The First Wyvern

Two boys,

one fair and golden as a summer sun's kiss.

The other cool like metal reflecting a ruby on winter's breast.

Two pieces,

yearning through the darkness for each other's touch.

A terribly beautiful rage of life, movement, and power burning within them.

On a field of blood and bodies they lock gazes.

Souls ripped of their love by years of war and pain.

Inwardly, the heat rises to their burnt out hearts.

Magic rekindles the flames stamped out by bloodshed.

Two halves of a whole,

separated by a shard of winged ice long ago, call out with echos of fast beating hearts.

Twin sides of a mirror face themselves walking forward to meet.

Brows furrowed in confusion,

legs shaking with exhaustion,

bloodied hands drop soulless metal blades on the tear stained ground.

Feet draw them to a fate hearts were denied.

Bodies fall against the glass between them,

it's icy shards cut deep in their flesh, trying to keep broken what was done centuries past.

Fire burns through the cold to be joined again finally.

Power reverberates through the red field, a sun rising at the center.

A shattered mirror sews itself to wholeness, magic connects the bodies.

The eery sensation of being complete.

One heart settles the blood in it's newfound vessel from the past.

Embers from a golden fire, hidden inside, shows in one eye,

veiled by lashes of a field of wheat at dawn.

Molten garnet flows like blood in the other,

with lashes blacker than the empty soldiers strewn about.

Wings made from obsidian scales and feathers the shade of suns rays

reflect the red of the fallen and the glow of a thousand inner pyres.

New breath fills the lungs of the first wyvern, boiling with the magic of old,

stolen by a pure white falcon diving into a black ocean, now reclaimed.


Burning his veins with an uncontrollable passion.

He crumbles to the ground.

It's turned to a marsh of blood and death.

He sinks slightly, as if the earth beneath him still hungers for more blood.

Burning, searing power emanates from and pierces his every pore.

Falcons fly towards him,

stilling their dark cold power in their slowly beating hearts.

His fire scorches the ice of their magic and they land ungracefully,

blood of lesser beings staining on contact.

He lifts his eyes, heavy with tears, pleas, and warnings.

This magic is too much,

but the heat and movement keeps him in an embrace of calm intensity.

They flare their indigo wings, dyed with as much power as they can

find, steal, or borrow from Ecl herself.

Magic brings him to his feet and burns outward in a wall of fire to blacken the cold world.

The sun and the moon

collide on a red field to rip and tear at the fabrics of souls

caught in bodies swept away.

The sun will always set.

Fair skin drips with hot blood.

The ground drinks it greedily.

He doesn't understand.

Embers cool in the light of the moon as his heart stills.

Feathers smolder and scales loose their gleam.

Ivory falcons shatter

against a frozen ocean to be drowned in still darkness.

Two boys

share slowly closing eyes to join the empty shells that surround them.