Resurgence

There weren’t always Dragons in the Valley. They usually resided on the mountain peaks, favouring the cooler air. During the winter however, when the mountain tops screamed and cracked under the relentlessly growing spears of ice that sought their heart, the Dragons would migrate down to the Valley. Those that wished for children would mate in the Valley’s soft Autumn grasses and after their pilgrimage back to the top of the world, would return the next year to give birth. They claimed that children born in winter were stronger and more capable of the harsh existence atop the mountains. The more poetic of them claimed that the views from the peaks, of the world disappearing at the horizon to hide behind nothing but distance and air, forced their people to consider the brevity of their existence, and how they chose to use it. I was perhaps too young at the time to fully understand the implications of that sentiment.

Most people from my village were terrified of the Dragons. They were scared of their size, their appearance, and their supposedly brutish nature. I found, however, that none of these things were detriments, or indeed even true. I spent almost all of the winter months of my life amongst them. They let me learn their customs, their language, lifestyle, and legends, and were nothing if not patient and generous. Nothing in my experience of them made me the least bit wary. Perhaps there is an argument to be made regarding my early exposure to them, a leniency that stems from familiarity. I would argue that I have been around the people of my village even more, and yet see in many of them the traits they decry in the Dragons. I will admit, on reflection, that there was one instance in which I understood the fears of my people, though the fear was short-lived and the experience developed within me an immutable respect for the Dragons.

This experience I owe to my mother. Indeed, I owe the entirety of my relations with the Dragons to her. She was a shepherd, the only one in the village, and would seek the Valley grasses during the winters as the thermal springs below ground kept them lush, whilst all other vegetation perished. The intensity of her love, the passion with which she embraced kindness, not only made her a phenomenal shepherd, but an incredible mother. It is also, I believe, what endeared her to the formidable mountain tribe. The winter of her sixteenth year, her desire to look after her flock overcame her fear of the Dragons, instilled in her from birth by a village that rebuffed their attempts to become familiar. Refusing to watch the flock suffer in a particularly harsh winter, she secreted them out into the Valley to feed upon the grasses. She tried to remain far from the Dragons, but their curiosity brought them to her. She spent all of that winter in their camp, and reluctantly bid them farewell as the spring melt began.

I honestly don’t remember when I first started interacting with the Dragons, truthfully it was probably as soon as I was born. My earliest memories consist mostly of feelings, scents, and disjointed imagery. The comforting creak of my lamb leather crib, rocking on the back of a ewe. The soft, earthy notes of lanolin smeared on my lips to stop them chaffing. Gentle eyes, like red marble set against the mesmerising swirling of the long grass in a cold breeze. My first solid memory of them however was what I later discovered to be a religious ceremony; the same experience that helped me understand the fear my people felt for theirs. It was a blessing ritual, performed on the midwinter full moon of a Dragon child’s fifth year – Zayrah.

On this particular year only myself, and a single Dragon child, already twice my size, would undergo the ritual. Zayrah is devised to ground one with the earth, to create an intimate understanding between the child and the Mother of All. We each stood before the Ancient, the leader of the tribe, who had just come forth from their tent. They had spent the past week in meditation, communing with the Mother’s spirit, seeking her guidance and power. The Ancient stood eight and a half feet tall, a deerskin draped around their hips their only clothing, covering thick skin tinged slightly blue. Dreadlocks, woven with shards of volcanic glass gathered on arduous pilgrimages, charred wood from sacred groves long lost, and small runes carved from polished animal bone, swayed with the Ancient’s movement, and brushed their lower back. They chanted solemnly in a deep bass, and slowly raised their arms toward the sky. Great strands of muscle rippled underneath their skin and made the iridescent shield-shaped stone embedded in the centre of their chest dance in the light of the great bonfire. The reflected light sprayed lurid colours across the gathered crowd and was outperformed only by the vivid blue light that shone from the Ancient’s eyes as they snapped open at the climax of the chant.

Zayrah was performed in four parts, designed to remind the child of their connection to the earth, and ensure they never took its gifts for granted. First, we stripped naked and lay either side of the great fire in the centre of the camp. The grass beneath our skin was soft and kind, though the air was biting. The Ancient first attended to the Dragon child, and while I could hear splashing and a sharp intake of breath, I was not allowed to see what was happening. I tried to peek to the side, though the enormous fire blocked my view. Soon the Ancient came and knelt beside my head, the enormous fang that hung around their neck swayed like a pendulum above me. Their glowing eyes were a seamless, vivid blue that gave them the illusion of tunnels deep into another place. They hurt to look at.

“The Mother speaks to you, Child. Through the Water and its journeys. Through the Winds and their strength. Through the Earth and its succour. Through the Fire and its dance. Do you hear Her?” They lent forward over me, staring deep into my eyes, and despite the pain of that gaze I could not look away. Then, like an illusion becoming clear, a form arose deep inside that infinite blue. It seemed to lie there, far within, curled upon itself. A huge central mass that stretched in either direction in a graceful taper that twisted back around to embrace itself. The shape pulsed. I knew that it was the source of the blue light and yet was entirely part of it, discernible only by its will.

“I do” the words slipped past my lips with neither thought nor intention.

The Ancient smiled.

“The Water is always in motion. It may pool, it may permeate, it may stagnate, but always it moves on. The Mother sends us water so that we may learn its journey. Always move, always grow. We may split off, but we will always return to the greater pool of our kind.” The Ancient was barely whispering, their words for my ears alone, yet to me they seemed to be shouted and reverberated within my chest.

The Ancient raised a crystal decanter full of water. The dimpled crystal glittered in the firelight with a strange slickness, and no discernible way to open it.

“The Water knows when it must change.” They intoned, grasping the long neck of the sealed crystal near its tip.

“The pool of stagnant water steams in the sun, leaving behind that which pollutes it, to rise free into the sky. The Water knows when it must change.”

Strong hands twisted and the decanter cracked clean through the neck with the ricochet sound of a frozen pond breaking. The sound of ice.

“The Water knows when it must regroup, and seek solace in the clouds of its kind. The Water gathers and grows until it is ready and returns to the earth with violent passion, smashing itself on the rocks with the ecstasy of rebirth.”

The Ancient raised the decanter of ice, its square base tapered to a pyramidal point, ending in the broken cylindrical spout, now poised above my head.

“The Water knows when it is time to become something new, to grow as the times demand. The Water hardens into ice, yet still it can flow to carve out new paths. Always the ice grows in size, prepared for the tasks at hand.”

The Ancient tipped the decanter forward as their eyes pulsed brightly, and frigid water spilled over my face. The water instantly froze as it struck my skin, forming a mask that grew and thickened. Just before panic had set it, it melted, ran down my cheeks, and rose as steam into the depths of the night.

“The first ice of every winter is gathered, before we descend from the mountains, and is stored thus.” The Ancient intoned, indicating the rapidly melting decanter.

“The Mother provides the pure Water to wash us free of our impurity, and our self-devotion. The Mother speaks to you.”

“I hear Her” and I did. It wasn’t a voice, no murmur or whisper passed through my mind, instead a slow and steady rhythm just loud enough to notice, rose and fell inside me like unnaturally long breaths.

The Ancient’s smile had grown as my eyes widened. They rose to their full height, reaching down to help me up.

The Dragon child appeared beside me, looked into my eyes and grasped my hand. I smiled back, squeezed their hand, and united we turned to look at the Ancient whose gaze moved approvingly between us.

“The Wind is always strong. It may bend around obstacles, but it seeks any crack in that which stands before it, and with time will force it open. The Mother sends us Wind so that we may learn its strength. Through it, we are reminded to be flexible and to learn to move as one.” The Ancient walked toward us, their voice carrying into the night.

“The Wind knows that it must continue. No obstacle outlasts it. No space avoids it.”

The Ancient knelt before us, blue gaze pinning us to the ground from above.

“The Wind rests when needed. It knows that strength must be used sparingly. It caresses the trees, and dances through the grass. It watches, and waits.”

The Ancient reached out a hand to each of us, the backs of their black nails, thick and pointed, caressed a cheek.

“The Wind hides. It knows the strength in planning. It knows there is no shame in biding time.”

The Ancient’s hands closed tightly over our mouths, palms sealed lips and nostrils.

Caught unaware, we made to grasp their wrists and free ourselves, but some force rendered us immobile.

There was no sudden reprieve this time, and panic set in fully. Eyes wide, my chest spasmed seeking to draw the air into itself. The rhythmic sound of immense breathing, now ever just at the cusp of hearing, grew steadily louder in my mind.

“The Wind” The Ancient intoned as my lungs slowed their beating to match the rhythm that I heard “waits.”

The Dragon child beside me had stopped trembling, their eyes slack, body relaxed.

Lost in my panic, I focused on the breathing in my mind.

It was slow.

Soft.

Comforting.

I lost myself to it.

My eyes drooped, my muscles stopped straining. The darkness that had been closing around my vision paused.

The breathing grew louder.

The darkness retreated.

The Ancient released us, but neither of us inhaled - the rhythm in my mind was breathing out.

The Ancient smiled.

The rhythm breathed in.

The Wind filled my lungs like sunlight in a darkened room, washing over the walls and ceiling and filling the space with a tangible warmth. It tasted sweet.

“The Mother provides us wind, so that we may breathe her strength. With every breath, know that She fills you. With every exhale, long for her embrace.”

My eyes opened slowly, fixed on blue tinged grass, and rose slowly up the figure before me. Hard legs ran with sweat that gleamed in the firelight, deerskin swayed in the breeze. Large hands, fingers ending in claws, were relaxed at their side, sweat running down to them from the forearms which bore long, straight scars, raised and dark. Veins pulsed beneath taught skin, running along biceps and across shoulders, to the powerful embrace of the heart. The face was welcoming, a smile playing across the lips and creases running up towards cheekbones, each adorned with a thin blue scar that shone, inch long, just below the eyes. These however, blazed. The gaze was so strong it illuminated the grass beneath me, and seemed to pin me to the ground while drawing me deeper into the infinite blue tunnels. The brightness no longer hurt to look at.

I breathed deeply, and each breath felt twice as large as ever before, taken in time with the almost silent rhythm deep within. I looked at the Dragon child and saw that we breathed in time.

The Ancient stepped forward once more, and gestured to the ground.

The Dragon child and I sat heavily, legs crossed, the cold air no longer uncomfortable on our skin. The earth was slightly warm beneath us, and the stars tried to outdo the full moon for beauty.

“The Earth never moves. We may rise far into the sky, may fall back in exhaustion, but the Earth always remains. It may shift its skin to suits its needs, to yield to the Water or Wind, but always it persists. Always it lays ready to welcome and support us.”

The Ancient knelt before us, and passed the braided leather necklace they wore over their head. The great, curved fang that it held was attached byway of a shimmering ring of obsidian that circled its base. The leather had been braided through a hole drilled in the stone, though how the fang was attached in turn, I could not tell.

“The Earth provides succour for all the lives of the Mother. Grasses, grains, fruits, fungi, all are born of the Earth. In turn, from worms to Dragons, every life She bears feasts upon the Earth.”

The Ancient drove the fang deep into the ground, drew it back toward themself and carved a hole in the rich loam. Strong fingers softly moved the soil, back and forth, like a child playing with water. They raised their hands, one full of soil, the other full of fang.

“Deep within the Earth we may seek the embrace of the Mother. The Earth opens itself to us, through caves and caverns, so that we may find the dark places where nothing else goes. The Earth provides us safety so we may commune with the Mother and heal. The Earth houses the Mother, deep within its heart, and in the deep places, alone in the dark, inside the Earth, we heal.”

Two Dragons stepped up from behind us and knelt down. Enormous legs squeezed us from either side, drove our knees together, and held us in place. Scarred arms, intent but kind, reached forwards to grasp our wrists and rotate them outwards so that our arms were extended, forearms exposed.

The Ancient was suddenly before us, head close between our ears.

“Inside, the Earth heals.”

The fang pierced my skin.

I had no time to cry out, no sound escaped. There was pain, immense and vivid, but my rhythmic breathing did not change, and with each exhalation the pain receded. I looked down upon my rent flesh, both arms open to the night. Muscles moved involuntarily and flashed white bone.

The Dragon child beside me closed their eyes, head tilted toward the sky, resigned to their fate. Afterwards, they smiled up at the Ancient, who had the fang once more on their chest, dripping.

The Ancient returned to me, and in their eyes, I saw again the shape that hid deep within, pulsing the same colour as their gaze. I watched intently, breath steady and pain a memory, as one tapered end rose and swung toward me. Firm hands pressed down upon my wounds, grinding dark, moist Earth deep into the gashes. The Ancient did not break eye contact as they encased my forearms in bandages of dirt.

The shape watched.

When the Dragon child’s wounds had been similarly dressed, the two adults behind us stepped away into the night, watching once more. The Ancient sat down before us and placed a hand each upon our knee.

“The Mother provides us Earth, so that we may find rest. The Mother provides us Earth, so that we may feast and be strong. The Mother provides us Earth, so that we may heal and be whole. Seek the Earth in your exhaustion. Seek the Mother, in your pain.”

Pain.

It flared, screaming into existence as it raced up from my wrists, shattering bones, and tore into my heart. My back arched in time with the Dragon child, and we roared into the sky.

The pain faded much more slowly than it had arrived, but each breath, deep and slow, carried some away into the gently pulsing rhythm in my mind. I wanted to focus on that rhythm, but instead found myself focused on the pain.

Deep, writhing, hot, it flickered through muscle fibres and ricocheted off nerves. It sought every part of me, and found it, and every part of me that it touched responded. There, within those responses, I found Her. The pain was just sensation, wound up a thousand times and pushed through a space too small for it. It spoke to the parts of me that nothing outside could touch, and with every response of my body, I learnt more about it, about parts that otherwise never entered my mind. Each part was my whole.

Each part was the Mother.

“Seek the Mother in your pain, and She shall find you.”

The Earth fell away from our arms and the dark, raised scars that adorned all Dragons marked our clean skin, proclaimed our kinship.

My fingers sought the ridges that were now a part of me, tender, soft, and yet entirely healed. My gaze met that of the Ancient, or rather the gaze of the shape within them. It filled almost the entirety of each pulsing blue portal in their head, as if the shape inside was staring out at me intently, trying to see me more clearly. I stared back at it, eyes unwavering and I could almost believe I saw features marking the shape in the exact same shade.

“The Mother” The Ancient’s voice cut through my reverie “gives us Flame so that we may be protected. The Flame provides us peace as we watch its swaying dance. The Flame provides us warmth, to survive the heart of the Void. The Flame provides meditation, as we hear its crackling voice. The Flame provides a weapon, that only we control.”

The Ancient moved to stare deeply into the enormous bonfire that raged not far from us, taking something from the pouch sewed into the side of their deer skin.

“The Flame speaks to us of the warmth of the Mother, her persistent love and protection. It shows us her beauty, when the night would diminish it, and reminds us to seek her in the warmth of our hearts.”

Firelight reflected in multicoloured rays off the things the Ancient tossed, gleaming as they tumbled through the chill air into the flames at the edge of the fire.

“The Flame speaks to us of the wrath of the Mother, her unrelenting justice and determination. It shows us her fury for those who bring evil, and reminds us to live in the warmth of the light.”

The Ancient stared unblinkingly at the things they had tossed into the fire, which rose and fell like waves of varying colours, around the two objects. The Ancient’s eyes pulsed with an energy I had not yet seen, and light that moved like smoke streamed from them to touch the objects that shone in the flames.

“The Flame is the Mother incarnate. It brings warmth when warmth is needed, and wards when harm is near. It provides us solace in the depths of solitude, and it helps us fight fear. It spears through the sky and night to light our path, and strikes at the heart of the enemy before us, and always it resides within us, waiting for our call. Know that the Flame is your friend.”

The smoke-light of the Ancient’s eyes pulsed like lightning that sought the earth, and from the depth of the flames two small shield-shaped stones rose, glowing white-hot, to hover in the air.

“The Mother wrought this world out of Water, Wind, and Earth, but She bound it together through Flame. She sits within the heart of this world, the Flame of her soul burning within to provide the warmth that exists in all things. We perform our pilgrimage to the mountain peaks so that we may remember the cold of the Void, and reflect upon the gifts of the Mother. Without the Mother there would be nothing. Without her Flame, we would not be.”

The two stones cooled from white as they twisted in the frigid air, the corona of light they emitted dimmed and their shield-like shape became clearer. They glowed mostly white, but no longer from heat, with pools of iridescent blues, pinks, and greens breaking through. Their lurid colours shot out from their centres and fell on the watching crowd, speckles of blue and pink catching on eyes and teeth. The stones moved through the air toward us, as the Ancient turned away from the flames, and as I watched, transfixed by their beauty, my eyes found a third shield shape - the one the Ancient wore embedded in their chest.

“The Mother gave us Flame so that we may be protected, so that we always remember the warmth of life, and so that we may be guided through the darkness to live in light.”

The smoke-light that emanated from the Ancient’s eyes pulsed with the sound of their voice. Their words reverberated through the night, the grass swayed before them as if in a strong wind, and the ground trembled in time with them as they ricocheted around my chest.

The air around the stones warped with heat as they came to hover before us, mine descended from the Dragon child’s to hover at the height of my sternum.

“Through the Flame, the Mother gives you this gift. As the Mother bound this world together, so too shall you bind yourself to the Mother. Through Flame and blood, bind yourself to, and become, Dragon.”

I almost stepped back.

I don’t recall what stopped me, whether it was the eyes of the Dragon child that burned into the side of my face, or the feeling that the shape inside the eyes of the Ancient was waiting for me to run. Whatever it was, I am forever grateful that it did.

I stepped forward.

The Dragon child smiled and, hand in hand, we strode into the waiting embrace of the shields.

I could feel it bind to my chest. I’d prepared the roar of pain and, admittedly, fear that never burst forth. There was no pain, no fear once it touched. There was only a flash from the eyes of the Ancient, a tingling, bubbling feeling where the shield had touched my flesh, a trickle of blood that rose around its edge, and finally, the shape.

It rose out of the Ancient’s eyes like a drawing peeled from a page. Vivid blue light, fine cuts through the surface of reality into a glowing world beyond, gave the shape its form in the night as it pried itself out of the Ancient. The tapered end that had been pressed up against their eyes, as if to a window, slithered out first – deep-set eyes over a long snout that ended in flaring nostrils. Immense fangs lined the jaw, three rows deep in a head that connected to a powerful, limber neck. The shape shot forward, four legs ending in claws that mirrored the teeth, connected to a streamlined, powerful body covered in shield-shaped scales, that tapered off again into a tail that ended in a wicked barb. The shape split in two, propelled on wings as large as its body, and streamed into the stones in both of our chests.

The Ancient fell heavily to their knees, eyes milky-white and dull.

“As of this moment,” they said, in a voice barely more than a whisper “you are raised in the Heart of the Mother of All. With her Water, She guides your life’s journey. With her Wind, She strengthens your breath. With her Earth, She supports and heals you. With her Flame, She has marked you worthy.”

A great cheer went up through the ranks gathered around us, and several people rushed forward to check on the Ancient.

The Dragon child charged me as we shouted our joy, their powerful arms picked me up and crushed me against their chest. As they did so, our new brands collided and chimed an ethereal ringing that split the night, a flash of vivid blue light arching between us.

Screaming.

That was the first thing I remember after the flash.

It was the sound of a fear so intense that it fills your heart with a suffocating, molten dread, irrespective of your involvement with the cause for fear.

Dazed, I sat up at the edge of a shallow crater and watched uncomprehendingly as enormous beings tried in vain to reach into the fire. Their screams tore at something deeper inside me – they were out of rhythm with the breathing. Something was deeply wrong.

I stood, walking forward slowly, and stopped just shy of the flames. I could feel their heat but it was lazy, like a spring breeze before summer had truly decided to try. I hadn’t considered what I was doing, but something was pulling me forward, and I knew it was what had to be done.

I stepped into the flames.

The screaming grew louder, now tinged with confusion, and the flames seemed to beat the adult Dragons away. They could not reach us.

The Dragon child was sitting up, dazed, in the middle of the fire, a hand pressed to their forehead. They looked up at me, and comprehension dawned as fear across their features. They finished sitting, seemed to realise they weren’t burning, and slowly their fear was replaced with confusion.

I sat down in front of them.

Around us, the Flame danced, and it sang to me of calm, of peace, and of promise.

“I hear Her” I said to the Dragon child, whose eyes had gone wide.

“I see Her” they whispered, as their eyes tracked something I could not perceive.

Sat there, wreathed in flame, we felt a new awareness of each other form. Much like the breath of the Mother had taken form in the back of our minds, we slowly became familiar with the mind of the other. Feelings, senses, impressions.

I’m not sure how long passed, but the screaming had died away.

I reached out to the Dragon child and took their hand.

“Come. They’re scared.”

We strode together, out of the flames, the stones in our chests rippling with heat and casting their strange lights upon the startled faces before us. The Ancient who had been sitting with their back to the flames spun suddenly around, milky-white eyes boring into mine

“We’re ok!” I cried out into that awful stillness, hoping to fill it with more than the fear that I could taste.

Relief soared through the assembly, cries of joy and shock ran through the crowd, but still, something seemed wrong. Something new.

“What did you see?” The Ancient’s voice tore through the night.

I stared into the Ancient’s eyes. They looked concerned, confused.

“Nothing.” I said.

The eyes relaxed slightly.

“I heard Her.”

The Ancient twitched as though stung by a whip.

“And you, child?”

The Dragon child shook their head gravely “I saw her, Ancient.”

The old Dragon shook their head and sat heavily on the ground.

“There was, once, a legend, almost a myth, passed down the oral history of the Ancients. It claimed that the Mother would one day call upon our race to help guide her own. It is said they once roamed this earth as we do, but that they were lost to the dark. Part of the legend states that ‘out of the ashes and fire, on the night of Zayrah, the two shall become one. Of the blood and of the blood shall they be. Wings and tail shall adorn their flesh, and at the closing of the world they shall play their part.’”

The Ancient stood up, and walked toward us, placing a hand each on our shoulders and turned us to face the fire, backs to the crowd.

Behind us, the gathered Dragons gasped and broke into astounded muttering.

“It has been said they are the only words ever spoken by the Mother herself, though there was much more that has been lost to time, eons past. The words speak of the end of times, when the Mother… when the Mother dies.” The muttering grew louder, aggressive and confused.

“I cannot speak to the nature of the words, for I know not what they say, but there is one established fact believed by all the Ancients of all our peoples. If those words were to come true, and if such a thing could indeed happen, then it would happen at a specific time. Those words, ‘the closing of the world’ refer to a Zayrah moon… some three thousand years from now.”