And so, on the 6th night, the first dragonslayer plunged his blade into the skull of the first dragon. And so, on the 6th night, the first dragon gave its final roar and crashed into the earth, splitting tree and stone as it died. And so, on the 6th night, the first dragonslayer walked from the wounded world, trailing blood and fire and war. And so, on the 6th night, the spirit of the first dragon screamed and cried and fought against the inevitable. And so, on the 6th night, the first dragon became the first to tear itself from the cycle of life and death.
And from its blood ran the first river. And from its scales arose the first lizards. And from its eyes shone the first night. And from its hate arose the first murder. And from its wings blew the first hurricane. And from its fire birthed the first apocalypse. And from its howls crawled the first madness.
They say that as its wings unfurled, dry skin cracking, it screamed. They say that as it took to the air, rotting flesh sloughing off bones, it screamed. They say that as the fire drips past sharp fangs, tongue bloated and useless, it screamed. They say that as the spirit clung to hollow bones, as the last remnants of life vanished from the abomination, it screamed.
The first dragonslayer took something beautiful and used it to let in evil. He paid no price for his actions. He wiped the blood from his blade with a cloth. He did not sheathe it. War was in his hands now. There was a madness in his eyes, a kind of fire. The dragon may hunt, but it is for food. They covet gold, not for wealth, but for wrath. Pride is not a sin. Violence is. Man hunts for pleasure. Man murders for money.
As he walks through battlefields, the crackling of guns around him, legends says he smiles. Legend says he smiles because he sees what he has made and it is good.
And we have to ask where the dragons went. Did they all die out? Were they slain too? Did they flee, fearful of what came next? Once their vulnerability was proven, once mortality claimed even the mightiest of them, any could be next. Or perhaps it was the ruin. They say that when the moon is high and the stars are right, the bones in the shape of a creature descend, fire in its eyes and heart. On wings of shadow, it descends to seek.
And as he smiles, as his blade claims another, as the blood drips to splatter the dirt, he hears it. The distant night gives way to the fire of the damned gods, the flapping of empty wings. It roars silently because he cut the lungs from its chest. It screams with the rage of of ages gone by. It scours the world for him, bringing devastation with it.
Through mud and soot, adorned with broken armour and aching muscles, we saw fire descend from the sky. We watched as the beast crashed into the earth, struggling to stand. We saw it, beautiful and proud, bones in the shape of a monster. It was hate made solid. It was the end of the world made incarnate. It was fire. It was hunger.
And the first dragonslayer surveyed us, surveyed the mud, considered those he had been fighting until now. His eyes met the beast and he smiled and he laughed.
"Look boys!", he yelled, finger outstretched, challenging the beast.
Swords are best kept sharp. But this is the future and weapons kill without blood or blade. It's the whistle of bombs on the wind, the gas in our lungs, the choking cough of poison and hunger, the sharp caress of whirling bullets, the apocalypse of artillery. The beast stood for a moment, its vengeance finally at hand. It exhaled fire and we exhaled death right back, shattering it into thousands of pieces of rubble, crushing it into nothing. The greatest force of nature was nothing to the force of man and the first dragonslayer, more monster than man, stood and laughed as the blast front overtook him too. And the pressure and fire blasted the flesh from his bones and he laughed because he had no need for either. His skull was still grinning as it hit the ground, still laughing as the mud took it.
Like predators on a wing, we circle our target. Talons out, we dive enraptured. Claws down the back open the flesh. Bones cast aside, uneeded. The spirit clings to the earth desperately. We shatter the bones into rubble and the rubble becomes the mud and the two swirl and mix. Years pass, centuries maybe, but rage never dies. Even as bones fade to charcoal, even as the greatest fires die, even as the seas grow ever higher, the soul of the beast still clings to reality. Perhaps there is nothing left but the grasp. But the struggle to survive at all costs. Wrapped up beneath the mud, the empty space left by decaying bone fragments encircles that still grinning skull. Their eyes meet in spirit.
And maybe once there are no more bones, the beast will stop and pass on. Or maybe it will be the field itself, becoming the very mud and rock. Maybe the first dragon will finally move on, dragon no longer. Maybe it will spread, clinging to the whole of the world. Maybe that still grinning skull will catch fire, reduced to ash, his voice laughing on the wind.
And maybe there are no more dragons because they're in the water and the trees and the wind. And maybe when the stars glow just right, they'll come back to take revenge because we let death in. Maybe they'll catch fire to show us what it feels like. Because on the 6th night, we destroyed something beautiful. Because we could.