The beast that cast us from our homes is a fickle sort, laughing as he torches our settlements and watches us flee. He’s like a child, holding a crystal to ants and watching them burn. We are the ants, and now I find myself apologising to the anthills as I pass.
It would be enough to assume the dragon is reckless and cruel, yet there is something else I have noticed as I follow him across the dunes. In moments where he thinks no one is watching, he raises his claws to the heavens and sings to the sun.
If I were a different person, one with less anger in his heart, I could see faith in his actions; hope in his heart. As if he praises the sunlight, our villages some sacrificial offering to his god in the sky.
Could it be true? It makes a twisted sort of sense. This creature, this beast of flame and fury, could be setting fire to our villages, burning down our homes, as some dread act of worship for his nameless god.
It brings to mind legends of the demon of the suns. As my grandmother told them to me, the demon would appear to people and offer them everything they had ever wanted, only to change them into mindless creatures of worship.
How does one look into a fire and see only the light, not the flame, or the ashes.