IN THE END, IT took nearly a day and a half’s labour and the application of Yaarah’s particular gifts of scientific acumen, detailed inquiry and a healthy dose of stubbornness to make the idea workable. The major challenge was to sustain a credible linked illusion for lengthy periods of time, upheld by twenty or so Chameleon Fae clustered upon the body of a Felidragon, and secondly, Ashueli’s Elven magical scent remained a significant issue.
Many, many imprecations, headaches, complaints and annoyances later, Yaarah rubbed his paws together and sketched a debonair bow to no-one in particular. “I believe, mrrr-frrr, we have mastered this illusion. Congratulations, everyone!”
“Congratulations, Sabline, you are a pile of old, grey, weathered lizard hide,” Ash sniped.
“Can you decorate the Princess with a few lichens?” the Felidragon requested.
“How’s this?” Varzune inquired.
The large patch of iron-grey reptilian hide shifted, looking itself over in the reflection of a still pool. Tough, gnarly and beautifully textured in all respects, Allory could not see a single problem with their illusion this time, right down to the patch of mustard-yellow lichen adorning the Princess’ left flank.
“Fetching,” said the upper part.
“Definitely an improvement,” agreed the lower, in Sabline’s burry tones.
“A bit more?” inquired the invisible and irrepressible Varzune.
“Get off!” Ashueli shrieked, and the whole thing came apart. She clutched her left breast. “You do not grab a woman there!”
Everyone reappeared in a flash and backed up hurriedly for safety’s sake.
Harzune snapped, “Brofae –”
“Not me.”
Jazmarzune held up his left hand, hot-faced and spluttering, “My bad. Sorry. I’m just not used to … ah, dealing with quite so much woman, so to speak. Sorry, Princess. I … I lost my way.”
To Allory, the very air seemed to shimmer with the need for a bad, bad joke.
Right on song, his pupae-sisfae Jainiri-Mae snickered, “When you do find yourself a girlfae, my dear, innocent brofae, remind me to draw you a diagram detailing the important bits!”
Hilarity!
That signalled the end to serious work for the day. Perhaps for the better. Everyone was tired, edgy and Allory had a thumping headache of the normal sort, for once. She massaged her temples and startled when an attentive Chameleon Fae warrior offered her a drop or two of aromatic oil to soothe the headache. Perfect. She memorised the blend for future use.
Now she had a special scent all of her own. Suggids. Minty-fresh little Allory was in the cocoon.
As the draconic veil lowered over Middlesun, the light grew thick and the sunset song of insects, birds and reptilian life, ever more raucous. Allory allowed herself to be drawn away by the girlfae warriors to go and bathe. Chamelon menfae and girlfae bathed separately, like her own people. She welcomed the distraction, for too many dark, disturbing anxieties prowled about the edges of her mind. How could carrying memories become so wearisome, even to the point of exhausting her physically? Why was this burden hers to bear? Most of all, she worried that her frail constitution could not cope with this journey she had taken on. Something waxed strange here; a sense of the strange, otherworldly and disconcerting prowled about the edges of her mind, feeding her fears.
So many echoes of the past. She could almost wish – no. Clench the fists! Set the jaw.
For my family’s sake, I will forge ahead. No matter what.
Doing a spot of no matter what involved sitting aside from the others later that evening, apart from all the bustle and laughter, while Allory tried to work out what her particular link with the ariayaenvul soul locket was and what it meant. She replayed the many, many memory snippets she had slipped inside over the years, fragments of verse that must somehow represent a greater whole, yet she could never reassemble that original shattered truth.
Try as she might, she could not even recall that elusive, incongruous harp melody. Just like the courage to raise the spectre of her curious, troubling dreams with her friends eluded her. ‘Suggids, Yaarah, I really do believe I’ve lost the nectar this time because I think I might living parallel lives.’ Aye. Right. ‘I have this locket but apparently I have to convince someone I’ve never met to make it first.’
What of this antennae-frazzling nonsense did she even believe?
Scintillant Travellers? Sixteen sucking suggids!
Eventually, a growl of annoyance from the little one pricked up a pair of tufted golden ears nearby. Not half as immersed in his scholarly work as he pretended, eh, Yaarah?
She said, “I need help. Please.”
“Help, mrrr-frrr?”
“Not the sort that involves you purring at me like – suggids, I’m sorry. Tetchy much?” Bounding onto his head, she gave him a vigorous scratch behind the ears by way of an apology. “Nice kitty. Handsome golden kitty. What are you working on?”
“Kitty?” he snorted. “Wash out your mouth, little Fae!”
Not far off, Sabline writhed off her side onto her paws as if a shadow had improbably deepened and assumed life. A Faeling shivered …
Eyes ablaze, she snarled, “Did someone just call me ‘kitty?’ I have extracted entrails over lesser offences!”
“Misunderstanding,” Yaarah called over at once.
She ruffled her wings loudly. “Fear not, I shan’t bite you too badly, sweet scholar.”
“Mrrr-hmmm?” he spluttered.
Prowling toward him, the Dragoness flirted at high temperature, “You summoned me with purr most melodious, o learned one? What preoccupies you so, and why did you turn this scroll over at once? Something I cannot see?”
“It’s nothing,” he protested.
Of course, given Sabline’s personality, that was entirely the wrong thing to say. She would not let the matter rest until he turned the leaf over to show her – and both the Dragoness and a snooping Fae caught their breath. The piece was only a quarter or so complete, but he had been busy sketching a profile of Sabline in charcoal. Not inconsiderable skill. Not at all. Somehow, in the detailing around her right eye, he had already captured her spirit of majestic fierceness yet hinted at inner vulnerability.
Averting his muzzle as if embarrassed, Yaarah explained that he had always enjoyed sketching but found far too little time for the pursuit alongside his scholarly work.
The more she looked, the more a Scintillant Fae read into his artwork. She realised that his representation had captured a likeness that went beyond charcoal and vellum scroll, that it somehow drew ariavanae nigh to offer a glimpse into Sabline’s spirit as well. What an extraordinary skill.
The Sabrefang could only gulp. Speechless.
After the longest time, the Dragoness nuzzled his neck and whispered, “You are incredible, Yaarah.”
He nearly combusted. A beautiful danger of such fiery love, she supposed, like the sweetness of a pure water lily nectar infused with flame.
For Allory’s part, leaving the Felidragons to enjoy a private moment together, she realised that the drawing also revealed something important about the artist. It divulged his true feelings toward Sabline. She had never considered the relationship between art and the artist in this way. If a cosmic entity had indeed created and populated this breath-stealing, inspiring, majestic shell-world called Spheris, as many disparate legends claimed, what did that reveal about the creator? What should creative beings like her learn and, if her own ability to create, to weave, to spin and sing and dance was compromised, what might she conclude about the state of her own soul?
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Am I so damaged, so fallible a vessel?
Feeling shaken in every droplet of her sap, Allory flicked her wings and wandered over to join the warriors, who having taken a lesson from the Elf in advanced use of the wrist in disarming an opponent, were now returning the favour by showing her how they employed their shields during battle. The point of much laughter and banter appeared to revolve around making an Elf fly, the challenge being to zing Ashueli upon two shields in an arc around a small tree and back again while she kept her balance and controlled the flight with her natural Elven dexterity and grace.
The Elf whizzed up to Allory at a decent clip and somersaulted off at the last second. What else but a perfect landing? “This is such fun, like aerial dancing!”
“You’re a natural, o Princess,” Harzune complimented her.
“She’s been practising with Dragons,” Allory said lightly. “Well done, Ashueli. You’ll be flying soon enough.”
The Elf gave her the strangest glance. The Fae shrugged: what of it? Briefly, Ashueli indicated her eyes. Scintillation! Her and the Elf … what was going on? Sickened in the pit of her stomach by a wave of overwhelming despair, she turned away. Stupid idea, dance. Yet Harzune’s powerful hand clasped her arm to stymie any thoughts of escape, and then a voice full of frankly exasperating levels of concern and ridiculously steadfast faith, asked what he might do to help the radiant one.
Radiant? How did she ever deserve this accolade?
Blue hands at pulled blue antennae. Hard. She wanted nothing more than to hit him, a so un-Allory sensation that she stopped short, and thus found herself trapped. Less than one minute into her faltering explanation about how she needed help to rediscover the necessity of dance, it was ready, steady … go all Chameleons!
Blink. Gasp.
As it turned out, the essential readiness of a Chameleon warrior warband included a band of three pan-flutes, two tringle bell players, several sorymiol sistra, a hand-harpist, four Fae wing vibrophonics specialists and two tabor drummers. The other forty or so orange Faerie formed themselves into two interlocking infinity symbols in the centre of their small mid-column dell, about five feet in the air. Menfae to one loop, girlfae to the other.
The Princess pushed her gently in the back. “Waiting for you, Sparkles.”
“Sweetblades, could you just –”
She spluttered to a halt, both at the Princess’ annoyed snort and the fact that everyone was staring at her. Everyone. Staring and trying very hard not to laugh because Ashueli’s expression called to mind a murderous thundercloud armed with a few too many razor-sharp knives for anyone’s comfort. Great. Epic, ultra-massive, both-feet-in-mouth fail.
Allory fluttered up to take her place in the female formation, her ears burning as Harzune complimented her upon her facility with nicknames. The Elf glowered at her in the background. Varzune wanted to know if Sabline had a suitable moniker yet.
“Death,” hissed the Dragoness, flicking her black tail meaningfully. Subtle had to be her middle name.
Varzune called, “Allory Fae, what about Harzune?”
“Oh … I think ‘Herotoes’ will do nicely,” she temporised on the spot.
“Herotoes? Herotoes! Oh, it’s perfect!” Varzune celebrated in tones guaranteed to raise the blood pressure of anything short of a granite boulder. His brother merely turned on the heroic charm and promised to show everyone just what his heroic toes could do.
Ridiculous manfae.
How he made her smile.
Allory had participated in formal dance routines with her people, a form used to teach Faelings the basics of aerial movement. To the Scintillant Fae, the pinnacle of dance achievement was always about free-spirited, individual expression that the most brilliant dancers spent a lifetime honing. Vocalisations or song-narratives were a common addition, especially beloved of dance-poets or vocalistas, while a third and much rarer category added wing vibrophonics to dance and song – and scintillation, if one took the old legends at face value – to create unparalleled artistic effects.
Her family’s relentless teasing of the runt’s efforts had kept her from ever pursuing her passion. Sing, aye. Dance? Not for the weak one, who could not sustain a series of graceful pirouettes or complex wing-spins and invariably collapsed, wheezing her lungs out, after a minute or two of less-than spectacular effort.
Yet she had been training with Princess Ashueli every day now. She knew she could do more – physically. What of her fragile heart?
As the music struck up extra-slowly for the one who needed to learn the forms and movements, Allory discovered the advantage of this type of dance – there was no pressure to create, to perform, to make a suitable show. All she had to do was to copy the others’ movements, and oh, to catch up as the musical tempo picked up. School the wings and legs into aerial splits, twirl and bounce … this was an accelerating round! Stutter, giggle, recover and twirl in time with the others. The point was not to spin out or tangle oneself or the other dancers up, in which case, one was out until the next dance started. The Chameleons graciously gave her three ‘learning’ chances before the fun really took over and everyone’s wingtips began to buzz.
Shortly, the musicians were working up a sweat and the skirling, lilting melody of Chameleon dance buoyed her wings. Whee-heee! Whoo-terrific!
Allory was not the first out of this round, but the second.
On the third round, breathless and laughing, she made it into third-last place, mostly because a husfae tickled his wifae in passing and they both crashed out together, spinning past Ash’s startled eyes as they snatched kisses on the fly. Pair of rascal-saps.
The two Felidragons and Ash looked on and cheered the Faerie dancing, even Sabline in her gruff way.
Very soon, it was time for the next dance, a more complex series of moves including axial spins, pirouettes, timed dips and swoops that made the two interlocking shapes intersect with one another in tight cadence, and a celebratory double-twisting somersault at the end before the music picked up pace for the next round. This one would take a dint of mastering.
Three accelerations in, Allory lost control and took Harzune out with a squeal and a tangle of wings. Her flying heel dinged his nose soundly.
“I … I’m so sorry,” she gasped.
“Nay, I failed to catch thee well,” said he, checking the fetching snout with exaggerated care. “More than one of my brofae have been tempted to do the same from time to time, fear not.”
“Tempted, been found wanting and delivered!” Varzune called over as the pair drew aside from the dancers. Out.
She smiled, “What if your intended captures you?”
Harzune gazed for a moment at the darkening heavens before replying, gravely indeed, “Allory Fae, though the fates seem fearful and this peril immense beyond repair, I would have you remember never to let fear be your master. It is fear that makes us small. You may be surprised to learn that I have not always embraced this person I believe I am fated to be, nor have I found faith easy to muster. Your refusal gave me a severe shock.”
Phew. Her light jest had just zinged back to her with gravity greater than that of Middlesun itself.
She touched his great arm shyly. “I apologise, Harzune.”
“For what? Being having the courage to be who you are meant to be?” Smiling, he slipped her arm into his with a gentle squeeze. Little sisfae? Her brain reminded her smartly of who had turned down whom, what and when. The points of her ears radiated heat as he added earnestly, “If I am to be your hero, allow me to say this. Allory, stop thinking quite so much. Overthinking matters, I mean. The trouble with fear is that our hearts like to listen to its voice, for we mistake fear for prudence or wisdom or reason. Learn to set aside that narrative which would keep you imprisoned in smallness – that inner sense of smallness – and I believe you may be surprised to discover a true heroine within. That is the person I see.”
Allory nodded slowly, yet knew she could never believe such a thing of herself.
He stroked the back of her hand lightly, making her shiver. “These sparkles are heroic in more ways than one.”
“Is that so?”
“I mean, you are brave enough to make the most dreadful choices, such as turning me down, with all due modesty,” he allowed, joining her in a chuckle. With a wink, he added, “You were tempted, by my sap?”
“Exceedingly, my hero.”
“You … and you are quite certain …”
Allory had never been good at meeting another person’s gaze, especially in a situation where wistful speech had just given way to roiling emotions. Yet she met Harzune’s solemn regard now, sensing the distention of ariavanae in her own eyes.
A voice not her own said steadily, “O Harzune be of good cheer, thy chosen bride draws near. Ready thy heart, hero.”
Nectar’s breath, what was this?
It should have been laughable, a silly line better suited to the merriment continuing in that communal dance. Instead, her declaration rang with such truth that the Scintillant dropped her gaze, so self-conscious that she tingled from her antennae down to her toes.
The Chameleon Fae sighed.
After a breathless moment he said, tugging upon her arm, “Quite enough of being melancholy for one evening. This time when you dance, Allory Fae, don’t even think about the process or what you fear others might be thinking of you. Feel. Live. Laugh. Relish the moment. Be who you are.”
Gulp. Sometimes, his eloquence spoke straight to the verimost sap of her heart.
They spun back together into the dance.
Allory forced herself to become lost in the repetitive movements. Good training, but more than that. Maybe he was right, it was time she learned not to always stumble into something new, but to simply celebrate what was. Shutting her eyes, she danced. And danced. Over and over, grooving the movements into her soul.
Light bloomed behind her eyelids, tiny effervescent offshoots of magic. Dared she open her eyes?
Here was a place of abandon.
A glimmering of hope.
Finally finding the courage to peek, Allory found the cut of her wings, the complex interplay of patterns that shaped her dance, to be a-shimmer with a nimbus of azure light. Radiance, coalescing first in her core, gyrated outward in swirls and bracelets of glittering motes shaped by the flow of her dance, from her eight wingtips and twin antennae, from her fingers and toes and torso, bathing the dancers in glory. So many faces watching. Whiskered ones. Intent Elven eyes. A smug grin touched Harzune’s lips as he twirled by. Insufferable pest! ‘I told you so,’ was practically written on both his fancy antennae.
Laughter crept up from the secret places of her being, at first sounding rough and sputtering but soon growing as the gladness and appreciation of the other dancers soaked into her awareness. Here was her place. Opening herself to possibilities. Being.
Breaking away from the formal group, Allory twirled giddily about the two infinity loops of Chameleon dancers, frolicking with freedom at last.
Profoundly shocking, this sense of release.
Mourning for joy.
Soon, she no longer knew whether she laughed or wept. Allory gave the dance her all, until she became lost in the finding.