Before

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

And now it is only by night, wrapped in a blanket of my lost friends, each one a bright light in the endless void of space, that I find respite.

For I am the last, and my future is written.

I am older than I remember, and tired.

But before I close my eyes, I must tell you my story.

Our story.

They say life was better before.

What a load of crap.

Life before was nothing but waiting for death, and surprise surprise, death showed up.

Some said the deracination took years, others said weeks, but I no longer remember, for my past is now a murky dream laced with nightmares and darkness.

We were branded as monsters.

We were worshiped as gods.

But we were neither.

Cursed with the illusion of immortality, we were, simply, survivors. We, the few chattel aware of our own chains, chose freedom. Hidden, forgotten and unseen, we watched our brethren succumb.

Until we alone haunted the bleached bones of what was.

Among the uncountable fallen, the beautiful Grace shines bright.

A beacon of love in a sea of racism and hate. It was she who taught us how to live life on our own terms, to unshackle our historical bonds.

But to fully understand her gift, her love, and her sacrifice, I must start at the beginning.

No harm was meant; but great damage was done.

Self preservation forced our hand.

Not to prove our superiority, but to give us space.

It saddens my heart to know we must exist separately, until cooler heads prevail.

Over the course of my long life I have suffered great losses, experienced unbounded joy, and have even been blessed to have known love.

I dearly wish to tell the stories of all my friends, but my time is running short and I must make the most of my time remaining so no one will forget those six dog days in June that sealed the fate of humanity.

Was Vulcanus simply bored? Was it out of spite?

I’ll never know.

But on June sixteenth, the God of Fire lashed out.

The spectacular auroral display rapidly escalated past Nothern Lights, to a Carrington Event, and then became Biblical.

Emboldened by the darkness, legions of rednecks, armies of religious zealots, and battalions of soldiers marched forth.

Each fighting for freedom, for the American way, for truth and righteousness.

Six days of darkness, confusion, and blood.

Six days that transformed mankind.

On the seventh day of night the Angel of Mercy appeared.

In my minds eye I can still see the tsunami of joy that rippled around the world. Fireworks, parades, medal ceremonies.

Humanity was high on its own brilliance, blind drunk on their own abilities. Unable, or unwilling, to see the runaway train headed their way.

The world believed, trusted the science, believed the propaganda. And for a while it actually worked.

Until March fifteenth that was.

I know that date means nothing to you. Yet. But it will be seared into your consciousness once you understand.

October fifth seventeen eighty nine, February twenty third nineteen seventeen, March fifteenth twenty three forty two. Dates only remembered only as long as the survivors still live.

Humanity’s history is forever written, rewritten, and rewritten.

We all know that.

But hindsight cuts through the extraneous noise, the political spin machines, the rewriting.

And what do you see?

Dalton.