Don’t worry if your skin keeps breaking out. Growing magical powers need years to balance themselves out and they’re known to irritate the skin. Once you’re strong enough to befriend a dragon, your skin will clear.
Tag: fantasy
What if all humans are really born as dragon riders?
What if all of us have a soul out there, yearning and calling out to us and so unbelievably lonely, connected to our own?
And what if the only reason we haven’t become the most terrifying force to ever be reckoned with in the history of everything is simply… that they’re too far away from us? That we were never allowed to find them? We have the legends, we have the stories and almost-forgotten memories passed down from ancestors that desperately tried to let us know, hoping we would bring back what has been ripped away from us. They were here, our myths whisper. Find them. Find them. Find them.
It’s been two hundred years since we first left our planet. Our ships roam the solar system. Trade flourishes and we are met with a strangely reserved kind of respect – almost as if we are merely tolerated, though never outright insulted or rejected.
And then, a ship vanishes. Another follows. We search for our lost people, don’t find, help refused by the creatures more intelligent than us, stronger, larger, still keeping their distance instead of overthrowing us. But when our ships return, we know why. When they return from what we thought was a prison colony planet full of caves underground and mountains too high to land, we learn.
They all speak different languages, those other creatures, but they share an age-old saying in all of them:
“You cannot kill a dragon, but you can tame it if you take the eggs from its nest.”
But we’re humans, and they didn’t know what that meant. Without the warmth from our other souls, we took the nearest hand. We made ourselves hatch.
What if all humans are really born as dragon riders?
And what if someone’s out there, waiting for us to find them?
“Tell me the truth,” the human demanded.
The universe rippled, almost like a smile. “I grant you permission to ask any question, and this is what you want to know?”
The human glared a little bit. “Tell me. Unless you’re breaking your promise,”
“Of course not,” said the universe. It pulled the human closer, made the space around it warm, slowed time into a gentle river.
“Well? What’s the truth of if all? The one thing that’s always true, no matter what?”
The universe held its human for a long or short while. Then, it said:
“There’s no always.”
“Okay,” said the human slowly, “okay, but – ”
“The only truth is change.”
For a tiny or an endless while, the human said nothing. When it looked up at the universe, its eyes were shining with tears (maybe happy ones, maybe sad ones; the universe couldn’t be sure. Nothing was certain with humans, and how magnificent that was).
“So even if – no matter what – ” The human couldn’t speak anything else. It curled against the universe and held on tight.
A pulse of light wove around the human as it dissolved. The universe watched its way back to the stars, back to its home, and whispered a little something after it for when it woke up again.
Indeed, my human… you’re right. No matter what, even if something and anything happens, change is true, and truth will always come.
Nobody knows when it began.
Some say it was a Monday morning, but it could have been a Tuesday, a Sunday or anything in between. It’s hard to even remember the season – was there snow? Had the trees lost their leaves yet? Were other cats squeaking when their paws touched the concrete because the sun was burning down with too many degrees and no mercy?
It could have been years ago, or centuries.
All the people of the small town know is this:
The cat doesn’t move.
And it doesn’t seem to eat, either. They’re not even sure if it’s a she or a he. (Some whisper it’s neither. A kid told his friend in school, during break. His friend said that’s stupid, but her eyes were a little watery and very wide.)
When it rains, the cat nuzzles flat into the ground.
When the sun shines, its nose lifts into the air, eyes blinking, fur uncoiling in little happy motions.
When the heavy blizzards come, nobody can see it. Every year, they think: This is it. There’s no way this tiny thing survived. Children don’t go to school, adults don’t even need to call into work because snow rules the world and the sky spits ice into the streets and lakes.
As soon as winter leaves, the people go out looking.
The cat is still there. Its eyes are soft half-moon smiles. Someone always leaves food. It goes untouched, and somehow, not even the crows or seagulls dare come close to pick it up.
Everyone hears when it begins.
From one second to another, the sky is gone. There is no light. The universe yawns in horrible silence above their heads. Impossible, the people whisper as they stare where the stars should be and only infinite darkness grins back.
The earth cracks. A sound emerges from it, loud and distorted and a million noises screeching at once. The people of the little town are running.
The cat sits next to the hole in the ground. Something is next to it, a terrible shadow, eyes coal-glowing-red, a claw around the cat’s neck. It looks at the people, half-moon happiness now despair, as if to say: I did all I could.
And the people realize (too late), and they beg (too little), and they shiver when the shadow moves toward them.
The cat doesn’t cry. It can’t. But it sits and looks at them with sad full-moon pupils, as if to say: I’m sorry for not being stronger.
Primero, fueron los grandes guerreros.
Disparamos balas en sus pieles y lucimos sus dientes como trofeos. Los desnudamos de sus pelajes, de sus vidas, de su dignidad, perdida mucho antes de que la sangre dejara de correr por sus venas. Los tachamos de monstruos, y aquellos pocos que los llamaban grandiosos, el culmen, una hermosa y necesaria parte de nuestro mundo se vieron obligados a acallar su voz. Olvidamos sus nombres, olvidamos qué eran los tigres, los osos, los zorros, los leones, los lobos o los gatos.
Así que primero, los guerreros fueron asesinados y no sentimos el viento cuando empezó a soplar más fuerte.
Segundo, fueron los poderosos vigilantes.
Nos abrimos paso entre sus escamas con arpones y consumimos sus aletas. Los atrapamos en redes y arrastramos a su asfixia, sus ojos desvaneciéndose luego de que nuestros cuchillos los alcanzaran. Fuimos a su mundo, tomamos los colores de sus hogares de coral y clamamos que era su culpa cuando intentaron dar pelea, desesperados a causa del dolor. No nos acordamos de sus nombres, no nos acordamos del tiburón, de la ballena, de la foca, de la manta raya, del pulpo o del arrecife.
Así que segundo, los vigilantes fueron asesinados y no sentimos el suelo del océano cuando se partió en dos.
Y luego, fueron los pequeños errantes.
A esos no les dimos caza. Eran pequeños, casi invisibles para nosotros, y éramos demasiado grandes y magníficos para preocuparnos. Arrebatamos sus flores, sus estanques, les quitamos sus amados bosques y consumimos y destrozamos y aniquilamos. Nos emocionaba someter a los guerreros y a los vigilantes, pero los errantes no eran muy importantes, demasiados feos para siquiera echarles una mirada. Y ni siquiera nos dimos cuenta, no fuimos tras el sapo, la araña, el pez, el ratón, el pájaro o el insecto.
Entonces, los errante murieron y ahora sentimos el suelo rugir debajo de nuestro pies.
Intentamos.
Te lo aseguro, intentamos. Sacrificamos y lloramos y nos unimos para arreglarlo, para enmendarlo, para hacer algo. Cualquier cosa.
El viento gritó nuestros nombres. El océano y la tierra susurraron sedientos por nuestra sangre.
Si hubiésemos conservado a los errantes, últimos, definitivos, esenciales, con vida, entonces quizá las barreras se hubieran mantenido en pie. Quizá, si el último enjambre no hubiese muerto junto con su reina en un laboratorio caro, entonces podríamos haber vivido.
Deberíamos haber sabido que los guerreros no eran nuestras presas, sino el ataque de nuestro planeta contra lo antiguo. Deberíamos haber sabido que los vigilantes no eran una carga, sino la defensa de nuestro planeta.
Deberíamos haber sabido que los insectos ignorados, los molestos grillos, y los últimos errantes que una vez simplemente llamamos abejas de la miel, no eran nuestros servidores, sino nuestra única forma de supervivencia.
Así que fallamos. Y cuando el viento con su calor, el mar con sus olas, y la tierra con su hambre vinieron a engullirnos, cerramos los ojos y sentimos.
Escrito por @moami
Traducido por @kaleyus
Me encantó tanto esta pequeña historia que no pude evitar traducirla. Es la primera traducción que publico así que espero hacerle al menos un poco de justicia. ¡Espero que les guste!
Thank you very much for allowing me to translate and post this beautiful piece, Moami!
First, it was the great warriors.
We shot bullets into their fur and wore their teeth as trophies. We stripped them off their pelts, lives, their dignity lost long before the blood stilled in their veins. We painted them as monsters, and the few that called them great, apex, a necessary and beautiful part of our world, had their voices silenced. We forgot their names, forgot what tigers, bears, foxes, lions, wolves or cats were.
So first, the warriors were killed, and we didn’t hear how the wind got louder.
Second, it was the mighty watchers.
We pushed harpoons into their scales and ate their fins. We caught them in nets and dragged them into their suffocation, their eyes fading after our knives got them. We went into their world, took the colour of their coral homes and roared them blame on them when they lashed out, desperate from the pain. We don’t remember their names, don’t remember shark, whale, seal, ray, octopus or reef.
So second, the watchers were killed, and we didn’t hear how the ocean floor cracked open.
And then, it was the tiniest wanderers.
Those we did not hunt. They were small, almost invisible to us, and we were too grand and magnificent to care. We took their flowers, their ponds, ripped out their beloved forests and ate and shattered and wiped out. We found thrill in submitting warriors and watchers to us, but wanderers were too unimportant, too ugly to even look at. And we did not even notice, did not look for frog, spider, fish, mouse, bird or insect.
So then, the wanderers died, and now we heard how the ground howled beneath our feet.
We tried.
I promise you, we tried. We sacrificed and cried and brought everyone together to fix it, mend it, do something. Do anything.
The wind screamed our names. Ocean and earth whispered for our blood.
If we’d been able to keep the final, the last, the crucial wanderers alive, then maybe the barriers would have held up. Maybe, if their last swarm had not died along with its queen in an expensive lab, then we would have lived.
We should have known that the warriors weren’t our prey, but our world’s attack against the ancient. Should have known that watchers weren’t a burden but our planet’s defense.
Should have known that the ignored insects, the annoying critters, and the last wanderers that we once simply called honey bees, weren’t our servants but our only survival.
So, we failed. And when the wind and its heat, the sea and its waves, and the earth and its hunger came to swallow us, we closed our eyes and heard.
“I’ve caught one,” the fisherman screams, grinning at his hook stuck in the girl’s cheek. “I caught myself a mermaid!”
Her hair is green, algae curled around it. The fisherman’s grip is greed, is lust, when he rips at it to get her closer. Her mouth glints like a pearl and oh, he could sell her after he’s – well, once he’s done with that beauty of hers. “Aren’t you a pretty one,” he licks his lips, “and all mine. I caught you, so you’re mine.”
All at once, her song ends. No sound comes out of her mouth that stays open, teeth tiny and many, sharp in the slick night. She tugs the hook out of her cheek. The fisherman watches, his heart burning from how fast it runs against his flesh, as her wound closes up and a bit of blood drips from her little mouth.
“Yours,” the mermaid says. The sea echoes her voice, an accent he can’t define, oh who cares, she’s just – just prey – and her pupils snap into slits. “Yours?”
The ocean ripples.
The waves tremble.
The wind whispers, smiles, then stills to not disturb the song that rises once more.
“No,” whisper a thousand voices, whisper a million teeth, whispers ten thousands of stares in the water. “We caught you. You are ours.”
People often misunderstand what the old saying about a cat having nine lives means. The cats prefer to keep it a secret, as most humans can’t be trusted with information so fragile and precious, but there are exceptions.
The merchant who shares his leftover fish. The young girl that hides littler after litter of newborn ones in her room until they find new homes. The old man with scars who still has enough kindness to open his shed to let them slip in from the rain. Boys, teenagers, mothers, warriors, brothers – some are trusted.
Exceptions, yes, few nowadays and rare, but honoured all the more.
So nine lives there are indeed. Each cat is born with them and no matter the time or place, they are lost easily.
This is where the story ends for most people.
But for those who are trusted, those who wake up one morning and find a weird taste in their mouth, the scent of a forest never touched by human hands in their nose, and a strange lingering touch of whiskers on their forehead – they know the truth.
Nine lives for this world, is what all our legends used to say.
You, friend of cats, know the ancient, almost forgotten sayings.
You know of cat eyes shining in the deepest night when they shouldn’t be able to. You know of cats staring past your ear, at that forbidden spot right by the frayed corner of your vision, and you fear that if you look, your cat won’t be able to stare it into submission anymore. You don’t look. The cat purrs. You’re safe.
The kittens have all their lives still. They do not look at the edgewalking beasts that whisper through their humans’ house. It will take time until they fall, hurt, learn.
The oldest cats know so much that a touch of their paw will make an entire village shudder. Their quiet voices cast spells. Let them roam. You cannot imagine the things that flee from them as they walk in silence.
Cat friend, you know it in your heart.
You know of the paths they walk that human feet can’t find.
You know of the nights they vanish and return with the scent of blood, earth and salt in their fur, and when your fingers touch their coat, a cold shiver awakes your skin.
Sometimes, they hear things. You don’t know what, but you know enough to let them sit in front of your house or room, paws tucked under, dark stare never leaving an invisible spot in the air.
And when you float between sleep and life, when you’re unlucky enough to claw at the edge of death before you’re ready to go…
Then maybe, friend of cats, you’ll feel a brush of fur along your legs. Maybe, just before you startle with awe in your heart and wake once more, the same pair of eyes that should sleep by your side winks at you from another world.
“Think of the children, please.”
She had told them so many times.
“The children. I beg you, all of you. Think of the children.”
They had ignored her, and now James kind of wished they hadn’t.
Their torches light up the cave’s walls, barely pushing back the darkness, just enough for Catherine to read and half-whispering translate the ancient symbols scrawled all over them. James is by her side, one arm around the woman’s neck, and goddamn it, the old hag is still whimpering about children and won’t anyone think of them, please.
“Shut your mouth,” James growls at her, squeezes a bit. The old woman croaks. She goes still then. Her eyes are fixed on a point over James’ head, going wide and huge and he’s got enough of that. “What is it now, huh? You already insane with fear?”
The rest of the group laughs. Their silver daggers catch the torches’ light, reflect it into the dark.
“James,” Catherine says. “James, be quiet.”
“You know, this is why I’m a hunter.” He pulls the old woman close, frowning when her jaw falls open in silent horror. “Hey, listen when you’re talked to. Unbelievable. But seriously, you people are pathetic. Can’t even take care of a few bloodsuckers by yourself. Aren’t you angry? Huh? They took your children, forchrissake.”
“James.” A gloved hand touches his arm. Catherine’s face is pale like death in the torchlight. “We have to go.”
Something shuffles behind him. James throws a look over his shoulder, the others shifting their torches into his field of vision, but nothing’s there. The old woman lets out a pathetic wail. He shakes her off.
“Crazy old hag. You’re all cowards, your entire damn village. If it had been my kids, I would’ve marched here on my own, killed them all at once – hey!”
The woman is at his feet, digging her clawy hands into his legs where she grips them. “Now you’ve done it,” she whispers. “The children. I told you to think of the children.”
“James,” Catherine says, and then a white hands reaches around her neck and pulls her into the dark.
“What the fuck – Cat!”
A torch drops. James whirls around just in time to watch the fire sizzle out on the wet cave floor. For a second, the light illuminates the ground in brilliant, terrifying red.
“Oh God.” He can’t breathe. The torches go out, one by one, each falling when another hand claws into a neck and another man or woman is pulled into the dark.
Then, the old woman is in front of him. Blood pours from her thin lips. James stares, a scream stuck in his throat, as a claw wounds its way through her neck. The last torch blows out.
But the cave doesn’t plunge into darkness.
“The children,” a choir of hundred voices hums. Two hundred eyelids slip open with a wet, sucking squelch. Two hundred small, round circles awaken on the walls of the cave that has never been one but a nest instead, and the scratch of hundreds upon hundreds of stinking nails over rotting stone sway the choir’s soft song into a rhythm:
“The children, the children, how could you forget the children?”
They bought the puppy for Christmas. The fire that warmed it was almost like its mother’s fur, the blankets it rested on so close to its sibling’s touch. Small fingers caressed its body. The food was exciting, rich, strong on its tongue. The puppy decided that it would love these ones forever.
They threw it out on Easter. Snow covered the streets. The road was grey, the sky was grey, its nose felt grey and scentless. It had wanted to become strong for them, had done everything to grow quickly. Its fur was thin still, its paws too big for itself and too small for the world. It howled for hours. Nobody returned.
The woman that found it was different. Her hands weren’t small. Her house was tiny and the scents whispered spices across the puppy’s tongue, twisted its ears inside out and back again. She gave it food, and while the puppy ate, her old veiny fingers wove patterns over its head, and she mumbled words it didn’t recognise in a language that sounded like wind and water and the fire’s wrath.
The puppy stayed.
It wasn’t a puppy anymore.
It ate, it ran, it drank the scents and locked up the magic that the woman poured over its fur when the storm roared outside the windows.
October came. The puppy wasn’t a puppy wasn’t a dog anymore. New snow had fallen.
The woman took one look at it and went to the door, opening it wide. “Run and take from them what you want,” she said, smile black and white from teeth and those that were missing. “But after that, you are mine, and the strength I gave you will be faithful to me, and my fire will warm you for as long as your fur returns to my doorstep.”
The hell hound bared its teeth, crossed the threshold, and lifted its heavy head. The scent had never faded from its memory.
They met their puppy again on a dark October night.
And only the small fingers still reached out to it the same as before, and spoke its name in an awed whisper of “there you are”; the large hands that had pushed it aside and filled it with the cold were now, finally, cold.
Moami 