Fly

“It’s simple,”

Zelzrynth cocks his head, a gentle curve of his long neck. He chest rumbles, flames blazing beneath his ribs. His scales glitter, shimmering in the fire that burned beneath.

Vahaelon, his master, his companion, laughs at his agitation, a guffaw that seems to echo. His grey orbs twinkle. There is a merry innocence, a spark of such contrast with his burly body.

He points upto the sky, upto the grey depth; to the bleak and dreary hollowness, promising punishment for those that rise against it.

“We’ll fly.”

It’s not that simple, he knows this, to fly against this delicate balance. It will be a plight of resistance, of retribution, trying to break their years of suffering. It can never be simple, such tasks. Call it history, or call it the price of success, but these tasks, they never end pretty.

Still, he sees the cock of his master’s head, the easy smile that overtakes his features. He knows that Vahaelon is aware, and he doesn’t know whether his perpetual quietude is a sign of courage or insanity.

The moment his wings flap against the winds, with the weight of Vahaelon against his back and the cold waft tumbling through his scales, he concludes that it must be courage.


In the end, he is nothing but a creature, an animal bound to the fate of his master. They were awarded with grace, his race, they were awarded with wisdom, and a strength to crumble the soil beneath their claws.

It doesn’t matter, he realises, as another gurgle draws his breath away. They were awarded with strength and wisdom, yet there is not a single bone in his limp body that will move to his command. Perhaps that is why they say that they were rewarded. The heavens knew when to take back their blessings.

There is a finger that inches into his periphery, hair that trickle the soft flesh of his chest. It is twisted, the hand, broken, shattered, and yet it stands, pointing towards the sky.

“It’s okay Zelzrynth.”

There is a rumble in his chest. He is listening, quiet, bated.

They were given wisdom, his race, they were given foresight. That is why he knows, he knows when a man is speaking his last.

He wants to quieten him, if only it means he can inhale another breath. If only, on his enormous body, he can feel the heat, the life in his master’s body for another moment.

If it had been a novel, a legend of olden times, they would’ve had that moment. Perhaps they would’ve even lived. But reality shatters that delicate expectation. Life is callous, cruel at every instance, and while leaving a man’s body, it doesn’t wait for his tirades.

He waits for another word, another sound. It is a long bit filed with roars and cries, yells and blazes, filled with the agony that came with the war, but in his little bubble, there is just him and a body, on his chest, turning cold and slack.
If he closes his eyes, he can pretend, just for a moment, that he sees the grey, the twinkle of those orbs and that he hears a loud guffaw.

He shivers and grunts, and in the end raises his wing, pointing his sharp claws towards the sky.

It is grey again, dark and admonishing.

He closes his eyes. If he concentrates hard enough, he can hear it, the baritone of his master, he can see the small smile accompanying his every word.

“It’s simple, We’ll fly.”

It’s not that simple, he murmurs. They rose and they were beaten. The roared but they were silenced.
They tried to fly against the sinful heavens, but they were thrown listlessly to the hard ground.

It was not simple, he had always known. But there was no tale that followed the insignificant and no hero has ever risen without any sacrifice.

It wasn’t either, folly or might. In end, he realises, bravery was always tinted with a tinge of insanity.


The End.

A/N: If it’s not obvious, the story is about a Dragon and his master.

The Snakes Fly.

Prologue.

In hindsight, all phenomenal moments in our life start with something insignificant. Something, that looking back on we don’t immediately recognise as the cause of the disruption. It’s fleeting; a passing word, a shallow smile, a small delay and somehow they end up setting in motion changes that shape someone as a person, the changes that become the focal of one’s latter life.

Her story begins with a piece of ribbon.
‘They had been warned,’ she thought, her frail body failing at the last moment. She tumbled to the ground, the mud cloaking her torn dress, and her bruises aching with their freshness. She holds back a choke, and rubbing a pale, cold hand over her drenched hair stumbles to her feet. Behind her the forest is quiet. It is stifling and ominous. It raises the hair on her back, and makes her heart platter in a frenzy.
A twig snaps somewhere. The rain had stopped to a light drizzle, so she hears it clearly. She gathers her skirts and rushes forward; heaving and battered but still desperate enough to continue.
She stumbles to an end. From the bleary vision she makes out the well, and it is a moment of insanity, perhaps the desperation had clouded her judgment and she cuts her hand on the stub of a rock.
The blood pools in her palm and she looks behind. It is a look that seems admonishing for a moment, a look that wanted the predetor to realise the significance of her latter action, and then despite the heaviness of her heart and the hesitation of her mind, she squeezes her blood into the well. It vanishes in front of her gaze. She closes her eyes, and with a quivering lip she shouts the words, “I will,” her voice cracks. There is a fuzz in her brain, she can suddenly not fathom anything. There is another crack behind, closer. She squeezes her palm and screams with all her might, “I will die when the snakes fly!”
There is a crackle of lightning, as if the heavens themselves have cemented the oath. As if her pact has been written in cold blood. A spark illuminates the dark crevices of the night, and there are two orbs that fill her hysterical vision.
The last thing she remembers is a blade sinking in her stomach, the warmth pooling her insides, and a wetness that blurs her eyes, but most importantly a red hot flash of pain that takes her with it.

They say that all fictional stories begin with something grand, or at least they lead to something phenomenal. This story however begins with muddy boots, drenched dresses, and words spoken too loud in moments of hysteresis.


To be continued…

A/N: It’ll be a 8 part story.

Aristotelian Tragic Heroes.

They say that there are two tragedies in life. One is when you lose your heart’s desire and one is when you gain it. But unless it ends six feet under the ground (with death) it is not really considered a tragedy.

If it were to be the case then we all are living lives fated to end in a tragedy of their own; the biggest one being the ability to gain one’s desire only for it to be your last pitfall. What you struggled with and fought for every breathing moment of your life razes your own breaths until you’re left with nothing but a life that ended too soon and the promise of the unknown eating up your soul.

People prefer comedies to tragedies but what people remember the most is the bittersweet taste left after a heartbreaking tale.
Not everyone remembers the drama but what people most remember is the connection sprinkled on some pages or in the gazes of those characters.

It is perhaps why, no matter how much the tragic heroes were hated, they were also loved. In the end what connects all the people is the the inevitable promise of death.
Perhaps that is why the earliest heroes were left stranded, stranded and with the certainty of a tragic fate. Because the hope that is inherent in the soul of a man always draws the same conclusion, “It’s not a tragedy if you’re still alive.”

It is why, eventually the Aristotelian hero dies a tragic death having fallen from great heights and having made an irreversible mistake.
Even more painful is a character that makes no mistake but still ends with a demise that shatters the heart. It is painful to watch because it connects the most with the reality of every day life.
In this world there is a life taken for every birth. Everything that begins with a tragedy ends with one too. That is why as this kaleidoscope of memories, (some dark some bright, some grey and dull, but most importantly fleeting) begun with the greatest tragedy ( a death) it is also fated to end with the same dark beauty of its beginning.

The same dark end.

The same demise.

The same death.

And the same face buried six feet underground.