A short story as a break from training, inspired by a couple of friends - Japanese culture, fantasy and a dragon. Written February 29, 2016. the dancing snowflake
shimmers in the morning sun seer of icy death The snow melts in a circle, white powder clearing into tiny translucent crystals, bulging into droplets of water caught on the surrounding crystals by surface tension, until the construction decays beyond structural integrity, collapsing and oozing downhill in a trickle, towards the heat, sizzling and steaming up, dancing skyward beside the smoke of the fire. He leans into the heat of the fire, gloves empty over his knees, hands embracing the warmth from the flame. He rubs them together, blowing hot air through his fingers, before returning his palms to face the fire. His teeth chatter, and he sits rigid trying to hold off the shivers that sweep across his body in waves. He presses his chest tighter against his thighs, tucking his feet in to drag himself closer to the heat. The fire tickles up, licking at the meal that lies above it. His mouth waters at the smell of cooking flesh, but he is running out of time. It would be easy for him to forget himself here, a little winter grove surrounded by skeletal trees with leaves of white ice, comforted by the warmth of a fire, a squirrel spitted and searing before him. The cold will not let him forget. Let him forget those that had fallen on the way, his comrades, his friends, his brothers. Let him forget the ultimate reason for their journey, for the sacrifices made already. Let him forget how it began. Let him forget that day, that morning. That it came from the east, with the rising sun. At first it was a cloud. A white shroud blocking the weak rays of the waking sun. Growing, spreading to smother the sky, darkening as it thickened. At first it was the cold. A sheer, cutting icy wind that rattled windows, slammed doors and chased summer from the air, slaughtering the heat like a marauding army through the fleeing populace of an undefended, unprepared town. Of course it was a warning, a sign, an omen, a portent. Of course it was ignored, disregarded, paid no heed. People stayed inside, waited for the weather to clear, for summer to return. Waited for the storm to pass. The storm would not pass. Summer could not return. The weather would not clear. The cold only grew stronger, grew beyond cold, and with the inclement clouds came the snow. Came the hailstones. The rivers froze over. Any animals trapped outside were lost. They would find them later, huddled together amidst the roots trees predator-prey relationships forgotten as they forced themselves together, great piles of them, to share what remaining heat they could. Even the trees froze. The ground became ice. Homes without fire were lost. Inhabitants fleeing, braving the blizzard outside the reach the safety of warmth. Many did not make it. Blinded by the snowstorm, battered, knocked down by the winds. Knocks unheard as they bludgeoned their numb fists senselessly against sealed doors, sanctuary just inches away. fire burns for freedom snuffed by the smothering chill claustrophobia The squirrel is cooked. He leans forward and takes the squirrel from the spit, pulling himself to his feet in the process. He checks the roasted squirrel from all angles, admiring the consistency of his work, before stabbing the end of the spit into the snow beside him, squirrel dangling up like a totem. He collects his things, pooling them into a satchel. Flint, tinder, hand axe and, always, the package. He looms over the fire, soaking in as much of its warmth as his body can handle, letting his skin and clothes flickers towards the edge of singeing before kicking the snow over the fire. The crystals sing as they break, melt and steam over the heat; the screams of a dying multitude. But the snow will win the war. The fire dies, the coals cool, the trickling water refreezes, the steam condenses. He takes his stake of squirrel and continues his journey, plodding off away into the snow, absentmindedly tearing into the hot flesh. He casts his thoughts back. It was the laughter that brought the fear home in them. By now the survivors had huddled within the great hall, pooling all of their firewood and rationing it out, though not knowing how long it would need to continue fueling the fire. For two days they had been unable to speak over the roaring of the blizzard that raged against the walls of their building. Gradually the wind had lost its energy. No one thought that the worst was over. They were in limbo, trapped within the eye of the storm. As the wind died, the murmuring rose. No one wished to talk, to draw attention to themselves. Not until the laugher. It didn’t come from a place of joy, happiness. It was a laugh that scoured the landscape for any traces of positive emotion, rallied them together, ushered them into a room and incinerated them. It oozed with scorn, a bitter maniacal cackle that welcomed despair as an old friend; near-forgotten but inevitably expected. Attentions settle. The laughter slows and stops, the bitter air remains. The whole hall turns to one corner, all eyes glaring at the force that brought their fear to the fore. The body they face is a corpse in waiting. The oldest of them, so much so that nobody but he knows how old. Dressed in enough layers that only his face is visible, and of that only a half. He lets out one last hacking cackle, then begins. “We all thought it was great tale, which it was, a story, a falsehood to scare us children into behaving and listening to our elders. Something that doesn’t seem to happen anymore. We thought not much of it, but we remembered it. The story was too great not to latch onto, build nightmares from, mould our daily skirmishes, that punctuated any lapse in responsibility, to. We chose not to believe it, because to believe it meant to believe in death, the certainty and finality of it. Something children are want to comprehend. We did not forget it though. Now it is here. As truth. To think that I would live to see the day my greatest nightmares come to fruition. Ah. How did it begin?” from shadows into light one in fear, one joy, are you hunter or hunted? He stops at the edge of the forest, discarding the bones and stick, the remnants of his meal. Behind him the maze of black skeletons that kept him hidden, his sanctuary, bids him farewell. Ahead lies a plain of white. A flat expanse of deep, powdered snow. A sweeping blank canvass of hidden depths and hidden deaths. Crevasses and rivers hide beneath the insubstantial blanket of snow, with no sign of their presence on the surface. He will have to cross the plains, exposed and vulnerable, the reach his final destination. He turns his axe to the trees that protected him, to use them for this, the last time. He fashions his accessories from the wood and the bark. Bark he strips and braids to form twine. Branches he bends, tying their ends together to form loops. He lines a grid of twine across the loops, tight and regular. With thicker braid he sets straps for his feet. Completed, he ties the snow shoes around his back. From the largest tree, with the thickest bark, he cuts a large plank, the size of his body. He shapes the edges down, smoothed and rounded. He attaches the snow shoes to his feet, and takes a breath, glances back along the path he has come, his footprints in the snow already filling in and blowing away in the light wind. For a moment he considers the futility of his journey, of a life. Will he be remembered, or is he just another footprint blowing away, his impact erased with the passing of time? But it is not about him, it is about everything. The footprint is just a moment of progress on the greater journey. No one footprint is the journey, but each is necessary to push it onwards. He sets out onto the plains. The old man’s voice fills his mind. "In the beginning, before the great forming, there was nothing. The formless void filled all space, all space was filled by nothing. From the nothing, The First was born. Born from the void and of the void. Sora, the First Dragon. It was Sora who tore asunder the nothing, split the balanced, equilibrated forces into the four elements, a quartet of antithetical beings; contrary and yet complementary. Mizu, the Water Dragon, master of the fluid and formless things; of change. Tsuchi, the Earth Dragon, master of hard, solid things; of permanence. Hi, the Fire Dragon, master of energy, force, movement; of life. Kaze, the Wind Dragon, master of growth, expansion, freedom; of consciousness. The four Great Dragons, children of the First, created substance from the void. Hi created the stars, the Sun. Hi brought light to the everything. Tsuchi created the planets, the earth. Shaped the mountains, the valleys. Mizu filled the valleys with water, the mountains with snow, the sky with cloud. Creating the oceans, the rivers. Finally, Kaze filled the skies with air, with wind. Kaze created weather. The wind pushed the water, battering against the mountains. Mizu and Tsuchi in constant battle, permanent change. However, Hi and Kaze were unsatisfied. Though Kaze had set Mizu and Tsuchi against one another, this was not the ultimate goal, there was more. Hi felt distanced from the Earth, where the other three had settled. Hi wished to escape from Sora, from the void, and descend into this new world. From the water, through Mizu, Hi created life. From the seed of life, Hi was able to watch his creations flourish. Kaze gave life thought, consciousness. Life was given complexity, able to interact within itself. Life grew, and expanded much faster than the Dragons themselves could, and Hi continued to flood life with energy, to accelerate its growth. Hi wanted his creations to comprehend and to worship. Hi coerced and manipulated Kaze to give more, and Kaze, reluctantly, relented to Hi’s demands. Together they created humanity. It was Hi who gave humanity the power over fire, so that they may worship him. This, the other great Dragons decided, was going too far. Hi had overstepped an unforgivable boundary. In their anger, their lust for retribution, they give birth to a new dragon. With the power of their three elements, power enough to defeat the strength, the force of Hi, the Great Fire Dragon. The power of water, earth and air. Kōri, the Ice Dragon. Kōri was indeed powerful enough to equal the strength of Hi, and they fought. Heat against cold. Their great battle gave rise to the seasons, as their influence pushed against one another, Summer and Winter, Spring and Autumn. For aeons, their battle raged on. Hi could no longer continue creating life, could no longer be worshipped. Hi’s strength waned. Winter grew longer, Summer shorter. In a final bid to turn an inevitable defeat into a surrender, Hi turned to the other great dragons, Kaze, Tsuchi and Mizu, to beg for reprieve, forgiveness. Though they wished to help, seeing their brethren on the road to the end, they could do nothing to abate the rage of Kōri, for it was their rage. Kōri could not be reasoned with, could not be stopped. Hi, abandoned by the other great dragons, turned instead to humanity. Hi sought sanctuary amongst his creations, to hide from Kōri until Hi could regain strength. Hi created seven eggs. Each egg was sent to a separate corner of the world, each with a separate society, unknown to one another. From any egg, Hi could be reborn. And so, eggs safely secured in secrecy, Hi surrendered to Kōri, and was destroyed. Purpose complete, Kōri retired to the peaks of the mountains, the poles of the earth. Though the seasons continued. The eggs held the power of Hi. Kōri was displeased. Tricked and deceived. Kōri knew some trace of Hi remained, and the power lay in the hands of humanity. Kōri knew that to destroy Hi, that part of Hi that humanity possessed must also be destroyed. To this day Kōri hunts for those eggs, scouring the earth, destroying civilisations in the process." a lone speck of dust tumbles down a white landscape it has been spotted He has heard the shriek before, but it does not help. His body seizes up, muscles clenching in shock, locking him into position - perhaps an echo of instinctual response to movement sensitive hunters. The sounds reverberates across the snowfields, a ripple of fresh snow unsettles, shaking a halo of white dust off the ground. It rattles through his bones, fighting against his now clenched muscles. He struggles to regain control, but they stubbornly refuse to relax. The fear builds. His heart rate shudders dangerously high. Blood thunders in his ears, pushing out against the grating shriek from the inside. The noise is like a tearing in the fabric of reality, it claws with its icy fingers at his coats, at his skin, searching for the soul inside that it can destroy. However, his back remains untouched. Warmed by the package inside. He is reminded of his journey, of his duty. He regains control of his body, unlocking his muscles shuffling through and on top of the snow towards the nearest change in gradient. Peaking up to the crest, against a steep decline down the side of the mountain, he pauses to dismantle the snow shoes from his feet and unload the large plank from his back. He no longer has the luxury of time. The balance of risk has shifted, and now speed is his safest choice. He throws the plank out ahead onto the snow, and dives headfirst onto the board. The snow absorbs his impact initially, but once the board slides down onto fresh snow the friction slips away and his momentum and velocity fly ahead unrestrained. The air pulls at the skin on his face, the falling powder smacks against his coat, layering itself on his chest. He kneels, hands gripping the sides of the plank, just above the snow whipping past either side; too fast to focus on. The wind screams past his ears, smothering the constant shrieking. His pace plateaus out at breakneck speed, a balance of gravity, friction and wind resistance. The snow spreads out before him all the way to the ocean. The distance is immense, but feels so small at this speed. He sits up straighter, increasing his profile and so reducing his speed, slightly. Carefully, holding his body steady with his core to keep himself and the speeding contraption balanced, he twists his head around to glance behind. And it is there. A smooth beast deepest blue, resplendent in the light, and black as the darkest night without. Its scales are shards of shaped ice like articulated plate armour, rippling across its hide with each graceful movement; each battering of its monolithic wings that twisted the light that could pass through it, making the whole being glow with hundreds of beacons of light. He had seen it once before. He had heard it many times, but the sight of it was not something anyone was supposed to live with. Indeed, most of them had not. Of the 10 of them that had set out, 5 had survived. They had been tasked with removing the package from the town and so removing the attentions of Kōri. They had accepted that they were likely sacrifices. There was hardly a hope of survival. The first deaths were due to the cold - worst when they had moved too quickly, escaping from the eye of the storm and back into the raging blizzard. Then the injuries suffered in the course of the mountain traverse. This had slowed them the most, and by this time Kōri’s attentions had already been switched to their little party. It was during the climb down that they heard it again. He was towards the head of the descent, one ahead, 3 behind him. The shriek turned their legs to jelly, and immediately he pushed himself back against the cliff face, hands clenching on the rope that held them together, eyes pressed closed hoping against hope that none would slip on the ice rocks in panic. The rope pulled taut from below, but took no additional weight. It remained slack behind. He would have stayed trapped against the rock, eyes shut, unless his lead hadn’t supplied three gentle tugs on the line. A cue to continue. He eased his back off the rock and continued the descent, passing the call back up the rope once it too pulled taut. The shriek continued. Grew louder in their ears. The lead helped him down the final drop, their both turned to help the rest of the party make the last little jump. Looking up at the cliff face, the three clambering down from above and the vast icy wall that they had descended cutting a sharp dark line against the white of the cloud covered sky. The second-last of their party was preparing for the drop, the three below arranged to take most of her momentum to soften her landing, when the monster tore through the line of the mountain and into the white of the sky. The volume of the shriek magnified as it focussed its force on them. In the low light, the icy being appeared black against the white backdrop, only its eyes retained a piercing blue that shot straight through whatever its gaze passed across. Its sleek form filled most of the visible sky, and filled them with irrepressible terror. The three of them at the base froze, eyes transfixed, limbs numb. The two still climbing, turned to follow the gaze of the others. The last fainted, slipping from the cliff face, and taking the second-last with him, her scream smothered by the continued shriek. He and the first responded to their falling comrades, both moving to catch the conscious, screaming, member of their party. They could do nothing for the other, whose body collected the iced floor with a disturbing wet thwack. As a group they averted their eyes and thoughts from the mess - only giving mind to the more slippery sections around them where the fluids steamed on the surface of the ice. The lead cut the now dead weight from their rope line. They broke out at a run, or their worst caricature of it, over the smooth slippery surface of the frozen river. They were racing towards the cover of the trees, and the forest that beckoned from just the other side of the river. Its bare branches and trunks offering the closest thing to sanctuary. The great black beast swooped, dive towards them from in front, soaring over the treetops, whipping the trees with the air of its passing, shredding from them their weaker branches. He felt pathetic, sliding and skidding towards the very graceful monstrosity that they had hoped to flee. They could stop, diving chest first onto the ice as its claws raked towards them, each knuckle the size of a great bull, claw the length of a house. The tip of its claw sheared through the ice beside them, clamping around them as a prison, trapping them within its embrace, and pulling them skywards. He and the lead dangled outside the vice, lifted up by the rope that connected them to the two trapped inside the claws. Even this close he could feel all warmth draining from him. He had tried not to see their faces hidden inside that deathtrap as he rushed to the knife at his waist and severed the line before they rose too high to survive the fall. Fortunately, as was custom, as the second in line he was carrying the package. The lead did not survive the fall, collecting with too many branches and at too many bad angles. He hoped it was a quick death. At least he held the consolation that the pain would have been numbed by the cold. through the howling wind shrieking down the snow-swept slope one flees one chases He no longer looks back. His profile is as small as he can make it, pressed hard against the wood of the plank, head facing directly downhill, the snow racing past. There is no more he can do to hasten his descent, and he feels incapable of escaping via any other means than speed. Though he is reaching its limits. The descent is easing out, the ocean approaches. He pushes his weight forwards, trying to maintain his deathly speed, setting little goals to achieve. To the next crest, to the smooth plateau, to the edge of the cliff, to the water. He sweeps over the crest, rising out of the air momentarily, before slamming back into the snow, swerving slightly and losing a moment of speed. He flies towards the plateau, still keeping his speed, shooting along the snow towards the cliff’s edge, and towards the ocean the awaits him below. He can no longer resist a look behind, and he cannot put any more speed into the sled from here. It is upon him, transfixing him with its great eyes, head raised and mouth stretched open baring the darkness of its maw. Its dark wings spread behind it envelop the sky, turning all light that passes through them a deep shade of blue. Claws are raised, reaching out towards him, towards its prey, inching closer with each moment. Suddenly he is airborne. The ground is not beneath him, and he is shooting out off the cliff’s edge. The board drops from underneath him, and he turns his gaze to follow its plummet to the roiling ocean below. He falls with it, passing beyond the trajectory of the wind-battered plank, further out towards the crashing waves, beyond the jagged rocks. His organs race to catch up to him, moments behind inside his body, pressing up and back against each other, against his throat, floating within his cavity. The monster is almost upon him as the flying like a stone towards the waiting waves. They rush out, clearing the ocean floor, exposing the rocks beneath, before flooding back with greater force and speed than he thought water capable of, rising up to meet him. He crashes into the foaming wave, and it embraces him, catching and buoying him up in his fall, but it does not stop at him, surging past, building power and weight towards his pursuer. The water rips past his face, but leaves him within its depths, turning him to face up, to watch the surge of water meet the descending dragon. The ice and water meet, crystalline head piercing through the surface of the water towards him, crystals of ice shooting out from its entry, followed quickly by its neck, torso, claws, but it’s momentum slows, stops. The water pushes back. The dragon cannot sink into its depths, towards it prey. It thrashes on the surface, enraged, trying desperately to reach down, and complete the hunt, but the ice builds around it, lifting it further up and away. Its shriek turns to a haunting wail that he can feel through the water. Defeated, it lifts off the surface, beating and struggling with the weight of the water to tear its wings free of the sea, before taking to the sky and returning to the snow-painted land. He breaches the surface, floating in the icy water, but he is not yet cold. He is warmed by the package that he hold, and by the adrenaline that surges through his body. He starts to swim. Not knowing where to, only where from.
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