Disclaimer: See first chapter.

I just realized how godawful BAD my writing was two years back – short, clipped, no details almost, too quickly-paced, Mary-Sue-ish, etc. etc.  I hope to remedy that, really.

So, as of January 2, 2004, another completed revision for this interlude.  

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Blood, it's everywhere.  I coast above the desert sands frantically, working my wings to the point of exhaustion in the cool, still night air.  The scene below me is horrific – bile rises in my throat at the crimson-stained rubble strewn like the pieces of a child's broken plaything.  The cloyingly sweet stench of death rises to meet my nostrils.

My parents...my parents...  I give an involuntary moan, landing clumsily next to their mangled forms.  Mother's eyes are vacant white circles in her head, which is skewed at the most unnatural angle.  I shudder and close them, bowing my head in respect as grief chokes my throat.  Father must have lasted longer – his feathers, shockingly, retain a hint of their former warmth still.  I try not to look at the shattered ruin that was his chest, but I can't help myself.

Dragon eyes are good…far too good.

My mother and my father have been taken from me.  I roar fury at the unfeeling heavens, at the calm round moon that would dare to shine over this horror. 

I have found those closest to my heart but one.  Where is my charge?  Where is the one that I hope against hope still breathes, despite all the logic that says it can no longer be?

*******


I find what's left of her at dawn, the glinting of the amulet at her neck finally catching my eye.  I lift the tiny, broken shell of her, a horrible feeling sinking down into my chest and stomach as I survey the terrible wounds that have dyed her clothes crimson-black and the entirely wrong way she hangs in my forearms, evidence of bones that have snapped like sticks.

Cradling her body gently in my talons, I take off on the slowly warming breeze. Back to the Duneden for burial.

And as I fly, as the sun begins to rise, I flame into the placid skies.  Rage transforms the blue flicker to a white hot burst that singes the very clouds themselves.

I know who did this deed, and he is the one this flame is intended for.  I will have Rakkmire dead, if I must give up my very soul to do it.


*******


Dark tentacles enveloped the writhing form at their mist, muffling enraged cries.  A shadowy form watched in pleasure as the one he had lain in wait to trap, the one that had mattered most to her, slowly stilled, the horror draining out of azure oculars that brightened gradually to dull crimson.  As he glided into the Gate, the tentacles with their precious cargo followed him willingly.

Oh, yes.  In a few thousand years, he would be back to claim his victory in the best way possible.

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Ah, there.  It's always nice to see how much one's work can improve.

Don't get me wrong – DTHF is not dead yet.  I used to have plans for this to be my most extensive series.  Those plans have never died, they've just been…forced back quite a bit.

~Draconicality, January 2, 2004