Fic: Scar
While writing the mindlink porn section (telepathy! porn!) and reading loads of fic, I kept thinking about the slash dragon.
Title: Scar
Author: suaine
Summary: He killed them all, all but one.
Notes: Dragonheart and why Uther let this one live. I should not be allowed to write flashfic at 3 a.m.
Scar
He used to dream of the sky. In winter, it had been heavy and grey, clouds pressing down on the earth below, protection and warmth where the sun was insufficient. In spring, it shone clear and blue, velvety black with every star a diamond. In summer, its color deepened into something darker than sapphire, no clouds at all to mar the fluid color, the night sky shimmering in residual heat. In autumn, herds of puffy white clouds chased each other, high winds curling around his wings.
His chains rattled when he moved his wings, the cave ever threatening to drop pebbles on him if he scraped his claws across the walls.
The last of his kind, he had an obligation to endure, to work himself free. An obligation to the eggs he carried and the brothers and sisters and fathers he'd lost.
-
He saw the warlock as a tool, but he never lied about his destiny.
-
The scar itched, he never touched it.
-
The dragon mourned for the loss of every witch, every druid and warlock, for they were of the same stock as his own kind. They were all kin, not just through Uther's persecution, but a bond to the land of Albion itself. They all, if they were aware of it or not, drew their power from the very soil they stood on, the very air they breathed.
-
Sometimes, he wanted to plunge his claws into his chest to rip out the offending double rhythm. Thump-thump. It followed him into his dreams.
Once upon a time, when the land had been younger, and not just by years, there had been a great young king, a promising leader whose destiny shone brightly under the stars. This young king lead many battles, always at the front, until, one day, he did not return. Among his allies were a few who knew the ways of the dragons and the old legends. They bore him to the dragon's lair and asked for a miracle.
-
"Uther Pendragon, swear that you will uphold the laws of the old religion and walk the path of honor."
A rettling breath, too much blood. He had coughed and turned dark-red eyes on the dragon.
"Swear it."
His eyes had closed on the next breath. It could have been his last.
-
Dragon magic, they said, had the power to give life even when all other hope was lost, it could burnish a weapon to kill the undead. It was all-powerful to the human mind, even the most skilled sorcerers could never hope to achieve the kind of power within a dragon's breath.
Few knew of the magic within the dragon's heart.
-
Thump-thump
-
Prophecy had foretold a great king who would bear the colors of the dragon and unite the land of Albion. He would fight many battles and survive, almost as if by magic, and he would bring balance back to the ravaged islands.
For too long, the dragon had seen the father in that place, far too long, until the chains wrapped around his legs, until the cold steel reinforced by magic dug into his skin.
"You corrupted me," Uther said, and stuck a knife into his unmarked breast, where a scar should be.
The dragon screamed in pain.
-
The heart of a dragon was a fragile thing. It broke easily in two, giving life to a dying man. It was a gift that could not be taken back, and for years, under the castle, the dragon wished he had never been so foolish.
He was soothed only by the small sound of footsteps, the patter of a young prince, running from his maids.
Perhaps one day.
Perhaps the son could bear the dragon symbol above his heart without breaking. Without breaking the heart.
-
Too often, his claws stopped before they could dig deep into his chest and tear out his half-heart.
Too often, he wished that time had not been so cruel.
Too often, he failed his kin, as witches and wizards were killed in the courtyard above his head, their blood forever staining his claws.
-
"You have a destiny."
-
Then, one day, wings (two hearts) fluttered once more, and stilled.
Title: Scar
Author: suaine
Summary: He killed them all, all but one.
Notes: Dragonheart and why Uther let this one live. I should not be allowed to write flashfic at 3 a.m.
Scar
He used to dream of the sky. In winter, it had been heavy and grey, clouds pressing down on the earth below, protection and warmth where the sun was insufficient. In spring, it shone clear and blue, velvety black with every star a diamond. In summer, its color deepened into something darker than sapphire, no clouds at all to mar the fluid color, the night sky shimmering in residual heat. In autumn, herds of puffy white clouds chased each other, high winds curling around his wings.
His chains rattled when he moved his wings, the cave ever threatening to drop pebbles on him if he scraped his claws across the walls.
The last of his kind, he had an obligation to endure, to work himself free. An obligation to the eggs he carried and the brothers and sisters and fathers he'd lost.
-
He saw the warlock as a tool, but he never lied about his destiny.
-
The scar itched, he never touched it.
-
The dragon mourned for the loss of every witch, every druid and warlock, for they were of the same stock as his own kind. They were all kin, not just through Uther's persecution, but a bond to the land of Albion itself. They all, if they were aware of it or not, drew their power from the very soil they stood on, the very air they breathed.
-
Sometimes, he wanted to plunge his claws into his chest to rip out the offending double rhythm. Thump-thump. It followed him into his dreams.
Once upon a time, when the land had been younger, and not just by years, there had been a great young king, a promising leader whose destiny shone brightly under the stars. This young king lead many battles, always at the front, until, one day, he did not return. Among his allies were a few who knew the ways of the dragons and the old legends. They bore him to the dragon's lair and asked for a miracle.
-
"Uther Pendragon, swear that you will uphold the laws of the old religion and walk the path of honor."
A rettling breath, too much blood. He had coughed and turned dark-red eyes on the dragon.
"Swear it."
His eyes had closed on the next breath. It could have been his last.
-
Dragon magic, they said, had the power to give life even when all other hope was lost, it could burnish a weapon to kill the undead. It was all-powerful to the human mind, even the most skilled sorcerers could never hope to achieve the kind of power within a dragon's breath.
Few knew of the magic within the dragon's heart.
-
Thump-thump
-
Prophecy had foretold a great king who would bear the colors of the dragon and unite the land of Albion. He would fight many battles and survive, almost as if by magic, and he would bring balance back to the ravaged islands.
For too long, the dragon had seen the father in that place, far too long, until the chains wrapped around his legs, until the cold steel reinforced by magic dug into his skin.
"You corrupted me," Uther said, and stuck a knife into his unmarked breast, where a scar should be.
The dragon screamed in pain.
-
The heart of a dragon was a fragile thing. It broke easily in two, giving life to a dying man. It was a gift that could not be taken back, and for years, under the castle, the dragon wished he had never been so foolish.
He was soothed only by the small sound of footsteps, the patter of a young prince, running from his maids.
Perhaps one day.
Perhaps the son could bear the dragon symbol above his heart without breaking. Without breaking the heart.
-
Too often, his claws stopped before they could dig deep into his chest and tear out his half-heart.
Too often, he wished that time had not been so cruel.
Too often, he failed his kin, as witches and wizards were killed in the courtyard above his head, their blood forever staining his claws.
-
"You have a destiny."
-
Then, one day, wings (two hearts) fluttered once more, and stilled.