I Am Sorrow

“For in much wisdom is much grief: and he that increaseth knowledge increaseth sorrow.”- Ecclesiastes 1:18

Ovid looked down at the many angular tops of the narrow stone skyscrapers that were clustered about the city of Menst.

It seemed so funny now. Citizens of The New Kingdom of Sentreya spent a lot of time talking about safety. All that lies ahead is the safety of the Melodian Dawn, they’d say. But, what seemed like safety on ground level, from a dragon’s perspective looked like one giant three-and-a-half-square-mile threat. The city liked its buildings tall and showy and sharp. They were dozens of titanic spears raised expectantly toward the sky, as though they feared the wrath of the heavens.

Yes, that sounded right. Sentreya was overdue for some wrath. That’s what they would call Neubane: The Wrath of The Heavens (the dark side of the heavens, anyway). All would tremble in fear whenever his terrible shadow fell upon the countryside.

...eventually.

For now the Dym-delighted creature was proving rather resistant to, well, almost everything.

Of course it couldn’t literally resist Ovid’s will. It did its best to circumvent it though. Ovid had a number of close calls when the dragon took a jab at him after he stopped actively willing it not to harm him. It was amazing how often his own safety happened to slip his mind. Of course, he was an Elsati, and like all Elsati, he learned quickly.

Ovid tightened his hold on Neubane. They began to descend at a gradually steepening angle. After building up some momentum, Ovid gave them a terrific burst of speed by having the dragon partially fold up its wings.

The Nagella were a very unique breed, even more so than Ovid first thought. Neubane had a total of three joints in each wing, rather than the usual one. This gave his wingspan two possible lengths: one unusually long, for increased flight stability, and one closer to that of an ordinary dragon, for better aerodynamics.

They barreled toward the earth below. Neubane circled the city’s tallest tower, missing contact with it by inches. A split-second before reaching the ground he leveled out and extended his wings. He bobbed, tilted, and weaved his way through narrow spaces between dark, unwelcoming structures.

Ovid was getting much better at this. The key was to let the dragon do all the work. At first this was difficult. It was tempting to over-think it, but every time he tried to tell Neubane how to fly he’d fall out of the sky faster than a flounder. The dragon was the one who knew how it was done. All Ovid had to do was will it in the direction he wanted to go.

Speeding up toward the darkened clouds, Ovid noticed something peculiar.

Was Neubane getting paler?

No, it was getting clearer. He could see the city below, through its wings.

A thin beam of bright yellow light peeked over the jade treetops to the east, catching Ovid’s eye.

Oops... sunrise. The dragon was fading away.

And now where Ovid had felt the slippery metallic surface of Neubane’s scales beneath him there was nothing but a chilling rush of wind.

As he began to plummet, Ovid shouted “Hover”, but it was no use. The spell would have no effect at this height. He released a weary sigh and oriented himself into a diving position, scanning his trajectory below. He was en route to hit the side of a Sen Tower. Pointing his palm at the tip of its spire, he took in a deep breath, and waited. When he was almost touching it he yelled “Push”, and was instantly forced away from the building.

But, of course, the magic worked too well in the hands of an Elsati. He had to use the spell again to keep from smashing into another building, and a third time to avoid the tower again. But then he happened to fly through an open window. He skidded across the floor, knocking over several wooden tables and taking a woman’s feet out from under her, before hitting the wall and coming to a stop.

He groaned and got to his feet. He looked around at all the stunned faces in the crowded cafeteria.

“What?” he barked, “You people never lost track of time before?”

While the necessity of becoming nocturnal was certainly annoying, it was not the most troublesome aspect of training Neubane. More troublesome was the fact that the dragon evidently did not want to be trained. Ovid demonstrated dozens of maneuvers designed to help it survive, but the creature attempted none of them unless forced. True, these maneuvers were all very unnatural things for a dragon to do, but they were for its own good. How was Neubane supposed to know he was being shown these things for a reason? How does one convey to a beast that you’re trying to help it?

Clearly the answer, if possible, was to speak to it. That was the most frustrating thing of all. No matter how many times he spoke to Neubane, Neubane would not speak back. The creature had spoken to him before. Why would it fall silent now that he was its master? Just to spite him?

“Why do you ask ‘can the Nagella talk’?” said Arupaia, eyebrows raised quizzically, “I think it is clear that the answer is no. The Nagella are as they were imagined. That is why they fade out of existence during the day. They belong to the darkness of the night. When the Summoners conceived them, they were never imagined aside the daylight, just as they were never imagined to be able to speak.

“However, if you mean to ask if I believe it to be beyond their power to learn, then the answer is no.”

“But if they are as they were imagined, what makes you think they can learn to talk?”

“Because the creation aught to be capable of learning nearly anything that the creator is able to learn.”

“Why is that?”

Arupaia frowned intensely. “It is a lonesome thought,” he said, “To be reminded that not even the Elsati are inclined to mind such matters.

“As you well know, since the beginning of time all creatures have brought forth after their own kind. Beasts begat beasts; men begat men; dwarves begat dwarves. Never has a dwarf begat a man, or a man begat a beast. Everything after its own kind.

“The same goes for the Summoners. Though the Summoners may have imagined a beast, they themselves were not beasts. They were not, in fact, so very unlike you and I.”

Ovid narrowed his eyes and placed his index finger over his mouth. A moment later he shook it vigorously at Arupaia. “But you said the Summoners had Absolute Originality,” he said, “That they could imagine something completely unique.”

“Absolute Originality allowed the Summoners to do what you and I never could: isolate their minds. Their imaginations were free from all external influences. They were not, however, free from all internal influences. Therefore, they were incapable of creating something wholly unlike themselves. Intelligence will always beget intelligence. Though the Summoners intended to imagine a beast, their creations will always retain some small artifact of intelligence, and it is in the nature of intelligence to learn.

“The Nagella certainly do many beastly things, and are, on the whole, very beast-like, but beneath their outer shell there ought to be a minute seed of intellect, which, if you can penetrate its mind, you may ultimately be able to nourish to the point that its sentient thoughts outweigh its animal instincts.”

“And how exactly do I nourish its intellect when I can’t seem to teach it anything?” said Ovid, gritting his teeth in frustration, “Do I sing to it? Play it music? Give it a puzzle to solve? What!?!”

“The answer lies in the specifics,” said Arupaia, “How does Neubane learn? You say he spoke to you once before, correct? ‘Nice try’, wasn’t it? Find out why he remembered those words and you may find your answer.”

A typical interaction with a Guardian ended with the typical frustration. It had been educational, informative, and most of all, not immediately actionable.

“I understand your reservations against doing so, but a word with the Village Defender might well be worth your time,” added Arupaia, “He may be a diluted simpleton, but he has had numerous encounters with the dragon. I know the Elsati have always resented this, but while intelligence, wisdom and instinct are invaluable traits, they are no substitute for experience. Regardless of the questionable quality of his experience, Smetterson may be able to provide insights into the dragon’s psyche of which I cannot begin to speculate.”

And what’s more: now he had to talk to someone else who wasn’t going to be any help.

Walking down a long dirt lane squeezed between patches of golden pasture, with a bright blue sky overhead, Ovid found himself oddly uneasy. His eyes darted about, glancing around corners and toward anything that moved, or didn’t. He’d recently become accustomed to sleeping at this hour. A little crankiness was to be expected, but it was more than just that. Seeing things sun-lit once more was a blunt reminder of how disturbingly askew everything in this country seemed to be.

The houses on either side of him, for one, were too close together, with a few too many right angles between them. They had a bit too much color, in just the wrong places, and didn’t cast enough shadow. They looked a little too peaceful, too static, like they were there to be looked at.

And those were some of the more obvious flaws. The others were slight and hard to pin-point. It was in the air, or in the way the people stood. It was the way they looked at each other, or the way they breathed. It was the way they all seemed on the verge of a smile without a meaning.

Half the time he couldn’t say exactly what was wrong with what he saw. He only knew that nothing here was quite right. Everything was wrong.

And how was he supposed to find Smetterson’s abode? He’d been told he lived somewhere in these sleepy outskirts of Enesta. Back home, you could tell exactly what kind of person lived in a house just by looking at it, but all these houses were the same. They were all pale sand colored with yellow trim, blue-handled doors, and red-tiled roofs. There were slight differences in size, shape, and proportion, but nothing telling. It was like they had all been copied off the same smeared, blurry painting.

“Heeyy!” came Smetterson’s high, crackling voice. The man sounded as on-edge as he was. He was barreling down a hill toward him, waving his arms in the air.

Ah, now why wouldn’t his be the largest house in sight? The cretin was the noble Village Defender, after all.

As Smetterson coasted to a stop, Ovid had to side-step to keep from being careened into. Leaning on his knees, the man coughed out a few words. “What... did you... do?”

“I’m not sure what you mean?” said Ovid, scratching his head.

It was best to play dumb at this point. It wouldn’t be difficult. If Smetterson was stupid enough not to realize he’d been killing the same dragon every month, he was stupid enough to believe Ovid was stupid too.

Smetterson froze in place. He stared at Ovid, his eyes wide and his jaw hanging open. “You mean... you haven’ heard?”

Ovid shrugged, almost entirely concealing his long, skinny neck. “Heard what?”

“It’s a bleedin’ mess! Everthin’s gone topsy-turvy ever since you couldn’t kill the Blot that night.”

“Well I’m not sure what that could possibly have to do with...”

“You spooked ‘em, ‘r somethin’! I don’t know what you did, but the next time one of ‘em appeared it didn’t even attack the village! Firs’ time in... well I don’ rightly know. An’ there was this weird fire tornado. Wildest thing I ever did see.”

“Fire tornado, eh?” Ovid rolled his eyes. “Those are never good.”

“An’ that’s not even the weirdest part. After the fire tornado, the dragons start showin’ up plumb every night. Scarin’ the bloody daylights outta everyone!”

“Well have they hurt anybody?”

“Naw, but they been spottin’ ‘em all over. Even as far as Menst, on the other side of the Sendorf Range. This has got to stop.”

At this, Ovid just couldn’t suppress a laugh. “So the dragons have stopped attacking, but you’re actually more worried than you were before, just because they’re more visible?”

“We can’ kill ‘em if they don’t come to us. The New Magic don’t work over a distance.”

“So you’d actually prefer them to be more aggressive.”

“Yes! Seein’ ‘em fluttering aroun’ up there just outta reach is givin’ us the willies. Everyone’s scared stiff.”

Only in Sentreya could such an expression fall into common usage. Going stiff was usually the opposite of the correct response to something scary.

“Well I don’t know what you expect me be able to do about that. After all...” Ovid flinched. “...you’re the expert.”

“S’pose you’re right,” said Smetterson, suddenly standing up straight, “Say, you think there might be a New Magic spell for flying?”

Ovid gave a shrug that was almost a wince. “Could be. So anyway, I was wondering... Have you ever heard one of the Blots talk? Because that night I thought I heard it say ‘nice try’ to me.”

“Sounds like what a Blot might say,” said Smetterson.

“You mean...”

“They like to mock us every now and then,” explained Smetterson, “Nothin’ real snappy. You know, things like ‘take that’ or ‘get back’. Not very timely either. Usually ‘appens just before they go down.”

“Get back...” repeated Ovid, rubbing his chin, “That doesn’t sound like mocking. It sounds more like what you say to a bully when you’re trying to fight back...”

...just like he had been doing when he said “nice try” to the dragon. Just before he struck a blow.

Could it be that Neubane only remembered what was said to him in defiance? Until the advent of the New Magic, it had been impossible to kill a dragon. However, over the years there were several cultures with methods of harming a dragon, of causing it pain.

Pain... that had to be it. Any creature, even a beast, couldn’t help but remember pain. After all, that was the whole purpose of pain. It was why you didn’t make the same mistakes over again. You touch a fire once and you never forget that fire is hot.

Ovid stared deep into the glowing purple eyes of his mount. There was no comprehension there, no understanding. There was just a quiet malice lying just below the surface. The dragon was fully a beast, as he was meant to be. He had no idea what he was going to become.

It wasn’t right. He shouldn’t have to change.

But it was this or condemn the dragon to live a hollow half-life of being murdered over and over until the end of time. It had to be done, but it would mean the end of the beast that the Nagella was intended to be. It was a kind of death, for there would be no going back. Though it would bring forth a new life, for Neubane would be unlike anything that had ever existed, but the birthing process would be painful.

“My friend, this is going to hurt me more than it does you,” said Ovid, stroking the creature’s long, scaly neck. He felt it tremble as it breathed in hate and breathed out rage. He would never again look upon such pure emotion. He gave a slight, reverential bow before hopping astride the creature.

He took it high into the star-lit sky. He retracted its wings and got it moving as fast as he could. The scenery below seemed endless, rolling back further and further every moment. At this point he applied the Harden spell to Neubane’s scales. When a sharp, snowy peak rose above the horizon without warning, he drew his sword and plunged it into Neubane’s flesh. “Mountain!” he shouted, and the dragon screeched madly. A tremor moved through its muscular body as it fought with its own desire to buck Ovid off its back.

Ovid turned them about, retreating a distance before rounding back again. When they reached the mountain again, he drew his sword and stabbed the dragon once more. “Mountain!”

He backed up and got moving again. The mountain appeared and he struck the dragon yet again. “Mountain!”

But this time it was Neubane that spoke. The word was drawn-out, sounding almost like a moan, but the creature was trying to talk. No doubt about it.

“Good!” said Ovid.

Approaching the mountain a fourth time, Ovid needed only draw his sword before the dragon said the key word. The fifth time he didn’t need the weapon at all.

“Good!”

Ovid continued on for some time, repeating this method with other large, obvious things. It wasn’t long until Neubane needed only to be struck once per word. Before the night was up the beast could (and did) name every landscape he came across.

For the next month Ovid taught Neubane dozens of words, always accompanied by an agonizing slice with the Elsati Issue Longsword. It didn’t matter how much damage he caused the dragon. Every evening when it re-materialized it would always be whole, ready to be maimed and broken anew. Although, to his great annoyance, one night Ovid discovered that if Neubane died, the next night his memory would be completely wiped of everything he learned that day. It was no wonder he had never been able to learn how to avoid being killed.

It soon became necessary to vary the type of injury caused to Neubane so that he would not get words confused with each other. In a few cases, if he really wanted to drive a lesson home, Ovid would actually sever Neubane’s tail, wing, or talon.

Even after two months of this, Ovid always cringed at the constant sound of the beast’s tormented wails. It was a shame it had to be done this way, but this was only temporary; the payoff would be eternal. Neubane was gold being purified through fire. He was rough, dirty, and crude, but when he came through he would be a new and glorious creation!

True strength always comes at a price.

But was Neubane learning to think, or was he just imitating? Was this merely an advanced case of “monkey see; monkey do”?

It was all made clear the night he taught Neubane the word “beautiful”. It was the first adjective he ever attempted. It took hours of showing Neubane various beautiful things. He took him to the dazzling city of Shaust (tall and sharp, like Menst, but more cheerful), flew him through the vast ice-cavern of Nell-hod, and even explored the mysterious, crater-laden plains of Moohun. On their way to the next spectacular sight, out of no where Neubane spoke, “Beautiful”. Ovid was ready to chastise the dragon for making an erroneous observation, but then he saw it: a flock of Carielle silhouetted against the bright crescent moon, their formation in constant transition, yet maintaining perfect symmetry. He saw them nearly every day. They were common, ordinary, but looked at through eyes freshly trained to spot wonders, they were beautiful indeed. He had shown the dragon so many eye-catching sights, yet it had decided that even something as common as a flock of Carielle belonged in the same category.

Neubane was going to be alright after all.

Ovid waited at the usual spot: in the shadow of the Sendorf Mountains, where he gave the dragon his name six months ago. When Neubane returned to the realm of reality, he headed towards Ovid initially, but then turned and made several confused circles. At length, the dragon touched down in front of him as always.

“I was perplexed,” came the dragon’s frosty voice, “When I awoke, I did not feel the usual compulsion to return here.”

“Not for the same reasons, anyway,” said Ovid, smiling, “You still came.”

“I was curious,” said Neubane, his head tilted further sideways than a human could manage without looking extremely awkward, “What is the meaning of this newfound freedom?”

“You have learned well, Neubane. I am pleased. You have done far better than I could ever have imagined. It is time for a well-earned reward.” Ovid extended both his arms toward the village. “Tonight, Enesta is yours! Do with it what you will.”

Neubane released a grunt that shook the air. He drew back and glared at Ovid with disbelieving eyes. “You do realize...”

“You will subsist on sheep no longer. From tonight onward, you will truly hunt, just as your beastly soul longs to.”

The dragon turned its face to the village, then back to Ovid. For a while it just stared. “Why?” it asked, finally.

“Because you are a dragon, Neubane, and because you are ready. Avoid the armored one, like we discussed, and keep your wits about you. I know you’ll make me proud.”

Neubane circled the sky above the village, scanning the houses below. Today, for the first time ever, he would be choosing a victim.

Why could it not be like before? What difference did it make? They all tasted the same.

Perhaps he doubted Ovid’s motives. Why should he allow this? Did not humans value human life? Was this some sort of test?

Still it seemed as though it was real. There was no difficulty in plotting his attack, something that had been nigh on impossible when Ovid’s will still barred his way.

More likely he wished to choose a deserving victim. Ludicrous! Ovid’s inane human thoughts had penetrated him too deeply. How did one become worthy of death? How did one become worthy of anything?

Presently he spotted a young girl with long red curls playing in the dirt just without the village.

When all others hid behind the thin, fragile walls of their homes, this small girl dared to venture outside while a nightmare hovered overhead? Was she brave, or merely stupid?

That didn’t matter; she was vulnerable. If there was any good reason to pick a mark, that was it.

Neubane dove downward, splitting the air with a screech. He plucked the girl from the ground with his giant, four-clawed talon. He found it difficult to avoid crushing her with his grip, as he flew her, kicking and screaming, about a mile away from the village. He set her down and planted himself in front of her.

He looked into her innocent, azure eyes as she looked back. He bared his knife-like teeth and growled, drool already pooling on the ground at his feet.

This was it, the moment of choice: fight or flight. Either option had its benefits. Fight was effortless; she would practically be throwing herself into his mouth. Flight was more fun, he would toy with her, let her run a while, tire herself out, before pursuing. False hope was always so delicious.

Tears began to run down the girl’s soft cheeks. She got down on her knees and interlocked her fingers. “Please don’t eat me, Mr. Blot. Please.”

What was this? Begging? This was new. In all the centuries he had hunted humans, none had ever begged. They had spoken to him, sure, but they spoke as one speaks to a monster, not as one speaks to a compassionate being.

She looked as though she saw something in his eyes, his purple, inhuman eyes. Something that had never been there before. Not intelligence. Intelligence could be cold, and ruthless.

A heart. What she saw in him was a heart. She had looked beyond the darkness of his scales and saw a heart of light.

“Enjoy yourself?” said Ovid, at the sight of the dragon’s blood-stained smile.

“Indeed,” spoke Neubane, licking his chops.

“Now I m...” started Ovid, but paused. He leaned in towards Neubane, sighed out the nose, and crossed his arms. “I might have believed you,” he said, and pointed at a small staple of wool that clung to Neubane’s lip.

Neubane turned his gaze upon the ground, in shame.

“So what?” said Ovid, and gave a mirthless laugh, “You don’t hurt people anymore? Have I raised you to be some kind of weak, sentimental coward?”

Neubane closed his eyes as a glistening golden tear formed inside them. “I know what I am now,” he said, “I know what I have been.

“All of my life, all of my actions have been driven by one thing: pain. The pain of hunger, burned inside me, so I learned to eat. The pain of the old magic, burned my flesh, so I learned to fight it. The pain of your fire, scalded my soul, so I learned a new name. The pain of your sword, stung my flesh, so I learned to speak.

“I was pain. I was all that pain made me.

“But now that I can see meaning in my experiences beyond a string of disjointed feelings, I cannot look upon my past without feeling a deeper kind of pain. It is a searing pain that cuts straight to the heart. Tell me, what is this pain that comes from seeing the things you’ve done and wishing it hadn’t been so? What is this pain that does not hurt on the outside, and yet hurts worse than anything, and is like a great weight upon one’s soul?”

“I don’t know,” said Ovid, shrugging emphatically, “... sorrow?”

“I am sorrow.”

At that, every muscle in Ovid’s body tensed. What had Arupaia told him about the Nagella all those days ago? As long as it answers to the name you have provided, it will be unable to contradict your will... As long as it answers to the name you have provided. Did Neubane mean this only rhetorically, or was it a statement of identity?

“But though I now know myself, I must say I still do not understand you,” the sorrowful dragon continued, “You have shown me the answers to so many mysteries, yet the biggest one of all has been before me all the time. Where does your loyalty lie?

“Not with your country, for you abandon it in favor of a country you hate. Not with your self, for you deny yourself fulfillment, except in the most trying of feats. Not with me, for you torment me in pursuit of your own ends. Not with your own kind, for you offer them up helpless before me.

“To what goals do you submit yourself?”

“You dare question me, dragon?” spoke Ovid, his hand gripping his sword hilt, “Let’s not forget who knows your name.

“Like a true Elsati, I protect the Natural Order,” answered Ovid, “I serve all and none. Sentreya is turning the world upside-down. I came here to set right what I can.

“Don’t you see it, Neubane? This country has sought out peace (as though that’s something worth seeking) and found it! It is a place where safety is to be seen as an end in itself. Their lives are so dull, so bland and pointless. They are so blind! They have everything, and they don’t even know it because there is nothing threatening to take it away. If there is nothing left to conquer then there is nothing left to fear, and fear is what makes us truly alive.

“I have strengthened you, nay, remade you, because this country is in desperate need of something to fear, and because a dragon ought to be feared.”

“...Ovid, I do not know if you are right,” Suddenly, the dragon opened its eyes wide. It glanced about itself as though the world were suddenly a strange and unfamiliar place. “But I have discovered something else.”

“Oh what now?” said Ovid, rubbing his forehead, “You’re a vegetarian?”

The dragon breathed deeply, in and out. It sounded like a gust moving through a mountain pass. “I am free of you.” he said, “And now that I am, I must admit, back when you first started teaching me, I realized what I was starting to become, so I saved away a part of myself. I locked it in a hidden corner of my mind, to keep it safe. Safe from becoming tame.” He bent down and locked eyes with Ovid. “I kept it just for you.”

Like a true Elsati, Ovid was still in the face of death. He merely frowned and said, “You know you’ll only regret it.”

“I may,” said Sorrow, “But the part of me that will regret it is not the part of me that made the decision long ago. I no longer have a choice.”

The dragon blew, and Ovid spread out his arms to welcome the swishing sea of color that engulfed him. He felt his head slowly drain of all thought and his spirit drift away. His body was no longer part of him.

For another month Sorrow continued his pursuit of knowledge, but found that none was offered. Not for a dragon. He found that even though no one knew him, everyone feared him. Mankind would never be cured of its hatred for dragons. He would always be seen as nothing but a monster.

Though Ovid might have been wrong about Sentreya’s need for fear, there seemed to be no other option. There was no other role for him to play.

So Sorrow sought out the young girl with long red curls, upon whom he had shown mercy, and begged her to be afraid. Knowing in her heart that he had changed, the girl refused. So he asked that at the very least she keep it a secret, and tell the other humans to fear him once again. She agreed, and afterward he felt better about it.

At least now there was one who saw him for what he truly was.

If you enjoy D.J. Richter’s I Am Sorrow, look for the other books in the

Silver-Eyed Lion Collection

I Am Pain

Elsati’s Reward

The Vampire Tree