Disclaimer and Author's Note: The Black Jewels universe belongs to Anne
Bishop; I'm just sneaking in to play. Not surprisingly, I'm not making any
money off of this.
Author's Note #2: This is a repost, after I took the story down for personal reasons. Hopefully it's good enough to post twice; my apologies for taking it down in the first place. :-)
The boy's gotten into the library again. He's given up trying to roost in the chandeliers, but he's still staying a comfortable distance from the ground--as well he should. Saetan is prowling along beneath him, just waiting for him to touch down, and Geoffrey is looking serenely pleased that _he's_ not in charge of all this anymore. And myself--well, I'd been looking forward to a quiet conversation with the two males, but Daemonar's antics have a charm all their own. All that warm-blooded exuberance and merriment, something no dragon has ever possessed. Is it any wonder we bequeathed the Craft to these bright-burning little creatures?
And now Lucivar's come tearing in after his runaway, using a reading stand older than he is to springboard into the air and intercept his son. Daemonar swerves, swings wide into a bookshelf, and tumbles to the floor. His indignant wail is followed by a shower of books, as well as thunderous (but less than credible) threats from both father and grandfather, and I smile to myself. It reminds me of learning to fly, so very long ago. When I still had wings.
That's something even the Eyriens will never know...star-spanning wings, teeth and talons, strength that could dig out oceans or raise mountains. Wings most of all; I miss my wings.
Giving it up was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. But we were dying, all of us; I was the last fertile Queen of a race grown faded and barren, and I failed them. My eggs withered in the shell, and the few that hatched were too frail to walk, let alone fly. By the end, I think I would have given my soul for a single daughter that lived. So I...well. It's not something I enjoy thinking about, but the legends of my last flight are right in more places than they're wrong. When I was done, the first seeds of Craft had been sown among those who would become Blood, and I became what I am now.
For a few centuries, I lived among the last dragons in this fragile, two- legged shape. The very last, an ancient Black Widow with scales of sapphire and purple dusk, called me as she died to tell me to hold on to my life. For as long as I must. Whatever vision she had died with her, but I have trusted her word down through the millennia. Even though it hurt, losing my wings, losing my Craft. Losing my mate, in so many ways - Lorn is mine and I am his, but he is too powerful to touch me as I am now. His body is vaster by far than mine, as is his Craft now that I have sacrificed my own. Everything, as they say, has a price.
It's taken me thousands of years of study to begin to grasp that Widow's intent. But I'm beginning to see, and when I think about it, it makes my hands tremble, the skin tingling as if it remembers the feel of scales and talons.
It will take a long time, and the races I know today will fade away long before it comes. But the gift I gave them will still go on--generation after generation of Jewels passing through the hands of the Blood, absorbing just a touch of the wisdom or foolishness of each wearer. Lifetime upon lifetime, so far away that even I can't see it. But time and study, teasing hints of legend and that Widow's last words, have made me sure of it: slowly the Jewels, that blend of Lorn's scales and my magic, are becoming something more. Seeds. One day they will bloom in Black and White, Opal and Summer-Sky and all the other colors. And Lorn and I will be there to guide the young ones when they are reborn.
One day, Lorn and I will touch once more. One day, I will know children of my own. One day, the dragons will fly again.
Author's Note #2: This is a repost, after I took the story down for personal reasons. Hopefully it's good enough to post twice; my apologies for taking it down in the first place. :-)
The boy's gotten into the library again. He's given up trying to roost in the chandeliers, but he's still staying a comfortable distance from the ground--as well he should. Saetan is prowling along beneath him, just waiting for him to touch down, and Geoffrey is looking serenely pleased that _he's_ not in charge of all this anymore. And myself--well, I'd been looking forward to a quiet conversation with the two males, but Daemonar's antics have a charm all their own. All that warm-blooded exuberance and merriment, something no dragon has ever possessed. Is it any wonder we bequeathed the Craft to these bright-burning little creatures?
And now Lucivar's come tearing in after his runaway, using a reading stand older than he is to springboard into the air and intercept his son. Daemonar swerves, swings wide into a bookshelf, and tumbles to the floor. His indignant wail is followed by a shower of books, as well as thunderous (but less than credible) threats from both father and grandfather, and I smile to myself. It reminds me of learning to fly, so very long ago. When I still had wings.
That's something even the Eyriens will never know...star-spanning wings, teeth and talons, strength that could dig out oceans or raise mountains. Wings most of all; I miss my wings.
Giving it up was the hardest thing I've ever had to do. But we were dying, all of us; I was the last fertile Queen of a race grown faded and barren, and I failed them. My eggs withered in the shell, and the few that hatched were too frail to walk, let alone fly. By the end, I think I would have given my soul for a single daughter that lived. So I...well. It's not something I enjoy thinking about, but the legends of my last flight are right in more places than they're wrong. When I was done, the first seeds of Craft had been sown among those who would become Blood, and I became what I am now.
For a few centuries, I lived among the last dragons in this fragile, two- legged shape. The very last, an ancient Black Widow with scales of sapphire and purple dusk, called me as she died to tell me to hold on to my life. For as long as I must. Whatever vision she had died with her, but I have trusted her word down through the millennia. Even though it hurt, losing my wings, losing my Craft. Losing my mate, in so many ways - Lorn is mine and I am his, but he is too powerful to touch me as I am now. His body is vaster by far than mine, as is his Craft now that I have sacrificed my own. Everything, as they say, has a price.
It's taken me thousands of years of study to begin to grasp that Widow's intent. But I'm beginning to see, and when I think about it, it makes my hands tremble, the skin tingling as if it remembers the feel of scales and talons.
It will take a long time, and the races I know today will fade away long before it comes. But the gift I gave them will still go on--generation after generation of Jewels passing through the hands of the Blood, absorbing just a touch of the wisdom or foolishness of each wearer. Lifetime upon lifetime, so far away that even I can't see it. But time and study, teasing hints of legend and that Widow's last words, have made me sure of it: slowly the Jewels, that blend of Lorn's scales and my magic, are becoming something more. Seeds. One day they will bloom in Black and White, Opal and Summer-Sky and all the other colors. And Lorn and I will be there to guide the young ones when they are reborn.
One day, Lorn and I will touch once more. One day, I will know children of my own. One day, the dragons will fly again.