The Unbound Dragon

Chapter Two: An Argument

Our final argument was over a table. As far I can recall. That's how I want to remember it, anyway. An argument. A table.

It started when Irene said to me:

-I just think it would look nicer with a table cloth.

-The dents are part of the table's personality.

-Tables shouldn't be noticed. The food should be. Besides tables don't have personalities.

-See you're proving my point.

-No, you're proving mine. You're not making any sense.

-You don't really want a tablecloth. It's just more mess to clean up. The food won't look as good if people are worried about soiling a tablecloth. We'll have too much food left.

-There will be just the right extra amount .

-It would be a shame if father's guests are forced to lift up a corner to see if our table is properly scratched and dented.
You'll be dishonored and father will be too.

-No one is getting dishonored for a table. That's old superstition. Besides, I really don't mind cleaning up, Elena.

-You mean you don't mind having the ladies clean up for you. That's more dishonor.

That's when she threw the bowl.

It misses, smashing into untold pieces behind me. I make an offensive gesture at her with the remaining fingers of my left hand.

-Call your ladies to clean that up. I bark at her.

Of course Irene starts crying. I felt a little bit bad about her makeup getting ruined. But mostly it felt good to see her cry.

It was an earnest effort on her part. Deep, serious heart wrenching crying. If Irene had crumpled to the floor I might have felt some empathy for her. Instead she just stood there, head down, arms slumped at her side crying.

Considering how long I goaded her it felt a bit out of proportion. I only mention the table, but I suppose there were hours and days of other things I said to her that I can't recall. Prod, provoke, poke, jab. But still, that much crying is just too much.

Look at her makeup falling on her pristine Bonding robes. Look at her dark hair falling out of her constrained and elaborate braiding as she heaves like a cow.

-Stop it. You're crying on your robes you stupid cow. And your braid is falling out.

Even in the depths of despair, she looks back at me like a petulant child. She reaches up to feel for the loose braid. She has a small tendril of hope that I'll help her. That is what sisters are supposed to do. Help. Comfort. Support.

I make my face like a pouty baby. Hands balled into fists dabbing at pretend tears. I say

-Boo hoo hoo, you dumb baby.

-...I hate you...

-...wah wah wah. I mimic back.

More crying as she tosses the tablecloth on the floor as she leaves out the west door.

-Dishonor for the dirty tablecloth, I shout at her. The door slams.

Sometimes when I remember this moment I recall picking up the tablecloth, placing it in the laundry. Unfolding a fresh tablecloth, one with repeating dragon designs and setting the table. Later I follow thru the western door, the direction of hope and rebirth, go to her room and we talk.

Instead, I leave the cloth on the floor, and step on it when I walk out the eastern door. Towards despair. Destruction.

I admit I was jealous of her. I knew there was honor to her serving others on her Bonding Day. I had that honor, felt that pride on my Bonding Day, such as it was. I knew there were several times I could've conceded that she could have a table cloth. Her table cloth.

But I was jealous of her Bonding.

Despite the abundance of dragons, not everyone matched. No one expected to match, just surviving the fury of the new born dragons was an honor. Some hatchings had many Bonds, others were less successful. My survival and scarred shoulders were regarded as a success. By others.

Plus, she was in love. Frenzied passing of notes in anticipation of her wedding. One pigeon east carrying words of encouragement for her Bonding in reply to the pigeon flying west. Another pigeon flying north with invitations to the nuptials. It was a wonder that the sky wasn't filled with her birds. That the right note went with the wrong bird, that accident was beyond a humble act of attrition. Beyond a small shrug and reproachful look. Retribution would come in on the winds of war.

To her I said something snide about the streets filling with bird dung.

She meant it when she said "I really don't mind cleaning up.." I could see it in her eyes. That eagerness. That honesty. That love.

I hated her for that.

In that moment, it felt good to see her broken tears.

Such a stupid argument.

~~~~~

In one memory I like to have, as she's dying, as I'm holding her, as the blood pools around her, she sees me crying. And she says

-you're crying on your robes, you stupid cow.

I cry harder at that.

When I pretend I helped her, I feel better about what happened. It's a nice fantasy.

This is not a fairy tale.

This is a tale of death and blood and dragons.

~~~~~~~
...Continues in Chapter Three: An Ampoule of Electrium