Drenar is grateful to get home, and unlocks the door with a soft click. Evan shuffles in right behind him, looking glum. "I guess I'll start dinner. Think they'll mind if I make chicken and broccoli stir fry?" he asks Evan while going through the refrigerator's contents. Dave had better have left something for him to work with.
"Hey Drenar, random question, have you been having trouble sleeping lately?" Evan asks a short time later.
"Yeah. Why?" Drenar takes a look at the glumness on his face, and takes an educated guess. “Hey, I know that look. So…” He tries not to bring it up. He doesn't like to talk about it, either.
“Yeah. I was thinking about them.” Evan relents and sits down on the couch. He stands on the opposite side of the coffee table, and he notes the glum look on his brother’s face. "I know it's been a long time. I thought I'd be over this by now. Then over the last month, I kept thinking about Mom. I couldn't stop hearing her voice everywhere."
"Reliving the day? You’re not the only one who does that. I still have that day burned into my memory, and there are some days I wish I could forget." Drenar notes his somber expression. "Any particular reason you're thinking about them?"
"Diane mentioned something to me about them recently. I guess it kind of lodged in my head," Evan concedes before he shifts his gaze towards the window. “Do you think about her? From before?"
"Of course I do. There were a lot of good times, too.” He immediately thinks of some of the heartfelt moments. "Mom was such a joker, she always caused mischief everywhere she went. She was always doing pranks at home, or causing dad grief when she surprised him, but she always found a way to make us all laugh and smile. She always had a warm personality. What's the word Kiera had for her? She was a radiant soul.”
Evan smiles faintly at that descriptor. “Yeah, that fits, doesn't it? She was a radiant ray of sunshine. Kind of like Julia, but with less black lip gloss, black fingernails, and nerd meme shirts." He can't help but laugh at that. "Hah. Remember when she threw us in the lake off the dock when we wouldn’t jump in because it was too cold? And then she threw in dad, too. Or the time she duct taped the TV remotes to the ceiling, and dad had to get a stepladder to get them back?"
“Don't I remember,” Evan laughs, and lends a hand while Drenar gets dinner ready. At least this feels normal, now. All he can think about now is Mom and her warm smile, and he's making one of her favorite recipes today. They chat idly for a little while, and the meal nears completion. He pictures her in her head, and lets out a soft hum--just like she would while cooking.
What a way to be reminded, Drenar thinks to himself. Has it really been six years? Fates, I miss you, Mom. We all do. I don't know if you're out there somewhere, but I’m trying to make you proud of the son you raised.
His attention is diverted to the window when he hears the honk of a horn in the driveway. It's Diane, one of his mom’s friends, and now his legal guardian–and someone who he treats like a mother now. “Drenar, Evan, how are you guys?” he hears her call out. She walks into the kitchen, burdened with her bag. Diane is all business with shoulder-length silky dark hair, a warm smile, and brown eyes, along with a strict exercise regimen that keeps her lean and active, even into her forties. She is also a bit short, compared to Dave–then again, everyone is shorter than her husband Dave, who has dark eyes, a lumberjack beard, and is built like a skeleton on stilts. Seeing them in the same place always makes Drenar wonder how they met.
“Yeah. Just wrapping up dinner," Drenar responds even as he gives the meal a stir. The sizzling smell in the pan is just about right, and he can't help but smile.
“So, not getting into trouble?” Diane asks teasingly before walking over and adjusting the burner a little. “Stir fry isn't a race,” she advises politely before adjusting her glasses back onto the bridge of her nose.
“Hey, there's no burninating allowed here, if we want that, I'll let Julia cook," he pushes back with a smirk. Julia can cook, but she tends to set the burner a little too hot.
“Oh don't be mean Drenar, she does much better when you're around,” she says with a smile. He can't exactly refute the argument. “Oh, thanks for the dinner preparation, by the way, that’ll be great for tonight! Garlic, ginger, coconut aminos...hmm... a hint of mint?” He affirms it with a wave of his hand.
“Mom’s recipe. She was a stickler for fresh ingredients.” Diane nods approvingly. He grabs the pan and starts portioning it out. "Alright guys, let's dig in."
After a brief dinner and some casual discussions of their days, Drenar grabs the dishes and places them in the washer. “I’m heading upstairs, I’ve got textbooks to study, a book I just got off of Kindle that I’d like to read." Diane sighs contentedly at this comment.
“Kids these days. What happened to the days when you all just hung out at the mall? And acted like normal teenagers?”
“It’s the 21st century, Diane. Malls have not aged so well," he retorts with a grunt. She tosses back a laugh before he heads back to his room and grabs a seat at his computer chair.
Perfectly normal day. He scratches absentmindedly at his arm before opening up a textbook, and starts reading through. Calculus, on the other hand, is far from normal.
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Oy! Wake up! Even in this weird place, you're napping!
Drenar’s eyes snap open–he’s greeted by the spectacle of a moonlit night above his head, and short stubby pines and conifers thinly hide an overlook onto a wooded valley below. He doesn't remember when he fell asleep. He tries to lift himself off the ground, and realizes quickly to his shock he has claws for hands. Again.
He’s back in this weird dragon form. Well, this is odd. Didn’t I just have this dream? He props himself up on his taloned feet. He wobbles unsteadily, and cranes his slightly longer neck left and right. Bent stance, try not to overthink it. The limb works in tension. When he thinks of it as standing on his tiptoes, the analogy helps him feel more at ease with the new limb structure. This is now muscle memory. Now, he can allow himself to focus on other things.
It might be nighttime, but he can see everything–down to his misty breath as he exhales from nostrils far too away from his face, to the specks of insects buzzing in the night sky. He looks behind him–yep, those silver and azure wings are there again. So is the tail, slowly swaying back and forth. He feels exhausted, and everything still aches. His scales feel like they’re burnt. He looks down, and there are spiderweb traces of silvery light at the seams of his scales. He lets out a sound of surprise as the light fades like embers of a dying fire. After a moment, they’re back to their normal lustrous azure and silver colors
What is going on here? he ponders as he stretches the alien limbs lightly. He can still feel the impact on his tail from where he’d had a glancing hit on the previous night. The scales are dented slightly, and have a duller, less lustrous texture. He touches one, and winces. It’s painful. What’s more, is that he can feel the texture with his hand. The scales are not metal–they're organic, and must have some nerve clusters close to the surface of them.
He'd bruised his scales. That's a phrase he never thought he'd utter or think in his life. He looks around cautiously–the world is still in one piece. There’s no eldritch void in the sky, just the moon and countless pale stars. It is a welcome and comforting sight. This can't be right. It's like this is exactly where I left off last night, how is this possible?
Oy. You know I’m still here. Don’t ignore me. Drenar hears the wistful, masculine presence again, seemingly all around him. It's the exact same voice. Is it inside his head, maybe?
“Yeah hi there, ghost–”
It’s Alexander, if you will. Or Alex. or Lexxy. He rolls his eyes, the phantom voice in his head sounds sassy now.
“Alright then. Alex. A pleasure making your acquaintance. It was a…pretty rough intro last time.” Drenar takes a step closer to the vista point, and peers down at the valley filled with pointy pines and other evergreens–it feels a little colder.
I saw snippets of your waking hours. I think you heard me, once. Except you thought it was your feisty friend behind you. He did remember that. And for the first time, he turns off his logic barrier.
“Alex, how can you be real? You can’t be. People don’t just carry other people inside their brains," Drenar rationalizes. He takes a moment to look around at the night sky. Thousands of stars dot the celestial expanse, just like normal.
Why not?
“Because you can't. Souls are...a concept. A theory.”
They're not a theory. We all have one. Drenar takes a second to ponder this. What is a soul? A spark of life, consciousness, a driving will? A single entity that can say 'I am'?
Okay, I need a good long think on that one, Alex.
I'll give you a minute. I'm still trying to figure out what is going on, too. He takes slow, deliberate steps with his newfound leg structure towards a fallen tree. After a moment of hesitation, he sits down on it–it holds his weight. He wraps his tail around his ankles, and leans back slightly. He props his wings so they sprawl outward so he can gaze upwards without setting his weight on them.
“You know what, this is kinda weird. I recognize this place. I went camping here with my parents years ago. Mom always loved the outdoors. I knew the valley looked familiar.” Why this place, he has no idea. He hadn't thought of camping in a while.
What does it mean, though?
“No idea.” He taps a clawed leg on a rock, and tries to lift it. The rock feels surprisingly light. While it’s not the same as a hand, there’s greater dexterity in his taloned foot than he anticipated, and he can wiggle each clawed toe individually. He reflexively closes them in a grasping motion a few times. “Alex…how long were you there? In that place?”
Seven hundred, nineteen years, eight months, give or take a few days. There’s something oddly specific about the way Alex says it, and gains his attention. That’s how long that thing in the sky was there, from my perspective. I know, because I saw the date on one of your contraptions. The one with the glowing window. It displayed words and images.
“A computer screen. A machine that can do math in very small intervals of time,” he responds.
A machine? Stone and metal brought to life, like a golem?
He ponders the analogy. “Something like that.” Drenar sighs in resignation. It still bothers him that his words have a slurred accent. Practice should make it go away in time. “Alright. Before I wake up, why am I a dragon? It feels…” he trails off. “It feels like my actual body. Like I belong in this. Like it was meant for me. Or maybe this is who I always was.” He takes the rock and lightly tosses it off the edge of a short cliff nearby, and he hears a distant clatter. “And, why am I not cold? Aren't dragons cold-blooded?”
Dragons aren’t primitive lizards. We’re the apex. We’re what everyone else wants to be, and it’s kinda sad because, despite the genetic complexity, we’ve still managed to botch things in our society. Also from my readings, we have a four-chambered heart, and a hot-blooded body. We’re kind of a metabolic furnace.
“Well, that is certainly fascinating. Where in my brain did I come up with–” He decides to let an oddly scientific tidbit slide for now. “So uh, yeah. Why can I hear you? Voices in your head are never a good sign of mental stability.”
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
I’m still trying to figure that out. Death is…a pretty universal experience for all Kin. Once we’re expired, from old age, disease, combat, or bad luck, there’s no coming back from that. But I don’t think I died–I might have been close to it, though.
“Kin?” Drenar echoes.
A name for all of humanity. Dragons, humans, and others. I’m surprised you latched onto that, though.
“It’s a strange term. But, I can see the appeal of it. I guess humanity isn’t exclusive to humans,” he adds softly. “Who else qualifies as Kin?”
Elven. Dwarves. Kitsune. Wargen. Fey. There are others, assuming they still exist. When I left the world, mages were at war. I was…trying to put an end to it. Bring back balance. I don't know if I succeeded or failed. Yet. Alex sounds more relaxed now.
“Pretty sure I've never met another Kin. I mean, unless they're hiding. Or disguised.” Has he met a magical fox girl or an elf, and never realized it? The thought is--intriguing. Maybe they're also shapeshifters, too, so they can blend in? It could explain the lack of bigger flags of a secret mage society.
Might I ask something, first? Why did you fly right towards the danger? What if we had been wrong?
Drenar clicks his tongue against the roof of his snout. It’s an odd sensation, knowing everything feels completely off, like the feel of his teeth, or even extra limbs he can now feel and control. “Maybe because I’m not afraid of things like that? I’m not afraid of much. If I can study it, if I can understand something, it becomes a lot less scary. People get scared of stuff they can’t understand.”
What are you afraid of, then? He closes his eyes, and he can still hear the beep of the medical monitor. The ominous countdown as someone’s life marches to its conclusion.
“Losing the people that matter in my life,” he answers abstractly. Alex doesn’t press further, but Drenar can feel that mental pause. “Hey. You mentioned we’re linked. That what I see here is some shared reality. Dreams don’t work like that, you know.”
I’m theorizing. Dragons are masters of magic, but there are things out there that are beyond even our understanding. Magic is an integral part of our very being, it’s as natural as breathing. Not that the other Kin are lacking capacity, but still.
He falls silent for a moment, as if contemplating something. That place, maybe wasn’t a physical place. It was not Terra, or Earth. It was an existence between worlds. An interstitial. But when you entered, you brought a piece of your perspective of reality with you. It did not hold stability. Your soul forced reality onto something that doesn’t have it. I’ve only heard of this in my academia. It could have been the Aether. A plane of souls, passers-by, and ethereal energy. It’s not a place you can go physically. Drenar’s mind is a buzz of thoughts.
“So, what was that void?” he asks.
It was a gateway. Or maybe a locked door. But I think we got through. And I don’t think we were the only ones, either. I think a few other dragons were following us. He looks around, but he doesn't see any other signs of life nearby–not counting the crickets, anyway. I don't have all the answers, Drenar. We're going to have to find them together. Because I think I've seen your world. It's the same as mine.
Drenar laughs at this notion–at least that part of his speech wasn’t distorted or with a heavy accent. “Alex, my world is quite ordinary. Your world of perception is the opposite."
I saw it. Snippets. A room for education with other peers. Mountains in the distance. A longing memory for someone who…isn't here now. My world and your world are the same. Hidden away, most likely. If cross-laid realities don't exist, then what do we conclude? We both come from the same place, but maybe at different times. I can tell you first-hand, that my ancestors built a civilization and wasted it. Tens of thousands of years, reduced to atrocity and civil war.
"How?" Drenar asks softly.
…Some of my kin, long ago, tried to control fledgling humanity, and they did terrible things in the process. Others tried to stop them. The result was both of our civilizations took a massive blow, and magic propagation was set backward. Stupid fools. He can hear the contempt for dragons long since dead in his voice. I can only imagine what has happened since I was trapped in that place.
“Hey, that reminds me. What’s your full name?” A question of curiosity that Drenar yields an unexpected answer.
I remember now. Alexander Sandrick Rashalda. The Champion of the Luminaires. I know there is an immense amount of me that is missing. But I can see the outline of all that was me. Like knowing the gaps in a giant puzzle. Drenar lets out a sound of surprise.
“So, we’re related? That’s weird, my last name is Rashalda, too! What about people you knew? The name isn’t ringing any bells.”
Lyssa. Hanna and Gerard Celestine. Valen the draa’kin-knight. Robespierre. Robbie. Little Robbie. I don’t know why that last one resonates. I know the name, but not the face, not the memory. I know their names, but the memories are shrouded in fog.
“Maybe a son?” he suggests.
No. I never had a son. I am certain of it. A friend, I think. The longer he listens, the more there’s a doubt gnawing in the back of his mind. What if he isn't dreaming? What if this is a shared reality, somewhere between himself and Alex, separated by time and space?
Still with me? You went quiet for a moment. He taps a claw gently along a swept-back horn. it makes a slightly dull clinking sound.
“Just thinking, is all. Were they all dragons?”
Some. But not all, I think. I kept many trusted friends, from many walks of life.
“Were all dragons like you? How many were there?” Even while discussing, he’s still taking in this spectacle and craning his neck–the action leaves him disoriented since his neck extends slightly more from his torso than his human body. He feels like a living suspension bridge. “What…kind of dragon are you?”
I am a Maridian silver. We are masters of telekinesis, and our frost breath can tame the fiercest fires, or protect our allies with the soothing calm of ice. We of the Maridian tribe, the Skyy’rs, the Kra’thus, the Valeria, wore the scales of our ancestors. We etched our lineage in the armor scales of our body, and we carried a living tapestry of the legends of those who came before.
“That was the most metal thing I’ve heard in a while. Wow. You carved your family tree into your scales?” Drenar asks in awe. He looks down at the thicker, broader scales. His isn't etched. At least, not that he can tell. But they do have nerve endings, because he can feel the pressure of his hand against them.
Do they not do that in this age?
“Not quite like that.” He closes his eyes for a minute, taking in the night sounds. The whole world is alive with activity to his elongated, sensitive earcrests. He can hear the thrum of a blade of grass, distinct from the ones around it. The sound of a stream babbling nearby.
He opens his eyes and looks at his forearm. There's that flap of feathers, and when he tenses a muscle, it expands like a slat on an airplane. He peers closely at the azure feather that transitions to a scale-like ending where it attaches to his limb. An idea dawns on him. He pulls at it, and winces. It's like pulling a hair.
What are you doing?
“Science,” he answers. He pulls firmly, and looks at it. Why does it look like the feather from earlier in the day? “Alex, question. What are our scales made of?”
I think the equivalent of keratin, in human terms? Trace magical metals?
“How?”
Absorption of plants that grow in magical areas, which pull minerals from the soil? We can also eat some minerals too. We have strong stomach acid, if need be.
“Okay. That's not the weirdest thing I've heard, but we're getting there.”
Also, what’s that noise?
He does hear that sound of oblivion again, and the void is back up above–except instead of sucking everything in, he sees streams of light emanating from it, pulsing downwards. Distantly, he can see the lights of some small town–further from that, a large city. The streaks of light come down, two, five, ten at a time, in brilliant flashes. They streak at hypersonic speeds toward their landing zone in silent blazes of light that dissipate just as quickly as they flare to light.
“That sound,” Drenar replies as he gets back on his feet, “Is the sound of a mystery. Except this time, I think your buddies decided to follow us back to Reality. Care to get a closer look?”
Well, I’ve got nothing better to do. Lead on, Drenar. He grins wildly, because this time he thinks he’s gotten the launching mechanism down to a fine art. He takes a few rapid strides with his powerful legs and extends his wings. He springs forward, beating his wings with all the fervor he can muster–
“Oww!”
For the second day in a row, Drenar manages to launch himself out of his bed, and onto the floor. This time, he bruises his shoulder, and he groans more from the indignity of the fall rather than the actual injury. “If I go zero for three on this, I’m gonna be so pissed off,” he utters venomously.
He's soaked in sweat, his heart is racing out of control, and he has to spend a couple of minutes again to get his body to calm down.
What the hell is going on here? Drenar still feels like his head is buzzing and his skin feels like static energy is crackling over him. He grabs a pen off his desk and starts sketching furiously everything he can remember, and the names he heard. His sketches look decent enough.
Man, what am I doing? This can't be possible. I'm letting my imagination get the better of me, because I want this weirdness to be real.
Hang on. He quickly scribbles the wing shape down, and the scale pattern–a series of semi-trigonal shapes, overlapping and gleaming in the light. Once he’s done, he stuffs the sketches in his bag to look at later before he dashes out to get ready for the day. Then he grabs the feather from yesterday, and frowns.
It looks quite weird, at a second glance. It's not from that stuffed bird, the texture is off, and the quill ends in a flattened, scale-like feature…just where did this come from? It also doesn't flex. It's quite rigid, yet remarkably light. He glances back to the sketches, and frowns again. Strangely, it matches the shape and consistency. His breathing turns just a little rapid. What if this came from me? The thought triggers a rapid heartbeat, and he takes a deep breath, and leaves him putting his hands to his face.
It can't be possible.
He turns to leave the room, and feels an itching sensation on his left forearm. He scratches it through his shirt sleeve, but it persists. It's mildly painful. Ah come on, maybe I used too much detergent in the–
He pulls up his sleeve and freezes. A million thoughts coalesce in an instant, and the knee-jerk reaction is the only audible one.
“Holy sh–”
He forcibly claps a hand over his mouth and looks wide-eyed at what he's witnessing, and it's quite impossible. Impossible, but still impinging on his reality.
There is a patchwork of metallic-looking scales on his forearm, about a few centimeters below his wrist. The scales are silver and azure blue, semi-trigonal shaped, and in a light banding pattern. He looks back to the sketches he just made, and his eyes widen further. They match almost identically in shape and pattern.
Panic doesn't set in. It should, but he's more fascinated than afraid. He taps one, and it's definitely real. He can even see his skin slowly morphing at the edges, and then it stops. He peers closer. Oh no. Tell me I didn't manifest this into reality. Tell me this is me dreaming. He taps one again, and it feels utterly solid. He turns his forearm, and the scales flex gently with the motion, like interlocking armor. He runs his fingers through his hair, trying to keep calm. Utterly, deadly calm, like he would do in his martial training.
Okay, think! Don't freak out, don't panic, maybe I can…will them away? He looks back to his forearm, and imagines normal, human skin, with those traces of freckles.
It remains unchanged, as does his really bad situation. People don't grow scales out of nowhere. Not unless he counted his dreams over the past couple of days. I feel lucid, this feels real, therefore it must be. But what do I do? Who would I even talk to about this?!
Hiding it is the first step. He does not want to become a tabloid sensation, kidnapped by government scientists and dissected, or worse. He can hide this under long sleeves, for now. As a precaution, he grabs a roll of gauze tape from the bathroom after very carefully checking to make sure no one sees him. He breathes a sigh of relief–that should help avoid any accidents. He’ll just pass it off as burning his arm when he reached into the oven. It's believable. But it won't be a good cover forever.
The next step is going to be harder: figuring out why this is happening, and if this is just the start. He takes a deep breath, and dreads the next really bad idea.
He's going to have to tell Julia about this. And he's worried she's going to be filled with gleeful enthusiasm, and not abject horror. Hey, fluffy dragon…I mean uh Alex? Is this your doing?
Silence is his answer. Alex is gone again. And he’s got nothing left but discomforting questions.