The Fire Clan is Dead.
A small exercise in the perspective of gold dragon after the end of Slayers Try.
We tried.
No, more like, I tried. I believed. I trusted it implicitly, without questioning, always moving forward. I did what I was supposed to do, and that made me happy. Power, bright golden power, flowed through my veins, and the crinkled skin of the elder's smile was my greatest joy. I did everything to please them, to be what my race was supposed to be. I was demur, I was quiet, I wore my white robes and fingered the blue jewel of my rank and the heavy gold on my wrist of my station, and sometimes I was a bit loud. But when you're so much body stuffed into such a little form, it's hard not to be a bit loud. I didn't ask, and I didn't quetion, because the elders were good and kind and meant the best for everyone.
Was I the only one? Was I the only one with big blue eys, staring up at the effigy of our sleeping god and truly believing our history was spotless, filled with goodness? That I was the decendent of a decendent of great, wonderful things. That when I felt the rushing heat of prayer, that I knew I was doing the right thing, the good thing, that I was right, and evil was wrong.
I tried to believe. I did everything I was supposed to. But it was all a lie, a lie, a lie. I followed what they wanted, I -did- what they wanted, and I thought i knew it was right. That my people had some sort of untouchable righteousness. No, it was all a game, an intricate deception. They never told me what we'd done--the horrible, borrible thing that we'd done out of pure fear. We'd attacked a magnificent people, were embroiled in a blood war that dated back to creation, and we were not the golden heroes of legend. No, we'd dusted outselves in gold leaf to hide the thick, common iron that was the spears we'd used to pin the most powerful to the ground.
Hunted down to a child. It was our fault, all our fault, that the world almost ended. Because we'd thought we were saving it. My fault, because I believed everything I'd been told.
I wanted to hate them. I wanted to hate them so badly, the red haired child with the old eyes and her company. I wanted to scream that they were the reason, that I could have been safe and alive in my cacoon of ignorance for the rest of my life if it wasn't for them. But I knew them too well--had felt that strange, chaotic fire that drew people to her. That made her a person that changed worlds. You wanted a piece of that, after a while. I thought them crude and dishonourable, I couldn't udnerstand how the ELders had wanted her--her, of all the beings in the world--to save existence. But I find myself longing for that wild passion, yearning for that carefree confidence. My confidence was my people, and now my people are dead. I grew up surrounded by golden hide and now stand on a doorstep on the edge of a town, staring out into a sea of peaches and white.
Even my companions who stayed with me are green and red. I run my hand down my pale arm, and try to feel for the gold hide beneath. I want to be ashamed of my people, but after those first few moments, all I could be was sad. Sad, and heavy. When I knew what my people had done, what my elder had wanted to do, when I saw the flock of golds half buried in the snow--that's when I knew. That I had to make it right. That it was my legacy, my fault, because I could see what my ancestors could not. Because I could see the mistakes, could feel horror at those terrible errors, it was my duty to set things right with the last.
I do not know whether this is the blessing or the curse of my god, that there is one of me, and one of him. That I got the second chance for my people, even though they did to themselves what our enemies for centuries could not.
The Fire Clan is dead. Long live their terrible legacy.
I stroke the hard white shell of his egg, and wonder what it will be like to be a mother. What will happen when he knocks over a vase, or trips over a mace on the floor. The insides of it pulse a bit with my touch, and I'm not sure if it is in anger at whose hands he is in, or a gentle recognition of somethign warm in a long, long life of cold.
I do not know whether to be grateful to that demon, or very angry. I do not know what is good or bad anymore. I think he understands that, if none of his kind do. We've looked into the end, and he laughed, and I shrank back. Maybe that is the difference. That he pushed forward, and I tried to stop it. I recall how he teased me, the way he drew me into my anger and pulled and pushed me into new forms I was angry and confused at. He'd be laughing at me, seeing me in my pink dress sweeping the steps of an antiques shop. Laughing and pointing at how the mighty have fallen--yes, he'd delight in that.
Lina picked herself up, and ran into the sunset. I was left behind, quietly wiping the dust from my cheek and looking after her wonderingly. I wonder, if I hadn't found myself holding Valtierra's egg, if I would have run after them. But all I could do was stare after their dust, yearning to know what Lina Inverse already does--or doesn't, and just has found in her chaotic life instead. I'm chained to the past, even though the past is long dead. This egg I hold, this life I must raise, reminds me of the vioeltn mixture of confusion that changed my entire existence. Sometimes I even yearn to catch sight of a bit of purple, or to feel that strange slick sensation down my spine of a passing trickster, if only to catch that ramshackle happiness for a breif moment.
We tried.
No, more like, I tried. I believed. I trusted it implicitly, without questioning, always moving forward. I did what I was supposed to do, and that made me happy. Power, bright golden power, flowed through my veins, and the crinkled skin of the elder's smile was my greatest joy. I did everything to please them, to be what my race was supposed to be. I was demur, I was quiet, I wore my white robes and fingered the blue jewel of my rank and the heavy gold on my wrist of my station, and sometimes I was a bit loud. But when you're so much body stuffed into such a little form, it's hard not to be a bit loud. I didn't ask, and I didn't quetion, because the elders were good and kind and meant the best for everyone.
Was I the only one? Was I the only one with big blue eys, staring up at the effigy of our sleeping god and truly believing our history was spotless, filled with goodness? That I was the decendent of a decendent of great, wonderful things. That when I felt the rushing heat of prayer, that I knew I was doing the right thing, the good thing, that I was right, and evil was wrong.
I tried to believe. I did everything I was supposed to. But it was all a lie, a lie, a lie. I followed what they wanted, I -did- what they wanted, and I thought i knew it was right. That my people had some sort of untouchable righteousness. No, it was all a game, an intricate deception. They never told me what we'd done--the horrible, borrible thing that we'd done out of pure fear. We'd attacked a magnificent people, were embroiled in a blood war that dated back to creation, and we were not the golden heroes of legend. No, we'd dusted outselves in gold leaf to hide the thick, common iron that was the spears we'd used to pin the most powerful to the ground.
Hunted down to a child. It was our fault, all our fault, that the world almost ended. Because we'd thought we were saving it. My fault, because I believed everything I'd been told.
I wanted to hate them. I wanted to hate them so badly, the red haired child with the old eyes and her company. I wanted to scream that they were the reason, that I could have been safe and alive in my cacoon of ignorance for the rest of my life if it wasn't for them. But I knew them too well--had felt that strange, chaotic fire that drew people to her. That made her a person that changed worlds. You wanted a piece of that, after a while. I thought them crude and dishonourable, I couldn't udnerstand how the ELders had wanted her--her, of all the beings in the world--to save existence. But I find myself longing for that wild passion, yearning for that carefree confidence. My confidence was my people, and now my people are dead. I grew up surrounded by golden hide and now stand on a doorstep on the edge of a town, staring out into a sea of peaches and white.
Even my companions who stayed with me are green and red. I run my hand down my pale arm, and try to feel for the gold hide beneath. I want to be ashamed of my people, but after those first few moments, all I could be was sad. Sad, and heavy. When I knew what my people had done, what my elder had wanted to do, when I saw the flock of golds half buried in the snow--that's when I knew. That I had to make it right. That it was my legacy, my fault, because I could see what my ancestors could not. Because I could see the mistakes, could feel horror at those terrible errors, it was my duty to set things right with the last.
I do not know whether this is the blessing or the curse of my god, that there is one of me, and one of him. That I got the second chance for my people, even though they did to themselves what our enemies for centuries could not.
The Fire Clan is dead. Long live their terrible legacy.
I stroke the hard white shell of his egg, and wonder what it will be like to be a mother. What will happen when he knocks over a vase, or trips over a mace on the floor. The insides of it pulse a bit with my touch, and I'm not sure if it is in anger at whose hands he is in, or a gentle recognition of somethign warm in a long, long life of cold.
I do not know whether to be grateful to that demon, or very angry. I do not know what is good or bad anymore. I think he understands that, if none of his kind do. We've looked into the end, and he laughed, and I shrank back. Maybe that is the difference. That he pushed forward, and I tried to stop it. I recall how he teased me, the way he drew me into my anger and pulled and pushed me into new forms I was angry and confused at. He'd be laughing at me, seeing me in my pink dress sweeping the steps of an antiques shop. Laughing and pointing at how the mighty have fallen--yes, he'd delight in that.
Lina picked herself up, and ran into the sunset. I was left behind, quietly wiping the dust from my cheek and looking after her wonderingly. I wonder, if I hadn't found myself holding Valtierra's egg, if I would have run after them. But all I could do was stare after their dust, yearning to know what Lina Inverse already does--or doesn't, and just has found in her chaotic life instead. I'm chained to the past, even though the past is long dead. This egg I hold, this life I must raise, reminds me of the vioeltn mixture of confusion that changed my entire existence. Sometimes I even yearn to catch sight of a bit of purple, or to feel that strange slick sensation down my spine of a passing trickster, if only to catch that ramshackle happiness for a breif moment.