The Catalyst For Fire

Chapter One:

There weren’t always dragons in the valley. Plush verdant fields, billowy, weeping trees, and rickety rocks; this was my home. Amata.

One day, suddenly and quite sure, it was done. Even now, I can’t comprehend it fully.

My story begins some time ago, five years to be precise. In a quaint, albeit charming cottage, my ma and I were sharing breakfast; tart jam on burnt toast and too sweet tea; I was not quite adept with cooking.

“We’ll go to the village, today, I think,” ma had said, her voice contemplative.

“Why?” I’d replied.

I chewed, grimacing.

“I have more paintings to sell.” She took a sip from her tea, slurping rather annoyingly.

“Already?”

“Yes.”

“Well, alright.”

Her spoon clinked her tea. Clink, clink, clink! I sighed.

“Do you love it?” I’d asked, to break the quiet.

“Love what, art?”

“Art, yes.”

She hummed, for a moment. “Not quite. I like it well enough, though.”

There was a stilt of silence. “Do you think I’d make a good artist?” I’d questioned her, uncharacteristically sincere.

She’d laughed, then. “No. I do not,” more softly, she’d said, “but I will teach you, if you’d like.”

I don’t know why I remember this, but I do. I must agree; I’d have made a terrible artist.

I would scarcely complain about such things (going to the village, that is). There was a boy, you see, and he lived there, to the north of Barma Village. Only sixteen, I thought I loved him. Certainly, I did not. He was handsome, I suppose; brown disheveled hair, amiable green eyes, and a witty grin, and he waved to me here and there. It was a crush, only, though. A thing of youth. He is dead now, and so it does not matter. I should know; I killed him. But that is for latter, I digress.

I’d put on my best dress, a threadbare, modest and blue piece. I liked the way it looked against my pale, rosy-cheeked, and freckled skin, and red mane of hair.

“Let’s go!” exclaimed ma, impatiently.

…

The walk to the village was a forgettable thing, at first. We walked the grassy path with other villagers. To and fro, a variety of flowers tickled my calves gently, swayed by frequent gusts of wind.

Ma spoke with the other mothers and fathers, (my father died when I was a little girl, and so, I recall, I was frequently jealous of the other girls and their father’s), and I spoke with a girl, my friend really. Her name was Royse. We are better friends now, though begrudgingly. We bicker often, but she is my family, and I love her, still.

Royse, back then, was pudgy and relentlessly cheery. Her mother too. They shared startlingly large blue eyes and a penchant for hair ribbons. Royse was fiddling with her ribbon, I remember. Her plump fingers toying with the silk.

She is not so pudgy now, but rather gaunt and sickly looking, a result of the famine, I know. Still, she is cheery, and I envy this. I have never been this way, prone to relentless malcontent, instead.

Again, I digress.

Here, it happens. Quite sure, it was done.

“Oh,” my mother had said. “Oh!”

“What is it?” I said, spinning sharply to face her.

Her face paled, “Up.”

Rapidly, all fell apart. The cries started; shrieks of abject horror. A terrible gust of wind, beating heavy as my heart. The sky, darkening above, menacingly and cruel. And there they were, the dragons. There weren’t always dragons in the valley.

“Ma!” I’d cried, grasping her palm, my fingers quivering.

Grande and beautiful, parting the clouds, dragons soared above. Beautiful, yes, but frightening too. I can’t explain it. It should not be so, but it is. Even now, after all is said and done, I do not deny their beauty; it would only be a lie.

“Run,” my ma had said, and because I am selfish, I always have been, I did. I did not stop for Royse, nor my mother. I ran.

My mother did not run. She stood, watching those creatures, with a resigned glaze to her eyes. There is a story there, but I did not know it yet. I know it now, though, and I will never forgive her for it.

My legs were achy, my breaths panting, but I ran ceaselessly, without heed.

…

That day, my mother died. Royse’s did too, but she saved Royse, hiding her beneath bramble and such. I thank her for this. I would be alone, if it were not for Royse, and alone is a terrible thing to be.

Most of my village died that day, as a matter of fact. I mourned them, long ago. Now, I feel little for it. Is that so terrible or natural, really? I ponder this, often.

What might I have been, if not for the dragons? I do not know, I am who I am, though, and perhaps that is all that matters.

My name is Raea of Amata, but I am known as Raea, killer of micha. Micha, it is not a word for dragon, as you might think. For many years, I was, Raea killer of dragons. For my mother, I was.

But now? You see, micha, it means all, and so I am known as Raea killer of all. It’s not so bad as it may seem. I promise you, in time, you will understand. Perhaps you may not forgive, but you will understand.

Let it begin, once more.

Authors note: Unfamiliar words and phrases were created for the purposes of this story.

Creators note: The song I have attached, I believe, suits this scene's purpose well. The song is not my own credit or work, and so the credits may be found attached to the video.