The Death of Hubris: The Last Dragon.

1: When I arrived.

There weren’t always Dragons in the Valley.

Her voice buttery smooth, close, as if lips pressed and opened, elegantly, to form these beautiful words just beside my ear. In this deep, what they called, activating meditation, I did not feel the need to react. Postured straight, legs curled inwards, hands palming my knees, in a western native sit. My onyx locks naturally pulling my head back, the sun’s rays cast a reddish tint behind my eye lids. The shallow, barely noticeable hairs on my neck and uncovered arms stood at attention. This cavern wafted with fresh, salty winds. The sun was at its highest. I could feel the outside heat permeate through the volcanic, porous walls. Where she taught, The AshVase. It resembled a handmade clay vas with two gapes. One in its upper spout, the other on its side cradling the floor.

In.

She spoke as I continued deepening in her instructive mantra. Circling, I felt and heard her spiral around me. She favored circling the room, hands tied by each other behind her. She seems to look at everything but me. Every now and then, I would peak.

Out. Remember, your breath is the winds to your world as your body the tree that stretches to the sun for power. In.

“I am who I am supposed to be.” I spoke to myself between her remarks. A calming trick, something that brought me back to relaxation. Deeper and deeper I sank into nothingness.

-----|-----

I was born one with nature. An unruly child, like pastures of luscious green brush. Wildflowers like orange lilies and yellow dahlias. I was the rose amongst the bushels of evergreen stems, radish red petals and ivory thorns. Brown and rich like the soil. Hair of lamb’s wool knotted and dangling like laced snakes on the head of a medusa. I was planted, not birthed. Blossoming from the deep, within the core, a product of water. I sprouted.

Like a phoenix, I rose from the ashes of my ancestors. Carcass buried, hidden, disregarded. And I am only half, part of this story. My mission- to discover what is not, as I am what is.

Simply, I am not here as the answer. I am to find the real problem. The thing that is missing.

My mother whispered this to me as my father spoke with a congregation of big, shadow coated men that hummed a language I could not understand.

Zuwah my mother, holding me at the apex of our estates winding mud stairs. Me, my knees to my chest, in the pit of my mother’s native sit, only pointed as to not make noise.

It is the language of the ancient and the few. Your father and his father pass down the tongue from man to man.

Something struck me as odd as I realized I would never be allowed to inherit this ability. But, as an only child, who would he teach?

The years to come shown me that my ability was to be nubbed by my given genetics. As neither, I received both- at a price. I was to be limited. My mother never wanted that for me, but my father fought with her at every turn. It was years later, where I hovered at the apex of those same stairs and heard their exploding discussion for when I was to come to age, and what was to be bestowed to me.

My mother began.

“Oda is to be bestowed the entirety of our legacy as the sole air.”

“The elders have spoken, Otitja. It will not be given anymore, or any less. Is that not enough for you? Are you certain of this madness? Have you forgotten who they are?” His voice horse, weaving in and out of Zuwah. I have come to understand his accent. I wonder if my mother could understand too.

“You bring shame! Were you not once- “

“Silence!”

Moments passed, us three stuck in this exact time and space. No one moved, no one took a breath. My mothers’ hands out, her right pointing at my father’s chest where his pendant sat over his kafkan. She was stance for battle: one leg in front of the other. Her house gown waving in the cross winds. My fathers large dark hand grasping her finger after those moments, pushing her hand down. I became lightheaded and unconsciously sucked in a heavy inhale. Both of their rolled locks lagging behind their sharp head spin. I was suddenly on my feet, my feet slapping the floor until the last sound I made was the door slamming.

-----|-----

I left town that evening. A wondering Nefurobian. The castle walls seem so much smaller when you travel beyond them. That is what I initially remembered as the horse and buggy carried myself and a small staff away. In this mountain clearing, a plateau between peaks, as if dug out for the purpose of harboring our civilization. Through the trees was the only way to leave this mountain ranges divot. Traveling down hillside.

But how do I save something I am abandoning? The question lingered. Shook off its static feel that ran in my bones and over my skin.

I am who I am supposed to be. I am who I am supposed to be. I am who I am supposed to be.

The sun runs away twice a day. The blossoms of spring trees casted a shadow like spell. The canopy congested with fighting branches hogged us of illumination. Like clouds have taken over. And then patches allowed the scorching sun to drive me to sweat.

I rode with five others. Two drivers perched on the high seats of this creaky wooden vessel. They both held reins, both sported sun hats, both covered in exceptionally light brown silks from head to toe. Their faces blotching red through their sand complexion.

I remember remembering that it was growing increasingly dark. At first, when we broke through the tree lining, I became stung. Uncomfortable. Heavy and in pain. Instantly and unexpectedly nauseous but unable to express it as my ability to react faded. A pinch quickly skewered the extent of my exposed arm. I thought nothing of it as I clung to its throbbing sensation that quickly dissipated. I was more worried about not falling off this moving cart. Not losing my lunch on the cart. Not failing already. The pinch came again. It was one of the others trying to get my attention. He held a call gourd. I drank, the sweet water saturating my chin and collar. I felt fine moments after. Well, more than fine. And then, too fine.

I fell into a slow shutter like wobble after coming to. Drunken. Chaotically swaying from the change of terrain. The raggedy wheels now fighting crumbling rocks rather than smooth debris covered forest floor. No one bat an eye as I wiped the dried crust from my eyes and flaky drool from the corner of my lips and chin. My flat green silks becoming powdery at the sleeve. One of the other two travers held a gourd before me. My eyes adjusted wildly to the overbearing yellow-red glow of the second (I assume) setting sun of Nefur. And then, poof. Next sunrise. I appeared back on my bed. But, this time, something was not right.

I had left on the fourth with the newest rising moon. Now, as I jumped from my distraught bed in a panic, crashing into my dresser, shoving old dishes, and studying material from its surface, I read the daily chart (calendar). Two weeks have gone by.

I felt ill. The priestess said it would be a single day’s ride, then a day’s meditation, then a single day’s ride back. I was too eager to contest thins. I never even wondered why she understood, set up this travel and aided in my leaving. She told me, “Do not leave. Leaving does nothing but exhaust the soul. I will help you begin to find what you are meant to search for. You are not lost, but now you find yourself to lose your way, then you have arrived.”

The words jarring, I barely took them into consideration. I nodded at anything I needed to do. It was simple- pack for a day’s journey.

-----|-----

This is not right.

My mind’s first thought shot into my head loud and clear.

After a series of repressing head shakes, cross armed pacing, eye cutting glances around the room, the same thought circled. I plucked and searched for discrepancies. Nothing. It is like I never left.

“This isn’t right.”

My clothes were about, grudged up, dirty somehow. Clothes case partially breached and tattered; footwear placed back to their designated spot other than my favorite pair. A series of platters filling my nightstand. Books and notebooks open and about.

“What the hell.” I whispered as a series of feet a barge my sleeping quarters.

“Miss! You are finally awake!” Alice was always eager to see me. But not this eager. “We must ask you to take it easy from the next couple days. You know, ever since your travels involved near death and despair.”

“What?” Confusingly, slipping through my dropped jaw.

“Yes, miss your vessel hit a crushing mound, they said you have drunk sweet rose petals. An elders drink. You were returned, brought to the medic’s estate, was deemed ill with a scarlets fever. We sought it best to bring your back into your quarters on your final day. A serum was given to you for you to wake from your hyperbolic sleep. Oh!” She shouted after her long-winded speech. “How did you sleep? You have been incapacitated for nearly two thirds of the moon’s rotation.”

“I was only a sleep a couple hour- I think.” This made Alice comfort me. Making me feel as though I am the one who is misinformed. Like a child who was embarrassed in public, she opened her arms to embrace me tightly.

They are me; I am them.

The thought jumped, intruding from. Scattering my train of thought.

I was born to be free, a product of those who came before me. I am their wildest dream. The tree that-

“What’s that, love?” Alice flinched; her voice shaky as she replied. Surprised by the just barely understandable blabber. I must have let the whispers trickle out of my still surprised mouth by accident.

“No- nothing, Alice. I guess I am just- still tired.”

She released me only to grab my wrist. she guided me around the room, cleaning me up as she does on formal occasion. Speaking as an informer. Like she understood how much time I have lost and is trying to catch me up on things. I wondered heavily about her collectiveness.

They illuminated my path with golden torches, they showed me the way to be, to live my truth, purposefully.

I was hearing sentences in my head I have never said. Thing I had never put together. Arrangements of words I could not possibly conjure let alone say smoothly. She sat me down at my dresser, a towering mirror pinned to the wall just the wide of the short wardrobe. I stared motionless at myself, noticing her bobbing around the room. Crashing plates, folding clothes, closing drawers, and humming between sentences.

“What purpose?” The words snuck out again. I started feeling a bit embarrassed, slightly crazy and- not in my own control completely. The abrupt comment halted Alice’s cleaning.

“Excuse me?” Her head cocked into the vanity mirror that sits opposing me. Her bent posture, a horrid strain on her back muscles, stiff and still as she questions my soft outburst. Wheezing in the discomfort. Her dress fringe that wraps her shoulder being weighted down.

“Oh- nothing. I was just- what is today?”

She points her plump finger towards the calendar in front of me. XVIII.

“18th sweety.” Further outlining the date below my nose. Noticing my dirt filled fingernails, she begins to clean, cut then shave dust from them.

The blood that courses through my veins, red and hot, thicker than lava, creates new lands.

My Geema would teach me this trick. It is called symbolic time readings. More of a vitality awareness. Symbols carved lightly on an angle into the nails bed. First, trim the extents until the nail sits one with the fingertip. No protruding of white. I already figured the day to length cycle versus my nail growth. If I were lost for a month or so, my nails would obviously show the growth. If sick, the hues on the beds would signal me first. Pitching yellow and reds. But all in all, it would take about a week or two for the symbols I carve into my nail bed to regrow and dissipate. The symbols were only a couple days old.

I peered down and noticed four of the seven chakras on my right hand still visible. My spirit animal and the birth symbols of my parent’s tribe on my thumbs. I left (lucky) pinky and ring finger clean, as they are seen as the divine digits.

As Alice panicked to file down my nails, we both saw it. Her face frozen, supersonically trembling as she looked up at my down glare. But her hands did not stop until the symbols were gone or barely noticeable. She now, was stuck for words. A worrying smile crossing her face. She was out of distraction tactics.

I am strapped with the proper knowledge and experiences from my souls many reincarnations.

The voices will not stop. I had to shout past them. It only struck a rippling of anger as sat powerless in my green chair.

“Tell me what the hell is going on.” In a low, threatening, but terrified voice. Dry and unpleased. I pulled my hand away before she could finish. Noticing she has nowhere to go. If she were to stand, it would surely take her a second. I grabbed her hands, pushing my chair back, sifting myself and her on our feet.

I yearned for the file, opening wounds in my right hand. We danced backwards for a couple steps as I held the file from piercing her throat. She rose slowly. She swatted the sharp, sickle like item out of my hand. We tumbled backwards in a spin cycle of capture the weapon. Dropped and crawling on the floor. After disturbing the vanity, dismantling antiques, and trashing the cleanly dirty unpacked clothes, I lay besides her, exhausted, victorious at the other end of the room.

“I cannot. Miss,” She spoke, every word with heavy respiration. “I, can, not, tell you.”

I live with a deep knowing, intuition, and a deep-rooted legacy. Equipped from birth, everlastingly supplied.

-----|-----

Sprawled below the ceiling of my room, Alice and I laid amongst the rubbish. I looked over to her, pushing myself onto my elbows sideways. With my burning look she eventually turned her head over to face me. I put my hand up to her face, making my nails visible to both of us.

“Tell me.”

Allowing her to gather onto her feet, I made my way to my feet too. She pointed to my bed as she pulled my green chair over. Her eyes displaying nothing short of sorrow and deceit.

“Alice.” I demanded, “Tell me what is it that you know.”

Her eyes hardened underneath my concrete gaze. Alice has worked beneath me for years; I have come from an extensive line of warriors so if it’s one thing she should know is that I will not be deterred from what it is I want to know. I fight for it. Her lips tightened but her eyes said something different. Her mouth opened then closed. As each second passed they began to soften. Her tight face muscles, wondering eyes. By will or by unknown forces, she began to speak calm and collectively.

She told me of the day, the real date. Of the double cross. About a humming conversation my father and the priestess had. My attention enamored- I was shaking from the news. My own father knew? And did not stop me? Had he wished my voyage worked or was he excited of the loneliness? On que, we were interrupted by a loud knock on my chamber door.

Alice looked from me to the door. Her face hardened in confusion. She responded after clearing her throat, loud and clear.

“Speak your name and title.”

The chamber doors opened. Squeezing past the small breach, the castle’s cook, Fredo, dipped half in the room, his whole smile broadcasted throughout the room. Eyes finding Alice and I in the far corner. The other half hidden, standing in the hallway still.

Unaware to what had just taken place, Fredo allowed himself access to my quarters while holding, in his other hand, fingers spread palm up, my morning meal.

“Morning m’lady” Fredo announced sheepishly to Alice and me. “Today, wild guinea hen, homegrown potatoes, and fresh vegetables picked from the castles garden will be served.” He sat the tray on my bed, behind me. I had to spin and perch my legs up to greet him back.

“Morning Fredo. How has your days been?” I asked.

Surprised, and quickly collected, he replies, “As the last and the next. Lavish.” He pushed the cart caring the remainder of my meal, beverages, fruit, and clean washing material.

“Will that be all m’lady?”

“Thank you Fredo, that will be all.” I walked over to the door slowly closing it as Fredo marched out of the room back into the castle halls. I heard multiple footsteps descending the estates corridor.

When I spun around, I found Alice, mouth agape.

“Eveyryone?”

“But you Miss. Everyone but you knows.”

My legs gave in as I strained to inhale. My shoulders heavy, I shrugged as I tried to pull myself to breathe. My knees pushed to my chest, back to the door, I sat there for a minute until I heard Alice push out of that chair.

“Come.” I was looking up at her downward hand. Alice threw a body covering, hooded shawl. Similar, domestic hues of lighter sand with various fabrics of a dark nut tone over me. Shielding me from my locks to my ankle.

We left castle grounds through my chamber windows. Placing the cart under the locks of the rooms entrance. My window leads to the back of the castle. A short cut towards the commons. When we get there, we will blend right in. As its high noon, and the market is packed.

-----|-----

The market sang in a stew of languages, tones of skin and clothe, huts and vendors of all sorts. From Nefurs, Otiz, Rappa, Shurs and a small concentration of the Kwan’s. The highest rankings in the east colonies. Alice pulled me through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd.

“Ahead-“Alice only nodded her covered head, I put my head in line with hers. I’m above average height. So, I saw the exact tent she was mentioning. The one with the evergreen peak.

When we entered, Alice first, she made sure the flap behind me was secure. The outside noise crawled to a subtle rumble. She removed her veiled hood.

“Oh Alice.” The shopkeepers voice more depressed than happy. “Tell ne it is not.”

“It is so.”

“Can we discontinue? Is it of coherence?”

“Let’s see.” Alice turned to me to remove my hood. I allowed my knotted hair flap over oy shoulders as I yanked it from the tight collar. “Speak.”

“Good- afternoon Mmkeep.” My voice shook as I spoke. I did not know what I was supposed to say. She brought me here. How was I supposed to know what to do next?”

“Child.” The shopkeeper projected. “With your throat. Speak.”

Otitja. She wants me to speak the elder’s tongue.

“I can’t- “I began to speak.

“Do not think. Just speak.”

I swayed back and forth, my hands gripping and releasing my kafkan. Eyes wondering. I cleared my throat as I pondered how I am what is. And what is, am I. It soothed me as I was not pushed again verbally. I let out a big exhale, flaring my noses for a chest filling inhale. And then, I started, as I trickled in and out of Eastern and Otitja. Repeating my fathers’ words and vocal pattern. How it came out sounded like a coded language.

“My name, Oba TaKi Tubounchi, Ta ba rasah tu. Speak your title.”

Mmkeep smiled heavily, a joyous, almost hungry look on her face.

“Baba Taki Tubouchi, Otitjahaba Twa Boboo. The last Dragon Trainer.”

-----|-----

Weeks past with the Priestess. I was still in character. A flash of disappointment on my surface as I shame myself on my actions. My father’s discipline was to increase my time around the divine speaker. He said it will “help me and my abrasive, absurd ways.”

“They say your sweet water was toxic.”

“I have heard, from my father to the healers. They say it is why I can’t recall the last week or so.”

“Correct.” She gazes forward as she circled the room. It is easy to lie when you don’t have to look them in their soul’s port. “He has instructed me to take you in as a protégé.”

“What?!” I dropped out of meditation. My relaxed state. Straightening my legs, in the middle of the AshVase, beamed by the downpour of sunshine. I repeated “What?” As I spun in place, following the priestess.

“You shall report to me three times a week. We will do you lessons, then you will assist in other sessions. You are of a divine legacy. We cannot have you acting as a fool.”

We. The word stuck out in the sentence. We. And who is, we?

After I was released, I walked a mile back to the middle of the empire. The market, just catching the end of the lunch rush. I barged into the Evergreen tipped tent.

“Baba?” I asked as I entered with my back to the center of the tent where the counter is. “I got news-“I shut my mouth the moment I noticed her limp body folded over the counter. An arm dandling, dripping a lava red. Her hair, blonde but brown and clumped. Face down. Her other arm pinned under her stomach that laid on the counters surface. “Baba!” I screamed, pulling her to the floor, slapping her cheeks. My kafkan running light pink and brown from the blood and wet floor.

My whaling crushed with cruses. I tried it all, finding a heartbeat, clearing her windpipe, pounding her chest, patching her oozing wounds. Nothing.

“Up.” The partially hummed voice demanded behind me. I scurried, trampling over ’aba's body. A towering man with an unrecognizable face, vibrating tone and extra fingers stood as strong as a tree’s trunk. “Now.”

For a moment, I did not move. Back against the thin wood counter. My only escape was up. I began to lift myself, pushing my legs and using my hands to grab the warm wet countertop to get on my feet. My waist hovered just above the wooden lip. My feet pressed into the wet mud, exploding, I left the floor and kicked the large man in the stomach to push myself into the oblong inner space. I landed on my back, ignoring the burning- crunchy pain. I sprinted in a pinpointed focus towards the back of the tent. Lifting my veiled hood as I exited. I fought opposing traffic of shoppers in an uncontained flee until I met myself laying face down in a deeper than usual pit of mud. My body covered in the thick brown gravy, I as pulled to the side into an unknown tent.

I fought, hand covering my mouth, restrained. I bit my capturers palm, kicked until I crawled backwards, hitting a supply box. I looked around; I was in the back of a supply closest.

“Who the hell are you!” A frail man stood opposite of me, about 3 yards, a handout, panting.

“I-“He was catching his breathe. “On your-“I tried to scream as he walked slowly closer. He only lifted a finger to cross his lips.

He was telling me to be quiet. He stooped, meeting my eye level.

“I worked for Baba.” He began. Still unsure, my eyes told him not to get closer. “I found her earlier- “

“You murdered her earlier and now-“Before I let the rest of the words out, he dug into his shirt, removing a pendant on a chain.

“I am her successor. The bastard child she hid.”

Crushed. I did not know what to do. I simply shut my mouth, laxed my limbs, and listened.

“She told me a lot about you. How you were the only Nefur to the Prince. Your difference, abilities, conscious, calculations- all those. But, more important, she always told me, when all else fails-‘continue what I started. I know it will never end with me child. This is your destiny.’” He looked at me relieved. Thrilled to be telling exposing himself to someone else. But, in his face, I saw the happiness turn to a blank stare. An emotionless crux. Heavy hearted and almost defeated. Now, the child who was supposed to be nothing has nothing.

“And-“I began to break the silence. “How do we finish it?” I questioned; head cocked. His head in his palms came unglued. He looked at me questionably. Then pondered to himself something in a low tone.

“Do you believe in Dragons?”

-----|-----

“Huuuummmmmmmm.”

His voice echoed as we sank into the ground from a surface hole. Down carved volcanic rock stairs. We set sail to a nearby island, not too far from the eastern shore. You could see it from land, so, we left at the peak of night. I worried about being home before Alice barged into my quarters. But as I descended these wetting stairs, that worry fled my head. Only an oil lamp lit our way.

“Stay close, these stairs get damp and shallow. They are very very old.”

It must have been a ten straight minute walk down to level ground. A peaking orangish red light came from the distance.

“Hey.” I caught up to him. I stood amazed for a beat, observing the engulfing cave. It was like traveling down an elephant’s trunk into a holly body. It expanded- opened into a wild proportion. I did not get how we were underground and there, to my left, sits a soft washing of water. It shimmered against the oil lamp. “What’s your name anyways?”

“I have no name; I have no identity.” He said as the lamp swung back and forth from the handle. “I am nobody.”

The air blew, past us back into the stairs shaft. It was now where I remembered a cool gust when entering the hold.

“What do I call you?”

My eyes searched the room as far as I could see. Not looking before me but wondering what this underground oasis is and how I have never heard of it.

“You can call me anything. But my title or name is not important.”

I was dragging behind him. Suddenly, we collided. I extinguished the oil lamp but there was a comparable glow before us. A few walking towards us.

“Only his name mattes.”

As I peeled by him, it took me a second to notice. The incoming did not frighten me as I leaned from his back. The winds picked up and I felt the gust. Humming rolled from wall to wall. Oil lamps made an eye shape in the damp black sand. 7 Hooded bodies sat in a native sit around a crater of dried lava. A cream sphere, big enough to notice from afar, sat displayed in its midst.

“Hue, brush.” They said in unison. The word stretched, tinged with a growl. I was left where I stood as they venture towards the ritual decorated divot.

I paced slowly, cautiously towards them. Stopping only a few feet from where I started. He turned to wave me to continue. A brisk nod, letting me know that this is safe. It is supposed to happen. I laxed my shoulders, held myself a bit higher and caught up to them.

I am who I am supposed to be. I am who I am supposed to be. I am who I am supposed to be.

“Oba TaKi Tubounchi.”

A voice reached from one of the sitting bodies. I searched, trying to find which one spoke. The voice soft and clear. I watched a figure lift easily to their feet. Flowing over to me as their garment hugged them softly combating winds. Dragging sleeves lifting to unveil their face.

It was Alice.

-----|-----