Sky Abandon

Darax flew on silent wings towards the temple where child sacrifices were left. Anger was in his heart. Anger towards his old—recently dead—sire who had eagerly participated in the yearly abandonment ritual; anger that he had been left to deal with this mess; and fury at the cruelty of the humans in the capital city, who so willingly left their young at barely an age to walk, to the mercy of a dragon like him.

He hadn’t wanted to come—he hadn’t wanted to come the year before either, or the year before that—but he didn’t see another way. And so, he landed quietly on the wide, open-air dais at the temple, dropped the mass of shining gold metal he carried onto the ground, and gazed upon the child that he had known would be left there. In the moonlight it looked impossibly small. Even more astonishingly, it was still asleep after his landing.

The humans provided one abandoned child, every year, in each territory across the land. And in exchange, Darax and his brethren refrained from destroying the human towns and villages. They also left behind a portion of dragongold.

It didn’t matter that Darax had attempted to communicate with the humans in his territory that his sire was dead, and that he, his heir, neither wanted nor required the abandonment. It didn’t stop a child from appearing in the temple every year on this day.

The first year, after his hateful sire had succumbed to old age, he had tried to leave the abandonment ritual alone, thinking the humans wouldn’t possibly leave a child deserted after a day or two. But they had, and the child had died. The next year, he tried to take it back to the city gates, but was met with sharpened spears flung into the air, injuring his wings. Barely able to land, he left the child just outside the walls, where to his dismay, it was also left alone, and died. He was not willing to risk another one.

With a resigned air, he gently took up this new one in his front claws and flew off, his red-gold wings beating hard at the takeoff. He was hoping that Artaxa, his dame mother, would know what to do with it when he returned to their home in the cliffs. He looked down upon her small face and curly brown hair, and named her Lyla.

***

14 YEARS LATER

Lyla stood at the cliff entrance, her gaze on the horizon. In the distance, she could see Darax flying towards them with a small bundle in his claws. Three of her 13 younger siblings stood next to her, also watching.

This day brought a mixture of feelings each year—she was relieved, as she always was, to see the only father she ever knew returning safely from the human lands back to their home. She was also frustratingly melancholy, at the reminder of her own abandonment, and another year of evidence of the heartlessness of her people. She allowed herself a moment to imagine what her parents must’ve been like, to have given her up. She dreamed that she had been forced from their arms unwillingly, as the alternative was too difficult to bear. Then she chided herself for thinking about it at all, because it was all pointless anyways. She was here, because she had been an abandoned child.

She turned, and was greeted by the sight of Artaxa, the golden dragon who was mother to Darax, and was in many ways also mother to her and the rest of the abandoned children. Lyla had been the first, but she had gained a new sibling every year for the past 14 years.

"Lyla, my daughter," she nudged in a gentle voice, "go and ready the rest to receive our new family member."

Lyla smiled lightly and nodded, pushing down her sadness, and went to try and corral her many brothers and sisters. Their life here was good, and they took what happiness they could. Most importantly, they had each other.

Several minutes later she was lining them up, when she paused painfully at the spot where her second-oldest brother should be. Philippus had been abandoned two years after her, and they were close as they grew up together. Until, that is, he began to insist that he go back to the capital, to explain things—to explain that Darax didn’t want the sacrifices anymore, and that he could be taken back in.

By the time they realized he had left, it was too late. Lyla watched from the skies on Darax’s back as a man who looked like an older version of Philippus clubbed him in the head, hard. They left him outside the gates, where Darax and Lyla took him home to bury him.

They didn’t try to communicate with the people in the capital again.

A week after the annual arrival, after the youngest child had been settled and life started to return to normal, Lyla made her way towards the forest folk’s encampment. They were a very cautious and deferential people, but living in closer proximity to the dragon lair seemed to grant them a modicum of confidence towards them, and they were willing to talk and trade with Lyla on occasion in exchange for dragongold. Artaxa had told her to bring along someone else, but she’d been so desparate for time alone that she had slunk off when no one had been paying attention.

She got to the encampment with a bag of dragongold around her waist to trade, when she felt an uneasy air around her. She had been focused on her own thoughts on the way here, but now she looked around and saw several of the forest folk waving at her and trying to ward her off. Stopping abruptly, she looked ahead and made eye contact with a small group of people she had never seen before.

They appeared to be warriors, wearing armor and weapons upon their backs, and they seemed to be shocked by her appearance. She realized they were staring at her own armor. The forest folk were accustomed to her appearance, but these strangers clearly were not.

Kitted out in head-to-toe dragongold armor, Lyla didn’t realize what a spectacle she made. Her dragon protectors made sure that their entire brood was protected by the most indestructible material possible, which also happened to be the most valuable—dragongold. But this also meant that she was a target to an outsider who didn’t know who she was, or who her defenders were.

“You, girl!” one of the three heavily-armed men shouted, as they immediately made their way towards her. She didn’t hesitate, but turned and ran back into the forest towards the cliffs. Her heart pounded—how often had she been reminded of man’s cruelty?— and she knew that if they caught her, violence would ensue.

“Darax!” she screamed, as she sprinted through the undergrowth. He would never hear her from up high on the cliffs though, she realized as she flew through tree branches and over roots, the men hard on her heels. She fell through the brush and into a clearing, and realized they would be upon her in a moment. She screamed for Darax one last time, then turned in the clearing, pulling a golden knife from her belt.

The men stopped, a look of dread and terror on their faces. Lyla felt, rather than saw, Darax land behind her, hard, before he screamed.

Dragonfire erupted overhead, dousing two of the three men and immediately incinerating them. Lyla had never seen a dragon fight before. She had never understood the innate terror that humans held for them. Until now.

Darax leapt forward towards the third and only man left standing, and clamped down on him with a mighty forearm. His largest claw pierced straight through the man’s leg, who began to scream.

"Who are you," he snarled in a furious tone that brooked no patience.

The man struggled to explain, through the pain, that they were mercenaries, paid to kidnap the prince of the neighboring territory and bring him to the capital city here. They didn’t know anything about Darax or his brood of human children, which seemed to be what Darax wanted to know, because after the man admitted it, he too was killed with a blast of flame.

Lyla watched in shock, until she felt the dragon nudge at her shoulder.

"Let’s go home, little one," he said. She turned to him, confused.

“What about the prince, he wasn’t with them here,” she said.

"It isn’t our affair the games that these rulers of men play."

“You’re abandoning him.”

It seemed to strike a chord, because Darax flinched. It may have been a low blow to imply that he didn’t care. Lyla knew that he loathed humans who abandoned their young—she was evidence enough of that.

He considered, and then gave a familiar sigh. "Climb on then, let us go to find this prince."