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.”

I need a dragon, a dragon with a motive.

In all my childhood fantasies about the University of London, I never pictured myself breaking into it.

Chumana is at Bletchley Park, calling to the human girl who committed a crime. Chumana is calling to me.

“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.”

“Someone requested I keep my teeth to myself. Otherwise, human girl, you might already be rotting at my feet.”

“She gave me an opportunity. The opportunity to fly straight to the Coalition and attempt to make up for my crimes. An opportunity to atone for my sins and seek forgiveness. Now tell me, human girl, why don’t you extend yourself the same courtesy?”

“Few of us deserve forgiveness, child,” says Chumana. “But answer me this. Where would I be more useful: in that library, rotting into the mulch of my own guilt? Dead from a purposely exploded detonator? Or flying free, helping to bring victory to the rebels?”

“But showing you’re sorry and spending a lifetime proving it? Now that’s another thing entirely.”

“You don’t have to forgive yourself,” Chumana growls. “Not yet. But you can offer yourself a second chance.”

I can choose to live a life where what’s important isn’t what I can achieve—grades, social class, career—but the type of person I can be.

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

“Part of it?” Hollingsworth smiles. “Vivien, I am the rebellion.”

“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.”