THE FELIDRAGON FLEW WITH breathtaking grace and speed through the light-dappled tunnels and byways of the deep jungles, taking Allory several miles from familiar terrain before he purred a soft word of warning. She clutched tight with both fingers and prehensile toes, but his landing upon a large bough was feather-soft, a feat of aerial ballet. The Felidragon settled his shimmering golden wings dexterously upon his back, and paused to lick a spot of sap off his forepaw.

“All-rrrright, Allory?” he murmured, mid-lick.

“Eep.”

“Faultless flying, naturally.”

Evidently, she had missed her cue to offer a suitable compliment. Yaarah’s ego was clearly not the subtlest facet of his personality, one must conclude. Should she brush up on her sparkliest compliments as a survival technique?

Brushing through a thick screen of vermilion leaves with care for his petite passenger, the Felidragon turned to the vertical and walked down a tree trunk to the entrance of a small, well-hidden cenote in the jungle floor. He navigated the jungle like one born to the environment, as she was. Yet he surely could hail from nowhere near her Russet Jungles, surely?

Like most, this cenote was approximately one hundred feet deep with a small pool of clear groundwater at its base, but Yaarah alighted on a ledge just above the water beside his travel pack. It was a capacious bag with a top that could be buckled shut, woven of a cream material she could not identify. Numerous scrolls stood neatly propped up against it. Meantime, the paws apparently required more attention and he checked his wings in turn before repeating the fussy folding technique. Those jointed wings must require additional care, she supposed?

Allory did not see ropes, cages, nets or other paraphernalia she vaguely associated with collectors. Nothing like the Marakusians had used on her colony.

He had called himself an explorer and adventurer, she recalled. Yaarah must have been mapping this region while he searched for her kind. She did not want to think through the ‘why’ question in too much detail. Could this Dragon be trusted? Could any?

When she slipped trying to climb off his back, a large, hot paw caught her firmly about the upper torso.

She winced. “Wings –”

“Sorry, yrrr-trrr,” He released her at once. “Did I hurt you?”

“I’m alright. Just very sore – besides, I can’t quite feel my knees.” The tufts of whiskers above his eyes that somewhat resembled eyebrows began to arch above those mesmeric slit orbs, only to waggle in amusement as she admitted, “Mostly due to the overpowering awesomeness of this … this experience. Flying on your back, that is.”

Experience? What did one call it when one’s soul sang for the craziest, most unforeseen reason, when all that was fractured inside suddenly reconfigured itself and light refracted through the wreckage in a raw yet undeniable celebration of being alive?

“Unhinged the old kneecaps there?” he murmured politely, pretending to peer at them in concern.

“Quite.”

“When in doubt, blame the Felidragon?”

“Is that safe?”

That discomfiting grin widened. “The Russet Jungles are home to many deadly and dangerous creatures, Allory Fae. Safe? Prrr … haa-haa-prrr! You are most endearing. Of course not! I am more dangerous than most, but I am now your frrr-iend.”

She tried to smile back in the face of that fiendish laughter. Truly, she tried. By Middlesun itself, just the sort of toothy predator she had always imagined snuggling up to.

Best friends. Bester than best.

Mind any sneezes, she might be toasted on the spot.

He nudged her little shoulder with a judiciously sheathed claw. “Joke?”

“Hee-hee-hee,” she giggled. Faker. “So, I’ll just, uh –” sprint away screaming into the farthest jungle in Spheris, wherever that is “– go bathe, shall I? Wash off some of this blood?”

What did Dragons do for fun?

Crimson, silver, black. So many colours, blood. Her dreams had been awash in it these past four days. The boneyard nightmares had never included blood before. She wondered what this new portent presaged.

“Me too,” agreed the Felidragon, hiking up his hind leg and proceeding to lick himself in a place that caused Allory to avert her eyes at once.

Felines. Even the intelligent ones had no idea how other creatures viewed their washing habits. To think he had licked her back with that same tongue? Ew! Still, the gesture had been sweet despite that she was convinced he had rasped a few spots raw.

Fifteen feet of fire-spitting, lightning-sparking, carnivorous cat-Dragon. Eleven and a quarter inches of rather less carnivorous Faerie.

What under Middlesun was she even worried about?

Limping down a set of natural depressions that descended toward the water level, Allory shucked her light teal, mid-thigh semaloon skirt and undershorts, and her lighter blue sleeveless silk serami with its breezy, deeply scooped full sleeves. Several rents in the fabric advertised how closely death had brushed by her wingtips this day, while her silver blood had half-clotted in the clothing. A warm trickle down her back suggested that the wound had torn open again. Shivering less at the lovely coolness of the water than at the memory-scars that surely must result from all she had suffered, and acutely aware of how the dead weight of her ruined four-wing cluster dragged behind her, she paddled carefully toward a wide aspis-lily pad. The lily’s sap was a natural alkaline soap, gentle on the skin and hair, while the nectar of its wide five-petalled flowers created a deliciously sweet vanilla taste explosion upon her tongue.

She heard the Felidragon rustling about with his parchments and paraphernalia. Shortly, the erratic scratching of a quill pen advertised that he laboured over scholarly pursuits. Not that she really knew what scholars did. He must be as learned as the Fae Philosophers, full of stories and lore. Ha. A scholar Dragon? The legends had the malevolent brutes razing Elven villages and laying waste to entire Human realms. While this one had fought well, he appeared to be no warrior, no ruthless render of flesh – perhaps he was even a perceptive soul, a thinker and a dreamer?

Who was the dreamer now?

That’s a Dragon, Allory Fae! Not a dragonfly.

Having lived her life in the protection of the Fae colony, she had more experience with butterflies than large predators. A Dragon? Way, way out of her comfortable cocoon.

Breaking off a small segment of lily pad along the growth lines, she touched the plant and thanked it, urging it to regrow with a touch of magical reinforcement. This little, she could do. Perched upon the edge of the pad, she cleaned herself all over, grimacing as the deeper wounds protested the slightest touch or jostling. Tomorrow promised more pain. Much more. Standing up gingerly, she began to pad over the pad – swift smile for her jest – when she realised how still her companion had become and risked a peek in his direction.

Clearly alert to her covert glance, the golden beast touched the top of a luminous yellow charrapeet feather to his lips, flicked his right wingtip as if to illustrate his point, and purred, “Making observations.”

“Of what?” she asked.

“Need you inquire? One Scintillant Fae in her native habitat. My research demands detailed behavioural observations.”

Allory gave that an eyebrow-quirk.

He purred, “A rarity like you? You are of course a great academic curiosity to my kind, nrrr-prrrt. Did you know, for example, that your two quadruple-wing bundles generate flight capabilities and characteristics quite at odds with any known laws of aerodynamics?”

“I did not know I was such a … curiosity.”

His quizzical expression made her picture being placed as a specimen in some kind of living exhibit. Yuck.

“Quite, quite, purr-hurr,” he buzzed with his biggest beam yet, perhaps meant as comfort. How many dozen fangs? Four? Five? Nastiness! “You should not even be able to fly. Nor have I ever seen a creature walk across a lilypad and – ooh, what are you doing now?”

Distracting him, apparently. She chirped, “Drinking nectar. A simple, everyday activity for a Fae –”

Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

“You eat nectar?”

“No, we eat pollen and drink nectar.”

“In what proportions? And what kinds?” he inquired at once. A small flame curled out of his left nostril in his excitement. Dread and fascination pooled in Allory’s stomach at the sight. “Is that all you eat, trrr-frrrt? Are you a nectarivore? I did not know that! How exceedingly beautiful you are. Look at your tiny tongue – does it curl up inside your mouth? Is it tubular?”

Alright, he’s certifiably weird. Flitting along with it for now in the hope of seeing another dawn … in other words, anything to avoid munch, crunch, done.

“We Faerie consume nectar, pollen, sap and a bit of fruit in a pinch,” Allory informed him, “and no, my tongue isn’t a tube. It’s … normal.”

She waggled it at him, wondering meantime if this scholar specialised in oddities and abnormalities.

The quill scratched busily as he muttered, “Eyes of the signature Scintillant royal blue sapphire with attendant prismatic gemstone qualities and, mrrr-frrr, do I detect a hint of amethyst in the depths? Wonderful! Reminder, check with the Faerie in full sunlight. Arrr-hrrrm! Allory, would you tolerate a few supplementary questions?”

She nodded. “Of course. Hit me.”

The Felidragon tugged at his whiskers. “Hit … you? I fear I must reject this unwise invitation, given the vast disparity in our physical sizes.”

Allory found the oddest sensation creeping around the corners of her mouth. A smile. He was so finicky and whisker-splitting! “It’s a Faerie saying, Yaarah. It means, please ask your questions – as in, hit me with your questions.”

“Oh. Oh, quite missed that, frrr-choo! Excuse me. I shall begin another leaf for Scintillant cultural sayings forthwith.” He riffled through a number of pages before raising his quill and murmuring, “Very good, very good. You may begin.”

“What would you like to know?”

“By my whiskers, everything, of course! Let’s see …”

He had her list all her favourite nectars and pollens, a number of which he said were unfamiliar to him. Several times, she demonstrated the process of slipping her tongue down into a flower’s neck to drink the nectar. The fact that the liquid simply flowed up her tongue – a mechanism she had never actually noticed before since it had always worked and therefore did not need to be questioned by any rational creature – drove him to a flustered, spluttering standstill as something in his voluminous brain clearly snarled up.

“How – this is unprecedented, krrr-brrr!” he exclaimed. “No liquid flows up a surface in defiance of ordinary physical laws. How do you do that?”

“Tongue down, nectar up,” Allory explained for the fifth time. “My stomach is very full, Yaarah. Please don’t make me try to drink any more, I’ll get sugar-drunk and start acting very silly –”

“It’s insane! It’s completely wonder-frrrrl,” he crowed, his lustrous fur fairly bristling up around his shoulders and along his back. He smoothed it down with several fastidious paw-strokes and arranged his tail in a neat coil about his forepaws. “This represents a whole new branch of magic, this reversal of gravity – if that is even the mechanism. How could it have evolved? It is impossible according to any type of evolutionary developmental theory I’ve ever read.”

“Well, I –”

“I assure you, prrr-parr-frrr, I’ve studied them all. In detail. I suspect that you are far more magical that you seem prepared to admit, not so?”

Right. The Felidragon probably imagined she sneezed scintillance out of her nostrils and danced amidst living rainbows. Well, she had news about the cocoon for him. No Scintillants did that anymore. Nothing much more than the occasional glimmer and even that was regarded as unreliable at best. Xertiona’s tales of legendary Scintillants had them … well, performing legendary feats of healing and lighting whole cocoons with their radiance. All of that was ancient history, a fact that the Philosopher oftentimes lamented.

“Yaarah –”

“How, I ask you? Prrr-fsst! How?” So agog was he, the Felidragon snapped his quill by mistake. “Oh dear, that rips the fur off the proverbial tail. Now I can’t write anymore until I pick up another – but you! So adorable and so existentially impossible, Allory Fae, it quite tingles the Dragon’s whiskers to behold all that you are. What a mystery! Prrr-GRRR! How perfectly marvellous, a tail-twitching twinkling of historic note!”

Marvellous and mysterious? Not in her lifetime. She was more familiar with being called feeble, pathetic and a glob of slug-sap, among the more pleasant forms of address. Her pupae-siblings excelled in inventing cruel nicknames for her.

Yet, no longer …

“If you believe in standardised evolution,” she put in timidly.

“Prrr-trrr, and what is this? Have I discovered a miniature Scintillant Fae Philosopher? Do feel free to explicate your views.”

Fifteen feet of Dragon glided with unlikely grace down to the water’s edge, where Yaarah stretched out languidly, paws propping up his bewhiskered chin, as he blinked his slanted, slit very slowly at her. Allory shivered unhappily as his intense gaze introduced a miniature-meal-on-legs sensation to her belly.

He purred, “How shall I induce you to speak? Peel you a flower? Sing you a ballad? Extol your delicate beauty in poesy of surpassing articulacy?”

“That will not be –”

“Catch you a fish?”

“Ew, please. No animal flesh. Ever.”

“Then, explain! You simply cannot keep a Golden Purrmaine Felidragon dangling like this, it is cruel and desperately immoral, prrr-frrrt! Speak, little Fae, I implore you.”

Never having met a Dragon before, not even in her worst nightmares, Allory had no idea what passed for normalcy or eccentricity among their kind. She knew a thing or three about being the odd Fae out, however, and so she warmed to the idea that perhaps Yaarah was a touch odd and unconventional in ways that somehow contrived to put a confirmed fraidy-Fae at her ease. The dearth of snacking upon a certain Allory Fae also contributed, one must admit.

She elected to sit cross-legged upon a lilypad, which had the added benefit of being ten feet distant from that capacious maw and the expressively waving talons, and took a moment to reflect that no creature had really bothered to ask her opinion on anything before.

Fascinating? Her?

That, or Middlesun had turned pink with purple spots.

This remarkable underground grotto with its stark, sculpted partial granite ceiling and shallow groundwaters gently gleaming deep in its secret heart – this was a sacred space, a place where Spheris’ deepest truths could perhaps begin to be broached.

She chirped timidly, “Have you heard of the world soul?”

“The old belief that Spheris is somehow a physical or spiritual body and the Middlesun within, is the soul or ariavana of the world?” he said, pricking up his tufted ears. “My whiskers have indeed touched upon this concept. It is a core Faerie belief, not so?”

Allory remembered the Elders teaching her and the other Faelings that other creatures would ridicule their beliefs. While there had been no injunction against sharing these beliefs that she could recall, the Faerie kept very much to themselves, isolated from the world and from one another. To open up to this attentive golden scholar struck her unexpectedly as an endeavour so intensely personal, she could not bring herself to tackle the subject head-on.

Instead, she said, “I’ve a question for you, Yaarah. Why does your fur not burn up?”

“Well, mrrr-prrr!” he spluttered. “That would be ridiculous. Patent nonsense. Any fire-breathing creature which could set itself alight at the first spark would hardly last long, would they? Certainly not long enough to evolve into anything more useful than being living fuel for a fire. Species survival? It would simply vanish in a puff of smoke, purr-HARR-HARR!”

His laughter echoed in the space. Yaarah cut it off suddenly, as if embarrassed by his booming and roaring at this diminutive creature who gaped at him. Allory averted her gaze.

The golden paw tipped up. “Mrrr-frrr?”

“So, which came first, the fireproof fur or the fire?” she asked.

Brightening visibly in his blazing eyes until the brilliance of whites and eggshell yellows was almost unbearable to gaze upon, the Felidragon exclaimed, “I say! Prrr-harr!” His long tail lashed energetically. “Where were you hiding those fangs, o Scintillant Fae? Fine. You tell me, what of this ancient philosophical conundrum?”

“What was the first spark?” she said, in an even smaller voice. “Where did it originate, or what sparked the spark? Mere chance?”

Yaarah purred, “I see the argument. Next, you’re going to ask me what is the power that drives millennia-long evolutionary processes – mere physical or environmental stimuli, or something more? Why is life? Why does it exist? Why does it struggle and grow, change and mature? Why is there evolution and not devolution, or an ultimate return to a state of entropy?” His grin widened to display that set of fangs, now tastefully backlit by the flame lurking in his long throat. “Is this not what you were about to contend?”

Alright, he was five blossoms past her in the knowledge race and rather enamoured of his own cleverness, yet his eyes burned with questions. He wanted to learn. From her.

For the first time in her life, Allory felt as if something within her had come alive. She could not have said what it was about this fragile connection with an essentially alien creature, but the peculiar quality of luminosity in this Dragon’s eyes momentarily united their souls, igniting something inexplicable deep within this tiny Scintillant.

She had no words for her sap’s most inchoate desire. It simply was.

When he purred another querying note, she ventured, “My Elders taught me to respect natural processes, but even more to the core sap of the matter, to respect processes for which the natural world has no explanation.”

He flicked his tail and licked an imaginary speck of dirt off his left forepaw. Water plinked delicately nearby. “Go on.”

Taking a deep breath of the mineral-scented air, she said, “If ariavana is the world’s soul, then Fae believe in a related force we call ariavanae, or the Song of Spheris, which is the soul-song … never mind all that. There are many names and it is notoriously tricky to explain. Fae Philosophers speak of ariavanae as ushering in oneness or a return to the harmony of what should be, but I also think of it as growth and possibility. Like you might say, ‘Love grows.’ How does it grow? No-one knows, yet it does. Ariavanae … it is the uncontainable spirit of life itself …” She shrugged. “Buzzing to the nectar here, maybe a demonstration? Would you throw me my serami, please?”

“Your ceramic – yrrr-prrt, I must have misheard?”

“My serami. My shirt.”

In a moment, she caught the garment and held it up to show the Felidragon the damage. “See how it’s ripped? Well, a Scintillant Fae would just … sort of channel the power of ariavanae to make it whole. So, thus …”

Allory stilled herself. In olden times, her people’s legends told, the Scintillant Fae could hear the ineffable song of the world’s soul, and by its power her people could perform marvellous acts by their command of what some called magic and others, miracles, but truly was a way of being. Once a pool of calm coalesced within her own being, a tingling in her fingertips began with unexpected zest and she knew that ariavanae flowed into her core – or had it always been present, part of her? She did not know.

Still holding up the garment, she passed her left hand languidly over the rent. Tiny, ephemeral azure sparks glinted briefly where her fingertips brushed the material, motes of alluring beauty that sang snatches of melody no ear could understand, haunting and lonely, like the moaning of wind through dry branches and a soul’s pining for her family’s fate.

She wept briefly, yet never more bitterly.

Lifting her eyes at last, Allory perceived that the garment had become whole and beyond that lay a Dragon whose many-fanged jaw had just sagged open in such disbelief, white fire dribbled unheeded between his forepaws. His gleaming gaze posed a million questions.

She had not a single answer.

His throat worked. At length, Yaarah choked out, “Now … now at last, frrr-hrrr, after all this time, I truly understand.”

“What?” she breathed. “What do you understand?”

“You were born to save the world.”