A Wounded Dragon in the Battlefield

In The Midst of The Battlefield

Flames roared on either side of him as he ran through what was a forest. Trees that once stood hundreds upon hundreds of feet tall with vibrant red leaves. That tasted of honey now nothing but a shadow of what they once were. The trees are barren and burnt but still holding on as persistently as the dragons to survive.

What livilness there was left  proved to be hazardous as their branches snatched at his wings, poking at the membrane that held them together. Possibly thinking that he was there to finish them off, as he was a fire breather after all, and the trees can’t read intent. So they must take everything as a threat.

The worst threat was on the way; he could hear the sounds of the metal wings whipping the air in their wake. Unlike the ones on their side, who didn’t make a peep. Gliding smoothly through the air like his wings.

No time to dwell on the difference of sounds. If they are coming, they must be after him. He’s the last one in the unit that they hadn’t caught after all. He still remembers his comrades' screams as they were engulfed by flames or the more lucky ones killed quickly in the many many explosions.

He tries not to think of the ones whose wings were bound and taken to whatever hellish base the others were camped at.

Flying would guarantee they would spot me

He reasoned with himself in truth, though he was afraid. More afraid than at the beginning of his mission. He wasn’t for sure how he would handle being tortured. But he knew he wasn’t keen on betraying his comrades even by force.

So he tears  himself free, muffles  a scream, and takes off running. Knocking the branches aside quicker and quicker as the sound nears. He could almost hear whispers of his hunters' voices. From what he can tell, they are making bets. Bets  about him. Pushing him forward even faster.

By the time he stops to take a breath, he is by a nearly dried-up stream with only a trickle of water left running, which he laps up in gulps. So thirsty. So tired.

It is only then that he takes stock of his current condition. The blood stains of his fallen comrades are gold and glistening. His armor, once gold and shining, is dented and soot-covered. Then he inspects his wings. The branches did more damage than he first realized. His wings were in tatters.

I can’t fly anymore. Oh god I can’t fly anymore. I must get to a magician; surely they can fix this.

Then he looks up and sees two humans looking down upon him, decked in metal suits. Standing on the metal wings. Then all he saw was light.

After the Flames

He is crawling out of the dark, stinging smoke. With only one arm. The other is gone at the shoulder. He can feel it trying to regrow, the muscles, bone, and skin forming and reforming, even creating a nub before again collapsing.

Though it is no use, each attempt just weakens him further. Once more, he finds himself cursing his luck at having missed his one chance to be blessed by the robot magician, which would have given him the ability to regrow limbs even after three centuries. But such is the luck of a five-year-old.

Besides sulking as life drains is such a waste of time, especially when there is so little. He wagers he only has a week left to live at best. So why die in the midst of all this suffering and pain? Time to go home. If there is still a home.

So he rises to his feet one at a time, stumbling at first as he finds his rhyme. Miles he treks through vast wilderness full of craters and dust, nothing more, nothing less. Still, at last, he finds, almost passing by, a town somehow still alive. With people zooming by on metal wings strapped to their feet. Using the wind as their guide.

So that is how I’ll get home.

Lucky for him, no one gave the wounded dragon a single glance, leaving him free to take the wings when given the chance.

Day 1

The metal wings begin to smoke and sputter, having trekked a thousand miles. Forcing him to abandon the wings behind a decaying tree. He wonders if he should stay and just spend the rest of his days by the tree. For his home is still a thousand miles away, and without the wings, he’ll be dead before his eyes can so much as gaze upon the home his slowing heart longs to go.

At least my bleeding has finally stopped. The vultures won’t disgrace my corpse.

This provided him with a sliver of comfort as he closed his eyes, ready to kiss the day goodnight. But then he heard a child’s cry.

Day 2

Finally, after a day of searching through the dried-up grass, crunching with every heavy footstep, he found it. Curled up against what one could only assume was where it once lived. A small hut-like structure that glowed a bright yellow. But the glare doesn’t disturb him even for a moment. For his gaze was fixed elsewhere. On the poor child.

Specifically, he noticed the child's little wings and even smaller horns that peeked out from the little one’s forehead. A whimper escapes his throat as memories from long ago parade in his head. Made even worse by the child being nothing but skin and bones.

And it appeared to be nearly five years old.

Day 3

Jewels. The dragon's  name is Jewels, he decides as he watches her scoff down handfuls of meat at a time. Leaving not a crumb behind.

Sometimes, though, she looks up at him in the middle of mouthfuls. With those big, sad eyes. Eyes of those who saw and lost far too much at such a tender age.

If I can get her to the magician's lair, she’ll live far longer than I and have a home. They’re the only ones that would take her now. I just have to survive a little longer.

So they set off once again. He hopes she can’t see how his eyes are yellowing.

Day 4

The going is slower now, so painfully slow, and it is still another nine hundred miles until they reach the lair. He can hear the metal wings in the distance, giving him some hope.

Though that doesn’t make walking any less painful. With every step, a near stumble even when he is the most careful. It doesn’t help that the air is making him dizzy.

Jewels appear fine at least. Though she still looked at him with those sad eyes of hers.

Does she know?

Day 5

He finds the metal wings during nightfall, dented near its original owner's corpse in a carter ten feet deep. A heavy sigh escapes his weary throat. Soon, he will be like the corpse in a state of slow decay. But at least he’s got memories to show for it. This one appears hardly out of childhood.

But he can’t dilly dally, Jewels is waiting, and he can’t let her see this. She has already seen enough. So, he picks up the metal wings and closes the corpse's eyes, wishing he could do more.

Day 6

He can feel his blood turning colder by the hour. But he can just spot the magician's little cave home over the horizon.

Just a few more hours..

Day 7

The next day, as night begins to fall, the magician takes Jewel in as he watches from afar. If she screams, it is muffled by the wind.

But at least she is safe. Safer than he ever was.

So with the wind blowing in his ears, he finally lets go.

But he never made it home.

Dragon Father Time

Once upon a time, there lived a dragon called Father Time. Who soared throughout the world and collected stories in his scroll. Stories of humanity in all its glory and all its follies, as told by the "winners" of history.

Who boosted about humanity and made light the tragedies. But the dragon wasn't blind, for there's a reason he's called Father Time. So, the dragon let them boast and tell lies that were thinner than rope. While he wrote every word in shimmering gold onto his scroll.

After all the stories were told, he would take flight once more. Never did he utter a word. So, his intentions were at that time unknown. But no one dared denied the dragon whose wings shone like blood in the twilight.

The truth, though, is this: after he was done dealing with the boasters, he would then seek out the "losers" or, as he called them, the truth tellers. Who he would sit down with them for tea and write their version of history. All the while laughing as one at the corrupted history the boasters had spun.

Before he would leave the truth tellers' company, he promised that there would be no lies in his version of history. Then, as he soared, with his wings that shone like gold, he wished them well. Where he gifted them hope that one day the losers would flip, and they would be the winners, but with truth-bearing lips.

Siren

Mermaids are the stuff of legend, or so they say. A mythical beast that would roam the sea and pick off any poor sailor who was lost at sea. Tearing them to the bone like ruthless piranhas. Without waiting until they were deceased.

But oh, how we have been deceived! For mermaids were not some savage beast. Instead, they're creatures of such beauty, with scales such a gorgeous blue that reflect the sun, casting a ghastly hue.

Though such little imperfections are easy to ignore, for they have a singing voice better than a maiden. Why the feet cannot help but do a little dance! Just be careful not to stray too close to the edge!

The Dragon of the Antarctic

There once was a dragon named Hyanich Legge who lived in the Antarctic in the time of the melting seas. This dragon was doing what all dragons do, taking the gold from the sailors who should have left long ago. As he flew back to his cave with the gold gripped tightly in his talons, he noticed there was a new crack in the ice that wasn’t there before. He shuddered at the sight, having known that by the noontime, that flat of ice would be no more than a memory. By evening, another mile of ice will be gone, and that was where the humans lived. With a dragon-like grin, he left them to their fate; finally, the ones who stole his food countless times before will be washed away. Maybe he’ll help the waves with their fate.