A Language of Dragons

by S.F. Williamson

Every act of translation requires sacrifice—it is this harsh truth that made me fall in love. There exists no direct correlation between the words of one language and another, and no translation can be entirely faithful to its original. So, while a person can more or less bridge the gap between languages using words, there is always some deeper meaning left unsaid, a secret invisible to those who only have one language with which to navigate the world. A translator, on the other hand, is a creature that flies with several pairs of wings.

“People shouldn’t fear their prime ministers, Vivien,” he says. “Prime ministers should fear their people.”

Atlas, languages are like that. You can say the same thing a hundred different ways, and occasionally one of those ways is so unique to the translator that it is impossible to reproduce. No other translator will use the same words, the same rhythm, the same turn of phrase ever again. Translating is creating, too.

“I’m saying,” Atlas says pointedly, “that when you oppress a community for centuries you can’t exactly be surprised when it rises up against you.”

“To control languages, to control words, is to control what people know.”

“Every time we shed, we leave an old self behind. Every time we shed, it is a chance to be someone new. A chance to change our minds.”

“You’re right that what the rebels are trying to achieve will take years, because inequality is so deeply entrenched in the foundations of our society that it’s going to need to be dug out, rock by prejudiced rock.”

“Remissio dolor redemptus est,” Chumana says. “Forgiveness is suffering redeemed.”

“He taught me that it’s our choices—who we choose to become once we can see our mistakes clearly—that make us who we are. So I’m sorry it took me so long to listen when he told me not to give Wyvernmire the code. I was figuring out who I am . . . but I know now.”