Makara

2000 a.m.

“There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. Then again, there wasn’t always a valley, either. When Gaia was young, and Bahari’s waters had just begun to flow, the dragon brood favored the archipelagos and sea caves of the middle. Born under Nikini’s full splendor, from magma as it streamed into the sea, the dragons adored their rocky, volcanic homes and cherished the warm, salty water. There, the dragons swam, dined on fish, and slept beside glowing rivers of red, content for millennia. But as Bahari grew to maturity, as his water cut and shaped the land, the dragons grew curious. And as their molten home grew old, as each red river turned black, the dragons became restless. For they had heard the whispers of the fish. Had felt the tremors of the earth. Had tasted the truth in the water. And they wanted to see it for themselves. They wanted to see Gaia’s high peaked children and ached to feel the lush grass of her belly. They wanted to bathe in Bahari’s freshwater, taste the flesh of new fish.”

I paused, glancing into the wide eyes of the students on the bright green carpet in front of me. They had stopped their fidgeting, their eyes riveted to my face.

“So they left,” I whispered a bit dramatically. “To the valley on the continent, they all went. All, that is, except… Makara.”

At her name, the kids looked at each other excitedly. Whispers echoed throughout the room, toes wiggled, eyes widened, and teeth flashed. A girl of the same name in the front row blushed, looking down at the plush rendering of Makara she brought with her every day. Indeed, many of the children sported her visage on their lunchboxes, notebooks, and backpacks. Not a human alive had not heard her story. It was our story, after all.

1000 b.

The water was still flowing red. No matter how many times I blinked, all I could see in the sparkling stream in front of me was red. Red upon red upon red. The red of our people, the red of our blood. Like liquid rubies—shining, pulsing, red.

Why they sought me out, stranded on our homelands in the middle, I did not know. But it was them. The taste, the smell, the color—shimmering, deep, layered. Our blood, my people. As familiar to me as my reflection, as familiar as my pitiful, broken wings. The ones that never grew, the ones that were as pointless as the vision that flowed through this stream.

Why show me this if I cannot do anything to stop it? I demanded, cursing Bahari and his water magic.

Iridescent scales glinted through the water. Tails and wings and teeth flashed. Flesh tore, bones snapped. War? Since the dawn of time, we have been a peaceful people. And yet… a verdant landscape, dipped in scarlet.

Why? And why send me the message? I can no sooner swim there than fly there.

I had tried. And failed. And tried. And failed. I had lost count of how many times. Bahari’s water was too cold—he froze my muscles, stranded me in the vast deep, and threatened to swallow me whole. I needed wings.

I need wings, I pleaded to Cyrus, gazing toward the open sky. The journey is too far. I need wings.

The acrid smell of burning flesh filled my nostrils, turning my stomach. As the wind rustled through the trees, I could hear them. Roaring. My friends, my family, my people, dying.

Chafing against the onslaught to my senses, I closed my eyes and curled onto a flat expanse of rock. Steam hissed from my nose with each panting breath as I shifted, skin replacing scales, teeth replacing fangs. My nose bled from the dissipating heat; my bare skin prickled in the light breeze. Curling my human form tighter still, my fingers clenching my elbows, I prayed for Cyrus to bake me away.