In Mother's Shadow (1/9)
Imported from SF2 with no description.
**Chapter I - Dreams of Fire
Work in progress - On-going!**
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He was gritting his teeth, as his claws were digging into the heated dirt mound he had been leaning into. His horns hissed, as they sank into the lava. Nobody ever got used to the piercing stench of scorching iron, sulfur and hematite — inscribed on one's memory. The heat, the flame, Mother's sacred life force — was hardening his resolve; and melting off his growth. She never said a single word and never had to. He heard his parents mumbling. He was sure: today he would tell them. It was only a matter of time, after all. Everyone returns, everyone serves. Or at least that's how it's supposed to be.
"Azhakor?"
"Yes, mother?"
"Withdraw your horns; they're melting off."
He kept melting them, unresponsive. Actual mother: angered. Mother: served. His horns grew thick — truly an offering. A waste not to melt them. Recently, she reminded him weekly. He clenched his muscles, eyes narrowed, mind filled with memories of lecturing. Distant and cold. Just like the winter islands. She was a blizzard, when he needed her flame. He focused on his breath, and the heat enveloping his horns — cleansing the pesky reminders from days long gone from his mind.
He wasn't looking, but surely by now, everyone else would have raised their heads. They would have removed themselves from the pond. But he wouldn't. Pain is a rite of passage; few things were as intimate as feeling Mother's flame scorching away the most resistant parts of your body. Yes, it hurts. But it feels close. So very close to righteousness. Sanctity. Belonging.
He felt the heat creeping into his skull. This was what that poor dragon ... all those years ago... must have felt — this was not only an act of service, but also of recollection. A few more seconds... and then he moved his scaled head out of the pond.
No screaming, no whimpering, no whining.
It was never easy to endure; a purpose worth pursuing never was — and he had practiced. Countless times.
"Azhakor... they're all looking again," his mother whispered; a claw raised to her muzzle.
Familiar words. They were nothing new. Judgment ever since that fateful day. A couple years old and already doomed for the rest of his life. Scorched, neither with the mark of belonging, nor with the mark of duty. Scorched with the only mark no one got to see — with the only mark that wasn't an honor, a bond or a testament of love.
"Ahhhzakoooor. Your horns look wonderfully stupid again. Is that going to be a weekly ritual now?" a high-pitched voice pierced his ears.
Eyes closed. Head turned. Gaze upon her — "Khira."
"Did they freeze your head, Azh? Why do you burn yourself like that?" she said, a wide grin on her face.
He dug his claws into the earth, reaching out for Mother's heat beneath the dirt. His nostrils widened. His voice dropped. "Do you require assistance? With praying perhaps?"
He raised an eyebrow. His mind wandered. It was grasping for knowledge. For citations. For sermons. For... guidance.
Khira raised her red-scaled head. "No, I need you to throw yourself into the sea. Ugly fire-breather."
His eyes were searching for comfort in flames. He looked past her; the volcanic heart of the island visible in the distance. Some day...
"Hello? Do you hear me?" she said, raising her voice.
"I... yes. I will need to attend the hatchling circle soon. Please — disturb me no longer," he responded.
"You... are so weird," she scoffed, then turned and went back to her father.
She didn't understand either. Just like the rest of them. But one day... one day they might. And one day, he would be at the volcano. It was certainly the only way for him. Once again, his gaze wandered towards the volcano. Bleeding. And the world was at fault for it. The dragons. All of them — out there on the horizon. On foreign lands. Not obeying Mother's will. What a delightful mission, what a holy task, and what sacred duty it must be... to be silent. To speak with your flame. And to return them all... to her... Mother. To be only flame. In her name.
Yes — that was it.
He turned around to face his mother.
"I will pledge my life to her fire."
The words caught his father's attention as well.
His father's eyes narrowed. "... are you saying..."
"The ashen oath. Yes."
His heart was pounding, and his claw drifted back — attempting to escape the judgment of his father's studied gaze.
"You? An... ashen guard? Hm..." he said, his claw meeting his chin. He tilted his head — not in thought, but in measurement. "I'm... yes... in a couple years you could..." he mumbled, stumbling over his own words.
"Soon. Very soon," Azhakor said, challenging his father's hesitant observation.
"You can't be serious," mother said, as if to object to what father might have said next.
"You very well know..."
"He is sixteen!" She leaned towards father, an expression on her face as if she had witnessed the burning all over again.
She caught his attention. His left eye twitched — he was hurt.
"Sixteen," he whispered, his lips as unable to connect with each other as he was with mother.
"Veekhan. Do you think our son is a monster?" mother asked insistently.
Father just stood there — drew his arms in, shielding a fire from being snuffed out. The silence was enough of an answer.
Mother's head turned.
"Azh?"
Her eyes were a bottomless pit, but it was not a void staring back. Raw and unfiltered. Wide open eyes. She saw him. His fire. This time truly. For once — after all this time.
"Do you have any idea what that means?" she asked.
"Service. Service to Mother, service to the dragons of Pyrrhazar," was her son's pledge.
Silent screaming or screaming silence — hard to tell what formed on her face. One thing was certain — she was not ready to hear it. They had no right to be surprised. The flame does not forget; the flame does not forgive. Neither of them knew what it meant to fail Mother. Neither of them had to live with the consequences. Neither of them were him.
"Have you two finished your claws?" he asked his parents, while shaking hematite crystals off his scales.
"We are not done with this yet, Azhakor," mother replied, taking a step.
"Let him be. We will speak about this later," father said, gently spreading a wing, holding her back.
His nostrils widened and his eyes lingered — not on her, but on his son. A hint of pride. And resignation. Father knew exactly: joining the ashen guard was the only way.
Mother flinched and scoffed at father — a strange sight.
"So... will you assist Pasiri and Solmior with the circle this time?" his father asked.
"Yes. I will do my duty. I have to."
Father raised a hand and froze half-way. His eyes narrowed. For a moment he just stood there. His claw slumped down. "Try... to enjoy it," he muttered.
Enjoyment? It was about purpose. Fulfilling your duty. Pasiri and Solmior will ease the burden. Barely. Bathing in the sanctity of Mother's decree. Even if it meant facing your past. He would certainly need to. Soon.
Chapter (1/9)
Work in progress - On-going!
Feedback very much appreciated!