The Dragon's Gambit

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Not that there was anyone alive who remembered that. That was the problem with human memories. They were so short. A few thousand years and it seemed all was forgotten. As far as their histories were concerned, the dragons had always been there. They are great celestial creatures, said one faction. They were terrible beasts, said another. Generations of scholars had debated over matter, much to the dragons’ amusement. They were gods! They were demons! They were creators of the world, they were destined to destroy it. They were a curse, they were a blessing. None could wholly agree on their nature, though that last one was perhaps the most… accurate.

What all could agree on was that the dragons were primordial. As old as the universe itself.

Which was of course the very thing they were all wrong on.

Oh, they were ancient, by far the oldest living things in the world. But primordial? No. In fact, they were fairly young in the grand scheme of things. Younger even than humans. The race of humans that is, not any particular humans.

After all, mankind had had a full 10,000 years head start before the first dragon had ever taken its first step into the Valley. Not that they’d ever let the humans know that. They might start getting uppity about it. And the last time that had happened… well… the dragons had given good reason for that to be the last time.

Well. Most of the dragons anyway.

That was the other thing humans were wrong about. Though, to be honest, they were wrong about quite a great deal of things, but we were focusing on the dragons for the moment. Dragons were not particularly like-minded.

One could easily go mad trying to comprehend the individual thoughts of creatures that had seen millennia several times over, watching the river that carve the Valley widen and twist and change, rise and fall, had seen empires soar and then come crashing down. It would be like trying to drink the ocean in a single gulp.

But summarizing the patterns of an individual dragon, guessing at the typical personality of one? One needed only dangle a bit off the edge of sanity for that.

Some, like Kalfani, genuinely liked humans and would be quite happy if they all lived long healthy lives. Truly a blessing to all those who lived on the banks of his streams. Others not so much.

Imara? Well, that one didn’t care one way or another about humans. Not when there were far more interesting things in the world. Like carp.

Of course, some dragons, like Mataji, just wanted to watch the world burn. They could prove problematic. Just ask the poor souls who survive in the blasted lands of the northern desert.

But not all dragons were wholly malicious, nor benevolent or apathetic.

Otherwise, this chronicle wouldn’t exist now would it?

Take the first dragon for instance. Najar. He is a bit more complex than his siblings. Terrible troublemaker. Probably because he’s just so pretty. He tends to dabble in a bit of everything. Answering the prayers of farmers? It keeps his valley nice and green. Starting a fire here or there? Sure. Go for it. But the whole world? He’s not going to go through the work of destroying the world, not when it was being so darn interesting. It just needed a nudge now and then.

If one wishes to understand precisely how the Valley and the rest of the world found itself in its present situation, that is, the mild inconvenience of hurdling towards catastrophe, then it is worth noting that we were set on this course by Najar’s last nudge.

It was a small nudge. The first Najar had done in centuries. It's quite possible he knew what he was doing, and yet, given his nature, one is inclined to believe he is just as lost as the rest of us. He simply rides the chaos with more grace. It was simple really. A pebble thrown into a pond. Only we have to live with the ripples of disaster.

A girl fell in love with a boy. And a dragon couldn’t help but take notice.

She was insignificant, at least as far as human histories are concerned. When or where she was born, and who were her parents, none were worth noting. (And honestly, they still aren’t). A peasant, she lived just outside of the capital of the greatest empire thus far to rise in the valley. Ilokan was glided and splendid, rising from the banks of the river like a crown. The peasant girl’s fishing village was decidedly less so. A little hamlet of mudbrick huts with thatched roofs, she likely spent her days helping around the house or collecting fruits from the commons, along with the other mundane things in the lives of peasants.

That is till one day when she was sent down to the river bank to collect the crabs her father had set for shellfish. It just so happened that it was the very same day the King and his family were making a royal procession down the river. One can imagine the sight, the grand yacht of the royals, swathed in purple and gold, the King, his wife, and his many sons and daughters dressed in all their splendor, flanked with warships. Beautiful and powerful, like a sun sailing over the water.

Who can blame a girl, kneeling in the muddy waters, dragging small tin cages filled with squirming crawfish beneath the hot golden sun, for pausing to watch the majesty of a flotilla? (Surely there are some out there, but they are likely in the minority). She sat there watching as the ships sailed closer and closer, the great banners fluttering in the wind, the light glittering off golden coronets. It was as the ships were passing, continuing down the river that she saw him.

A boy. A prince. The prince. Now, as is so often the case, history knows a great deal about him. From the moment he was born, every action of his was painstakingly recorded. Recorded is his genealogy going back ten generations, his favorite foods, his full names, and many titles. None of which are particularly important to this account. (And if it balances just a bit, what harm is there?). What is of note is that he was the eldest son of the King by his late first wife, heir to his throne. And at that very moment, sailing down the river, his arm growing tired from politely waving to the shore, he spotted a pretty girl.

The prince and the peasant, starcrossed if there was a pair.

The moment passed, and the ship sailed on. The sun set and the days went by. A spark however had been lit. That spark was given fuel when a few weeks later the royal procession came back up the river. Prince and peasant searched, shore and ship respectively in those fleeting moments, for one another. And they found each other. Across the water, their eyes met. The flame flickered life.

Three more years went by, each year another procession, more fleeting moments between prince and peasant from across the water. She was always sure to volunteer to empty traps, to steal those moments. He was always sure to stand tall, wrapped in the finest brightest golden threads. And they always saw one another, their eyes meeting, and that flame growing between.

It was in that last year that they finally met one another. The prince had grown into a handsome young man, with bright brown eyes and umber skin, majestic in his fine clothing and regalia. He had learned to wield the power and authority at his fingertips. And he used it.

Coming ashore he was perhaps the first royal to ever think to visit the mudbrick fishing village. There he found her. No longer a mere girl, she had grown into a pretty young woman, with skin like smooth sandalwood, long black dreadlocks, and eyes as dark as night.

That evening the village threw a party for the prince, and he and his love danced and drank and talked together all through the night. She was witty and her tongue sharp. He was kind and his heart was large. Even the King couldn’t help but be amused by the sight of such happiness.

Soon they had formed a pattern. While the prince spent his days in the capital, he showered his love with gifts. First, it was flowers that arrived at her door daily, picked from the finest palace gardens. Then dresses, made by the Queen’s seamstresses. Jewels; bangles, diadems, and necklaces were all made to adorn her.

She in turn sent him medicinal herbs she gathered and collected, samples of her cooking, her sugar-covered samosas, and her chili-spiced ugali and rice. And more than anything, she gave him her heart.

It shouldn’t be mistaken for a perfect idle, there are problems with any relationship, and more so when the chasm between social classes is quite so vast. They couldn’t marry of course. The King would never allow it. And the young couple, so engrossed in their love, didn’t mind. So amorous were they that the usual consequences of such affection occurred. They had a child. A daughter, as lovely as her mother and as sweet as her father.

But the cycle of life does not only give. It must also take. The prince’s father, while enjoying a swim in the river, drowned. One must wonder if Najar had anything to do with that. He’d probably deny it. Still. The river is the dragon’s domain. How easy it would have been for him to drag a mere man beneath its waves.

Whatever the truth, the prince became the King, and things only got more complicated. (The very fact that such drama unfolds directly after, leads credence to Najar’s involvement in the old king’s death). The issue of marriage became more pressing. Nobles and royals from within the valley and from far away, sent portraits, gifts, and fortunes, all offering their daughters, sisters, and other relatives’ hands in marriage. The King rejected them all. Admirable in a lover. Problematic for a monarch (given the importance humans seem to place on dynastic connections in their royalty).

As for the mother of his child? Well, it is a hard half-life for a king’s mistress. Too high for her peers, but certainly beneath the likes of royalty. Neither the freedom of the squalor nor the power of the crown. Love is strong, but everyone has their limits don’t they? It’s one thing to be treated like a peasant. It’s another when done so with a king in your bed.

She made a plan. She waited till he came to visit. Till they dined together, and the dark of night had fallen. Till their little girl was fast asleep, dreaming sweet fantasies. She wait till they were alone, till they were in one another’s arms. Then she asked. She asked for him to marry her, to raise her to be his Queen.

Oh, how things might have been different if he’d just said yes then. How much hardship would have been spared? How many lives would have been saved? How… boring that would have been for our dear dragon.

“I love you,” he said, “I adore you.” Sweet words. Tender kisses pressed to her cheek, trying to wipe away tears. All true. But they were all ash when it came to his answer.

No.

She left him that night. She ran. Tripping and stumbling through the dark, she ran. She ran till she was somewhere familiar. She returned to that same place where all those years ago, she’d first seen the love of her life passing by, sailing down the river. She didn’t realize it till her toes were sinking into the mud of the riverbank, the water lapping up at her ankles, plastering her dress to her legs, the water reaching her knees. The river was still in the night. It had turned silver beneath the moonlight. A long twisting metallic surface of light cut through the dark landscape.

She sobbed. Hard and unbridled. Her heart twisted, the cracks spreading. Her tears were burning and blinding. So much so, that she didn’t even notice when all the stars shining on the vast vault of the sky winked out of existence.

She likely didn’t even see Najar rising out of the river, the water falling away from his massive form, his head first, his long neck twisting free from the waves. Next came his limbs: legs like baobab trees, corded through with muscle and tipped with razor-sharp claws. Wings greater than the sails of the largest ship of any human armada, unfurling and throwing water into the air like rainfall. His scales were large and hard as steel. They shined like freshly polished gold, moonlight glinting against them.

But it was not till Najar spoke that she noticed him.

“Oh,” his voice was deep and sweet. It verberated through the night like honey-coated razors, was surprisingly low, as if he whispered in her ear. “Someone in love should not shed such tears of sorrow.”

She jumped, looking up. She froze when she saw him. “Oh heavens.”

(The fact that she was able to say anything when faced with Najar is impressive. Most tend to have… less dignified reactions.)

Najar lowered his head to her. His eyes, each larger than her, were like a hawk’s. They blazed like molten gold, swirling and shifting in color, brilliant with an intellect far beyond anything she could have ever comprehended.

“What do you say we change that?”

“I can’t,” she said.

“Oh,” Najar said with a low hum that seemed to warm her to her bones. He radiated heat and power. Her tears dried against her cheeks. “But what if you could?”

She shook her head. “Unless you can make me into a Princess, it’s impossible.”

The dragon shifted, one eye focusing on her. “I can’t do that,” (Not, strictly true) “but, your relationship is unequal in its power.”

She, to her credit, let out a laugh. A harsh, sardonic laugh. “Of course. He is a king.”

“There are things more powerful than a king,” whispered the dragon. (One can almost imagine Najar preening at that). “We can balance the scales. You can have power. A great deal of power.” The dragon’s words wrapped around her, warm and as sweet as butter. She knew them to be true. Najar extended a claw towards her. “You need only take it.”

She took a breath, her chest rising and falling deeply. She stared into the swirling waves of burning gold of the dragon’s eye. She could have everything she ever wanted. Her love, truly hers. They would be a family. They would be together. She knew her answer before the words ever left her lips. So did the dragon.

“How do I ta—“

Najar’s claw swiped faster than any human eye could follow. Pain exploded in her arm. A long deep gash tore itself down its length from bicep to wrist. It crackled with heat. Her whole body felt as if she’d been struck by lightning. Blood. So much blood. It filled her vision. It was the last thing she saw before she collapsed into the river and darkness swallowed her whole.

She woke to the sound of the King calling her name. The sun was on her face, the water of the river lapping gently against her. His arms cradle her. His thumbs rubbed hurried circles against her smooth dark skin, trying to bring warmth back to them. He knelt in the swallows of the river. Her eyes fluttered open. Brown and red water still swirled around them, mud and blood the only sign of her ordeal the previous night. He leaned over her, his eyes wide and full of concern.

“My love,” he said, “my love, my love.” He said it again and again.

“My heart,” she silenced him, reaching up to touch his face.

“I was so worried when you ran off. I searched all night for you. When…” He gulped. “When I found you in the river, your hair had gone white, a-and.” His eyes glistened with tears threatening to fall. “My love I feared the worst.”

“No,” she said quickly, banishing the thought. “No, my heart, I—“ That was when she noticed her arm. It was perfectly fine. There wasn’t even the faintest hint of a scar. No. She was better than fine. Her skin was smoothed, and any blemish or imperfection washed away. She felt stronger. She flexed her hand and the air seemed to crackle at her fingertips. She felt… powerful. The world seemed brighter, more focused, the colors more vibrant. She took a deep breath and felt as if she were breathing for the first time in her life. “I’m fine, my heart.”

“I can not lose you,” He said. “I will not you.” He took in a shuddering breath as he kissed her. “I was wrong,” he said, love guiding his words. “Be my Queen.”

Her kiss was answer enough.

It’s a sweet story, isn’t it? (If you’re into that kind of thing). And perhaps if that were the end, it’d be a great romance. Unfortunately for the Valley, for humanity, for the world, that’s not the case. That’s not the end. That’s how a King’s all-consuming love, began consuming truly everything; every thought and nerve and memory in his regal little head, burning a slow path straight towards madness. That’s how a newly-minted witch became queen.

You see, as they sat there, on that riverbank, locked in a loving embrace, neither of them noticed the golden dragon’s molten eye watching them as it disappeared beneath the waves. They didn’t notice his thunderous laughter as he settled in the depths of the river. No notice how the entire universe seemed to shift, ever so slightly off-kilter.

Dragons. They aren’t primordial. They weren’t there at the birth of the universe. But they are just powerful enough to mess with it. Najar’s little nudge? On the surface, it’s meddlesome matchmaking. In truth, it’s a pebble tossed down a mountain. A pebble that starts an avalanche. One, decades in the making, sending us all right for oblivion.

And the worst part?

The worst part is, none of that, is the worst part.