If you were to close your eyes and dream of heaven, what would you dream?
Angels and golden scepters, perhaps. Halos and hallelujahs. Winged beings soaring, singing amens to the pristine clouds.
When I close my eyes, I see nearly the same thing. But there are no angels flying, and the clouds are not white. They’re storm clouds, dark and violent and viscous. The creatures that tear through them have wings of scales, not feathers.
They duck and turn through the turbulent mists. They watch not the heavens but the earth, with brilliant jeweled eyes. They do not search for angels. They scrape the skies and search for glory.
There are so few of us left. Even with the discovery of the English drákon, we number so few.
Draumr is destroyed. The couple who holds its ruins are on their way back to England. One is blessed, one is not. Together they have conquered the myth, and I confess myself still amazed.
But I…I wait here. I quell the serfs and listen hard every night to the voices that sweep to me atop the winds. Soon I’ll have to leave too.
My brother is young and not quite as clever as I. But I think he will do.
The future charges closer and closer, a rousing thunder in my sleep.
I hope the English like black dragons.