The Last Dragon
There was a time in which those with power were those who could fly. And those stuck like ants upon the earth were merely servants. We were merely servants. Property, like so many statues tucked into a dragon's hoard.
Day by day, the dragons lived in accordance with one another. They existed in their societies, traded their items, hoarded their gold and their goods and their people. And day by day, they lived. And day by day, they taught us how to live.
But of course, things never last the same way. For the dragons, things changed.
They fell.
And we rose.
Cielaveskarraron was known throughout the kingdoms for her brilliant silver scales and her skill in flight. Sky Sculptor, she was called. Weaver of Clouds. She spun magic from the sky and loosed beauty on the wind. And as a dragon of talent and reknown, she was courted. Dragons from across the land came to offer her their hoards and their honors. They asked to share in her land and in her flight. But always, she turned to the sky. Always, she returned to the clouds.
Wynonina was merely a person. She worked the land like so many people did. With her hands in the dirt and her eyes on her hands.
Cielaveskarraron and Wynonina met on a day like any other, as any other dragon and person would. The Sky Sculptor descending from the clouds. Wynonina craning her head up from the ground.
They met like any other, but they came to know each other unlike anything else. And they despaired.
For how does a dragon love a person? They lived their lives at such different scales and with vastly different scopes. Cielaveskarraron could never truly leave the sky. And Wynonina would always be beholden to the ground.
But still. The Sky Sculptor visited Wynonina by night. She crept onto the farm where Wynonina tended to her lord's lands. And they spoke to one another. Ciela spoke of clouds and the magic she cupped beneath her wings. Wynonina spoke of dirt and dust and coaxing life out of seed and sweat.
A day came. A day like any other.
A day when Cielaveskarraron, the Sky Sculptor, the Weaver of Clouds, landed for the last time. She folded her wings like she never would again. She took her lover's hand in her own and promised to walk through their lives in that way. Hand in hand. Eye to eye. Person to person.
For a time, they lived their lives in this way. They worked Cielaveskarraron's lands as only a dragon and a farmer can. With magic and dirt and small, mortal hands. And for a time, they were happy. For a time, they were together.
But of course, things never last the same way. All things change.
And all things end.
There are few things as fierce as a dragon's pride. A dragon's pride is not to be contained, it is not to be restrained, it is not to be slighted.
When word spread across the land that Cielaveskarraron, the Sky Sculptor, the Cloud Weaver, chose to abandon her majesty, to become a mere mortal. Chose to pass up all of those suitors, who offered gold, who offered land, who offered glory. Chose instead to love a person. Well...
Draconic pride could not stand for such a thing.
And so one day, a day just like any another, they came in the night. To teach the world that no person could ever deserve a dragon's majesty. Yet, the world would never know who struck that night. For draconic pride took a coward's way out.
Wynonina was lured from the bed that she shared with her lover and when she lay bleeding, she bled alone in the dark. Cielaveskarraron discovered her lover in the weak light of morning, in the dirt, blood long since stilled in her chest. And when Cielaveskarraron, the Sky Sculptor, the Weavor of Clouds, discovered the distruction that dragon's pride had wrought, oh.
There are few things like a dragon's pride.
But a dragon's grief. A dragon's wrath. That is not to be matched.
When Cielaveskarraron came, she came over the ground. She came in the night and the dark and wrapped in her fury. She came so quickly and so deadly that no dragon could stand before her. She came for any dragon that could have possibly felled her lover. She came for every dragon they had ever cared for. She came for every dragon they had ever met. One by one, she worked her way through the land until she could spill no more draconic blood. Until there was nothing left for her to destroy. Until Cielaveskarraron, the Destroyer, had torn them apart so completely that not even bones remained.
And then, she returned.
She returned to the place where her lover lay, hands coated in a dragon's wrath. And she returned, having become so acquainted with death, that she met Death as a friend. And she asked her friend for a favor.
Cielaveskarraron, the Sky Sculptor, the Weavor of Clouds, the Destroyer, the Lover, she asked Death to return her love to her.
And Death, who owed so much to her, replied.
Should you, in your travels, meet a pair of women who refuse to let go of one another's hands, be sure to thank them. For it is possible that you owe them your very freedom. It is possible that you are speaking to the very last dragon.
Day by day, the dragons lived in accordance with one another. They existed in their societies, traded their items, hoarded their gold and their goods and their people. And day by day, they lived. And day by day, they taught us how to live.
But of course, things never last the same way. For the dragons, things changed.
They fell.
And we rose.
Cielaveskarraron was known throughout the kingdoms for her brilliant silver scales and her skill in flight. Sky Sculptor, she was called. Weaver of Clouds. She spun magic from the sky and loosed beauty on the wind. And as a dragon of talent and reknown, she was courted. Dragons from across the land came to offer her their hoards and their honors. They asked to share in her land and in her flight. But always, she turned to the sky. Always, she returned to the clouds.
Wynonina was merely a person. She worked the land like so many people did. With her hands in the dirt and her eyes on her hands.
Cielaveskarraron and Wynonina met on a day like any other, as any other dragon and person would. The Sky Sculptor descending from the clouds. Wynonina craning her head up from the ground.
They met like any other, but they came to know each other unlike anything else. And they despaired.
For how does a dragon love a person? They lived their lives at such different scales and with vastly different scopes. Cielaveskarraron could never truly leave the sky. And Wynonina would always be beholden to the ground.
But still. The Sky Sculptor visited Wynonina by night. She crept onto the farm where Wynonina tended to her lord's lands. And they spoke to one another. Ciela spoke of clouds and the magic she cupped beneath her wings. Wynonina spoke of dirt and dust and coaxing life out of seed and sweat.
A day came. A day like any other.
A day when Cielaveskarraron, the Sky Sculptor, the Weaver of Clouds, landed for the last time. She folded her wings like she never would again. She took her lover's hand in her own and promised to walk through their lives in that way. Hand in hand. Eye to eye. Person to person.
For a time, they lived their lives in this way. They worked Cielaveskarraron's lands as only a dragon and a farmer can. With magic and dirt and small, mortal hands. And for a time, they were happy. For a time, they were together.
But of course, things never last the same way. All things change.
And all things end.
There are few things as fierce as a dragon's pride. A dragon's pride is not to be contained, it is not to be restrained, it is not to be slighted.
When word spread across the land that Cielaveskarraron, the Sky Sculptor, the Cloud Weaver, chose to abandon her majesty, to become a mere mortal. Chose to pass up all of those suitors, who offered gold, who offered land, who offered glory. Chose instead to love a person. Well...
Draconic pride could not stand for such a thing.
And so one day, a day just like any another, they came in the night. To teach the world that no person could ever deserve a dragon's majesty. Yet, the world would never know who struck that night. For draconic pride took a coward's way out.
Wynonina was lured from the bed that she shared with her lover and when she lay bleeding, she bled alone in the dark. Cielaveskarraron discovered her lover in the weak light of morning, in the dirt, blood long since stilled in her chest. And when Cielaveskarraron, the Sky Sculptor, the Weavor of Clouds, discovered the distruction that dragon's pride had wrought, oh.
There are few things like a dragon's pride.
But a dragon's grief. A dragon's wrath. That is not to be matched.
When Cielaveskarraron came, she came over the ground. She came in the night and the dark and wrapped in her fury. She came so quickly and so deadly that no dragon could stand before her. She came for any dragon that could have possibly felled her lover. She came for every dragon they had ever cared for. She came for every dragon they had ever met. One by one, she worked her way through the land until she could spill no more draconic blood. Until there was nothing left for her to destroy. Until Cielaveskarraron, the Destroyer, had torn them apart so completely that not even bones remained.
And then, she returned.
She returned to the place where her lover lay, hands coated in a dragon's wrath. And she returned, having become so acquainted with death, that she met Death as a friend. And she asked her friend for a favor.
Cielaveskarraron, the Sky Sculptor, the Weavor of Clouds, the Destroyer, the Lover, she asked Death to return her love to her.
And Death, who owed so much to her, replied.
Should you, in your travels, meet a pair of women who refuse to let go of one another's hands, be sure to thank them. For it is possible that you owe them your very freedom. It is possible that you are speaking to the very last dragon.
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