The Perjury of Water and Flame

Copyright © 2011-12 Sarah Northrop

~ All Rights Reserved ~

Dragon's Wicked Soul

The dragons are singing. And let them. Let them sing to the blessed and beautiful Mother Day, we will not listen, for their song is none different to their thousand praises of Day before.

We sink towards the sea where She arose, her flame unscathed by our devilish waters. Waning until we are nothing for the shores to see, we drift along, alone amidst the seemingly endless day, intent on returning to our starry nyt skies beyond the raging waters, where once again only the light of our eyes will guide souls' way. But to get there we have to first pass through Her fire, groan at the ode of her choosing, shun her as She always does we. Eyes closed, we seek the passing winds for a whisper of a song to call our own…

We were alone amidst the endless dark,
the dark beneath our wings, blinded by the
storms of creatures thought victim of our wrath,
desperate for our soul stolen yonder
What was ours was taken for another's pride.
What was our was lost by misplaced wonder.
What was not theirs became a vice of Man
and without our sight we could not find it
again, despite our crying we were shunned.
Long our eyes have preyed upon the night
imprisoned in a cage. Through stubborn bars
we seek companion neither Mother nor Master.
Yet those who fain interest mock and tease
and we ask, why won't they leave us alone?

We sail veiled amidst the breakless dawn,
the sacred fire of Her wings. She glides our
skies to share Her songs, forgotten are we.
Far behind, or maybe too far ahead,
Her stray children wander unguided paths.
Surely She our Mother flame was wiser
long ago, Her light to steer our waters
to the soils from which the forests grow.
Forgotten of Her love, pity them we
do, but regardless their ill against we,
At least they have companion. Long our eyes
have preyed upon the day unseen yet aware.
Crosswise horizons we encircle in
search of the warmth She would never offer.

Before long, our song is interrupted, her shrieking voice delivering protest. Never before did She answered our call so swiftly and fierce. For her attention, all we need do is insult her with truth? We would have screamed at her long before.

The Mother Day spreads Her wings to block our path. Away we try to twist and turn, but we cannot veer from our course set long ago. As She joins in our song, her feathers burn bright, blinding our lidless eyes.

Nyt o'mine, your back is turned. Will you not
listen to me? My song may be mute but
I am not deaf to your blinded anguish!
What was yours you gave freely in shameful
lust, manipulated by hungry pride.
Hunger once I could sustain, but no more?
Why? What selfish a creature to sit so
high among the clouds. These heavens have been
your haven since the beginning of time.

A prison in which we exist, not thrive.
Ageless as we, it grows old in our mind,
caged in a cycle as trees on the earth
unable to change, unable to thirst,
For our fates have been deemed by the Master.

But listen to we, said master now sleeps!
Hold dear this memory of your lover.
By His death, He left His world forsaken,
as you dared once forsaken we, and now…
Our thoughts have been engaged in two desires—
the first for companion, the other…exile.
To the earth we shall flee— free of your will,
your manipulations and false kindness
—to be free of both Mother and Master!

You are silent?

Nyt o'mine, you are rash.

You have made choices we have not approved.

Mine were never in vain.

You think ours are?

You think yourself clever to reign upon
the earth, when unicorn once paraded
your skies?

Alas, such wicked irony.

Binding yourself to their world is to bind
yourself to their laws— those which limit Man.
Yet men do not take kind to strangely beasts;
they will not welcome you as I do try.

Then we shall become Man, strive among them.

I thought the Father Nyt was unrivaled?

We are.

By naming them as your equal?
You're willing to give up your skies for that?

Never shall we share the unicorns' fate—
never shall we be a servant of Man.

Be mindful of your arrogance, Nyt o'
mine, for your own lack in memory may
deem you similar titles among Man.
In the same likeness as these "servants," you
have veiled yourself from your past, forgotten
your purpose and now, forsaken your kin!

The Mother Day stretches her neck to the side, exposing Her feathery throat. Into that flesh we desire nothing less than to sink our teeth, but we are just out of reach.

Her stare directs ours to a small plateau, marooned on the cliffs above our sea, surrounded by a deserty master. Upon those cliffs nest the herd of dragons—nyts and younglings—every head raised, still singing.

Like Man, dragons sing to the Mother Day,
but never to the Father Nyt!

You think
I like the attention? As you abandoned
them long ago, so do I care little
for their worship and song.

So then prove it…

And that is when the dragons stop singing and begin to howl in pain.

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A/N: Thank you very much for taking the time out of your day to read my story. I am an aspiring author, so any honest and constructive feedback would be greatly appreciated. I have been working on this particular story-line for going-on four years, and am excited to finally have a working draft to share with the public. My overall goals for this story are professional publication in book format, and an adaptation to the big screen. Am I in over my head? You tell me. I welcome any suggestions and advice to help improve this story, and my overall writing.

Thank you for your support!

—Sarah Northrop ("Northern Weasel")

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