I wanted to have a post here concerning the birth of new dragons but my research has proved fairly fruitless. It is agreed in most legends and ancient stories that new dragons hatch from eggs. Some tales say the eggs are hidden in sandy soil by flowing water, others say the eggs are laid in a nest of treasure, others suggest the eggs are simply laid and left for a thousand years or more before they hatch. I find the last one least likely, not for the time scale, but I can’t imagine dragons abandoning their eggs to the vagaries of fate. One of the mentions of infant dragons I found states that the small ones will be born the colour of their mother’s eyes. I rather like that idea.
In my story Serving the Serpent, Heren holds precious memories of the last time he found his mate and I thought you might like the see the moment his young ones fledged.
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Heren closed his eyes and tried to recall more details of the last time he’d found his mate. Images of her poured like slow, molten gold into his mind, raising a tide of longing in his blood. Sensations he’d forgotten beat in a steady rhythm in his flesh, and he fought to close the beautiful memories out.
Annabelinda, so soft, so smooth she was, and sweet as her name. Gleaming and glistening, pale as the beautiful silver stars and yet warm as coals aglow in a hearth, she’d beckoned him to their nest. He longed to discover her again
How could he have misplaced these memories of the deep draughts they drank from the cup of love? Tiny and perfect were their offspring. Fresh warmth surged through his heart. A banked fire burst to life in his breast. His offspring all lived, fed and tended by his lovely mate for a full twenty years before they fledged. He knew it, for though he’d told not a soul and forbade his Derskijoar at the time to write of it in the great book of his life, the mating bond had only loosened, not broken, after the first years, a rare thing in dragon pairings. His heart still entwined with hers, he’d remained close by to protect his lovely female as their young grew. While the seasons spun and changed, attended by his Derskijoar, who’d bred a new generation of those bound to serve the serpent, he’d watched over his mate and the infants. Observing from the top of the tall, white-capped mountain he’d seen the young ones fledge and fly. A flawless mother, as she’d been his perfect mate, Annabelinda raised all seven. She cared for them until the night they made their way to the top of the mountain, and finding the young servants who awaited them, they departed to seek nest sites of their own. Small, like gold-green gems flung into a spring sun’s twilight, they’d scattered, the last of the day’s light bronzing their wings.