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02-17-2014, 03:06 PM
 When he asked why Dragon’s Throat was called such, Africa soothed right into our story of old. I was treated to a rare memory that drew more pleasant remembrance when coupled with sorrow. She dipped into the tale, naturally and effortlessly. Fina even paused her meal, craning beak to oneside so that she might better absorb the rise and fall of each vocal. I said nothing, added nothing to those strung words of honor and death. She repeated a story that desert foals had been told past the ages, my own ma and da shared the legacy with me on quiet summer eves.
Lids slipped closed and I sighed softly, remembering now the sweet simplistic youth of old. She spun and spun on, carrying us to that fated day in a time when dragons had thrived and our race was yet young. Those had been the days before my grandda and grandma, back when our world was much simpler and magic, rare. Perhaps it was the death of such dragons that strengthened our own bodies, gave impressive gifts that caused earth to tremble when we passed, controlled the turning of weather and even the pattern of water. When Africa finished my gaze remained closed and mind swam with visions of immense beauty, a scorched land restored by light, by life itself. Head had fallen toward the earth and limbs locked themselves tightly. The King of sand, as I would always be called from hence forth—had fallen to sleep like a babe tucked by his ma’s side. Sweetly and without troubles I sank into unconsciousness that she hadn’t offered, but was won all the same. Our colours come alive when I collide with you
with you, with you
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