until my will is done

There weren't always Dragons in the Valley. There had been another ruling family once upon a time, or so my father tells me. A man chosen by The Immortal Himself to lead our lands fairly and kindly. Then the Dragons came. And I suppose that even a man blessed by a god was no match to one that broke bread with fire-breathing beasts. We call the beasts dragons too, but it is the family which rides upon them that are the true monsters.

"Mind yourself by the water," my father warns, his voice nearly as frail and weak as his father’s had been in the months before he died.

"I'll be fine," I say, then press my lips against his fingers. The gesture means something akin to 'I leave you in good health' in the southern parts of the Valley. I probably use it more than most, in what is most likely a futile attempt to ward off old age from claiming my father's life.

"Mayhaps it can wait," he suggests. "You went only last week."

"Our clothes need washing, father," I point out gently. It is really his clothes that need washing. They stink of a man languishing in sickness, and part of me fears that the longer he lays in them, the sicker he will become. "I won't be long."

It is a lie, of course. As awful as my father's clothes smell, and as cherished as moments outside of the oppressive loneliness of our cottage are, he is right – it is much too soon for me to make the ninety minute journey to the spring where I do our washing.

The main reason I am venturing outside today is for the execution. Don't be confused, executions are rather common, as the Dragons punish generously. And their beasts are frequently used to deliver the sentence. But it is rare that members from the victim's surrounding towns are forced to watch. No, an audience is usually reserved for the most heinous of crimes: treason.

The story goes that some senile old man had spoken out against the beasts frequent practice of burning valuable land to a crisp, and in return, the Dragons had repaid the comment with the expected brutality. Of course, the official story is that he plotted against the lives of the king and his daughters, but few believe it.

Mentally shaking the thoughts from my head, I flee my home before Father can muster up any other protestations. The last thing I need is for him to realise what I am truly going to do; he might not be the young man he was once, but he still held onto all the radical ideals of his youth with an unmatched obstinance. I could already hear the hushed gasps of onlookers as he began spouting his true feelings about our ruling family.

They soar above me now, the Dragons, their family pets coiling in the sky, multicoloured and awful, as I walk the winding path towards the large grassy field that offers our rulers the space to terrorise and kill efficiently.

The fire pouring from the dragon's jaws tear the sky apart; violent streams of red and orange rip the ocean of blue to shreds, and it bleeds black smoke that curls around the tips of our trees.

The Dragons don't care though – beast or rider. It is not unusual to come across leagues of burning fields, as our rulers often take their animals out to play during the day. Father had mentioned earlier that he thought he heard the screams of the dragons more often recently. Even late into the night, long after the last candle in our village had burned out. If it were true and not some figment of his addled mind, then that would be out of the ordinary. At night, the Dragons normally slept, and their pet beasts roamed underground for food.

In my long thirty years, I had walked the route to this opening so many times, I could do it with my eyes closed. It had always been a bleak journey, where one's life was often in jeopardy. Members of the crowd had frequently been burned themselves if the executioner found them to be sad or disgusted by the murder taking place in front of them. My father used to boycott them, and would rally other like minded people to join him. I inherited none of his courage.

"Sad business, this is," a gossipy lady called Maery comments as she nears me. "Sad sad business."

"Maery," her husband hisses before I can respond, gripping her arm roughly. "Shut yer mouth before you get us both done."

Maery grumbles something under her breath, but makes no further comment, and allows herself to be dragged along by her spouse. And it is something in the admittedly reluctant, but quick abandon of her rebellious thoughts that stirs something in me to take a left and walk away from the lines of people walking to the right. In that moment, I decide that I will wash my clothes today. I have a small bundle of them with me, as part of the ruse I pulled for my father, and so it will not be a completely wasted trip.

Perhaps due to the increased anxiety that someone will note my absence, and march the Dragons to my home, where my defenceless, reckless father lays, I reach the freshwater spring in a mere thirty minutes. No screams have echoed through the trees, so I can only assume that the execution has not yet occurred.

Not one thing has changed. Nothing ever changes in this small patch of nature. Not the placement of the rocks that lead to the freshwater spring; not the gossiping of the old wives washing their families clothes; not the tall oak tree that my grandfather claimed his grandfather had planted. There was a quiet comfort in being amongst things that had not changed in decades. In knowing that even after my father and I had both passed on, this spring would continue, silent and unchanging, and another thirty-something year old woman would wash her clothes and soak up the few peaceful moments that can be stolen here.

Then I hear the ear splitting screech that the dragons emit when they bring forth their flames. I try to force myself to ignore the sound, to soak and scrub the clothes before me, but the volume seems to increase. Until it is in every crevice of every bone in my body. I believe it to be some guilt induced hallucination, until I see the rocks and stones around me shaking.

They've come for me, I realise quickly. Maery or her husband or some other hapless neighbour informed on me and now they have come to burn me too. My last coherent thought is that my father will most likely die alone, rotting silently in that damned house, waiting for me to come home.

I walk as steadily as I can towards the source of the screeches, as steadily as I can towards my certain death, and I quickly see one of their beasts, more than twenty feet long, almost as high as the tallest tree, a startling green. Its mouth is open so I assume some noise must be coming from it, but I don't hear it, I don't hear anything except my heart beating against my rib cage, and ringing in my ears. And then it turns to face me, with shockingly human eyes, a soft mint colour, and it is almost as if it invades my mind;

I see a man, young and brown and tall, with coarse dark hair wrapped in a long braid. Someone outside of my sight takes a dagger and cuts the braid off, causing the man to fall to his knees.

"Help me," he begs, and the raw desperation in his voice haunts me. "Give me something that will kill their beasts."

"It is not the beasts you should fear," a solemn voice intones. "Fear men. Always. You are a cruel breed."

The man scowls bitterly at the unhelpful response and lets out a frustrated yell. "You have cursed me!"

"I have chosen you," the voice corrects. "You and your line will serve me."

"I serve no one," the man spits.

"Then your son will. Or your son's son. Your line will perpetuate until my will is done."

I had never seen such hatred before I gazed upon this man's face. It was etched into every line and wrinkle. And then, before I even realise, the man is aging before me, until he grows old and withered, his long black hair now grey and thin, and his angry brown eyes are sad and clouded. He focuses his stare on me, as if he can see me, and says,

"I have chosen you."