of dragons it is you boy. Think about all of it, should such a tale end this way with a man loosing the last drops of his blood to his own hand, in the dark?”

Septer looked away, as Meleuve strode towards him through the water.

“You are wishing for an end to pain, which I understand likely best out of all living things. But no one really wants to die," he stopped in front of Septer and crouched down.

“Think about all of it, like a story from start to finish”.

Septer struggled with an urge to lash out at him with his blade; he didn’t want to listen, he wanted to be alone.

“Think of your story boy, who are you in it?”

Septer shook his head, staring blankly at the dark floor, but the thought had been planted. Some part of him in the dredges of his body that still clung on flickered with an incline to answer. Meleuve sat silent waiting for him as if he could see the question working through his mind.

Finally Septer whispered, “I’m a father.”

“What else”? Meleuve probed.

“I’m a- a Prince”.

“Good, but I feel your story isn’t so shallow as you might have some believe”, Meleuve stood up and gestured. “More, what else”?

Septer groaned annoyedly, “I’m a brother and a- a warrior”.

Meleuve smiled, “exactly, your words not mine boy.”

Septer sighed and glanced at his hand, the blade had nearly fallen from his flayed skin and dangled loosely, about to plummet. He looked back at Meleuve and saw him staring at it too.

Gently, his eyes sincere, Meleuve spoke.“The pen is in your hand, finish writing the story, just don’t do it in your own blood”.

Septer choked back a rising lumping his throat and shut his eyes, holding in tears.

Though strain had defined the relationship between the two men, he couldn’t stop Meleuve’s words from staining his mind like ink. He knew he would be gone when he opened his eyes again, so kept them closed.

“My story," he mused.

“What is my story?”