Drakōn Thisavrós (Dragon Treasure)

Drakon kind has long inhabited the Second World; far preceding the Age of Humanity. Drakon never grew from anything at all. Instead we were carved, perhaps once a craggy mountain or maybe the bed of a glistening river. Carved by the Earth-Mother, a hand only the ancient knew. That was the First World, a time I didn’t exist in. The rise of plants and animals was just beginning. The Second World, well, that came with the creation of civilization. But even in times bygone, Drakon kind has always treasured the hoard they sit atop watching the world ebb and flow with the beauty and ugliness of life. 

Scintillating gems, raw silver and gold, sun-bleached bones, and intricate feathers caught many eyes and were highly coveted keepsakes among the Wyvern. Such greedy creatures, a Wyvern’s hoard is a display of power, symbolising his personal success and might to suitors. Skirmishes between such mighty beings have no bounds and prove an unstoppable force of destruction. For a Dragon his hoard was an extension of himself; what one’s hoard consists of depends solely on the heart and mind of each individual. We don’t hoard treasure because it looks nice or gives us significance setting one above another. The truth is that a Dragon’s hoard is a physical embodiment of its memories and knowledge. Trinkets to hold as a souvenir of reminiscence and such things a dragon might find important. To steal another’s treasures was against an unspoken understanding. The exception comes with the death of a Drakon. A hoard abandoned by death or other circumstances is considered disgraceful to forsake if stumbled upon.

When the humans came they came with a greed even greater than that of the Wyvern, and we Dragons did not realize how much other races craved such treasures. It took a long time before we discovered that the reason that the wanderers persisted in attacking our dens was their desire for these valuables. This became a threat to our species, both Dragon and Wyvern alike, and great battles ensued. For Wyvern, hoards are an important part of their survival; it asserts their dominance and assures the continuation of their species with the strongest genes. The opposing species do not see these items as factors in the others’ survival but rather the ultimate vice of greed. But the humans do not see the generations it takes to amass a hoard worthy of a suitor or the years of knowledge and memories, the reason for the destruction and search for the items they deem wealth. Despite hoards not serving any particularly important role in the survival of Dragons, they were targeted just the same and defended them just as furiously as a Wyvern would. Because one’s hoard might look chaotic and disorganised, but the truth is that we have measured the exact amount of pebbles spilled into that goblet, the number of vibrant yellow feathers strewn through precisely calculated piles of ore rubble. They serve as a reminder of what happened, say, 473 years ago. And by extension, each piece makes up a tiny piece of our identity. Numbers dwindled as the Age of Humanity sprung upon us, and as the world evolved, the Human’s greed drove them to drive the Wyvern to extinction. Dragon’s became a rare if not impossible sight.

All packed into a cavern beside a magnificent mountainside waterfall I call home are my memories. The good and the bad are in these trinkets. I have spent just shy of decem millenniuum building my hoard of precious metals, colourful seashells, twigs and leaves, rain-washed pebbles, statues of misremembered gods, rare jewels, the skulls of long forgotten “heroes” litter the floor of my cave, and forgotten collections of those gone long before I. It’s a magnificent display that many have tried to take and have paid for it with their lives. I bear the battle wounds as missing scales where swords have clashed and singed wings from flaming incendiary attacks. But they come in waves, nevertheless, as my hoard is the only remaining in this world. 

In my talons, I hold the last item I intend to affix to the mound that comprises my mind. A teardrop shaped moon-stone that stories through Drakon legend say to be the last Tear of the Earth-Mother. As she took her last breath, a single tear trailed down her cheek and landed in the claws of her first Drakon creation. Chilled by the wave of death overtaking her body, the tear had hardened into a beautiful gem. And with this, I have everything.

That’s the snag accompanying a life lasting centuries. It makes living feel obsolete. When you’ve experienced everything, gathered every precious memory you could procure, piled miles deep and meters high every shard of remembrance of the life you’ve lived, gained the knowledge the world has to offer time and time again with every coming generation, what is there left to achieve? How would I live out the rest of my time?

I decided long ago, when the excitement of Everything turned into the boredom of Nothing, the last duty I could perform for my kind was to dedicate my life to finding the Tear. Now I turn the stone in my claws, warm with the last remnants of life from the Earth-Mother, nurturer of the Drakon kind. With my goal accomplished, what should become of myself? My hoard? With nothing left to live for and not a soul of my own left to stumble upon and claim my legacy for their own? This was something I wasn’t prepared to face, a thought that never crossed my mind. What should someone do with the equivalence of a world encyclopaedia stuffed into a cave? Who was left to inherit this, the knowledge and memories of a species created at the dawn of time from the very earth they walk?     

Once again, I can hear the clanging of armor, a sound any Drakon would recognize. Just like the waves always return to kiss the shore, the humans will always come. Driven by greed or need, I will never know. With the metallic orchestra comes an epiphany. Maybe we were meant to be carriers of another time, gathering knowledge through the material creations the world has to offer. This gift is meant to be bestowed upon humanity, the founding species of Second Earth. A gift created by the creatures who came from the world given to the ones who will shape it. There is no uncertainty in my mind. With my hoard, the history of time can propel life, or destroy it, but that decision was never in my hands. Life will play out as time goes on just the way She meant it to. I’ve got no reason to believe otherwise. If I don’t believe my life will have meaning when I’m gone, what would the memories and knowledge I’ve gathered even mean? What would the point of my creation, my life, have been?

I climb atop my hoard and lay my head on the Tear. My life fulfilled. This time, I will not defend my hoard. Tyrlas the Eternal is the name I was given, and it’s the name they chant as they trudge up the mountain to kill me. A bitter-sweet lullaby for eternal I will be no more.