Ashes of Aaliyah

There weren't always Dragons in the Valley–

– In fact, few of the remaining elders can still recall such a time of blissful ignorance. But blissful as it was, anyone with a bit of sense will tell you ignorance breeds in a vicious rotation of self destruction. Over time, people become possessive of their ignorance; they lose sleep and sense as they pace in front of their treasures like rabid animals, baring our teeth at the mere sight of a possible threat. They turn on their friends, their brothers, their neighbors, to preserve what they believe they have earned– especially when it is more than they deserve.

Not so different from the benighted tales we weave of the beasts themselves.

But for the people residing in the Valley; that threat was the looming cloud of dense black smoke that broke from the peak of the Eastern Mountain on that fateful day. As if exhaled from the rocks themselves. Fear gripped the people as they cowered from its growing shadow– And the omen of death it carried with it. A sign of her awakening.

Of course it is not uncommon for a Dragon to go unnoticed in its long slumber. 100 years? 200? Over a time, they become one with the grass, the moss, the trees and breathe with the ground underneath them-- wherever they choose to lay themselves. You yourself might've passed one, climbed over its back with none the wiser. A creature that does not know fear may rest wherever it pleases, however long. But only one. One had the meaning, the power, the force of will, to move the earth itself. To bury itself deep within the mountains and breath life through its stones and soil.

Draconem Matrem. A Mother Dragon.

A harbinger of life and death; a Goddess in her own right. The One who would bring her unborn young to the safety of the Mountains, brooding beneath the surface for over 100 years until their time, when they would break from the earth. The Mountains would collapse, rocks would fall, a storm of ash and embers would rain down upon us, houses would burn, livestock would be claimed by their jaws, as well as any poor soul caught in their path.

At the time, we didn't even know her name. Nor would we have cared to learn it in the first place. It is but another way our ignorance controls us. Before a name, a person is just that. A name brings an acquaintance, a friend, an enemy, or even a Devil. Nameless, a dragon is simply a beast. A monster to be slain. A Dragon's name bears an entity. A force that cannot be contained, controlled or destroyed. Her name would've shed daylight on our nightmares and forced us to face our new reality. That our homes, our "treasures" were no longer worth the calamity that was to come. And that black cloud over our sky was merely our first warning.

We were on borrowed time.

And while some had the sense to collect their families and flee at the first sign, too many were too old, too stupid, or too stubborn to abandon their precious lands they had so adamantly 'earned.'

Among these unfortunate fools, was of course The King.

Whether he was a noble ruler choosing to stay for his people or a self-serving miser who refused to give up what little power and wealth he had in our small Kingdom, even I could not tell you. He was hardly an outspoken man.

In fact the day he made his decree was one of the first any had even seen. A declaration called by criers on every corner, nailed every wall, post, door.

"On this day, His Majesty, King Malik Rammir, has declared that any person who slays the sleeping Draconem and her young will be granted any reward of their choosing. A scale from the beast will be all the evidence needed to provide said Hero with whatever they so choose from under the Power of Malik himself."

Not the smartest move a King ever made, but I imagine this might even sound familiar to you. A dangerous beast, a promise from a desperate King, a Kingdom in peril-- And, finally, a pompous brute, who thought himself a hero, to destroy it all—

"--Wrong!" retorted so suddenly, it broke Lady Farrah off immediately. She didn't jump but I certainly did. Along with the other six or seven children perched on her tigerwood porch. Even her windchimes stopped their twinkling notes. But Farrah's lifted brow was the only thing that indicated any semblance of surprise– as expected. The Gods themselves couldn't shake that old woman. All she did was take a drag off of her ornate porcelain pipe, just staring over us as our heads snapped back around; and immediately unsurprised by Riley as the source of the harsh noise. Dressed nice enough in his rich blue tunic and leather shoes, but smudged from the knee down with the dirt of the path we'd taken to Farrah's bungalow– that he'd apparently followed us down. He was standing aggressively as usual, trying to look taller than he was. (Jackass was shorter than me at the time.) "--That's not how my Father tells the story!"

Ugh. Even at seven summers, I was over this boy's voice.

But as usual, Lady Farrah seemed unbothered; a single long blow of the white smoke she'd been holding from her pipe and she was already plotting this boy's verbal annihilation. I'd seen that look a hundred times by this point.

"--Really? That's a surprise. Considering I was the one telling this story to your father when he was about your height..." She tapped her cheek in thought, not a single crack in her composure. "But I suppose he hasn't grown much since then either." We all snickered and tittered like the simple little kids we were.

Riley's lower lip rolled into a pout, crossing his arms and scoffing in irritation as he pulled a few blonde strands from his loose winded ponytail. He was an arrogant little twerp, but even he seemed to conveniently remember the price for interrupting one of Farrah's stories, now that it cost him yet another jab at his and his father's height. Too bad it didn't stop him from bleating in the first place.

"--Well. It's not," he reiterated in a much smaller voice, kicking at the dirt.

"Well, if you'd sit down and bother to listen to the rest of the story, Sweet thing, you could go home and tell your Father how loudly wrong he is," She took another puff and watched him shuffle awkwardly on his feet. At the time, it barely occurred to me that she was old enough to have told this story to our parents. She only really spoke to children from the village, offering her stories, treats and sage advice. She was just always an old woman in my mind; sassy and spry with beautiful dark skin, even darker hair, long and wild and a silvery voice I'd fallen asleep to a thousand times. All features that made her golden eyes all the more piercing and prominent; their hawklike gaze never missed a thing.

Truth be told, it might've been what saved our lives that day.

We all watched Riley for his response, growing impatient that this little intermission was taking so long.

"...Father says Sir Oberon was a superior man and a good Knight…" He mumbled, embarrassed, yet already defeated as he approached the steps.

"Then he only shames the fool further by giving his name. And he dubs himself a fool for such disrespect," Her strict shift in tone was almost as disarming as her witty jabs. I knew the old tale was important to her– having heard it multiple times myself– to her, this wasn't an argument. One could not simply debate with the truth. It wasn't until I was older that I realized Riley was not the intended victim of her sharp tone; but likely his father for twisting her beloved story to a young and impressionable mind.

However, Riley's retort went unheard, falling on ears nearly deafened by the jagged yet jarring guttural roar that I'd swear on our lives completely drowned out any other sound in the entire world. And just like that, the Gods got what they wanted– because Farrah nearly jumped out of her chair. We all began crying as we covered our pained ears, even Riley. Some started wailing, doubled over in fear and agony. Others, like me and Riley, froze in place with our hands squeezed tightly over our temples, desperate to lessen the vibrating in our eardrums well after the sound itself stopped.

And even though it rattled the air around us, obscuring our senses, I could make out Farrah's fiery eyes darting along where the sky touched the trees. What was a distant flying insect to us was already recognized by her eyes the moment she locked onto it like a cat choosing its prey. I didn't need to see her face to know she'd found her target; because she didn't tear her eyes away for a second as she seized her longbow and quiver that always rested on the back of her wicker porch chair.

"Aaliyah."

I had to blink a few times, rubbing my ears as I heard her speak my full name for the first time in years. Even with her eyes locked onto the looming beast, taking aim as she drew her first arrow, she knew I would hear her.

"Get everyone inside. NOW."