The Heart of the Dragon

mall figures scurry on the landscape below, like insects across a map. Discordant, the wings beat that bare my sleight body aloft upon this suspended, embodied, sensual flight. Gold-Dragon-Might. Glorious his scales shine; hard, smooth, clasped tight and cool between my naked thighs, as he lift me / fall me - and lend power where once there was subtle weakness. Yet, such power as owning such angelic-evil beast seems hollow, as we shall one day part; and that rhythm be lost. So death in battle would be a just end to this tortured, wretched, beautiful life. Then only, can our lives be joined together, in eternity.

Imaginal. Colour beyond rain - bowed bodies - constricted restrain. Our breasts bleed from the wounds of war. Pray to a Visitation in dreamspace. Blessed turbulent Divination. Can this vicious path of holiness leave me more wretched? More honourable? More alone? I do need to face this Daemon. . . this trepidation at. . . what? The value of integrity? Some un-sexed pillar of resolve? In hope for long life, and long old age? With decrepit skin and sunken womb, feeble rage...?! I do not know even where to confront the soul of darkness - almost as if it is within me, constantly flickering at the shadows on the edge of my eyes. My face moves in a wilded careless stare. And I dart this way - then the other - and another. Like a beast unable to be free from chains, to chase after desire. And the weakening chain is inscribed: Virtue. Time has ended. Only the lance, and blood, can add nourishment to the death wounds in my arms - the sickness deep-pained through these red red hands. NO thirst can quench the taste of blood. And the Dragon, once shining-gold is now streaked with the flesh of our wretched foe. Brethren. Bitter this heart bleeds at the hands of my own kin, avenged of their spite, gut wrenched free from sin.

What insubstantial victory is blood, vivid in its scarlet moisture! What pointless goal is life? How more insatiable the salt of its pure taste, as it leads you with its claws, its irrepressible mores. Still higher 'til there is but little shame - no blame, just extremity. How I miss you. Miss I how you. Without something amiss, me-you. Yet still, I have discovered dream-tears. Whispered tones - hopes like vanished flames in the wind; dissipating clouds over the sky - or my girlish glee once the Summer has giggled by. Should I sheath this ancient lance, that pierced one thousand foe? For virtue? I am the same, yet I never am one thing. As this beast drains the life from my once fertile core - how I wish I could renegade on our pact. Yet it owns me more than I own it. But it follows me. And I, it. As never ending daisy-chains of Spring before the dusk of dusted Autumn. Most precious-sacred soul of my lover. New Moon, dark of patient evening crones; crooning: Sky-crescent mother. Share a dream, win a war, defy me now you blasted evil Daemon. I care no thing, for no body, as the Soul is immortal we have no fear. Of death, of dishonour, of sacred annihilation. Abominable obliteration. Pray to the sacred spirit of the Wind.

Blow me now gentle, on my seagull's feather - to the dawn - where I am guided. So I may begin the morn anew; astride you. And we may gust once more in the safety of impossible togetherness in some other, insatiable, implacable form. And even such life leak away. Let the force of soft air glide me in its flighty embrace, for my own embattled vision is mutated. Spoiled by battle-lust, bled past life's trust. Forever tainted. No more honour can I bare in this tender disgrace. Yet a lifetime's honour enshroud me on this betrayal. For pale riches, and hollow bestial glory is all that might contain me. First hint at corruption, my last pleasure. Most shameless endeavour. Should care then be hidden from this unrelenting wind of passion? Lies then, lies are all the illusions that have sustained me.
And they have slowly deranged me,
crafted on my fate like a steady-handed painting.

Embalm me in their twisted art, with halos or aura's sardonic.
Gold and dark, Angelic, demonic. Once, when first airborne, this flight seemed majestic - a perfect dream. Now I shudder at my own being. Symbol of war and death. Dragon-Lancer, sharpened skill, claw and tooth of mean caress. I am supposed to be an holy avenger. Just warrior. Dealing destruction to the inferior and unjust ways of the enemy. Yet what lustful enemy that impales itself on this bloodied heavy lance, could truly be called unjustful? We stood in rows mounted on our creatures, glittering in the sunlight. Lances held aloft in salute to the Queen. Singing: how the dead are weak, and only the most ferocious survive. But what value now is my survival, as I drip with the sinews of my foes? And, in the frenzy of power - the surge of might, yes too, the blood that drips from my wounds is that of friends. How uninspiring their dying throes. I despise their crumpled memories. I fly alone now, and their weakness can not threaten me. For my reputation is all that haunts me still. My lust has turned my path to rogue. So I await a hoard of marauders to hunt my trail. Surely now they want my death. Least thrill. Last pose.

Its just easier to not care what wounds are left gaping their weakness in your wake. Easier to indiscriminately devour all, than take the time to check if someone wears a local standard on their make of shield. What difference can it mean anyhow? Those warriors that dupe themselves into believing in a just war are the pawns of others. As I was. Now my sacred warrior energy is free from such trivial constraints. After all, we are all slayers, plain and brute. The finesse, the heraldry, the fickle filigree - is to keep the Nobles happy; so that they may craft for us new and terrible weapons; and breed for us, mightier, nastier, and more magnificent Dragons.

Ah now see that! What a satisfying sight! A legion of my compatriots, have heard of my exploits. No doubt there are many angry fools amongst them, cursing the blood of the slain, that now runs caked across the golden shanks of this gorgeous serpent. The fear in their fury seeks death in vengeance. How pathetic. Yet I warrant, they will find only their own blood, their own horror. As their turn for death arrives, they will seek to impale themselves upon my heavy lance. It is good. I was getting weary, for our common foe, the Gargoyles, seemed a little too easy to the kill. They fight from pure fear, not from free pleasure; thus they are angered, and easily slain.

But this endeavour seems to be driven by some sincere emotion! Indeed they carry the Queen's holy banner! Perhaps I have been granted the royal executioners decree? Well, what honour! How sweet my death will feel, and the symphony that will flow from my weak wounds will leave me in sorrowful pity at all the dreams that could have been born. Yet I feel so relieved at this hint of a final brush of art upon my shaped form. This death-stroke - its last living moment. As life shatters, and warm blood soaks into the countless dust and grains of sand.

I feel the arrows that now pierce my Dragon's already tattered wings. Its screams flinch through my tiring body, as I aim toward the front-most rider. Her flying standard: blue and white - untouched by blood. I vaguely recognise the emblem, but it matters not. And the hoards that guard her wing-tip, unleash another irritating rain of arrows from whistling bows. I feel the constant thud of each new embedded point of sharpness. Agony throes. Even my wounds are wounded now. My charge has been slowed down too by this constant rain of pierced pain. This last quarry will elude my tired lance, as the Dragon is wrenched from between my naked bleeding thighs. Weakness surrounds me like a warm dark blanket. I smile now at defeat. My own glorious treat. Now God take me to her own. In a last dark scream I release a lifetime's frown.

And yet, I am not dead. Covered thick in the death of beast; my lance-arm, a bloody agony of mess. My sword-arm though is good, and I am grounded in fine boots and dress. Though it seems I am alone? Except for the bones of her body, white and blue, impaled upon my splintered lance. And yet, that crumpled helm seems familiar? Grace of the Grandfather of Dragons! It is the Queen herself I have slain, and her armies scattered at this fall! Yet life is in me sustained? Could fate ever have meant this crime against the heart of the World? I shudder at my own weakness. Guilt and scorn! I know not whereto now? I can only bellow: “Fate! You blasted imp! How could you surround me with such burden? Such character stained sickness! How do I now live, once I have slain the very source of life?!”

As dark and death surround me, from behind I hear the chime of bells in high-fluted rhyme, and turn to behold a Dragon like no other: With scales shining purer than gold, a voice like the sweetest tasting river - a shimmering sacrosanct body of single ever-changing dancer. Swirling, whirlpool and quicksilver. Born on wings of light! Resonating bold words echo through me in Angelic answer:

Live within thrill as Earth delivers life,
love devours strife.
Violent Creator, soft decimator. Then bare us close together
in shivers, nourished
with promises of birth.
Source of all
that lives or strives to kill.
Dies or survives.

And even if death be thy banner,
then bare it proud aloft,
as it were
the very sauce of life.
... xxx ...

This story forms part of the free full length novel:
On Forbidden Wine

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