AFTER THAT, THEY HAD a fine argument. Yaarah led out by suggesting that if she planned to splatter his precious golden coat with the partially digested organic ooze of her stomach, the sapphire one had better be prepared to lick it clean herself. The Fae accused the Felidragon of a colossal degree of insensitivity. He repeated the tired old ‘Dragons are always right’ line. Allory snapped something that let him know in no uncertain terms that his attitude ought to be re-tired. She may have thrown a minor strop about it all and stomped off; admittedly, not very far.
Too scaredy-Fae for that.
Spoiled the effect, really, but she found the flare of defiance oddly satisfying. Not exactly a sign of maturity, mind.
Yaarah’s reaction was also rather startling to someone who had always tried to ensure that she did not bother anyone, was no burden and could be counted on to fade into the background at every possible opportunity. That was exactly why she did not want to have this conversation which was undoubtedly coming her way in three, two, one …
“Middlesun is wobbling,” the Felidragon stated.
Different conversation? Allory came within an inch of falling off the branch, which would have been unwise. Not just a different branch, but a different jungle altogether. “Wobbling?”
“Like a drunken Man, murrr-hurrr HARRR!” he clarified, at his usual thundering pitch of mirth. “Oscillating. Perambulating. Fluctuating.”
He probably drank thesaurus nectar for breakfast. Every day.
“I’ve never seen – scratch that,” she spluttered, addressing the local foliage with hands that waved in consternation. “Do you mean to suggest it’s misbehaving like a dancing Felidragon?”
“Gnarr –”
“You want me to fix a wobbly Middlesun? Eh?”
“Exact-a-gnarr-ly.”
“Ha-ha-harrr,” she tried, giving it her best miniature growl. Unconvincing.
Although they spoke the same language, she did not understand a word. Well, either what he thought was going on with Middlesun or what in all Spheris it had to do with kidnapping a fragile Scintillant Fae, the very dregs of her colony. Meantime, her companion’s sigh-chuckle ruffled her wingtips with a warm exhale, making her jump crossly at his unexpected nearness. Jolly sneaky beast prowling up behind her like that! How did he move so silently?
He said, “If you want a scientific explanation, Allory Fae, there isn’t really one that makes sense, a fact that makes a great number of undeniably learned Felidragons very irritable indeed. Murrr-hrrr prrt! Middlesun spins about its axis quite fast, as it turns out – about once every seven days. As we look at it, that’s toward our right paws but tilted over at a whisker shy of thirty-four degrees. With me so far?”
“Hanging in there.”
No paws over here, mister. In his mind, she’d be sprouting whiskers, next.
“Now, mrrr-hrrr, over the last decade, that spinning action –” his talon reached around her from behind to illustrate, as if she did not know what spin was “– has developed a detectable and intensifying perturbation. Theories vary from ‘it doesn’t matter,’ which for self-evident reasons I do not subscribe to, to ‘the sun will wobble into the surface of Spheris and cremate everything’ and include ‘the wobble will destroy all of the Shyraiama Dragons, which will lead to eternal day, which will cremate everything all over again.’ As you may gather, it’s a rather serious situation.”
“Quite,” she spluttered.
Great. Open mouth, insert vision of catastrophe. Now she would dream about this – not that she remembered when her migraine dreams had stopped. How odd. Or had those other new dream-visions supplanted them? Not sure which was better, night’s invisible terrors or the wicked, faceless entity which had lashed an entire Human army into action with the power of its mind?
“I meant – it would be doomsday,” he clarified in addition. Really, he could stop anytime now. “Immolation at Middlesun’s unimaginable temperatures – total annihilation, yrrr-mrrrt!”
The last was a desperate-sounding caterwaul that communicated in any language. Taking pity upon him, she said, “It isn’t just a – how would you say it – a transitory gravitational anomaly?”
She practically felt his stare eating up the back of her neck. The Felidragon hissed, “Mrrr-prrr-ssst! What did they teach you back in the colony? Here I mistook you for a sparkly little know-nothing. Tails and whiskers, was I ever wrong! Where does this come from?”
“I always listened to our Philosopher’s stories and teachings,” she said reticently. Turning to face him, she addressed her toes as she explained, “I’d pop by early in the mornings and ask all my questions when no other Fae were about. Her name’s Xertiona – the Philosopher, I mean. She was very patient with me.”
She also helped to fix my migraines, mixing all that rare amsinthe nectar for my parents and helping with the right dosages. So kind.
“Well, she’s definitely the Fae’s whiskers if you know the science in that depth,” Yaarah spluttered, muddling his metaphors with aplomb.
“Antennae,” she corrected. “That’s antennae to the Fae.”
Something not entirely complimentary thundered over her. This time, he did need to leap to make the catch. Yaarah could turn up the blast factor, without any doubt. He could also turn on the masculine swagger after he plucked her delicately out of the air and executed another deft landing almost in the same breath.
She thanked him by offering to start stitching up a few of his drippier wounds.
With what she fervently hoped was the main excitement of the day dealt with, despite that the hour was a mere few minutes after dawn, Allory settled to her task of cleaning and stitching, and Yaarah to contemplating the mysteries of the Universe and occasionally hissing at her to be gentler and work faster.
As if the point of a needle was ever gentle.
Hurt to heal. Must be some sort of moral in that, one she was far too enervated to contemplate just now. Give her a few minutes to recover from the insanity of visiting Centresky.
And nearly dying. Again.
Death avoided by the width of a Dragon’s scale or so. Odd how those ones had been scaly, she recalled. All the legends had Dragons being scaly monsters, not fancy golden fur rugs.
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
To her surprise, however, every now and again as the needle bored into his flesh, Allory thought she saw a twinkle of ariavanae being released. Ha. A bit like repairing her serami, right? Yet the moment she focussed upon the phenomenon, the short-lived scintilla of radiance vanished. Rather odd. She did not recall ever seeing that effect before.
She could not be angry with Yaarah, nor focus as perhaps she ought upon the act of healing. Too much of her heart was consumed by the rent torn in her life by the loss of three siblings all at once. How did one ever come to terms with such a tragedy? Forget it? Fill it? Enshrine it? No. Right now, she must allow the grief its course. It would take time. Her entire life had been uprooted in one fell swoop. Xertiona would have counselled that grief’s overwhelming storms took time to abate, but time was one luxury she did not have – neither for her family, nor her own injury, nor for Spheris.
Yesterday, Yaarah had helped her to bind her wing-cluster wound shut as best they could work out, but he agreed that the inner parts, the nerves and muscles, needed specialist treatment. This was her chance to make some small repayment to him, her acceptable service.
Will my lost ones’ bones grace the frozen boneyard, fresh and white? Will they bleach to onyx?
What a strange thought – bleach black? If souls came to her boneyard, what became of their immortal existence?
“Hsst! What was that, Faerie girl? That liquid?”
Wrenched away from these intense, disturbingly dark thoughts, she spluttered, “Sorry … oh. What? It’s my tears. Only tears, Felidragon.”
Tears over wondering where her family could be now. Were they still alive?
“How intriguing. To weep is right and proper, and to weep all the tears due the honour of their memory, a beautiful and necessary act.” Clearing his throat awkwardly, he added, “I was unsettled by that near encounter with the Hyperdragons, by their alertness to our advent. Hyperdragons are more often nocturnal hunters. I cannot help but think I am seeing a pattern with the Ripper Baboons, that Man and now this morning – the quicker we move on to find my Pixie healer friend, the better. I know that does not immediately put us in pursuit of the kidnappers, but she might be able to offer valuable information. She is unspeakably old and wise. Beyond the mountains, to the sun-anti-spinward aspect, lies a notable Human city, where I once studied as a student. There, we might find out more about these Marakusian Slavers and where they might have taken their cargo.”
“Cargo? That’s my family you’re talking about.”
His eyes roiled with fiery emotions she could only guess at. Yaarah pulled at his whiskers and flicked his tail agitatedly, muttering, “Cargo? I misspoke – yrrr-prrrt, and you have my apology. Allory, we do need your entire family and somehow, I know you need to be whole as well, and … I won’t pretend to understand, but this is my best whiskers-sense of the matter. Most of all, you and I need to work together.”
“Me? What could I possibly offer –”
“Oh, shut the piteous yapping before you curl my whiskers permanently!” he grin-snarled. Terrifying and hilarious rolled into one?
New sensations everywhere.
The branch suddenly seemed too small for the two of them, but Allory found herself lifting her chin rather than lowering it, straightening her spine and staring levelly at the passionate beast opposite with something approaching actual composure. Startled, the corners of her lips quirked upward, an almost-smile. Almost. Nothing was level about this relationship. Everything within her screamed to shrink, to submit, to give in. All she heard in her memory’s sap was the chorus of ridicule from her friends and peers. Budling, they had called her. Mote. Snappy. Wobble-waif. The twig. That nickname hurt more deeply than she thought she could ever admit.
Well, this twig had developed a backbone. Sort of. Bendy but improving.
Was that what confronting death did to a person?
Yaarah said, “I understand that belittling voice, believe me I do, Allory. But I want you to –”
“Aye,” she whispered. Folding her arms across her chest, she willed her feet to remain rooted to the branch.
She did not expire in a puff of intransigence.
He blinked slowly, the fire-play in his eyes modulating toward a calmer palette of lemon yellows shot by changeable ribbons of turquoise flame. “Aye, what? Whatever do you mean, mrrr-hsst?”
“Aye, partner.”
That slow, delightful grin split the Felidragon’s furry face, spreading and lifting his whiskers, curling his lips away from his fangs, and causing his tongue to loll comedically to one side. Evidently becoming aware of the abundance of toothy finery threatening his new partner, Yaarah drew his lips down again. Now he looked somehow inscrutable and silly at the same time. Constipated Dragon?
Happy Dragon.
Keeping the arms folded, she attempted a weak joke. “Or, purr-tner, if you’d prefer?”
Laughter gurgled in his throat. Just the local bonfires having a chuckling good time together. He said, “Shall we call that a plan, mrrr-frrrt?”
“Find your healer, rescue my family, save the world. Just a hop, skip and a teensy jump,” she chuckled dryly, illustrating with a bounce of her fingers.
“Sanity does not even enter the discussion,” he rasped eagerly.
“Well, come on, Furball, what are we waiting for?” Ooh, ultra-daring! After all, if one wanted to jump into the nectar, neck-deep had to be the bare minimum.
“For you to ask me, Sparkles, what I meant when I called your tears intriguing.”
Sparkles? Her hesitant nickname for the Felidragon returned with extra zing. Alright … what made him go there? This Felidragon’s expectations of her nature or purported magical abilities had to be higher than the very vault of Centresky.
He tilted his muzzle inquiringly.
“That was my exact question,” she admitted. A waggle of one whiskery eyebrow insisted she continue. Cowed into instant obedience, the Scintillant added, “Could you please explain why you called my tears daring? I mean, intriguing?”
“Hurr-purr-grrr, it has begun,” he laughed, causing her to flush a darker shade of sapphire. “Fold your arms and glower up a storm of cuteness all you like, Allory Fae, but I do believe an infectious disease called bravery has begun to bubble in your soul’s verimost sap. Remember, the furball is always right and you will always add the sparkles where needed. Now, remember I told you that I have some small healing magic? So do you. Those tears of yours tingled with an arcane power I cannot claim to understand, but even if I have to dissect you to find out all your secrets –”
“Talons away, Felidragon.”
She wagged a finger sternly at him from the crook of her folded arms, a feat for any larger creature facing a Felidragon and clearly well beyond the abilities of an eleven-inch cute non-sparkler.
“Oh. Sorry.” He flicked his talons back into their sheaths. “Old habit.”
“A terrible one. Rule number one, no impromptu dissections will be tolerated in our relationship.”
“No dissections! Agreed.” He raised his right paw. “So sworn. Rule number two, no calling me pretty or any other such feminine nonsense. Grrr-prrr. I am a proud male Felidragon.”
“No offers of sourcing just the right sap to bring out the most luxurious sheen in your fur?”
“Umm … frrr-sassy,” he waggled his whiskers expressively.
“I see I shall have to watch your behaviour in the company of any mirrors,” she teased. Again, this sense of dislocation. An Allory who joked with Dragons? Seemed there could be new things after all, contrary to the popular Fae saying, ‘Nothing that is done is new buds beneath Middlesun.’
HURR-GRRR-NNRRR!! he chortled.
“Not really joking about the sap, however. Some of my girlfriends used to swear by hazbuzis sap as the perfect hair conditioner and, I must point out, you do have a magnificent pelt to work with.”
“Gnarrr,” he sniffed snootily, stooping to clean his forepaws in turn.
Allory suspected he was secretly gratified by her flattery, dissembling with the washing routine. Shameless feline. That said, she knew a few Faerie, most of them menfae, who rather fancied admiring their good looks in a still pond or cenote pool when they thought no-one would notice. Probably searching for a glimmer of that fabulous, mythical scintillance in their gleaming smiles. Could it be his scholarly occupation which had kept the females away from his door, or cocoon, or … whatever Felidragons lived in? Could he be pining for his one true love – ahem. Best keep it light on the romance angle, or she suspected rule number two would smack her across the antennae before long.
“So,” she said, “shall I finish stitching you up, Yaarah, and then we can be on our way to the mountains?”
“On to the Zerbil Mountains!” he cried.
“Only two thousand, four hundred and ninety-three stitches to go,” Allory agreed with false brightness. “Shall we finish this cut on your belly first? It’s oozing nicely – black blood, which is also interesting. You should tell me about that.”
Rolling over onto his back with studied laziness, Yaarah splayed his hind legs and purred, “How’s this?”
“Ew! Unspeakably disgusting.”
“Trrr-prrrt! Did you not mean, ‘phenomenally impressive?’ ”
“Impressive is the way my needle is about to slip if you carry on like that.”
He clamped his legs together at once. “Ooh.”