literature

A Dragon's Tale

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The thunder of millions of gallons of falling water fills the ears so that nothing else can be heard.  The booming echo and roar of the waterfall dominates everything around.

These are the Falls.

The Great Falls of legend, forgotten in some worlds, revered in others, the Falls thunder on regardless.  In some places as powerful as Niagara, a high as the Angel Falls, a mountain trickle, or hidden in blackness deep underground, they flow on.  No matter where The Falls flow, no matter what form they take, the water is always the same, pouring raw magic into the world.   

No-one knows where they come from, and no-one who has gone to look has ever come back.  But where they plunge…Where they plunge is where the real magic begins.

In the plunge pools, like the waters that feed them, can take any form – a puddle, a lake or a sea, wherever water sits the falls can nourish them, even if there are no falls to be seen.  But all are places of power, flavoured by the world that surrounds them and, if known about, those who keep them.  Power that is wanted by those who would use it for themselves.

This is the story of one such pool and its keeper.

The world that it sits in has no name given to it by those that live there, it is simply the world as they know it, and the world as they know it is kept by dragons.  A dragon sung it into being and wove the fabric of the world, a dragon to make it rain, a dragon to bring the winter, a dragon to thaw and bring summer.  The song of the dragons makes the world live, and in turn, the world sings back.  But where there is light, there also must be dark and so there is a great, dead dragon, the brother of the Maker, the one who sung life into the world, who seeks to take what was made in to the blackness of Oblivion.  Who seeks nothing more than to destroy what is, and lay waste to all creation.  The Great Unmaker.

When the Maker, the great Golden One had sung to the stars and made the world grow from the body of his Mother, eleven great dragons grew also; as old as the world and with their brothers the star dragons, made thirteen.  Thirteen great old ones to make the world be.  Dragons have no names save those that other give them.  The Keeper of the Dark kept the dark and deep places and the velvet night, The Keeper of the Sky kept the clouds aloft and her song bid them cry when the world needed it, the Keepers of the Earth and the Forests made things grow to feed the world and the Keeper of the Snows brought winter and frost and biting cold and beauty.  The Keeper of the Summer made sure that the days stayed long and that the sun warmed the world and kissed the plants. The Keeper of the Water sung the tides in and out and kept the shoals of fish and the leviathans of the deep in check.  The Keeper of the Bones of the Earth, craggy as the rock himself made the mountains grow strong and give forth precious jewels and metals and the Keeper of the Earth’s Blood kept the lifeblood of the world flowing in fire and flame and rock and made mighty volcanoes and hot springs.  The Keeper of Light worked with her brother the Dark and kept the sun in the sky burning brightly and kept night and day as different as him and her and the Keeper of the Beasts looked after the animals in the world, keeping life alive in all its forms.
In the cave outside the world, where the dragons go and where the Falls tumble into eternity, a dragon is hatching.  

Over the years, the Great Old Ones made more dragons, not as powerful as themselves, but tied to the world nonetheless.  Some can keep, repair and mend, whereas others can create and make something out of nothing.  The Keeper of the Dark and the wife that he had taken, a daughter of the fiery Earth’s Blood watched as a snout pushed itself out of the bone white shell.  She had heated it with her fiery breath for what seemed like an age, and to time as we know it, it was.  And now, to a Lady of the Flame and the Keeper of the Dark, keening in the remnants of the shell that it had fought its way out of, a son has been born.

He was small, no bigger than a dog, and as black as his father.  Sitting in the rocky nest, curled up sleeping now, he looked like a shadow, a hole in the world where a dragon should be.  His father looked down on him with dark eyes and said: “He will go under the mountain when I am gone.”  The watching dragons turned to look at him, the idea of a Great Old One leaving the world was as preposterous a notion as the moon falling from the sky.  It simply could not be, but his words seemed sure.  But soon, with the joy of the birth and the brother and sister of the little dragon hatching, his words were soon forgotten.

Years passed, a thousand or so by our counting, maybe more, but a blink of an eye for a dragon, and the first hatchling, the shadowy black dragon grew and grew.  But he did not grow as large as his brother and his sister and he was one of the smallest of all the dragons, as big as two elephants at most (not including his tail of course, which was very, very long).  His hide, which when he was a baby was like touching a shadow had not grown hard and scaly like that of the other dragons and was soft and like velvet to the touch.  Instead of spikes from his jaw and spine which a lot of the dragons grew, he grew soft, purple whiskers and his eyes shone like bright green lights.  A lot of the other young dragons laughed at him and so, as soon as he was old enough, he left home.

His father, amongst other things, kept the plunge pool safe, and the cave in which the vast lake sat was a place of peace, magic and healing.  People came from the world over to drink and swim in the water, be healed by it and to look into it and see their dreams.  The ones who the waters couldn’t heal, if their injuries were too severe or the illness too bad, the waters took from their bodies and their spirits lived on in the caverns, keeping the lake safe and each other company and helping to heal others that were luckier than themselves.  This pool was a place of great power, and the Great Unmaker was watching, and wanted it for himself.

The quiet young black dragon had travelled for literally an age, stepping through the fabric that kept the worlds apart as easily as stepping through a door.  He learned many things on his travels to worlds without dragons; how machines worked, how to sail a boat and how to change his shape to look like other things.  He went to places with towers that reached to the sky, places where ships flew in the air and to places where people lived under the ground.  

On his travels, he found that like his father he had the gift of seeing people’s souls; what made them happy or sad and things that had happened to them.  And most importantly, he found that he could see into and travel right inside the world of dreams.  No-one knew the dream roads like him and no-one could speak to dreams the way that the quietest black dragon could and so he journeyed there every night when dreams were at their most lively to speak to them and learn.

And all the time, the Unmaker, his flesh rotten with his own boiling hatred watched the Keeper of the Dark and wanted the cave more and more.  Slowly, he was gathering his forces of everything that was bad or wicked in the world, everything that made you feel afraid or unsure.  Fiends from pits, things that lived only in shadows – not things from the dark of night and the black of the earth which the big black dragon kept, but things from the reaches of nightmares, that lived in the souls of the frightened, things that whisper to you that you can’t do something, or that someone doesn’t like you.  This was his army that he gathered in the rotten places of the world and prepared to strike.  

More years passed and with the Unmaker’s growing army, a sadness passed over the world.  Less and less people went to the pool and less and less believed in the dragons.  The mountains where the cave was grew quiet and the Unmaker’s army marched.  All the time, the smallest black dragon travelled and learned and sung to dreams in other worlds.

The putrid army of the Unmaker hit the black dragon like a great wave, so determined was the rotten one to make the cave, and the magic in the world his.  The Keeper of the dark fought and fought for days on end, slaying hundreds of the rotten dragon’s army, but growing weaker with every strike that fell on him.  He roared for help, but the Unmaker stifled his cries and no help came.

The smallest black dragon, travelling along the dream roads saw a nightmare, boiling like a whirlpool and rotten to the core.  And in it, he saw his father, swamped with things more terrible than you can imagine and crying silently for help that would not come.  He knew instantly that this was no ordinary nightmare and rushed back to his own world to help his father.  Sure enough, the cave and the pool were over-run with things of unspeakable evil and there was his father, fighting not only for his life, but what was good in the world.  

There was the Unmaker and his filthy army, overwhelming the great Keeper of the Dark who had fought bravely, day and night for day upon day.  The smallest black dragon fought as bravely as his father, his velvety hide, whilst still tough, being cut and torn by the swords and talons of those he fought, but still he struggled on to reach his father.  

He reached him as the claw of the Unmaker was poised at his father’s throat.  He roared in terror at the thought of his father being taken from life by the rotten, dead dragon.  The Unmaker looked up, distracted by the cry of despair and anguish, which was like music to his dead ears and looked with empty eye sockets into the neon glowing eyes of the smallest dragon.  Whilst the Unmaker was looking at his son, the Keeper of the Dark used his last ounce of strength to push the Unmaker into the pool, which was still a thing of good and calm.  The cool waters were like acid to the dead flesh of the Unmaker and he burned and boiled.  Their leader shrieking in pain and beaten, the evil army fled in disarray.  The Unmaker, burned and beaten, fled the cave and went back to his rotten place to heal and plan his return.

The smallest black dragon ran to his father, who was lying on the floor of the cavern, and he knew as soon as he saw him that the great black dragon was fading.  His wounds were grievous and the cut on his throat given to him by the Unmaker was taking his life.  The smallest dragon tried to get his father to the pool for him to be healed, but his wounds were too many and too deep and so the waters took him to end his pain.  Being one of the First, he did not stay in the cave, but went to the stars where he had come from to watch over the other dragons and especially his son who, with his final breath, he had given charge of the cave.

All of the dragons were so sad that they forgot to sing.  The tides didn’t come in, the rain didn’t fall and the plants didn’t grow.  But the Keeper of the Dark’s children took over his job.  One looked after the night time, one looked after the deep places and the smallest black dragon kept the pool safe.  His name was now The Keeper of the Mountain’s Heart, and nobody laughed at him any more.  He swam in the pool and kept it safe, and every night, even though he was deep under the mountains, he sang to the stars where his father was saying one day he would join him, but for now, he had to keep the pool safe.

He lives there still, helping those who come to him, and as long as someone somewhere believes in dragons and magic, he will be strong enough to fight the Unmaker when he comes again.
I just love writing kid's stories, plain and simple.

This is a story featuring my character, Levantes who is a black dragon (surprisingly).

It is a little bit of history for those of you who are familar with my world and its characters, and for those of you who are not, I just hope that you enjoy the story :)

The world and all its characters are the property of me, so there :P
© 2007 - 2024 RattytheDevilDog
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theblackdrac's avatar
:omfg:

That is so cool. I'm terrible at commenting on prose, but I just want to say this was awesome. Very poetic at times, very intense and to the point. I loved your descriptions of the dead army, not just as things revolting to see, but things revolting to our very souls. And the healing pool of magic is a great concept. All around this is utterly fantastic. Once again I bow before your superb writing skizzles.