SandScript 2023 [Digital Exclusive]

The Last Song
Kristin LeBlanc
For eons now, the pattern is the same. Animals act oddly, attacking each other. Barking,
hissing, squawking, staring panicked at the sky. Then, people feel it. A sickening feeling in
the pit of their stomachs, like something isn’t quite right. Your stomach drops to your feet,
your heart to your throat, the feeling of eyes all around you, watching. A wretched wrongness.
A warning. Tectonic shiftings rattle the very bones of the cities. Panic. Paranoia. Peril. The
Dragon awakens, and none shall ignore it. All that stands between destruction and safety is
an incantation. It is said that being chosen is a great honor. That the honored are deified. A
single soul, the Chosen enters the lair of the beast and lulls it to peaceful slumber once more.
Fair of voice, pure of heart. They are taught the words, but the magic must come from within.
Honeyed words and tinkling melodies, a sonata of solitude to save them all. Some resist. They
are given the blade. This one does not resist, old enough to know what happens if she does.
Some call this bravery, others stupidity. The blade may be more merciful. This one is a quick
learner; perhaps she knows what awaits. Visions are not unheard of; maybe she knows death
will always come in the end. The blade is quick, but a Dragon? None hear of the Chosen again
when they enter the lair, only rumors survive. Tale will tell of this one, a child of the stars. A
baby who did not cry, born on a night when the moon hid and all one could see was stars.
Like those before her, this Chosen is led to the lair with no way back. Despite the pitch-black of
the cave, no torch is needed. No, the ground rumbles in rhythm with the beast’s heart, pulling
her blindly through twists and turns. A darkness that surpasses moonless nights, darker than
the night behind one’s eyes. Those who led her here scurry back to their nests like the ants
they are, bringing news to their Queen, all is well. But in the depths of the cavern, the Chosen
finds a chamber bigger than any throne room. The Dragon sprawls, heaped, towering over
every rock and stone, with eyes brighter than any full moon. It does not speak. It does not
need to. The connection is made. An understanding, an awe that sparks and fills them both.
She sings. Arias clearer than glass, melodies deeper than rivers. She sings of grass, of wind, of
sky, of dreams. Two heartbeats become one. This one does not fear. Why should she? Here,
deep beneath the Kingdom that readily threw her to the wolves to save themselves, she feels
power. Power to do what those before her could not, what they were too afraid to do. The
Dragon does not stop her when she touches his wing, when she climbs the great beast, hands
gripping spikes and scales, twisting her incantation. Nor does he stop her when she clambers
onto his back, seated between massive wings. What is fear? It is what they shall feel. No more
slumber. Great wings beat on the wind, course set for a castle that gleams like a diamond in
the sudden darkness. The Chosen looks up, to a moonless sky of stars.
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