The Dragon's Waltz
How can I blame you, when it's me I can't forgive?
Legna; hypocrite, murderer, betrayer, the half-soul, slave to a dead memory, the Arch Dragon with empty eyes.
And yet…yet he is one of her kin, though to look at them, the thought would never even cross the mind. One gleams, black scales admitting their true nature as molten gold 'neath the sanguine light, whilst the other one shines cold, heartless white. The Chaos Sky looms over all, passing neither judgment nor favour; all are as inconsequent motes within the vastness of time and space to the staring, bottomless sky. The apathetic crimson stands by as the Black and White dragons scream towards one another, the Blood they both house clamouring with a familial resonance.
Legna, Memory of Blood, God-Dragon Aspirant, Holy of Holies, most callous and merciless of all divinities.
And the Black-Gold Dragon, Half-Blood, the Fallen, Forsaken, the Defender, Unforgiven, the one who willingly shutters all senses to the Blood Memory.
The curtain rises, the final act begins, the orchestra sets up their songs of war and of blood. The beat is set by the mighty sweeps of dragon-wings; the characters' words are heard in the rumbling growl, the rising shriek, the clarion call.
All minor roles stand aside as the two leads take the fore, wings rushing in a frantic crescendo of noise, their jaws ablaze and full of the drama of fire.
The time for words is far behind them, now only a deathly dance holds sway. One thrusts forth with out-reaching talons, the other rolls to the side and sweeps out with a hooked tail. Dodge, strike, fire, the rise and fall of their waltz paints the red sky in all the hues of battle. Wounds that are dealt weep bloody tears that fall as rain, but nothing but destruction it its entirety can halt the dance, silence the music, and end the story.
A shriek, a rasp, a sour note that warbles through the still, pregnant air; the song is not sullied by this misstep; it is instead embroided, this battle hymn. Blazing wings are stilled, red eyes staring emptily, black-gold scales dissolving into flame. Legna sings out, triumphant, even as his Blood-kin bows out from the stage of battle, and into the wings, accompanied by Death's leering mask. The White Dragon's voice rings out the last, echoing notes of the song, the dance ended, the Unforgiven falling from the stage, and deeper, deeper into the fire.
The Story of the Blood Memory will continue to its conclusion, unhindered by conscience or remorse.
The Story of the Black-Gold Dragon has ended, in a final show of flames and ash, ash that is carried by the arms of the wind into the embrace of endless summers.
Only the apathetic sky bears witness to the flames of the Black-Gold, though it is not alone in bearing the scars of the Dragon's Waltz; still the Unforgiven's part in this cosmic drama will be forever remembered; her voice will ring out as the wind, her life will burn as a star, her Blood will stain the hide of her killer, and her flames will tint the wisp-clouds of dawn.
Yes, Legna may have slain his enemy, the Half-Blooded one, but he has not destroyed her utterly. Her story may be over, her role played to its fullest, but she lingers, if only as but a memory.
Though he, full of dead memories, may understand that, best of all.