Dragon Song

The young girl, Eckarrion, trembled violently as she lied down on the table, the only furnishing in the entire room. Cold marble pressed harshly against her bare back, but it wasn't the cold that made her shake so, it was the thought of what was ahead. Her entire life depended on the outcome of these next few moments.
Above her, the spirits of the elders swirled, a faint gray fog just out of reach. From them came the sounds of their muted conversations, the specifics of which were not meant for human ears. Although she could not make out words, she knew that the topic of their hushed conversation was her. They continued to mutter and debate as the minutes dragged on. It seemed to take an eternity and the girl couldn't understand why. Surely it was taking longer for her than it had for everyone else, wasn't it? All twenty-three of her age mates had already been through this process today. She was the last one. Yet she could not comprehend why it could possibly be taking longer for her specifically. There was nothing special about her that she could see.
She was an average sixteen year old girl from the town of Azelorne. She was paler than most, and maybe a bit skinnier, but her dark hair and icy blue eyes were typical of the townspeople. Her personality was nothing noteworthy either. She was not one of those girls who was always desperate to be in the spotlight. Her friend Lenora, for example, was known to feign injuries for attention, especially since that attractive Cervidae boy from the age group above them had begun his training as a healer, and Joren always had to be the loudest person in the room, cracking jokes and making friends with absolutely everyone. However, they could hardly be blamed, both were from rather large families. They probably had to fight for any attention whatsoever, and so were more than comfortable in the spotlight. Eckarrion was not. She was an only child, and a much more reserved person. She seldom was known to raise her voice her try to draw attention to herself. She preferred to be in the background and open her mouth only when she was in the company of people she trusted completely. She was completely and utterly unremarkable. What could the spirits possibly want from her?
There was a gentle breeze in the room. It normally would not have been very noticeable, but on her bare skin it was near torturous. She looked longingly to her left, toward the thick wooden door that she entered the room through, where the thin silk robe, the only clothing allowed in the sacred room, was dropped haphazardly on the floor. If she had known the spirits would take so much time, she might would have considered breaking tradition and bringing something warmer in there with her, regardless of the consequences.
Surely they had come to some decision by now? There were only five potential options. She wasn't a special case, it was a typical metamorphosis. Every villager went through it when they were sixteen. Teenagers had been coming in and out of this room all day, and no one had been in here nearly as long as she had. Had they? Maybe her nerves were just making it seem like it was taking longer. It was entirely possible that she had only been in there for a few seconds. She was making a big deal out of nothing, she was sure.
'Come on, Ecka, you can handle this. You've been prepping for this your entire life. There is nothing to be concerned about. It isn't even a Spawning Year, you'll be fine'. She attempted to console herself to no avail. If anything, the mention of a Spawning Year just put her even more on edge.
The village of Azelorne was a special place. It was the birthplace of Shifting. The only place in all of Reora that still maintained the secrets of this particular brand of magic working. Once a year, on the summer solstice when the day longest, every villager who had reached his or her sixteenth year were led into this very hall where Eckarrion now anxiously waited to meet with the spirits. Here they were to face their fate; the spirits would look into their very souls and place them where they were most suited. A possibility of five options awaited each young person who entered this hall. Eckarrion would be happy with any of them except one, and that one was only a viable option every fifty years, and that was not this year. She was safe from that.
At sixteen the young Azelornians were finally able to begin Shifting. However, the spirits needed to determine which animal was most appropriate for each one. There was the canine group, more dominant and fierce. They were trained from the moment they were chosen to be protectors. They guarded the village and kept the area safe. Next were the felines. These were slier and more dangerous. They hunted to provide the village with its food supplies. Avians were the next group. The birds served as messengers. They were the only ones who had the freedom to travel the entire realm, except for the fifth and final group. They spoke to other villages and worked hard to keep the peace. The fourth group, and last potential group for Eckarrion this year was the most kind and gentle of all. They were the cervidae, or deer-like animals. These people were the ones who took care of the young, anyone under sixteen who had not yet been assigned a place. They also took care of all of the affairs within the village.
The last group was mysterious. They kept to themselves, and were an extremely exclusive group. They lived in caves formed within the Uwaggie Mountains to the North of the village and were only seen in times of need or during a spawning year when they came to collect their new fledgling. They were the keepers of magic and were the only ones capable of communing with the spirits on a regular basis. The mystery that surrounded them created an aura of fear that they had never taken the time to dispel. They were perfectly happy to be left alone, and the villagers were more than willing to oblige and leave them to their own affairs. Eckarrion had never even seen one, and she was more than happy to keep it that way. The rumors of their quick tempers and blood red eyes were enough to kill any bit of curiosity she may have otherwise possessed.
Above her, the whispering suddenly ceased and she knew that it was time; a decision has been made and her life was on the cusp of changing forever. She inhaled sharply and held it, waiting for the heat she had been taught to expect from an early age. It was not permitted to interact with the spirits directly, and so they allowed the young Shifters to know their decision by marking the flesh with the sigil of their chosen group.
Heat she had anticipated, but not the pain. In just a moment her entire body seemed to become aflame, a stark contrast to the shivering cold that had been making her miserable just a few moments ago. Her back arched sharply, her head pressed firmly against the white marble, the cool not making a difference to the heat rising up through her black curls. Sweat began to drip from her skin, and she gritted her teeth against the sensations. Small gasps of pain periodically made there way through her lips, grudgingly, to ring in the emptiness of the space around her. Tears worked their way into her eyes, and she shut them tightly against the agony. She was certain that she would rather die than face another second of this torture.
The heat ran up her body, like fire. It started just above her heart and made its way throughout all of her extremities. It was excruciating and not at all what she had expected. The fire should have been brief, but then, so should this whole encounter; she knew beyond a doubt at this point that her meeting had been exceptionally long, it was not merely a trick of her mind. The fire licked her entire body, almost loving in its desperation to know her. She had thought that it would remain confined to her chest, the area where the sigil should be placed. Indeed, that part of her seemed to be in the heart of the flames, clearly it was more heated that most, but it was not the only part of her that burned. The flames engulfed her entire body, but predominately her left side, she could feel the flames wrapping around her breast and working their way down her, curling in close to her around her thigh, the intensity faded at the top of her foot, dulling to the throb that the right side of her body experienced.
She had never heard of anyone else describing the experience in such terms. Normally parents laugh at the fear in their offspring's eyes as they ask "did it hurt?" It was commonly thought to be a brief sensation of heat, only unbearable because each person was forced to face the unknown in those few seconds where the body, and their destiny, were permanently altered.
Then suddenly, the fire went out. Eckarrion was once again left in the chilling air of an empty stone room, alone. The spirits were silent, and quickly fading into nothingness. She pushed a sweat dampened lock of hair from her face with a hand that looked far too pale and sat up straight for a moment. It was over. The worst part was over: all she had to was look into the mirror and be prepared to face her fate.
Yet, she couldn't. She refused to look down, fearing what it is that she might see. She didn't think that she would have a problem with any of the available options, but up until this moment her life had been completely free. When she looked down, her fate would have been decided for her. By the next morning she would be put to training, then start her job after that. She would be done. There was no freedom left. She had always known that, of course, but the weight of it was just now hitting her, in the moment where she still did not know what the universe had in store for her.
"Are there really places where these things do not happen? Where you are free to pick your own fate?" She considered casually for a moment, feeling the first stirrings of jealousy. "I can't even imagine. An entire life of freedom. All decisions being mine. That seems so absurd..." Her bare feet made contact with the ice-like stone floor as she swung her legs around to the left side of the table. She slowly pushed herself to her feet, swaying a bit as her legs attempted to support her weight. She felt surprisingly weak, as if she had not eaten in days.
Slowly she walked back towards the door through which she had entered, the only portal to the outside world in this entire temple. It would not do for multiple ways in to the temple of the spirits. There was no telling who might attempt the blasphemy of communicating with spirits of the elders if admittance to their dwelling place was not so strictly enforced. On her way, she stooped to pick up the silver silk robe she had worn into the temple, pausing only long enough to belt it tightly over her new tattoo, never even bothering to look at it.
With one last deep breath, she pushed open the door to face her eagerly awaiting friends and family.
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From amidst the piles of silken pillows the prince called his bed, Xander's eyes popped open. The gleamed eerily, red against the pitch blackness of his cavernous bed chamber. He growled softly, searching for the reason behind his disturbance. He should not be awake yet. No, it was not nearly time, the sun was still high, he could feel it. What had disturbed him?
Then he heard it: The unmistakable sound of a spirit. It was attempting to contact him urgently. He shrugged it off and rolled over, intending to go back to sleep and deal with whatever problem this troubled spirit had when the moon was risen, as any sensible person would do. Normally that worked and all communication ceased until darkness fell and Xander found himself to be slightly more friendly. Not this time.
This spirit was more insistent one, and the muttering within his own head, which was the spirits' way of speaking when they were far from their temple and source of strength, was growing louder and louder. Within in moments Xander could no longer ignore it. He was forced to listen, and was shocked by what he heard.
"She has been chosen, lordling. Go, collect your fledgling and train her well. The time may soon be upon us when we may need her." Xander was surprised and horrified.
"No, there has to be some mistake," his voice rumbled aloud, even though that was not necessary. When communing with spirits, they listened to thoughts more than actual words. "I have another thirty years at least before I have to worry about another blasted fledgling." Again he attempted to resume his slumber, but he found himself to be deeply disturbed. The spirits were the ones who chose his companions, and it was a spirit who was passing this message along to him. Perhaps there could be some truth to it.
It was uncommon for fledglings to be chosen during the non-spawning years, but not impossible. He himself had been chosen on an off year, decades ago. But then the world had been at war and the country had nearly destroyed itself. The spirits had chosen him in a last effort to restore the peace when their very temple, and link to the mortal world, had been threatened. Spawning him had been an act of sheer desperation. Xander knew that he was a bit isolated out in his cavern fortress, but surely he was not so isolated that the entire world had gone to shit again without him noticing it. Was he? No, the sounds of war were not easily missed. The country was not dripping blood. Yet. Perhaps the spirits feared more bloodshed in the near future? Or maybe the Oracle had predicted something. It had been years since he had visited, Seshara, perhaps he should make the trek and see what visions she was spouting off now. Oracle might be her title, but she was seldom accurate. However, something had clearly set the spirits off, and now there was a girl somewhere in the village, waiting for him to come claim her. Seshara would have to wait.
Xander dressed himself quickly, in simple traveling clothes, a loose linen shirt covering the winged tattoo that swirled across his chest. He hardly even noticed it any more; it had been a part of his life now for decades longer than he had ever lived without it. He pulled thick black leather boots up to his calves, cringing as he did so. He hated covering his feet, it felt unnatural to not be able to feel the earth beneath him. However, the townspeople of Azelorne were already wary of him, the least he could do was bow to their customs when he was around them. Finally, he pulled his red gold curls in close and tied them at the nape of his neck. He had learned years ago that this was far more simple than attempting to tame them; they were even more wild than he was rumored to be.
Once he was satisfied that he would meet the villagers' standards, not that they would ever truly accept him, he had ceased to be one of them when he was sixteen, he left the dark inner rooms of his cave, and made his way to the entrance, fingers trailing the deep gouges in the wall to his right absently. He had memorized those gouges and their meanings as a way of keeping his bearings in the pitch black caverns years ago, and had ceased to rely on them nearly as long ago. Eventually the scratches in the wall ended abruptly, and he saw a pinprick of light directly in front of him that he knew to be the exit of his safe haven. He walked toward it purposefully, without a second's hesitation, despite the anxiety he felt about his new pupil.
He stood there for a moment, on the single foot of space that formed the shelf just outside his home which was all that was between him and nothingness, blinking in the unexpectedly harsh sunlight. It seemed unnaturally bright. How long had it been since he had traveled by day? He breathed in the warm summer air, testing it on his tongue for just a moment, as he stared to into the chasm that surrounded his home, protecting him from all intruders except his own kind and Avian messengers. Then, without further hesitation, he stepped off of the edge and quickly plummeted toward the far distant ground, beginning the shift as he went.
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"You were in there for eons!" Lenora squealed, running toward Eckarrion as she finally emerged from the innermost chamber of the temple of the spirits. She seemed shaken and far too pale, but her friend did not notice in her excitement.
"She speaks truly," Joren laughed, putting his arm around both girls in a brotherly affection. "We were starting to think there was some secret exit and you had left us here to wonder forever!"He laughed loudly at his own jest, never noticing that no others joined in. They seldom did; Joren was not half so funny as he fancied himself to be. Eckarrion could not help but to notice that, despite the fact that he was still also wearing his ceremonial silken robe, his was open at the chest, proudly displaying the sigil of a snarling wolf emblazoned there. He had joined the ranks of the Canines. No one was surprised by that. It was what he had wanted since childhood. His father and all three of his older brothers had been chosen Canines, and he had always longed to follow in their footsteps.
Lenora shrugged his arm off absently, and focused on Eckarrion impatiently. "Well?" She huffed. "Are you going to tell us or do I have to guess? Come one, the suspense is too much!" Eckarrion normally would have smiled at her and relented, but she had this awful foreboding feeling that something bad was just around the corner, and that quickly killed any mirth she had regarding Lenora's antics.
"I don't know what I am," she mumbled so softly that he friends had to press in close to hear over the roar of other people in the hall.
"What do you mean you don't know?" Joren asked, suspicion already coloring his deep voice. "The sigils are all fairly obvious. And even if they weren't, we've seen them all a hundred times. Everyone in the village has one and they don't change. How could you not know what it is?"
"No, I don't mean that I couldn't figure out the sigil. I mean I haven't looked at it yet. I-I couldn't bring myself to face it." It all came out in a rush and Eckarrion found herself feeling ashamed. Azelornians were not afraid of their fate. They faced it openly. Becoming a Shifter was something to be proud of, not ashamed. She should not fear the result, but she did, and that embarrassed her more than anything.
Joren cocked his head to the right side, as he often did when he was attempting to comprehend something that was beyond him. The gesture seemed almost puppy-like, and Eckarrion warmed slightly at the thought. He was always meant to be a Canine. "Ecka, you can't hide from it forever. The spirits know what you are, even if you don't. You have to look eventually." He was trying to be comforting, she knew, but the edge of impatience took away any compassion those words could have carried. He was not pleased with her.
"It's okay, Joren," Lenora snapped, always quick to defend Eckarrion when she wouldn't speak up for herself. "I was nervous, too. You just have to power through it. Ecka, you wanna look together? Would that make you feel better? And I promise that I will still love you, even if you are an Avian."
That actually did make Eckarrion laugh. Lenora had been placed into the Felines. That was a surprise. While a little bit dramatic, Lenora was easily the most caring and compassionate person in their age group. Everyone had slated her for Cervidae from the time they were children. She used to cry for hours when they would happen to stumble upon the bodies of dead rodents while gathering herbs in the forest, and yet now she was expected to be a hunter. Although she would never say it aloud, Eckarrion sometimes questioned the spirits' wisdom. Although there was no real animosity between any two of the groups, Felines and Avians often made jokes about not trusting one another, they always claimed to be natural enemies. The joke would often go on to say that no one at all could trust the Canines, not in their Shifted states.
Eckarrion felt better with Lenora's jokes. She was right, after all. Her life would change, but she was the same, and her friends were the same, and at the end of the day they would still come and find each other and trade horror stories about the pains of training. It didn't matter what marked her chest, she was still her and nothing could change that.
Slowly she nodded at Lenora and her friend reached up to open her robe. Eckarrion closed her eyes tightly, waiting for Lenora to tell her what image blackened her skin. But she didn't. Instead, there was a sharp intake of breath and the entire hall had fallen silent. She cracked one eye open to see Joren reaching out with a shaky hand to trace her sigil. He began in the center of her chest, and slowly worked his way over to her left shoulder, pushing the neck of the robe farther and farther as he continued. Eckarrion began to panic, they weren't supposed to be this big! Joren didn't stop.
From her shoulder, Joren's hand went down, following the curve of her breast until the robe couldn't take it any more and fell away to land in a puddle around her feet on the stone floor. For the second time that day Eckarrion stood completely naked, but this time with several pairs of eyes tracing her body. Still Joren's fingers went, barely touching her skin but continuing to follow, as if he had to touch it to convince himself that it was real. He trailed down her side, tickling her rib cage before brushing her hip lightly. He finally stopped there, but Eckarrion knew he had not reached the end. He suddenly snapped back to his reserved self, and realized just how inappropriate his actions were. He quickly averted his sky blue eyes and would not look at her.
Eckarrion was too stunned to be embarrassed by her nakedness. She did not even think to cover herself, and was only re-clothed when someone else in the hall, another age mate or their loved one, draped the robe back over her shoulders, in a show of kindness. It was not retied, however, and the whole world still seemed to stare at her tattoo. Eckarrion did not need to see it to know. Only one group marked the entire body. And yet it couldn't be. It wasn't a spawning year, and she couldn't possibly have been chosen. She was too docile to be one of them.
Slowly, mechanically, Eckarrion walked over to the mirror at the end of the hall. It was always put up during the solstice so that newly chosen teenagers could revel in their new found sense of identity. People moved out of her way silently, never taking their eyes off of her, and yet refusing to look her directly in the face. She was no longer one of them, and they all knew it. Yet she had to look; had to be certain. Maybe there was some kind of mistake.
She stood face to face with the mirror, noticing that her eyes seemed to be almost violet, as if blood were slowly seeping into the purest blue irises. Slowly, ever so slowly, her eyes drifted downward, prepared to see what she already knew was there. She had known from the beginning, or at least some small part of her had. From the moment that the spirits began to truly argue, to the excruciating agony of the fire, she knew that she was different. She knew to which order she belonged, but she hadn't wanted to accept it and so she convinced herself that she was not special, that the spirits wouldn't possibly want her.
Outside the alarm was raised. Someone unexpected was rapidly approaching the village. Eckarrion could not find it in herself to care. She was far too focused on her own reflection.
The ink on her skin was not the purest midnight black like it was supposed to be.
Outside someone began shouting.
Instead it was red. Blood red, shining and brilliant and impossible to ignore or mistake for anything else.
The people in the hall with her began to panic and shoot her dirty looks.
It stretched the entire length of the left side of her body, reaching greedily to claim parts of her back, chest, and stomach as well. It slid all the way down to the top of her foot where it ended in a graceful curl.
Someone ran into the room to warn them, his breath ragged from the run.
In place of a simple wolf, lion, falcon, or deer head was an entire mural dedicated to a far more superior, and dangerous being. Her body was a shrine to the fire that had so recently consumed it. The swirled and sparkled all along her, seeming almost lifelike when she moved, they were so detailed. The source of all of this fire was the being that began at her hip and curled intimately around her thigh. On her thigh, amidst all the red flames that it had created, rested the only black ink to be found on her. The length of her leg held the sigil of a huge, fire breathing-
"Dragon!"