vercingtorix
—« perhaps all the dragons in our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us act, just once, with beauty and courage. perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love. »
S
he answers me as coldly as I expect her to.There is a moment where, briefly, I wonder what continues to draw us together. I have always heard that the broken find the broken; but we are not broken in the same ways. Her softness, her weakness, her femininity; these are all things that distress me. Just, as I imagine, my hardness distresses her. I do not answer immediately. Instead, I tip my head back to observe Damascus as he flies circles above. He is not so distant; each sweeping turn pummels us with gusts of wind from his wings. He cries, low and desolate, in his throat.
The sound makes me ache.
“I was not trying to find you, if that is what you are implying.” My answer is emotionless; an indifferent statement of fact. Damascus careens away again, that cry continuing to echo.
Dragons, I think, are meant to sound ferocious.
Not like every heart that has ever broken, or every child abandoned, or the breaking bottles of alcoholics all over the world. Dragons, I think, are meant to sound terrifying. Not as if they are the only whale left to sing in the sea.
I think—I am scared. And yet, I can’t stop myself.
I am close enough to hear the way her breath catches in her chest.
I nearly say, fear is powerful.
Most animals react out of it. Fear, or need.
I wonder what this is, when we both step forward, at the same time.
We are shoulder to shoulder.
“Me too,” I admit, dropping my eyes to stare again at the city. I am looking hard for the glint of a creature at the top of the castle; I am looking for the monster. But it is Damascus who says, in my mind:
Some monsters are wrought small. Small enough to be a seed between your heart and soul. Small enough to rot you from within.
And that seed is the dormant memory of my hatred, and the way when provoked, it becomes as bright and terrible as a wildfire.
I turn to look at her, at last. Damascus is flying overhead toward the city.
I say, “Why do you think we want the thing most likely to hurt us?”
Why, Elena, do you think monsters exist?
I know why.
I know.
