Adhithi

A poem a young James Dunkle wrote for Hadrian when they were getting to know each other. Impressed by his work, the two agreed to share their writings with each other, and the rest, as they say, was history.

Rising as the morning sun out of gloom
Under the throbbing heart of the mountain,
Night vanquished swiftly, hope expelling doom,
Adhithi awakes, draws back her curtain.
Not knowing what this day holds for certain,
Door knock. A shadow at her hallway's eye.
Past her bedroom she moves, stifling her pain
Until she's at her door, wanting to cry.
Thiruyaanai the Tall, her wise Tamil ally.

The magus enters, noting his friend's foot,
Hacked with a stone-axe a few weeks before,
Yet still she wears her gear, covered in soot,
Great despite her injuries, strong and sure.
Offers have come in, trials to endure,
Like slaying new beasts that plague the Island,
Dread dragons whose baleful flames have no cure,
Eating crops and turning forests to sand.
None can truly stop them, save Adhithi the Grand.

Crowning all offers is one big target,
Rilau-Leh-Bona-Singha, Dragon King,
Overlord of all lindworms small and great,
Whose roars make Langkaadheepa shake and ring.
Not waiting around to drink, dance or sing,
Up she rises, swords and brace like thunder:
Pale Mithra, Aryaman and Baga sting,
Old Paashin, Dhaksha, Angsha and Shakra,
No shield like dark Maarthanda, from ironwood spurred.

Her journey will cross three peoples' homelands,
Ela, Nayaa and the Yakku undead,
Raging rivers, thick jungles and parched sands
Lie in wait for her iron boots to tread.
Adhithi of Rakaa heritage bred,
Now a slayer of beasts, who will traverse
Great Elathaen, Paathaala, Giri red,
Until she finds the King's lair, soon his hearse.
If she succeeds, gone will be this dolorous curse.

Strapped with her brown rucksack, a Yakaa's gift,
Her journey begins with ally in tow.
Elathaen is the first, a chilly drift
Dense with rainfall like a mountain of snow.
Her dreams show the crocodile-faced draco,
Elephant trunks for his noses unfurl,
And his lion feet crush the ground like dough,
Dark monkey eyes, swine ears, peacock tails curl,
With seven heads and a fish body made of pearls.

Her name in Giri Land is Seven Blades,
Or Atahiru, the One with Eight Suns,
She's Hangsa, Swan, to the Nai in the glades,
Ela use Solmana, the Ghostly One.
Months ago when the lands weren't overrun,
Old Dhamba the Smoke-cloaked set up a spell,
Dragons emerged from rivers, hordes would come,
Each connected to the King, unleashed hell.
Soon she and all may kiss this pestilence farewell.

Time passes, they trudge through the Paathaal realm,
Thiruyaanai using his mystic map,
Resting rarely, frost eating at their helms,
Each night colder as they enter the Lap.
Snuggled deep within Giri's valley flap
Stays the Dragon King, brumating silent.
Eating one hundred and eight a day, trapped
Souls brought in by his many winged servants.
Wild wispy wind blows. Things will soon get violent.

Evenly, slowly, she enters his lair,
Rilau-Leh-Bona-Singha's eyes open.
Each sword swing answered with a dazzling flare,
Blade and tooth clash with bloody devotion;
Outside stays Thiruyaanai, age-stricken.
Under the beast's crushing weight her screams drown.
No! Her blades through flesh flow like the ocean,
Dhamba's brimstone smokebeast is swiftly downed,
Ugly roars stifled, his sulphured breathings resound.

Polangaa's grazing in the valley's head.
Finding her horse, Adhithi mounts her steed,
On which her friend is already seated,
Rejoice! The Teardrop Island has been freed!
They return home, now doomed the dragons' breed;
Rapid they fade away with an eye's blink.
Until another journey has their need
The two will take some time to rest and think,
Hailing tales about them soon told in song and ink.