Eliza Gorek ’25 - When There Were Dragons

When There Were Dragons

by Eliza Gorek ’25

When there were dragons, there was war. The legends and the myths all say so. There are hundreds of stories of dragons and the wonder and horror they carry. But none are as known as the Thousand Year War. This story is known throughout the kingdom of Alisk. It’s a tale of strife, chaos, and myth. It has never been proven to have happened, yet almost everyone believes the story to be true.

This myth belongs to the dragons. It is their story to tell.

This tale belongs to the humans. It is our story to tell as well.

Most importantly, this story belongs to the wild: to the biggest forest, to the deepest sea, and to the creatures, who bear the markings of cursed blessings. The Thousand Year War has spread through even the barest of deserts; you can hear the reeds whispering the solemn words as the wind blows and mountains sing the tunes of the olden songs, which are forbidden from the minds of the youth. A cruel hierarchy forbade the songs of our ancestors and stopped the spring of tradition, but the legend of dragons still exists. A flame cannot be extinguished with a drop of water. There are those who secretly tell the tales, in a deserted alleyway or deep in the forest. If you know who to talk to, you may have a slim chance of hearing the wonders of the old world.

The old world was one worth living for. Songs could be sung without the worry of treason and stories were told every night to the little minds, who longed to hear and know the ways of our elders. There were no walls keeping humanity in and no laws preventing adventure and life. The mountains were the tallest you’d ever seen and oceans deeper than one could imagine. The forest held secrets that mankind could only wish to know one day. Wild horses ran alongside wind spirits and untamed cats held the power of the gods. You were free to run through the world without a care. You could climb these snow-capped mountains and swim in the shimmering waters of the ocean. You could run free with the horses, even riding bareback on some. On some nights, in the woods, if you were lucky, you could hear the roars and snarls of a wildcat killing its prey. The world before this one was made of bliss, laughter, and wilderness.

But now, there are plenty of minds that would prefer death over a cold-hearted hierarchy. The king who rules this land is cold and cruel and untrusting. They say that he can put fear into the hearts of any he looks at. Most people believe them. He is a king with iron in place of his heart and emptiness in place of his soul. He built a wall around the kingdom’s limits and sealed out any sense of joy or happiness. You can no longer climb to the tip of the mountain and sing praises to the wilderness. You can no longer swim to the shallows of the ocean and collect pearl-colored seashells. The horses do not trust mankind and no longer allow you to run with them and the wildcats attack any man who gœs into the forest. This world is made from the screams of children that you hear in the night and the maniacal laughter from the dictatorship of hatred.

The gods are gone; they have left us in this horrid place. They were never physical, or maybe they were. If they ever did have a physical form, no one was present to witness. They were purely spirits that could be found anywhere you looked. They were the wind that swayed

the branches of tall trees and the faint sound of running water from the stream that ran North.

The first was Alka, goddess of love. She was kind to others and kinder to herself. Her heart was as big as the world. It was like glass. Fragile and easy to break, yet sturdy and tough. She was one most envied for her beauty. Silky light brown hair ran down her back and her face was round. Her eyes were always changing color, from a deep blue to a light pink to a forest green. Alka had more patience than anyone could have known. She could wait forever.

The next was Valrin. He was the god of anger and pain. Legend says that when he was mad at a mortal, that mortal would feel pain more intensely over the duration of three days, and on the fourth day, they would die. He was most revered in war; no one wanted to make him mad. Dark brown locks hung over his eyes, so you couldn’t see the brilliant red in them. However, underneath the look of intensity and horror, there was happiness and softness, like the eye of a storm. A deathly calm.

Another was Dolux; the god of death and demise and known as Bringer of Night. He was more so a peaceful god, one who was not easily tempered but reverenced all the same. A god of death is not a god to anger. Pale, ghostly skin surrounded sunken, black eyes. His eyes might be the only interesting aspect of him. They were so full of knowledge, yet always craved to know more; almost an opposite to himself. They were lively and excited and he was the image of misery.

Furthermore, there is Sofli; he bears the title of Sun Bringer. He is the god of happiness, joy, and excitement. He was dearly worshiped in the old world, where life was full of wonder. Flowers sprouted at his feet where he stood, even in the barest of lands, and the tendrils of vines curled around his legs. Curly blond hair, which was longer than most, went down to his shoulders and his bright green eyes were a sight to behold. They were the beautiful color of nature – pink and purple flecks you could get lost in. The myth says that when he was angered, the earth shook. His brightness radiated light for all those seeking warmth.

The final goddess was named Zajo. She was different from the rest, revered all the same, but different. The only god to have what she had achieved. Friendship and benevolence. She was the only god to have many things. She had been put through pain more often than the rest. The stories say she went through Hifli, the word for “final death.” No one knows how she survived, but the rumors say she went through death for mortal life. She had experienced more joy than even Sofli. She had spent her life running with the wild things and living deep in the unknown forest. She had developed a mighty temper, and when she was mad, the monsters trembled and the sky turned black with clouds that gathered in the sky and roared through the night. Those who angered her were never seen again. Legend says that she had hair as black as night with one weathered gray stripe and eyes the color turquoise.

Gods are not supposed to love humanity. They look down on mortals and spit at them for crimes they commit against one another. The gods are worshiped, they answer cries and calls; that is all. No mortal has the audacity to call a god a friend, and no god has ever kept a mortal close. Until Zajo. She loved humanity like a friend of sorts, with the bond of a sister, and the strength of a lion’s bite. The mortals offered her gifts and praise, more so than the other gods. However, the gods, so privileged as they are, brewed a temper under their brow. They became jealous of the mortal’s