...a few more evenings to go...stay tuned...
I settle in to this hall that my captors deem magical. It is
to them a place of reverence, a towering chamber with soaring ceilings supported
by buttresses that rise to a domed finale. The hall is illuminated even on this
gray day by the massive windows filled with colored symbols of their history, a
history that I deem is long in war. I lower my eyes as I have no desire to look
upon their heritage.
A single chime echoes and calls the attention to all
gathered. The dais before me is not empty as is normally the case. She sits
beside the throne curled up nearly in a ball. She is so small. I struggle to
take my eyes from her as I hear the footfalls of the King of Whitehall shuffle
across the dirty carpet as he emerges from the door behind the throne. Yet I am
pulled away at last as my captor steps into the shadowed light and takes his
place before the throne. His right hand firmly wrapped around his staff, he
lowers himself and looks directly at my eyes. He commands all within this hall.
He smiles his wicked smile, his white stringy hair falling
to either side of his weathered face. He is old, far older than anyone of his
lineage should be, all to my failings. My eyes search behind his chair and my
sight claims my prize, that which has kept him alive through all the long
years. Caged in its own prison it sits in the dull light, its bronze hue faded
from the years, my prize, my egg, perhaps the last egg of a race of titans. It
is only the magic held within that holds the king’s life force. I look back to
the dais at the sound of his voice.
“Nivä”.
It is the first time I can recall the sound of my own name.
I am surprised.
“We have a visitor.” He looks down to his left passing his arm
above the dirty child. My heart again begins to falter as I take in her state.
She is dirty, her blonde hair dull in the light of his cathedral, her feet
bare. He returns his gaze to me. “I have a task for you this day. Journey to
the West Country and tell me of the state of Jeshion Hall. Tell me that my
enemy has fallen and the West Country now belongs to me. Tell me this princess
has nothing to return to and she is my prize.” He lifts his arm and waves me
away. “Go.”
I lower my head at his command as I gently probe her
thoughts before I turn away. She stares up at me with wide, blue eyes that
shimmer even in the oppression of this place. She is not afraid of me though I
sense hesitation, but there is an emotion I can not touch. I do not know of it.
I narrow my gaze as I begin to turn away from the dais. In all my years I have
no knowledge of this aspect of humanity. Perhaps it is because she is a child.
Perhaps.
As I make my way out of the palace it is a struggle as the
passages are not made for one of my size though they have been adapted
slightly. As I step through the last barrier and look to the gray clouds above
I again feel the westerly wind across my face. Within seconds I am above the
earthly plane putting as much distance between myself and my prison as I can.
Free again I roll and dive among the currents as they lift me to the heavens. A
dragon’s world is at home as much in the air as on the ground. As I look down
the forests pass into mountains within the blink of an eye and those mountains
to meadows once lush and vibrant, now trampled and flat from the roads of man.
Even as I lament the failings of my race my thoughts begin
to drift back to the young princess. This war has taken its toll on every
living thing yet rarely have I thought about its mark on a child. Men make
their own wars and are welcome to live and die by them. But what of the
children? What is left for them to grow into? Who is left for them?
My thoughts have taken me further than I believed and I am
quickly above the Western fences. As I leave them behind I see that they are
broken, hardly a barrier to be used in defense. As I look forward a dark pillar
rises from the west where Jeshion Hall has stood for generations. The smoke
rises directly up as an arrow for no breeze blows from the distant sea to alter
its course. As with the fields of Whitehall the road to Jeshion is trampled and
nearly dead. This war has left nearly nothing alive for either side.
As I near the place of Jeshion the smell of battle assaults
me even at this height. I see the fires burning, the fields stripped bare to
the dirt itself. The black soot that rises from what is left of Jeshion Hall
singes my nostrils and I must veer away. The ancient timbers within the stone
walls burn, the fires dying as with everything else held within this land. The
West Country is open to Whitehall, but there is little left of it. Such is the
prize of war.
No comments:
Post a Comment