The Dragon's Blossom

The Dragon's Blossom

Since the fire keepers had first emerged from the mists of antiquity, it had been known that a long and happy marriage was only guaranteed if the bride wore a dragon's blossom in her hair during the wedding.

Yongil had traded seven fat goats for the flower when he married Neest. But that was some twenty summers past. Much of the old ways had died out with the blue wyverns.

The beasts were the only domesticated breed of dragon and as everyone knew the flowers grew in their stool. Glass scale was a fast pox and it spread through the stables like fire across the brown brush of year's end.

Most couples skipped the expense of the near-impossible to obtain blossom, these days, but Yongil was a traditionalist and he would be damned if his daughter was going to suffer through a loveless marriage, infidelity, a drunkard of a husband or death during child birth. No. He would do as his great-grandfather had done. He struck out into the mountains in search of the wild wings.

Three days into the hunt he saw the signs. The trees at the base of a rocky peak were scratched at the trunk. They smelled of reptiles' urine. The ground was littered in the bones of both stag and boar.

The old man looked up at the stone maze, leading into the clouds and let out a long sigh. If nothing else, his knees would burn for months after this. He left a lot to hope as he picked his way to the summit. If luck was with him, the creature would be out on the prowl when he arrived. If the gods were kind it would be a small, lame beast of great age and half blind. If miracles still happened it would be freshly dead due to some happy accident and he could pick the perfect flower at his leisure.

Yongil knew it wouldn't be that easy. For one thing, the youth no longer made offerings at the temples and he doubted the gods still listened to the few voices who sought them out. He was surprised when he discovered that not all was grim. He came out above the aerie and as he crept to the edge, he saw his prey stretched out, soaking in the sun.

It was a young male feather drake, the smallest of the dragon breeds. Small was relative in this context. It was the size of a farm horse, not counting its thirty foot wingspan. It had claws like a bear and a long tail that could take a man off of his feet.

The hunter kissed his axe and silently promised the North Wind he would burn double sacrifices next time he came into the village if it would grant him swift feet.

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Bletslania was more worried than upset, when her father was late showing up to the Nuptial Grove. Still, she insisted that they couldn't start without him. She pleaded with him not to go on his fool's errand after some superstitious flower. She thought they had come to an agreement on the subject, but of course that man had done as he pleased, as he always did when he thought something was best for her.

The sun was beginning to sink and those gathered to watch the ceremony were all looking worried and whispering to one another when Yongil finally appeared at the far end of the clearing. He was stumbling and covered in dirt. He wore an unseasonably heavy cloak and kept it wrapped tightly around him.

The girl stomped over, but, before she could yell, a left hand stuck out from beneath the soiled cape bearing the most beautiful blossom she had ever seen. "I know you don't approve," her father rasped, "but there was much wisdom on the tongues of our ancestors and their ways are our ways. Please... take this."

Bletslania and her love stood before the priest. He recited the song of union and together the couple dug a hole and planted the seedling that would grow into their life tree.

Yongil was there when they started digging, but when they'd finished patting down the earth his daughter looked up and he was gone.

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Half a moon later, Bletslania made the trek to her father's cabin; a day's ride from the village. The cozy log home was just big enough to house a lone widower and his memories of past glories.

"Why haven't you been around?" She asked.

He didn't immediately answer. Finally he turned from the pot he was stirring over the fire pit. "I've needed rest and you needed to enjoy yourself, without worrying about an old man and his problems."

It was then that she saw his right hand or rather the hook carved from a deers antler, where his hand had once been. "Daddy, what happened?!"

"Sometimes love," Yongil's smile was bitter sweet ",takes a heavy toll."