Legends of Belariath
Gwendya
Not a nice thing all in all being tied up to two poles, arms and legs spread wide. Especially not nice the fact that it was coming up to winter and a thin cotton chemise is not the warmest of garments to be wearing. This, however, paled into insignificance when set against what was to come at mid-day, just a few minutes away now.
It is not easy being a younger sister, even in a royal household – especially not in such a household. The petty rivalries and bickering amongst your elder siblings, the pathetic toadying of the courtiers. Still, Gwendya might have been persuaded to put up with all that and more to forestall her current fate.
The young princess, barely past her majority sighed quietly, resigned to her doom. At least her death, hopefully swift, would help the kingdom. By dying her people would be saved the ravages of the fearsome drake who … who had just flown into view.
Gwendya fought the urge to scream as a huge shadow fell over her, knowing it was fruitless. Decade after decade, for a hundred years or more, a virgin had been left out for the dragon to feast upon. Once every ten years all eligible females stood the chance of being picked by random draw. This time it was her turn. By no means the first of royal blood to be so chosen but, that was scant consolation to her.
Amazed to find that the dragon had landed whilst she was lost in thought, and was even now craning it’s sinuous neck, vast jaws opening wide as the head descended towards her, huge teeth and forked tongue altogether too much in evidence.
“Hello.”
To her dying day Gwendya never knew who was more stunned, her or Traghorn, the dragon. Her simple utterance caused the jaws to crash together prematurely and the huge beast to squat back on it’s haunches.
“Well, it has manners,” cam a deep rumbling voice, almost too low to hear. The head loomed closer and the craterous nostrils inhaled deeply, causing Gwendya’s hair and chemise to flutter widly. “And it is not scared, I smell no fear. Why are you not frightened of me?”
Wincing at the deep, booming voice Gwendya shrugged as best she could, “I suppose it’s because nothing I can do will change what will happen. Whether I scream or not, whether I thrash and try and escape, I will end up in your stomach, so why bother to expend all that energy?”
The head dropped until the chin was resting on the uneven rocky ground, and a pair of lambent amber eyes gazed at her, “hmmm, that is true. But, even so, all the others have screamed and cried and begged for mercy – when they have remained conscious – what makes you so different from them?”
Gwndya stared back at the dragon, unflinching beneath it’s stern regard, almost laughing as she thought of the answer. “Too many court sessions have made me able to ignore the unpleasant things in life I guess.”
Ponderously Traghorn blinked. “I fail to understand, tell me more of these court sessions.”
Over the next several hours Gwendya found herself relating more and more, to her mind, boring and trivial anecdotes and rules of conduct at court. During this time she managed to almost forget who her audience was, until the head shifted forwards and the tongue flicked out to pull the left hand stake from the ground. Almost, almost, she screamed, but just managed to bite back the sound before it could surge from her suddenly dry and tight throat.
She stared in disbelief as the dragon uprooted the other stake. “Am I … free to go?” For the first time hesitation and trepidation filtered into her voice.
“No, you are to come with me. I wish to know more about life as a human. You may go when I tire of you, or I may just eat you.” The dragon held out a claw, that to Gwendya seemed to be, the size of a small horse.
Although still bound to the heavy stakes she managed to unfasten her wrists and ankles and with an inward shudder stepped within circle of the pale yellow talons. The claw tightened around her slowly until she was held fast. With an awkward, three-legged gait Traghorn lumbered forward and unfurled it’s mighty wings. Opening her eyes once the jolting had ceased Gwendya peeked out over the claw and gasped. The ground was so far away. After several minutes of flight Traghorn ceased flapping and entered into a slow downward glide.
Once on the ground Traghorn released Gwendya who tottered out from within confines of the claw on unsteady legs.
“Come into my cave human and we shall talk.” So saying Traghorn gracefully, for a creature that size, into a vast cave set low in the side of a ring of sheer cliffs. Looking round for possible ways to escape, and finding none she could use, Gwendya followed after the huge slate gray dragon.
Once inside she was only half surprised to see the dragon lying on a pile of coins, jewels, and miscellaneous equipment: here a sword hilt poked out, there a staff, what looked to be a set of fine chain armor was half buried in pieces of silver.
At her wide eyed stare Traghorn rumbled a deep laugh. “You are the first to see this, my hoard. Many have tried, and many have added to my riches. Now, you were saying about Count Redogar and his sister …”
Her mind working furiously to try and remember what she had said earlier, Gwendya stumbled out the rest of the tale. Once finished night had fallen and she felt mentally and physically drained.
“I need to sleep … and, er … I need to um, … relieve myself …where …?”
Traghorn brought its tail round and pointed to the far end of the cave where Gwendya could just about make out in the glow of luminescent moss a vast pit. “Oh …”
After a poor sleep, Gwendya awoke and tried to work out some of the pains in her body. Gold, no matter how soft, makes an ill bed. Making use of the pit again whilst Traghon continued to sleep she was shocked to see movement around the pile of treasure. Watching carefully she could just about make out a shadowy form moving silently of the heaps of coins. When the figure passed into the light from the cave mouth Gwendya finally let loose the scream that had resided in her for so long. The figure was translucent, and it appeared to be her. For all the worlds it looked like a, literally pale, imitation of Gwendya.
The figure glided up to Gwendya, and at once she realized that this was, somehow the dragon. Not only was the figure a bit taller than she herself was, a pair of pale amber eyes returned her stare unblinkingly.
“Dragon?”
“I have a name you know, human.” The tones were like her own, yet subtly different, seeming somehow to have more echo that was proper.
“You do? What is it?”
“You may call me Traghorn, young human.”
Gwendya found the idea of talking to a ghostly version of herself somewhat daunting and wandered over to piles of coins and made her self a seat, pulling a robe out of the pile to make it more comfortable. “I, too, have a name Traghorn. I am called Princess Gwendya.”
The imitation Gwendya cocked it’s head and nodded slowly, “And princess is a rank or title?”
From such a simple question, sprang a day long discussion about rank, titles and privileges. After sleeping again, this time in more comfort as she made the effort to make a small nest for herself, Gwendya once more found herself in converse with her copy. A simple statement or question seemed to engross Traghorn and Gwendya was forced to delve deep into her memory and knowledge to answer the dragons further questions. No detail seemed to small, whilst some things Gwendya dreaded answering were glossed over as if of no interest or import.
Days passed into weeks, which became months and then years. Every few days or so Traghorn would rouse and take flight to return with food for Gwendya. After watching the dragon consume a living cow she asked him, politely, to eat somewhere else. To her amazement the dragon complied.
As time passed the dream copy of Gwendya became more and more real, but was unchanging in appearance. Despite the real Gwendya aging, her hair slowly turning silver and her face becoming wrinkled, her ‘living’ mirror stayed the same.
Finally the day came when Gwendya did not awaken. With tears running down it’s cheeks her copy gently picked her up and carried her to the cave mouth and laid her down. Going back into the cave it rooted through the mass of treasure until it unearthed a spade that it knew had lain there for more than a century. The silently weeping figure dug a grave and placed the frail body of the only friend the dragon had known and covered her with earth.
“Farewell my friend. You have given me more than I could ever wish for. You gave me of yourself without let or hindrance, you did not find me horrible to look upon. Somewhere I shall find another like you.”
With a single, idle sleeping thought the dream version blinked out of existence and re-appeared half a continent away. Wandering the land, the ever youthful looking Gwendya went in search of company …