Madrak

Death's Harbinger



A dark dragon lies still, his head curled towards himself and a wing of his draped over a small irregular bump in the otherwise rather slim build of his body. In his sleep he soon adjusts in a stretch, perhaps having heard your approach, moving his wing enough that he exposes part of a small white hatchling he seems to be guarding. An obvious tinge of sickness hides in the little one's half-closed eyes. All considered, it is a little wonder that the larger of the two’s whistling snore is not waking the little one.
Xha’thal walks in at your side, clearly having seen you come close to the slumbering dragons. He does not ask what drove your curiosity, but simply speaks an introduction for the hatchling's apparent caretaker, “That is Madrak. A bit of a self designated mortician he has become since his time here began, even when he was little more than a hatchling. Nearly every funeral pyre we have had the unfortunate need to create had been, in some way, directed by his claw. When he does not direct the process, he still treats the corpse. Cleans it, and depending on wound severity, once again makes the features of the face as recognizable as possible without damaging it further.
“An almost unsettling interest he takes in the related matters of a dragon’s death. When he is available, he moves with an energy that almost seems that he looks forward to the proceedings. When he is not, well, only once was he ever truly unable to involve himself. It was a dragon visiting this little gathering, a dragon that had not spoken so much as one word to Madrak. That dragon died a bloody death near our soils by causes I was, unfortunately, unable to investigate. It was the closest I had come to overseeing a war between clans, it took every word I could muster to convince their leader it was not our claws that killed him.
“Ah, but I begin to digress. They took the bloody corpse to their clan shortly to oversee their own proceedings. Madrak had not one claw in it. My eyes caught sight of him that same dawn.
“He was absolutely miserable- with what I am not fully sure. Madrak was so tainted with such a sullen mood that I could have found myself convinced he had lost mate and family to a bloody war, only to find their bones cleaned and scattered by scavengers.
“It would be a lie to say I knew all of what is hidden in that mind of his. Others have began to see it as nothing more than a sort of fascination with the deaths of dragons, and that, naturally, has created a sizeable distance between him and those others. They fear to let their guard down with him in their midst like this. Not all have accepted him, some refuse to speak of him, and I believe at least one has made a vow to kill him. I, however, will not allow it.
“He does not speak very often, not about his past at least, and thus even I do not know much of it, but can feel something else behind it all that motivates him. Something I do not believe to be sinister in any sort of the word. Troubling, perhaps, but not ‘evil’.
“One of his preferred habits was one of taking a special interest in any dragon that has become sickly, or injured. Far before the inevitable death. It is an interest beyond what is expected of a corpse cleaner. Abruptly, he will spend more time with the dragon than the dying one can remember him ever giving. Even visitors carrying with them a fatal injury he will suddenly take to as though Madrak were his, or her, brother. At times even his farewells to a dragon that is to fly from us for a time are more involved than usual. He will wish them well, treat them with undue kindness as though he were a father, a brother, even a son. Sometimes he will touch his snout to theirs, others he merely offers a rare smile.
“Originally I had believed he simply wished to be prepared in case a pyre was indeed necessary, but I soon learned he knew very well when death would give its chilling call. Without fail, every one of those dragons he had visited, every last one, soon fell to a much premature, often bloody, death. The sickly did not last a week, and those that left did not return. Some of us have even come to fear the day that he is unnaturally kind. They fear the day his conversation and attention are unusually involved, prolonged, and, at times, even comforting.
“Sounds as though he is at fault at the surface, no? That is precisely why he is not trusted. They think those deaths are by his claw and his intent. Again, I do not see it as such. I have been watching him with a keen eye since arrival, and I can tell you this: he merely follows the death, he does not cause it. I have seen the way he treats those dragons; he comforts them, treats their pain and their wounds. Much to the confusion of some, and the dread of others. He comforts the dying and honors the dead. Tirelessly he works himself to make passing as easy as possible. Even after death, where his role as our mortician truly comes into play.
“Of course my words have meant almost nothing against his failing reputation. His most recent interest in that hatchling seems to only justify their disgust.”
Xha’thal’s expression sagged slightly, and a look of disappointment, perhaps a hint of sorrow, flashes across his face. “I am sure you can see it in the little one’s eyes. He is fatally sick, had been so since the day he hatched with his sister and brother. Indeed, he seems to be even more active than his siblings from the moment his egg finally shattered. There is no agony in it, save for having hatched alone.
“I managed to be nearby at the time to watch that hatching. Those very same siblings smelled the illness upon him, and cowered to their mother. The look in their young little eyes held only fear. He was not a brother to them. They saw nothing but a soul laced with death, and rejected him. It is only fortunate that it was not an illness overtly contagious to anything but a new hatchling, else we indeed may have been forced to take measures more drastic.
“That was almost a year ago, and he had not even grown more than a hair’s breadth thicker, or taller. His scales never thickened, but fell free from his pale hide. Slowly we all watched him shrivel, walking amongst the us like a white ghost. All as he faded into an ironically painless demise.
“Now Madrak follows him as though he himself were the father, mateless as though I believe he is. He actively humors the dying hatchling’s play- letting him chase his flicking tail when the white has the strength, and sleep upon his side when he does not. I noticed the mother manage to be disheartened even further when she first noticed the growing closeness between them. Madrak’s involvement symbolizes the arrival of death, as I am sure you have realized by now.”
He waited a moment before continuing, “I doubt the young one even realizes his days are numbered. Naively playing with his newest friend, the same friend that will be treating his corpse when his life finally withers.”
Xha’thal shakes his head slightly, and turns his gaze back to you, “It would be best to leave the two be for now. I imagine that hatchling has not a few hours left, and I would rather not interrupt his last slumber.”

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Madrak has purposefully kept his relational ties to other dragons friendly yet distanced in respect to his ability. Unlike what it would seem, he does not enjoy his role, but he takes it out of consideration to those that are dying or those around them that are most affected. He knows no mother wishes to clean the blood off of her hatchling, no dragon wishes to die from the same sickness that took his friend’s life. His strange resistance to disease makes him such a fit for this role that few other dragons could surpass.

If only his role truly had so simple a motivation.

This behavior in itself indicates that he harbors more of a care for the life of other dragons than he allows to be discovered. In truth, the permanent separation between him and a friend that death brings, especially family, is greatly amplified upon him. It weighs heavily upon his soul, oft at an intensity unheard of aside from the closest of mates. The death of a dragon, any dragon, pierces him like a jagged, barbed spear, an almost physical pain that is only softened by active care of the dying one. Even after death, when the dragon he is caring for is no longer anything but a corpse empty of life.

Madrak knows when death will visit upon a life. Precise time is lost on him when it is not in the near future, but when he is hit with the clear conviction that the arrival is nigh it is far too late. So many times he has warned friends and family not to interfere when he tells of a coming death, even if it be just shy of a week before. Always. Always they are disappointed. Madrak knows the futility well, as he himself has tried. He has tried more times than he can remember in his hatchling stages, until he has finally resigned to the inevitable nature of his curse. Those that try to interfere oft end up losing their own lives.


He lives in a world of sorrow- a world of pain. His ears are never without the silence-shattering wail of dying dragons and motherless hatchlings. Madrak's nostrils ache with the rotting stench of unburied souls continents away. Nearby? The sounds and smells of even one slipping into an arguably peaceful death threatens to sway his consciousness. Bonds between him and another, even one as simple as acquaintanceship, always manage to multiply his suffering beyond even what he can imagine. Of the many years he has lived, he cannot remember being without this burden even for more than a heartbeat.

If there was even a chance that he could not lead a funeral procession for a dragon he had exchanged too many friendly words with, it was a sure way to incapacitate him with grief for many dawns. So Madrak keeps his list of friends short enough that he may count them on the digits of his front two claws. He cannot risk a friendship with a dragon he will never see again. It does not matter if they are continents away, still he will feel the death when it comes.

The stronger his bond to any dragon the more he must comfort and care for that one in the short time before the arrival of death, lest that bond only serve to haunt his consciousness further. The more the already unnatural sorrow death brings to him seems insignificant by comparison.

Even though the mere prospect of friendship can physically harm him even if he has the ability to oversee the funeral to their death, those living friends are the few remaining pillars keeping from dipping into a sea of insanity. Friends, even to one like Madrak, are a necessary evil. So that short list is one that he maintains, if carefully. He only adds when one is taken.

Regardless of that basic need, he constantly reprimands himself that he did not keep himself far enough away from Thrykyr. He had allowed her to become far more than a close friend. She is his mate. She became his mate and gave the ticking clock to her death a new meaning to him. His as well, as Madrak knows he himself has not a chance to survive her slipping away. The sorrow her death will bring will kill him, and it will not be quick or painless. Every new dawn the urgency gnawing at his bones alone threatens his sanity only further. He may only hope that his death comes first before hers, but, knowing himself, it won't.

---

"I feel their pain. Every last sorrow-ridden tongue howling into the night pierces me like spears, burns me like fire.
"Knowing the death of your loved one was a tortured one brings a whole new level of pain to the passing, does it not?

The more that cared for him, or her, the more pain I feel. I must preside over the funerals, for if I do not then I will suffer a sorrow like my heart has been broken thousands of times over. The pain of one passing from this world is my burden, especially when that pain is my own. A close friend to me that dies amplifies this so far that I cannot even put the severity into words. It wears on me so that residing over such a funeral hardly even dulls the ache anymore for those that I truly know.
"That is why I fear her death. Looking into her eyes, I see only a fading soul- a ticking clock. I cannot tell you when the death will happen until it is inevitable, but I can feel the urgency in my bones. She will die before I do. Of that I'm certain.
"She will kill me, friend. Not by the tips of her claws or the sharpness of her fangs, but by the deafening scream of her precious soul leaving her mangled body. I don't know how pure sorrow can kill a dragon, but if there is no way to cure this curse I will surely find out.

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