Drakmanka Writes: The Tale of Aquarius' Hatching

I stood, burning from within from excitement, watching the egg rock and listening to the violent tapping of the hatchling fighting to get free. Somewhere within my mind, I remember my own hatching, and I know that this hatchling is just as excited as I am right now. For different reasons.

Our minds are intertwined, I can sense his eager desire to be free. He can feel my encouragement and excitement to see him for the first time. His lungs burn with a need to breathe.

The shell cracks, and his lungs fill for the first time. Joy is shared between us as he widens the crack, until the egg splits right down the middle. He is spilled unceremoniously onto the stone floor of my home cavern, every limb alive and thrashing, ancient instincts telling him to get up, to stand. He squeals and squawks as he thrashes to his feet.

Feelings and ideas pass between us as he finds his feet, feeling the hard stone beneath them for the first time. Meanwhile, I take in the wonder of his new life starting.

His scales are mostly blue, a striking aquamarine that shimmers in the light of the glowing crystals of our shared home. There is a translucent blue/green to his tiny wings, and a series of thicker scales run down his back, mottled with black and sea-green scales. His eyes, as blue as ice, gaze up at me filled with thousands of questions.

Those questions transmit between us telepathically. It is the first time in his life he has been able to reach out to me, though he has felt my mind most of his existence within the egg.

His first questions are practical ones. Where is he? Who am I? What are we? Where are the others? (Of course, he knows there are other minds touching his; they have been since the moment we could sense his own mind forming within his egg.) They grow more complex from there. What is a name? Does he have a name? Why not? What is food? What is hunger? What is flight?

Images flash between us as questions and answers form and battle with one another. Thoughts are not all in words, some are of ideas, some of memories, many are images. He knows much, having been taught while in the egg, but he has yet to learn how to piece all these things together. Being a hatchling is a confusing time for any dragon, especially for the first few hours.

I assure him things will become clearer in time. I then insist that he must come with me to a place prepared for hatchlings, for their first meal. He will soon understand what hunger is, and what food is.

Hartborne meets us in this special place. The floor here is white glowing crystal. No dragon knows how thick it is; when it was found it was shaped to suit this purpose, and then left unmolested. It has been a sacred place, dedicated to the nurturing of young dragons, for thousands of years. A dead Braynach deer lies in the center of the roughly circular chamber of stone and crystal. Hartborne, as my own Mentor, has killed it in the ceremonial way – breaking its neck – and brought it for this all-important first meal.

More questions pour from the hatchling as his mind instinctively reaches out to Hartborne. Who are you? You are also a dragon, yes? What are we doing here?

He sees the deer and recognizes it. Good. His gifted memories are working.

The smell of the dead prey seems to awaken hunger in him, just as it had in me when I was his age.

As is tradition, Hartborne uses a single claw to slice open the belly of the deer. Blood oozes out of the fresh kill. The new smell awakens ancient instincts in the hatchling and he springs atop the deer.

It is time for his first lesson in being a modern dragon.

Do you want the whole deer for yourself, little one? Do you really think you can eat it all?

He is confused, and for a moment the feral look fades from him.

It is unkind to lay vicious claim to a gift.

He looks between me and Hartborne. The training of his mind was done while he was within the egg, but he now must overcome his animal instincts on his own for the first time. Understanding dawns at last; we can feel it through our connection to him. He steps down from the carcass and asks permission to eat.

I feel through a private mental touch from Hartborne a swelling of pride and amusement. I remember a similar lesson being taught to me, over a century ago. I share his feelings as I look down at my young charge, looking up at me with bright, curious eyes.

Yes, you may eat. Remember the value of this kill. Look at the blood. Do not waste it.

He dutifully laps at the pooled blood on the white crystal. His barbed tongue leaves no trace. Soon, he is asking more questions.

This is meat? Why is this different? What are bones? Why is it furry? Why not scales? Do all living things have blood?

The questions are answered in turn, and with each answer his mind is able to better piece together that which was already given him long before he first began struggling to be free of his egg.

Today is but the first of many days of growth and learning for him, the first step on a journey that will last for thousands of years.