From the Ashes

It began, like so many things did, with an ending. Not a neat, tidy ending that nicely wrapped up all the loose threads of a story. Nor was it a fulfilling happy ending, or even a fulfilling one. No, it started with a tragedy, but an ordinary everyday kind of tragedy. Depressingly commonplace, and unnaturally cruel.

The tragedy came, as many do, from the thoughtless and violent acts of selfish men. It had started as a greed, or jealousy. One man had gathered power and wealth about himself and felt very smug and satisfied with what he had achieved, until he saw that his neighbour had gathered even more wealth and power than he had. So they fought, and grasped, and stole and hurt, and they grew in power and wealth and cruelty. And petty squabbles turned violent and swelled to battles and then to wars. And in the meantime, they began to hurt more people, those who had followed them, those who were near to them, and finally, those who had done nothing but having the misfortune of being in the way.

It began, as well, with a beginning. With a child, at the very start of their life. A babe in the first chapter of their story. And it began by ripping that chapter out of the book and casting it adrift on a sea of loose pages, with no direction or thread to connect their past to their future. The child had been born to a simple family, but a loving one. To parents of small ambition but deep empathy, and into a village of no renown but strong community. The child’s life was already laid out, before they were even born. They would grow up in the village, and settle down nearby, and farm the land the way their parents did. And they would live an unremarkable life, with a remarkable amount of satisfaction.

But then the war came. The violence and hatred and jealousy of strangers. The danger that the village had heard of as a distant story but never thought would reach them in their safe and warm homes. But it came anyway.

The fighting swept across the village, it burned the fields and razed the buildings to the ground. And everywhere it went it took the futures of those who had always lived in that village. The lucky ones fled, leaving their homes and all they knew behind them, throwing themselves on the mercy and the chance to have a future elsewhere.

The unlucky ones stayed in the village. Forever.

The child, whose story was already written and waiting to play out before them, was luckier and unluckier than all the rest. When the battle had passed, and the armies had moved on to other regions, the child was still there in the village. Their parents remained as well, but among the broken bodies, strewn like rag dolls in the ruined shell of their farmhouse. But the child was alive. And they were alone. And the life they were supposed to live had ended, before they even knew what it was supposed to be.

The mother had heard the screams and roars of the approaching battle, and in her last few moments, before the violence descended on her, had fed her babe a bottle of tonic that she used to sleep at night, and hidden the child away in a haystack. By the time the child woke the end had already come to the village, and their life would no longer be what it once was.

Waking slowly, tottering uncertainly on legs that had only recently learned to walk, the child crawled out of the haystack. The fighting was over, the danger from the armies was past, but the world that greeted them was no longer safe. The child was alone in the world. There was no one left to care for them, or to help them. The world was strange and fearsome and empty. And the child began to cry.

For the first time in their life nobody came to wipe away their tears, to soothe their worries and to make it all better. They cried until they felt sick to their stomach, until all their tears had dried up. Their mother had placed a small stuffed woollen rabbit in the haystack with them, and the child hugged it to their chest and wiped away their tears. Then, trembling and shivering, the child climbed back to their feet.

Cold and lonely and hungry, the child wandered in search of their parents, tripping and stumbling as they went on uncertain legs. They could not clamber over the wreckage into the farmhouse, which saved them from the sight of their parents’ bodies, crumpled on the ground in two matching pools of blood. Instead, turned back by the obstacles, the child stumbled in the other direction, away from the farmhouse and towards the surrounding woods.

The trees loomed dark and dangerous above them as they tottered through the woods, the branches reaching towards a sky that was growing dark with the coming night and an impending storm. They were small and alone, and the world was big and wide and dangerous. And the story they were writing now was not one anyone had ever heard of.

It began, for the dragon, with ice and wind. With distant screams and the metallic taste of blood on the air.

High in the mountains, surrounded by sheer cliffs and jagged peaks, the dragon had come to roost. It was a young dragon, too small to fight and scrap and carve out a territory where other dragons dwelled, far to the north, beyond the reach of men and mortals. Too weak to compete for food or space, too old to remain in their nest with a mother who was brooding a new clutch of eggs and had no patience for grown young, and in danger of attacks from larger members of their species, the dragon needed to find a new roost. So they had flown south, for too many days and nights to count, until their wings grew heavy, and tiredness seeped into their bones.

On the horizon they had seen a jagged line of mountains reaching up like rows of fangs. The peaks reminded the dragon of their nest, the steep sides and summer snowcap promising a precarious climb, and safety and protection from anyone who might try to hunt them.

The dragon had landed gratefully on the mountains, and found a dark cave just big enough to rest in. And there the dragon had fallen into a grateful sleep, closing their eyes to the world, and feeling safe for the first time in a long while.

Sounds of violence and fighting finally woke the dragon, calling them out of the narrow cave. Stretching their wings gratefully, the dragon clambered and flapped to the peak of the mountain, in search of the source of the noise that had disturbed them.

Distant plumes of smoke curled up from the green valley below. A deep breath of the mountain air carried the scents of burning wood, and plants, and blood to the dragon. A deep rumble came from the pit of the dragon’s stomach, a reminder that they had not eaten since they fled the nesting grounds in the north many days earlier. With a growl and a roar, the dragon launched themself into the air, and spiralled in lazy loops towards the smoke.

The smell of blood grew stronger as the dragon approached, but the noise and clash of violence faded away. With eyes like a hawk, the dragon could see movement in the distance, travelling away from the smoke in the opposite direction from the mountains. The dragon had never seen humans before, but memories of the dangers of spears and swords, passed down from their ancestors, chilled the blood in their veins. There were too many humans to fight. Fearing that they might be spotted from the air and the humans would turn around, the dragon dropped to the woods near the smoke.

Once on the ground they cocked their head, listening for the sounds of any lingering humans or other threats. Shaking out their wings, the dragon continued on foot towards the smoke.

Even with the ruin that occurred, the land here was far lusher and more productive than the dragon was used to in the north. Signs of wildlife were abundant, and thick stands of berry bushes grew in every clearing. The wildlife had fled whatever violence had happened, but with the retreat of the fighting they were making their slow way back towards the village. Dragons were new, and not a scent that they recognized, so the animals did not know to fear it. It was not difficult for the dragon to hunt and bring down a deer, and then a second one, to be safe. It had been a long time since their last meal.

The dragon, like most of their kind, preferred to eat their meals cooked rather than raw. Fire and lightning always burned in the pit of their stomach, never more than a heartbeat away. It was not long before the meat was crackling, the scent of cooked venison overlaying the burning smells from the nearby village. It was close, so close that the dragon could make out the edges of buildings and the tops of rooftops between the rows of trees. But it was quiet now, except for the crackling of fires that continued to burn. There did not seem to be any humans left in the village.

Humming happily to themself, the dragon settled their long, sinewy body onto the floor of the forest and happily began to devour their catch. Dragons are fierce and terrifying creatures, but they are more elegant and dignified than any animal. The dragon ate carefully, almost delicately, stripping the meat from the bones, and then crunching into them to clean out the marrow within.

They were through the first deer, and starting on the second, when a soft noise from the undergrowth drew their attention. The dragon crouched low over their meal, pulling their lips back to reveal gleaming white fangs, prepared to launch themselves forward at whoever was coming, and then they pulled up short with a snort of confusion.

Stepping unsteadily into the clearing, the branches and brambles pulling aside to reveal them, was a small and dirty human child. It was wearing a thin scrap of material and no shoes on muddy feet. Clutched in one chubby little fist was a faded and patched imitation creature of some sort - the dragon could make out a crude face of button eyes and a stitched-on mouth. Dirt and soot and tears streaked down a pale face, puffy from crying. The child was sniffling and whimpering before they even spotted the dragon.

The dragon watched the human warily. They were full, their belly satiated with a recent meal, and felt no desire to lunge at the child, to snap up the easy prey. Nor did they feel the surge of fear that typically came over them at the thought of a human - it was absurd to think of being afraid of something so small and so clearly in danger from everything around it. Instead, the dragon cocked their head to the side and watched the human with the curiosity that was a hallmark of their species.

The child, for their part, stopped walking when they spotted the dragon, hunched over a deer carcass in the middle of a clearing. Perhaps if the child had been older they would have heard bedtime stories of monsters and beasts, and they would have recognized the dragon as one of them and known to fear it. But they were still so young. They had only been told sweet lullabies and bedtime stories that would not leave them with fearsome dreams. And the only monsters the child had known in their short, sweet life had been men with nasty swords and flaming torches that looked much more like their own reflection than life the creature before them now.

Four things happened in quick succession. Firstly, the child saw the dragon, green and russet scales glowing dully in the filtered light from the canopy and froze in awe. Secondly, they remembered the bedtime stories they had been told by the mother they were wandering the woods in search of. They had not been told tales of monsters or ghouls, but they had heard about friendly fairies, kindly forest spirits, and other benevolent magical beings that would guard and protect good children when they were in trouble. Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, they smelt the aroma of roasted venison wafting towards them across the clearing. And then the fourth thing happened - the child dropped their stuffed toy and ran, unsteadily and clumsily, towards the dragon with their arms outstretched, a wide smile of mostly missing teeth breaking across their little face. “Mama,” the child burbled happily, knowing that both the word and this creature meant safety and warmth and a full belly.

It was the dragon’s turn to freeze. There was an instant where they worried that they had misjudged this human and they were, in fact, being attacked after all. And then, swimming up from the depths of their mind, another previously unused memory, passed on from dragon to dragon while they were still in the shell, came to the forefront - a memory of human languages. The sound the child had made, garbled as it was by what appeared to be an egregious lack of fangs, was a human sound, a word, that meant “mother”.

The dragon was a female, and somewhere deep within her was a desire to have a brood of eggs of her own to watch over. A desire she had never acknowledged, even to herself, since she was small and weak for a dragon, and unable to fight for a brooding nest. The weaker dragons, those like her, who flew south to find caverns with less competition did not have young since they ended up alone and isolated from other dragons as a matter of their own survival.

But this small human, this child, had called her mother. And a fierce desire to protect them sprang to life like a flame igniting. The dragon felt a sudden urge to gather the child towards them, to curl around the small body protectively, and to warm the shivering blue fingers. In one swift motion they slid across the clearing and scooped the child against their side. Shocked by the sudden movement, the child began to whimper again, and then to cry.

The dragon felt a pang of guilt and panic. Generations of dragons had passed on the understanding of human speech, but it had been lifetimes since a dragon had tried, or even desired, to communicate back with a human. Of at least lifetimes since a dragon that had met a human had ever returned to the northern mountains and the nesting range. Uncertain of what to do but wanting to reassure the child that they meant no harm, wanting more than anything to stop the terrible sounds of the crying, the dragon began to hum, low in the back of their throat, like their mother had done while tending to her young as they emerged from their shells into the terrifying unknown of the great wide world. It was a thrumming that came from the dragon’s chest and was as much felt as heard. The sound seemed to resonate with the child, who stopped crying and began to sniffle softly instead. The small human leaned into the vibrations and the warmth that emanated from the belly of a dragon who had recently been breathing fire.

Within minutes the sniffling had changed to a soft, wheezing sound. Concerned that the child was maybe being crushed, the dragon lifted one wing and snaked her long neck around to stare down at the little creature. The human was curled against her side, one thumb into their mouth, sleeping deeply. The wheezing appeared to be how humans slept.

Feeling another surge of affection towards the small, filthy creature, the dragon shifted slowly so they could lay down without waking the child. Glancing around the clearing, the dragon spotted the sad, faded form of the little animal the child had been carrying when she entered the clearing. With a flick of their long tail, they scooped up the thing. Long eared and with a white tail, it must be a crude rabbit, and swept it towards her. Then, ever so carefully, the dragon used one delicate claw to tuck the rabbit against the child’s side. Sighing contentedly, the dragon reached a claw out to draw in what was left of their meal. With a glance at their new companion, the dragon set aside a haunch of the deer for the child, and went back to eating, keeping a careful watch out for any more disturbance coming from the woods.

Night settled slowly across the clearing, like a dusky blanket of soft blue wool. In the woods animals that had ran away from the violence of that morning were re-emerging, birds called out a tentative evening symphony and passed the song to distant frogs and crickets who carried it bravely into the next movement. A pale, watery moon peaked above the treeline, as if frightened to shine upon the tragedy that had taken place so nearby. It sent glimmers of silver light onto the dragon and the sleeping child, softened by the leaves of the canopy like it was whispering an apology for daring to shine at all when the world was as full of darkness and violence as it was.

With a yawn the child stretched happily, unconcerned to be snuggled against a giant green beast. As they woke up, however, they realized that they were still hungry, and that despite happy dreams of being snuggled next to their warm fire, they were somewhere dark and frightening and their Mama was still nowhere to be found. The child began to cry again, with renewed vigour after their rest, calling out for their mama and papa repeatedly.

The dragon went into action immediately, humming softly to the human. She carefully breathed a small stream of fire of the haunch of cooked venison she had reserved, and then sliced shreds of it off with a sharp talon to present to the human.

Realizing that at least one of their immediate concerns was being met, the child happily chewed on the offered food. It proved to be a difficult task with only a partial set of baby teeth, and the process distracted them from their missing parents once again. They also remembered that they were with a friendly creature from one of the stories, and it would only be a matter of time until they were inevitably reunited with their family.

The dragon, on the other hand, was feeling a sense of foreboding as they realized that the small human they had found was all alone, and no others had come looking for it. It seemed too young and fragile to be out of its own just yet, although admittedly the dragon found all humans to be on the small side. Still, it seemed likely that the mama or papa the child was crying for should have been trying to find their young. Given the silence from the direction of the village, and the lingering smell of smoke and blood, the dragon surmised that something had happened to the child’s parents.

They felt a mixture of sadness for the little creature, and a possessive feeling of relief. If the child was truly alone and there was no one left of its own kind to look for it, then the dragon would be able, would have to care for it herself. She knew enough about humans to know that she didn’t know how to raise one, but she also knew enough to know that she did not trust another human to find and protect the child. Humans had caused the child to be alone and abandoned in the first place, and she would not take the risk that they could rectify their wrongdoing.

With the decision made and her conscience clear, the dragon rose to their feet and carefully wrapped a front talon around the child. Bracing herself for the screams that would likely follow, the dragon launched from the ground and spiralled into the sky, the child clutched against her chest.

The screaming was loud and piercing as the ground fell sharply away, but it soon turned to a different noise, a sound like chattering bird calls. The dragon felt a shiver of worry run down her spine and twisted her neck to peer at the small creature. Its teeth were showing as it babbled and squirmed, but it did not seem to be angry, or even afraid. They were no longer shrinking in fear, but dripping on to the dragon’s claws, peering down at the ground beneath them.

From ancestral memories the dragon heard a new word. Laughter. A human sound, one they made when they were happy. The child was happy. The child was laughing. Their child was laughing. And the dragon would never let anyone make it cry again.