Chapter 11
Nobody had explained that part of timeskipping to me.
Warka
Muthanna Governorate, Iraq
I struggled with my memories of the city versus the decay of ages, with only a few tell-tale signs there had once been a civilization there at all. Tantalizing hints of what had once been peeked through the cracked and broken land.
People observed from a distance, and I could tell the foreigners by their clothing, unsuited for the harsh realities of the baking desert heat.
The locals protected themselves from the elements and cast disgusted glares at their visitors when confident they would not be caught.
Then, likely as a gambit to get their guests to leave, the locals guided the group away from the buried ruins, following where the river had once flowed.
Some hours later, with frequent breaks for the foreigners to partake of water, they arrived at their destination, an oasis.
A team of men dug at the sands, and piece by piece, they uncovered the preserved body of the girl who had sacrificed everything for her family and city.
From her slit wrist flowed water rather than blood, which the thirsting ground drank. What it didn’t consume filled the crystal clear pool, offering life in the desert.
Everyone went to their knees, foreigners included, to pay respects to the girl.
The ancient sickle in her hand glowed with a pure white light, bathing all in its presence with a lingering glow.
* * *
Rajab 12, 1406 AH
Warka
Muthanna Governorate, Iraq
Military vehicles converged on the oasis, and to deny the Iraqi people of a life-giving treasure, the soldiers planted mines and stole away the body of the girl offering life to the oasis.
They pried the sickle from her right hand, and the moment the hilt separated from her flesh, the flow of water diminished.
She went into one crate. Her sickle went into another. Soldiers loaded them into a vehicle and drove away, laying more mines in their wake so that nobody might return in safety to what should have been her final resting place.
Fury over the desecration consumed me from within, and I struggled with the horrific disregard and disrespect for life and death.
Then, with a growing sense of horror, I wondered if the girl had used necromancy upon herself to give life to others, and if there might be another side to the magic I had been obligated to hate.
My dismay began as an unsettled feeling, and much like a leaking faucet would eventually fill even a tub, I began to understand how Madam Merorie’s love for her child might be twisted and corrupted into something terrible.
Could she, had she taken the girl’s route, offered life to her son at the cost of hers?
Could death be defied when backed by a pure heart in a moment of sacrifice?
Long after the dust settled and not even the wind dared to disturb the defiled land, I stared in the direction the military vehicles had gone, wondering who had come for the girl and why.
In the hours that followed, the oasis drained and dried, leaving the lush palms and reeds to perish beneath the blazing heat of future days.
I stared at the minefield in an equal blend of fury and horror over the atrocities I’d witnessed.
And as though time itself grieved for what had occurred, a date I understood sank in: March 23, 1986.
I could only hope that those responsible for the oasis’s death faced justice for the evils they had committed on that terrible Sunday.
* * *
Tuesday, May 4, 2049
Westminster
London, England
The auction doubled as a masquerade ball, with all participants wearing elaborate masks to obscure their identity. Each attendee, armed with a stick, waged a silent war, holding up their number as they fought to take ownership of the girl’s corpse.
Her wrist, every rare now and again, dripped pristine water, which the auctioneer captured in a crystal chalice.
I saw no sign of her sickle.
In ten thousand dollar increments, the price for her body increased. At a million dollars, I regretted I could not readily identify those placing bids.
I wanted to see every last one of the bastards fall and pay for their sins. I also wanted to be the reason the hellhole military organization that had stolen her crumbled to nothing and burned. If curses existed, I longed to bestow one upon them so that they faced justice for their crimes.
At the five million mark, my fury cooled to something with a sharper edge, chilling until it became ice within me—ice I would sculpt into vengeance if ever given a chance.
The bidding began to falter at seven million dollars, and one by one, those interested but unwilling to spend more accepted defeat and left. At ten million dollars, it became a battle between two.
At just under fifteen million dollars, the loser conceded defeat and departed.
When only the auctioneer and the victor remained, the woman removed her masquerade mask, revealing Madam Merorie, and she smiled a grim smile.
Without hesitation, she dug out her phone and began the process of paying for her deceased prize.
“Upon confirmation she is ready to be shipped, I will send a plane to collect her for transport.”
“It shall be as you ask,” the auctioneer replied. “What do you wish to do with her waters? We have collected every drop since she has been in our possession.”
“I will need the volume and weight so it can be transported as well,” Madam Merorie replied, and once she finished arranging for payment, she approached the corpse. “How soon can you have her ready?”
“Tomorrow night, assuming the wire arrives without incident. I will send you the details on where to pick her up. We have an hour window each evening for sensitive departures. Make certain the pilots know that they will have to arrive two hours before the departure window to refuel and make their flight plan and that they will not be able to detour from the plan to reach the United States safely and without being detected.”
“I will make certain that they know. Thank you. If you find any more like her, please do let me know. I would very much enjoy giving you more of my business.”
“I’ll do that. May good fortune follow you.”
* * *
Saturday, March 23, 2086
The Fringe
Dragon Heights, Wyoming
Madam Merorie settled the mercury horns on her head and secured them with straps, which she hid beneath her hair and clothes. She muttered something in a language I couldn’t understand, but I recognized the body she examined on her table.
The girl from Uruk remained unchanged despite the long years since her death, her decomposition halted at the two to three day mark. The dragon picked up a scalpel and cut into her arm.
The wound, for the briefest of moments, leaked water, which Madam Merorie scraped away with a spoon and placed into a beaker.
The girl’s wrist, every rare now and again, dripped water, which the twisted woman captured in the crystal goblet from the auction hall.
“Perhaps I simply need more,” she muttered to herself before returning the scalpel to the table and observing the corpse. “I must think on this. I will bring him back.”
In a way, I pitied the woman and everything she had become. I could even understand how her love had twisted and corrupted from something beautiful to horrific in every way. However, I would never condone her actions, nor would I agree with them.
Once Madam Merorie left, I stared down at the girl’s face, peaceful in death, and wondered if she knew what atrocities had been done to her, by people and by dragons, in the days after her life had come to an end at her own choosing.
I wondered what had happened to her sickle and if restoring it to her and returning her to her final resting place in the dead oasis might at least undo a little of the evils done to her.
I reached out and rested my fingers where she had once clutched her sickle. Instead of the cold of death, the warmth of life greeted me.
I longed to promise I would find some way to do something for her and her oasis, but I remained silent.
I would try regardless, but I could make no promises.
But if I could, I would.
I clasped her hand in a firm grip, giving a squeeze as though she still lived and hadn’t departed for the afterlife thousands of years ago.
In her place, I would want someone to show me the compassion she should have been granted, the honor she had earned through selfless sacrifice, and the respect owed to someone of her spirit.
Already regretting my inability to do anything, I let her go and wondered what else my rogue magic might show me.
* * *
Monday, March 1, 2100
Westminster
London, England
A dusty box buried in a pile of wrapped canvas and other goods glowed with a golden radiance.
A hole appeared, and fingers of flame tore away at the wood.
Something about the light devoured the smoke while the container smoldered away to nothing.
The girl’s sickle shone with the light of the sun where it rested on a bed of velvet.
What would happen if I picked up the weapon? Would anything happen?
Nobody had explained that part of timeskipping to me.
Then again, nobody had explained anything about my ability to witness the past, supposedly the power of purple dragons rather than chrome ones.
I worried my fledgling powers blended and worked together, allowing me to ignore the limitations of other dragons.
What would change about the future, if anything, if I could reach into the past, take hold of the weapon, and bring it back to the future?
Considering the bastards who had robbed an oasis of its life-giving waters, taking away the girl who had sacrificed her life for the sake of others, stealing from them wouldn’t bother me in the slightest.
If I could reunite girl and blade, might it be possible to make the journey to the dead oasis and restore it?
One day, I might learn to stop giving myself extra work.