Written for Nature's February Dom push, posted here by request.
Quote:
The Day I Met Glade Mother
I sense her presence the moment I burst out of my shell and take my first breath. And in that same instant, like a far-off whisper, I know I am meant to go.
I spend hours with my elder-kin, learning to toughen my hide and sharpen my claws. My clanmates are kind, and as we bind the wounds earned from venturing into the Beastclans' territory, they tell me of a day when our clan, and all the other clans in the Viridian Forest, will pay tribute to Glade Mother. With a sidelong glance, they tell me many members of our clan will journey to live with her, serving her in whatever way we can.
And I am to be the first.
The day comes too quickly. I am roused in the darkness, told in murmurs that dawn is coming, and the time to leave is now. Working the stiffness from my wings and rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I feel my way to the entrance of the lair, where one of the clan's oldest dragons, silhouetted in the grey not-quite-morning, waits to bid me goodbye.
I may be the first, but I am not the last, I learn in those parting moments. New hatchlings and young dragons will be brought into the clan in the coming days, and those like me, the ones chosen for Glade Mother's service, will leave for the mountainous tree that lords over the center of the Viridian Forest.
If my elder sees the way my legs tremble and wings twitch, they don't mention it. There are a few words, encouragement and gratitude and a promise that I will not be forgotten.
Then, so quickly I barely realize it, I am on my way.
As I travel, I'm joined by others. Many, like me, have only recently reached adulthood, but I am surprised to see hatchlings as well, and enormous dragons whose scuffed scales and grizzled beards tell of long, interesting lives before they were sent to serve.
We move in knots, clanmates or siblings or lovers whose tails twine together in the budding dawn. There are parents with children, and battle-scarred warriors whose eyes dart among us, like they can't shake the feeling of constant combat. As for me, I find a clutch of others who come as the only representative of their clans. A hatchling clambers up to the space between my shoulders, sighs, and shivers itself into a restless sleep – lulled, I assume, by the rhythm of my heartbeat.
Our numbers grow, the closer we get to the Behemoth. By the time we reach it, the other trees shake with the sound of our wingbeats.
And it's there that She waits.
There's a moment of hushed terror. Because those whispered rumors? Those murmurs you hear on those dark, frigid nights?
The grandest of them does not even begin to do Her justice.
Each of Her rumbling breaths carries the sound of growing trees, and the flora that sprouts from Her shoulders and crown threaten to block out the sky. When Her eyes fall upon us, they resonate with a thousand heartbeats, and birdsong, and the promise of spring.
Even the proudest among us shrinks back. Our colors are dulled in the wake of Her glory, like stars blotted out by the sun.
But then, She smiles, and it's like the world is singing.
She calls the young ones first, those stumbling hatchlings who still glisten in their newborn skins. Her voice is rustling leaves on the wind and roots running underground, and the hatchlings whimper as they dance forward, a step backward for each forward one they take. The one that had nestled on my back lets out a shrill shriek, its eyes wide with equal parts terror and longing.
Don't be afraid, She says.
And just like that, we are not.
The words are meant for the little ones, but they wash over the rest of us, too. We all run to Her, then, laughing and taking flight to dart among Her branches. Flowers burst into being when She chuckles, and several of the hatchlings take it upon themselves to braid the blooms into the roots of Her beard.
We are many, those of us who came to Her this chilly morning. Our stories are varied as the flowers that now twine around Her ankles.
But right then, we realize it doesn't matter anymore. Right then, we know.
We have been Hers all along.
I sense her presence the moment I burst out of my shell and take my first breath. And in that same instant, like a far-off whisper, I know I am meant to go.
I spend hours with my elder-kin, learning to toughen my hide and sharpen my claws. My clanmates are kind, and as we bind the wounds earned from venturing into the Beastclans' territory, they tell me of a day when our clan, and all the other clans in the Viridian Forest, will pay tribute to Glade Mother. With a sidelong glance, they tell me many members of our clan will journey to live with her, serving her in whatever way we can.
And I am to be the first.
The day comes too quickly. I am roused in the darkness, told in murmurs that dawn is coming, and the time to leave is now. Working the stiffness from my wings and rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I feel my way to the entrance of the lair, where one of the clan's oldest dragons, silhouetted in the grey not-quite-morning, waits to bid me goodbye.
I may be the first, but I am not the last, I learn in those parting moments. New hatchlings and young dragons will be brought into the clan in the coming days, and those like me, the ones chosen for Glade Mother's service, will leave for the mountainous tree that lords over the center of the Viridian Forest.
If my elder sees the way my legs tremble and wings twitch, they don't mention it. There are a few words, encouragement and gratitude and a promise that I will not be forgotten.
Then, so quickly I barely realize it, I am on my way.
As I travel, I'm joined by others. Many, like me, have only recently reached adulthood, but I am surprised to see hatchlings as well, and enormous dragons whose scuffed scales and grizzled beards tell of long, interesting lives before they were sent to serve.
We move in knots, clanmates or siblings or lovers whose tails twine together in the budding dawn. There are parents with children, and battle-scarred warriors whose eyes dart among us, like they can't shake the feeling of constant combat. As for me, I find a clutch of others who come as the only representative of their clans. A hatchling clambers up to the space between my shoulders, sighs, and shivers itself into a restless sleep – lulled, I assume, by the rhythm of my heartbeat.
Our numbers grow, the closer we get to the Behemoth. By the time we reach it, the other trees shake with the sound of our wingbeats.
And it's there that She waits.
There's a moment of hushed terror. Because those whispered rumors? Those murmurs you hear on those dark, frigid nights?
The grandest of them does not even begin to do Her justice.
Each of Her rumbling breaths carries the sound of growing trees, and the flora that sprouts from Her shoulders and crown threaten to block out the sky. When Her eyes fall upon us, they resonate with a thousand heartbeats, and birdsong, and the promise of spring.
Even the proudest among us shrinks back. Our colors are dulled in the wake of Her glory, like stars blotted out by the sun.
But then, She smiles, and it's like the world is singing.
She calls the young ones first, those stumbling hatchlings who still glisten in their newborn skins. Her voice is rustling leaves on the wind and roots running underground, and the hatchlings whimper as they dance forward, a step backward for each forward one they take. The one that had nestled on my back lets out a shrill shriek, its eyes wide with equal parts terror and longing.
Don't be afraid, She says.
And just like that, we are not.
The words are meant for the little ones, but they wash over the rest of us, too. We all run to Her, then, laughing and taking flight to dart among Her branches. Flowers burst into being when She chuckles, and several of the hatchlings take it upon themselves to braid the blooms into the roots of Her beard.
We are many, those of us who came to Her this chilly morning. Our stories are varied as the flowers that now twine around Her ankles.
But right then, we realize it doesn't matter anymore. Right then, we know.
We have been Hers all along.
