It is a little know fact that Dragons are not malefic. Their breath, licked by flurrying tongues of flame, serves not only the combustion of the flesh, but gives theirs life. Dragon's blood is made of rubies, molten and pushed by their mighty hearts, each beat sending the blaze of life to their very fingertips where it dances round and about, almost leaving their hands as a halo of healing force. If a Dragon surrounds you in his colossal hand, fear nothing, his sweat may burn but not harm, drink up and your sadness shall shatter and, as tiny droplets of mist do, give rise to rainbow.
We've cheated much these gentle creatures, in search of the treasures they keep within and not without, for, contrary to legend, they search no riches for themselves. It is us greedy ghouls who, craving their blood, take up arms against these noble behemoths and leech their sap, plunder their passion, let it run and crystallize into empty, listless stones. So you see, the Basilisk has human form, our so called heroes make up the Medusa, each a serpent grown on the head of covetousness, while our fond villains, unlike Perseus, possess no polished shields, no mirrors. But perhaps one can't deflect this gaze no more, so much amassed urge that it has condensed to two black holes that swallow worlds entire.
You will ask, how can these leviathans fall prey to our puny assails? The reasons are rather simple: Dragons cannot but be kind. The irrational heat within them never turns to inferno, but always tender, rises up to their eyes, making their vision ruddy, wholesome. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Indeed, each flame that leaves their mouth is a piece from the mosaic of their soul that they pledge, pawn even, to invigorate our fading Earth. And though we are to them but mosquitoes, our swords but harmless trunks, it is our poisonous hatred and greed which disease and ravage their bodies for the sake of a few drops of their crystal life.
Sometimes the malady infused fails to harm the heart, even as the collapsing corpse unzips scale by scale, disintegrating into fine dust. Instead the plump, pulsating clot falls and buries itself. In the stead of precious blood, brute earth fills its throbbing core and flows through its atria, as a beggar pilgrimaging through a palace. And with each beat, the soil acquires the redder, crystal aspect of true blood. From the makeshift grave sand, grit and crushed rocks spread as a living desert, devouring our lush envy.
In the midst of one such roseate desert stands a Tower carven from Alabaster. It is said a dying God sculpted it for his bride, tracing its shape with his bare fingers, moulding the stone a caress at a time, scratching skylights and portholes into the translucent stone. As he laboured, tender each touch, he eroded his hands past existence, salving their demise with the sweat and tears he rubbed into the rock.
His stumpy fingers still so dexterous that they fashioned within the spire round rooms amidst an arabesque of corridors, each styled with mural upon mural of myths and legends sculptured in sleep by the mistress living within, each story crowned by 3 words writ in charcoal. At the very pinnacle, within an oval chamber he placed not only the dame's bed but, to her delight, also a replica precise of the very steeple it was housed in. The same chambers and galleries, frescoes and syllables, that very sanctum sheltering the spire, and the same love etched within it as without. A Matryoshka of ivory towers...
By day, 'twas a lighthouse concentrating the light pouring out of the shining hole in the sky, beckoning the nomadic winds whose motions stirred even the sedentary sands. When dark fell, the light trapped in its labyrinth web of stony threads, caged as in diamond, would search out its pores and perspire without.
Some say a Raven, an Icarus of its own kind, would fly too close to the tower on such nights, and clothe itself not merely in the onyx yarns, but taint its darkness in the light lingering within. Or perhaps not tarnish but sharpen the edges of his ebony, reminding him that e'en his eve carries the seed of morn. Ash-Winged Rokh, some call him, or Night's Mirror, or Charred Cherub, or Lone Silverback... Lone because he is the last and first. Lone because he feels not loneliness. Lone because he sees no frontier 'tween self, sand or sky. Lone because his beak spoke too sharply of love. Lone because his true name is Raven, and evermore will be.
You will ask, how can these leviathans fall prey to our puny assails? The reasons are rather simple: Dragons cannot but be kind. The irrational heat within them never turns to inferno, but always tender, rises up to their eyes, making their vision ruddy, wholesome. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil. Indeed, each flame that leaves their mouth is a piece from the mosaic of their soul that they pledge, pawn even, to invigorate our fading Earth. And though we are to them but mosquitoes, our swords but harmless trunks, it is our poisonous hatred and greed which disease and ravage their bodies for the sake of a few drops of their crystal life.
Sometimes the malady infused fails to harm the heart, even as the collapsing corpse unzips scale by scale, disintegrating into fine dust. Instead the plump, pulsating clot falls and buries itself. In the stead of precious blood, brute earth fills its throbbing core and flows through its atria, as a beggar pilgrimaging through a palace. And with each beat, the soil acquires the redder, crystal aspect of true blood. From the makeshift grave sand, grit and crushed rocks spread as a living desert, devouring our lush envy.
In the midst of one such roseate desert stands a Tower carven from Alabaster. It is said a dying God sculpted it for his bride, tracing its shape with his bare fingers, moulding the stone a caress at a time, scratching skylights and portholes into the translucent stone. As he laboured, tender each touch, he eroded his hands past existence, salving their demise with the sweat and tears he rubbed into the rock.
His stumpy fingers still so dexterous that they fashioned within the spire round rooms amidst an arabesque of corridors, each styled with mural upon mural of myths and legends sculptured in sleep by the mistress living within, each story crowned by 3 words writ in charcoal. At the very pinnacle, within an oval chamber he placed not only the dame's bed but, to her delight, also a replica precise of the very steeple it was housed in. The same chambers and galleries, frescoes and syllables, that very sanctum sheltering the spire, and the same love etched within it as without. A Matryoshka of ivory towers...
By day, 'twas a lighthouse concentrating the light pouring out of the shining hole in the sky, beckoning the nomadic winds whose motions stirred even the sedentary sands. When dark fell, the light trapped in its labyrinth web of stony threads, caged as in diamond, would search out its pores and perspire without.
Some say a Raven, an Icarus of its own kind, would fly too close to the tower on such nights, and clothe itself not merely in the onyx yarns, but taint its darkness in the light lingering within. Or perhaps not tarnish but sharpen the edges of his ebony, reminding him that e'en his eve carries the seed of morn. Ash-Winged Rokh, some call him, or Night's Mirror, or Charred Cherub, or Lone Silverback... Lone because he is the last and first. Lone because he feels not loneliness. Lone because he sees no frontier 'tween self, sand or sky. Lone because his beak spoke too sharply of love. Lone because his true name is Raven, and evermore will be.
