Dear Ichhamoti, I hope this dream finds you in good health. The long wait is over. I am leaving this city on the coldest day this winter. If you can, come with me, if you can't, run away with me. They would chase us till the end of the world. I will build a wall, we can keep them on the other side. I give my dream to you. You are the only one who can nurture it into a promise. Ichhamoti, I am leaving on the coldest day. If you can, flow with me.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Monday, September 6, 2010
Dragon-heart
With the moon's demise every night, I count the number of days I haven't slept. I am Nakgul the blacksmith, servant of Onupus the dragon slayer. After every gruesome battle with a dragon, all of Onupus' charred shields, bloody swords, twisted maces, blunt daggers are sent to me for cleaning and repairs. The teeth and hide are taken to the high priest. He always wants them while the blood is still warm and dripping. At night, while the heroes celebrate, drink wine, make love in the great hall, my hammer strikes the hot metal with untamed fury. Blow after blow, strike after strike, until the edge of the sword is sharp enough to cut through dragon wings, until the blade is hard enough to pierce straight through the beasts' heart. Sparks fly off the hot metal with each hit. Hot steam fills the room while they are cooled. Each weapon, deadlier than the last, wait in silence, to taste the flesh of a dragon. They wait to serve Onupus. They hunger for dragon blood.
Dragons are beautiful. With a posture that can reach speeds beyond any man could ever reach they can still be as silent as a flag fluttering in the North winds. They can blend into the sky like glass in water and dive for the kill without a moments notice. They can breathe fire, likes of which can only be found in mother earth's womb. Machines designed to destroy, these vile creatures were born to kill. Most warriors fall before landing even a single blow on them. Onupus waits for such a beautiful death. I admire such creatures, I know that whoever created them gathered the ingredients from the darkest depths of hell. Some day, these death bringers would bring Apocalypse to Earth. We must stop them. I have sworn on my ancestors' graves, to bathe in dragon blood, to hone steel till the day I breathe no more, to avenge each man burnt to death or shredded to bits. I would do my part by making weapons. My blades can shatter rocks with a single blow, chop down trees in one swing. In the hands of Onupus, the curved edges and the serrated teeth scream revenge against the dragons. After each battle, as I wipe the blood off Onupus' sword, the red-black blood splatters slide off the edge into the forge fire. The drops vapourised before they could fall on the surface of the molten metal. A sense of calm grasped me. A thin grin gripped my face and I start hammering the blade with renewed vigour. My hands don't shake.
Tonight I dream of a majestic dragon lying in a heap of blood mud, broken wings and burnt flesh. I am Nakgul the blacksmith, hear my call. The end is nigh.
Dragons are beautiful. With a posture that can reach speeds beyond any man could ever reach they can still be as silent as a flag fluttering in the North winds. They can blend into the sky like glass in water and dive for the kill without a moments notice. They can breathe fire, likes of which can only be found in mother earth's womb. Machines designed to destroy, these vile creatures were born to kill. Most warriors fall before landing even a single blow on them. Onupus waits for such a beautiful death. I admire such creatures, I know that whoever created them gathered the ingredients from the darkest depths of hell. Some day, these death bringers would bring Apocalypse to Earth. We must stop them. I have sworn on my ancestors' graves, to bathe in dragon blood, to hone steel till the day I breathe no more, to avenge each man burnt to death or shredded to bits. I would do my part by making weapons. My blades can shatter rocks with a single blow, chop down trees in one swing. In the hands of Onupus, the curved edges and the serrated teeth scream revenge against the dragons. After each battle, as I wipe the blood off Onupus' sword, the red-black blood splatters slide off the edge into the forge fire. The drops vapourised before they could fall on the surface of the molten metal. A sense of calm grasped me. A thin grin gripped my face and I start hammering the blade with renewed vigour. My hands don't shake.
Tonight I dream of a majestic dragon lying in a heap of blood mud, broken wings and burnt flesh. I am Nakgul the blacksmith, hear my call. The end is nigh.
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