There weren't always dragons in the valley

There weren't always dragons in the Valley.

The fire hissed and burned my raw skin. Smoke filled my lungs and my hair singed in the fuming air. My sword scratched at the scales of the giant beast, and the steel boiled, chased down my arm and peeled my skin to the bone. The dragon was as dark as a shadow. It snarled and growled as I swerved from the fire that poured out its mouth. Its claws cracked the stone beneath my feet, and its wings were a turmoil in the air around me. It had scales as big as my hand that burned at the touch. Sweat covered my body, and my skin was set on fire by patches of red burns. As I ripped its throat open with my dagger, blood poured on my head, soaked the skin down my back and burned my throat. I heard a screech that echoed through my ears. I stumbled with fatigue and teetered on my heels. The big scaly wings of the dragon thrashed me to the ground and whipped at my limbs. I felt the smoke cling to my throat. My breath quickened as I scrambled on the ground. I stood to observe the beast and stumbled. My eyes burned from the smoke, and the air's haze incapacitated me. I coughed and choked on the thick smog. As I reached its head, I trailed my fingers along its scales and horns. My fingers burned, and I jittered in the heat. Its eyes were open and dead, with a look of solace. I wept as I looked at its lifeless eyes and wings that looked so frail on the ruined ground.

I carved the eyes from its skull and tore its head from its body with my knife. Vomit frothed from its mouth, and blood as hot as molten gold poured from its neck. I dragged the dragon's head by its horns down the road to the Valley. It left a trail of blood with every step. I stumbled down the path with weariness and exhaustion. My right arm was burned to the bone and throbbed. I winced with every step. My left hand was clawing at the dragon's horns, hoping to keep moving and sustain a grip. The horns were as big as my arm, and the teeth were rotten and yellow. The foul smell of its breath left a wretched taste in my mouth.

I could hear the people of the Valley cheering at the thump of my arrival. People left their homes to salute me, horns were blown, and bells were chimed. The town roared. They had scales for skin and noses like beaks. They were fickle by nature. It happened like this every time, ever since the dragons came.

The town swarmed around me. They clawed at my skin and screamed in my ears, like the dragon. They flailed and lashed around me. Heat radiated from their bodies. My skin tingled as they brushed against me.

My lips were burnt and cracked; the smell of smoke still stuffed my nose. As I wet my lips, I felt my heart pound. I was antsy and fretful. The crowd engulfed me as I shoved and pushed. All I dreamt of was the quiet and desolation of my home. I could feel their eyes burn into my skin; the fear in my heart tumbled. Tears stung my burnt cheeks. I blenched and grimaced as the cool air left my raw skin aching. I felt rough, and scaly fingertips crawl across my maimed arm. Their touch was like the piercing teeth of a dragon. I noticed the head of the dragon, which people brawled to touch. I suddenly felt ashamed of the mutilation I had inflicted on the beast. No doubt I had dismembered dragons before, but the look of relief in its eyes left me imagining my head sprawled across the ground. The wicked thought clouded my shame and brought me to a feeling of serenity; as I left the dragon's head with no eyes, no amiableness and took off to my solitude.

The dragons came in a flash of fury. With death in their minds, fire in their hearts and wings that gnawed at the air around them. I had lived a life of solitude and seclusion ever since.

The house by the lake was mine. The lake was a thin pool of thick mud. Charred grass dressed the garden. That was the place my memories laid. I could see my sisters roam in the garden. When the grass was green and the lake was crystal clear, with water as cold as a dog's nose. I could see my father resting in the sun. Grumbling and croaking like a frog. Now the place I laid my hat and healed my burns, where the quiet of the world kept at my ears. Where the singed grass pricked at my feet and the warm water from the well always tasted of ash. It was at that home, in the scorching sun that I worried on my days. Where I felt pain but pleasure reviling in my loneliness. The roars of the town could not reach me, and the flames of the dragons could not either.

I dreamt of the dragon. Of its soothing eyes and wicked snarl. How it growled and roared. But then I dreamt of myself, mounted on the beast. All singed and burnt black with no hair and a face of melted skin, but powerful and in control. With the greatest weapon under my fingertips. I dreamt of the townspeople boiling and melting to the ground. Then I saw my father, with his furrowed brows, grey wiry hair and thick pruning arms. I saw him look at me, but where his harsh judgemental eyes used to be, I saw the dragon's. Big and golden, shimmering in the light, but kind and gentle. Something my father never was. He growled like a dragon and croaked like a frog. He would have been proud of me now. With all the fame and glory and riches. He would never know that I was dead inside. Dead like the dragon, but no kindness kept in my eyes.