Her Name Was Camelia

Her name was Camelia. She wished she wasn't known for being the daughter of the dragon tamer. She wished she wasn't known for being supposedly "betrothed" to the best rider in the entirety of their clan. Above all, she wished she was known for her art. It was her passion. The way she expressed herself.

If anything, she was not known for her words. She was never very good at talking. That was a big problem, considering she had to give a speech in front of their village in a few sunrises. She would be turning 18 then, an age known by everyone within many miles north, to be the age of adulthood. The point in a child's life where they start preparing to lead the clan when their fathers before them could no longer.

She was to give a speech on how she would lead the clan. What she planned to do to make them stronger and more powerful than ever before. If she was being honest with herself, she didn't even know if she wanted to be a clan leader. All she wanted to do was find something amazing to paint. Something to change her outlook on art. Though, she supposed her father wouldn't want that.

He was strict with Camelia. He'd been a calm, but forceful leader. He'd guided the clan through a harsh war, and then through a terrible, cruel winter, bringing them out almost completely unscathed and unharmed. He'd kept the bright spark of hope glimmering in the village, making sure that the people never gave into the troubles they faced on their island.

The small piece of land was located in the far southwest of the Pacific ocean. Surrounded by other islands, dragon breeding wasn't an issue. Most islands conversed with each other, made deals and traded food and such. In fact, sometimes foreigners from the other islands would come, most because their spouse lives on that island, or the weather conditions are more suiting for whatever dragon they own.

Dragons were the only way to get around. Of course, there was your boat here and there, and sometimes bridges were made between islands if the distance wasn't very far, but the most used and most efficient way was dragons. Everybody owned one. Or at least, families did. Children weren't allowed their own until 13. Then, you were bought or traded your very own dragon, yours to name and train and ride.

Camelia, had a dragon, but not like you'd think. Her's was not for riding. Her dragon was old, small, and spoke. Not in the way that dragons speak, but the way that her clan spoke, and many other languages of different clans too. She imagined that Magiting, the wise old dragon, had been alive for many many years, and must have once been very mighty, but shrunk with age, becoming withered and frail.

None the less, they were friends, and friends they would stay, through and through.

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3 days until her speech was due. That's all that racked her brain, no matter where she went. First she went and sat on The Ridge, then she walked around the village, and now she found herself climbing onto the roof of her hut of a home, made of logs and clay and flattened steel. She could hear Magiting complain beside her, mumbling, "All this walking only to come home," and "My old wings can't handle these kind of things anymore," under his breath.

She reached the flat top and sat, legs dangling over the side, and looked out at the view of the village. Her father and mother had found home on the highest place on the island, a place where you could see everything out to the waters stretching far in every direction. Magiting landed on her shoulder and sighed, relieved of the strain on his tiny wings.

"I suppose you have a reason for going everywhere you possibly could today," he stated. It wasn't a question, because he knew. Sometimes he knew Camelia better than she knew herself. It was her turn to sigh, and she did, hunching her shoulders enough to shake the old dragon lightly. "I just don't know what to say..."