Mercy Kill

The eyes of the child are as luminous as the stones that encrust her skin, glowing like moons in the twilight as we share a gaze as intense and as searing as my own breath. A rich amber yellow that pierces the ever-growing darkness of the wood. These eyes know something, seem to know something about me. The pace of my hearts quickens. I should be unperturbed by a creature so small and so young…and so vulnerable. Just as she should be, were she to pick up an insect from this forest ground. Yet, she holds my gaze so intently, so unblinkingly, as if in her couple trips round the sun she has come face to face with the likes of my kind as routinely as her wingless race drinks water. And then it comes to me. The sunglow eyes, the pattern of emeralds and rubies and sapphire on her face, the sheer fearlessness. This child is the offspring of the Dragon Riders of yore.

Her little brown hands lift through the darkness. Another cluster of jewels shines, embedded on the back of her wrist. She moves to touch my face, as any other child her age would move to pet a dog. By instinct, I withdraw, rearing my neck—carefully, so as not to knock over the child—and defiantly set my gaze elsewhere. The child abates in reproach, tumbling backwards onto the folds of her soft dress. Her eyes widen in shock. For her, it must be mere instinct to greet a member of my kind in the old way, a simple, gentle touch on the face. But she does not cry. The girl is far too hardened, already at two, to cry at rejection.

Still, I do not meet her gaze, instead focusing on the charred members of the paddock. Every tree in this clearing was most certainly burned at least a year ago, but the two-dozen-or-so bodies that litter the ground were blackened recently. From their smoldering and their stench, it happened no more than a night ago. How else could this child have survived, surrounded only by the black bits of char that were her protectors only two nights ago?

Whatever happened here to bring the crowd to this state, to have had their lives scorched away, however the girl’s parentage protected her from the rogue that blasted them with flames, remains a mystery to me.

Unsettled by the scene—yes even by the corpses of those who have destroyed the land of my race and enslaved many of my kind—I turn my head to the sky, to the surroundings of the land. I lift my neck, just above the line of shallow trees, so as not to be spotted by kin nor Beast alike. A darker-colored being might be safe, would be harder to spot from a distance. But my scales, my wings are a stark, moonlight white, once coveted and beautiful, now an unfortunate target. During more flights than one, I have attracted challenges to best my rights to territory by other winged Flyers and threats to my autonomy by Beasts wielding chains and swords. Easy to spot, my siblings of the sky would purr. And yet, somehow, I have been the only one among them to survive the war thus far.

As I lift my shoulders, stretch my long neck, pray to Drechmariaet that the child does not give our position away by sight or by sound, I let my wings drag on the ground, trailing ash up against my body. For a time, the soot will camouflage me the color of night. I could make it a short distance, find a cave or castle in which to burrow. Of course, a grotto could already be occupied. So too could a fortress. But chances are just as likely that one of my sisters or brothers were killed by the hand of a beast while they slept, guarding their meager horde. The chances are just as likely that an entire buttress was razed by the fiery breath of my kin. There will be a place to bed. If only I can find it.

The sun has already beat me to it, though her reddened rays still offer visibility, bathing the valley a ruby glow not unlike the jewel above the little girl’s right eye. I look to the mountains, first to the south, then to the north, still swinging my head low, still stirring up soot and ash to coat my skin. A small bout of coughing reminds me of the child, who has not retreated. I was hoping she would scamper off into the wood, finally feeling fear. But I have never been the biggest Wyvern. Nor the most frightening.

To the north there is nothing but the encroaching darkness upon the mountains. Already the warmth of summer has begun to fade. That is not the direction I hope to follow in the coming months.

To the south, an odd spell of lightning. Two bouts, one a yellow-white, one violet. The strikes are too peculiar, too paused, the sky too cloudless for the storm to be natural. Two Thunderbeasts, bickering over territory. No matter. They are a solid distance away, and far too distracted at the moment to pay me any mind. That will change, of course, when one bests the other, when the wounded loser flaps off, additionally-angered and in search of new territory. I will need to make haste before such time. Here, I am far too vulnerable, too exposed.

It's a result of the war, my kin turning on one another for territory. The Beasts’ campaigns to slay our race with reckless abandon, to conquer whatever bits of land remain untouched by the giant, encroaching wall of fire to the West. I turn to look there, now, facing my worst fear, the fear of every living being on the continent for the last three years. The wall of flames that have forced us into one another’s spaces, where once we respected territory, borders, land and sky, where once their was an abundance of earth and air. Over the last three years, the throngs of refugees on land, the flocks of my kin among the clouds have greatly subsided. Anyone lucky enough to find asylum, to maintain a home has already done. So few of us remain, we nomads in search of a place that is safe from the flames.

I look back to the girl. She has not lifted her eyes from my being. A pang ruptures my two hearts. I could take her somewhere. If only I knew where. If only there was a place to bring her to. She is not my responsibility. And yet, I cannot shake the guilt that bears in my chest. I cannot let a child starve out here, even a two-legged beast like she.

A quick death is what I owe her. Nothing else. Let her join her mother and her tribe. She won’t know what happened. If I do it right, she will not feel a thing.

I have never slayed a living thing that I have not eaten. Though members of my race have been known to eat Beasts—from desperation or a thrust of revenge—I have never been so desperate. Drechmariaet has been good to me, watching over and providing. I have not succumbed to hunger, nor to flames, though many a close call have ensued since my departure from my nest, three generations of her kind ago, when the little girl’s great-grandmother was her age.

I lower my head, bring it right to hers. Again, she does not flinch. What a peculiar child. A sadness wells in my chest as I brace myself for my next action. Better that I do it quickly. Both of her eyes stare at me, reflecting my own face. I am unrecognizable to myself, a pale, soot-coated creature with shallowed eyes. I should be in my prime at a century. But the fire has stolen even my youth from me. I close my eyes, searing the sadness with the fire that builds in my belly. It takes a moment. then I open my eyes to take aim. My maw begins to part, the flames bubbling in my throat. It will be over in a few seconds.

That’s when the child places her hands on my snout. I am taken by the warmth, but then by something else. Something else entirely. I am transported, not into the sky, but through time.

I am standing on the shore, on my two fleshy legs, pointing to the smoldering island where once only Dragons ventured, the jewels of their horde glimmering amidst the sea as they flew in and out, paying tribute to their great nest before returning to the mainland. I point, shouting to my fellow Beasts. something is happening on the island.

The top of the mountain ruptures, spewing first ash and then fire. I run, a crowd gathering around me as we depart the beach. I head up the hill towards the city, towards the king’s castle. There are defenses there for such a phenomenon. There must be.

I glance over my shoulder as I overtake the slower members of my community. The Dragons too abandon their post, flying in every direction, spewing flames of anger and surprise.

There are whisperings through breathlessness, even as we flee from the scene. It’s unthinkable, impossible. The one thing we were forbidden to ever do, the one thing that would ensure our mutual death—the Dragons and we men—but someone has done it. Someone has infiltrated the island.

Whatever compelled them to commit such an act, I do not know. All I know is that I must get as far away from the coast as I can. I must gather my family, what friends and neighbors I have the time and flee into the castle.

But another commotion has stirred. Behind me something has encroached. Not the roaring of Dragons and flames as I may have suspected, but something far more alarming. Silence.

I turn again, for the third time. that’s when it hits me, the sharp indescribable pain that flanks my left side…the side that was turned towards the scene. I scream in silence as shards pierce my skin. I glance down at my hands. Rubies, diamonds, emeralds…they grow on my hand like boils. Everything on the exposed side begins to blister with jewels. A curse, no doubt. Everything begins to blur, to succumb to the silence and the smoke. And then, with the remainder of the population fleeing the coast, I collapse into darkness.

I return to myself, to the image of the girl. Her hands move from my snout. At the last moment, I swivel my head, up towards the sky. The flames explode in a shower of gold. A shower of gold for the whole of the valley to see. Drechmariaet curse it all! I curse in my mind. I have given us away!

I look down at the little girl. She looks at me, as unperturbed as the moment she peeked her little head around the tree when I was surveying the scene for scraps. She has given me, not a vision, but a memory, a memory which can only be shared by a Dragon Rider. A memory to mark the two of us, not as master and beast of burden, not as predator and prey, but as equals.

The distant flapping of wings tells me there is little time. I rise, my own wings taking off into the air. At the last moment, I duck, swooping in, my talons closing gently around the little girl. I have done this before with stags and boars, but was never so careful to avoid piercing them. Her stirring and gentle cooing tells me she is safe. Only when we have risen high above the trees, my headscales teasing the clouds do I glance down. She is safe. Not only safe, but her hair whips in the wind and she seems appeased—more at home than on the ground surely—as we tear through the wind.

I am fast, can outrun whatever wounded beast comes my way. I glance around. Only a faint speckling of light shines in the distance, like fireflies. That will be our destination. Whether friend or foe lives there, I will show them the girl, will present her as a peace treaty. It can be our only chance.

The little girl, unperturbed by what was nearly my cruelest act of kindness I have ever come close to committing, allows a laugh. Up here, in the sky, she is at home. And for a moment, for the first time in decades, I have found a companion. For the briefest time, I have found a home.