Don’t Fae With Dragons

CHAPTER 1 MILI

T he warlock smiles as the Moon whispers, “We will tear down the Sun.”

“How do you propose we accomplish that?” says the warlock. He strokes the Moon’s supple rays, kissing one absentmindedly.

The Moon says to their lover, “You will go to Ethelinda. You will find the faery, the gentle one, for she is the strongest of her kind in the Realm. You will earn her trust; you are not to leave her side, for she is both clever and powerful. I will instruct you further when it is time.”

“What shall you do, as I begin this journey?” asks the warlock.

The Moon replies, “I will sow discord among their kind, creating illusions out of air and water. I will plant seeds of discontent, erotic mischief, secrecy, and paranoia. I will disrupt the cool cloud of peace and trust which protects their land.”

As the Moon speaks, the warlock’s eyes harden with focus. He brushes a moonbeam as if he were sweeping a stray hair out of their heavenly face, and the Moon sighs with soft pleasure. “I will do as you have told me,” says the warlock, and the Moon smiles.

“The faery will be the first to fall. Do you swear it?

“I swear it. It will be as you have said.”

The Moon sharpens one of their beams into a pointed arrow, and the warlock plucks it out of the air. The warlock grabs another ray of the Moon’s light and fashions a quick bow, facing the distant town of Ethelinda far below. The Moon laughs quietly as the warlock, their loyal lover, shoots the crystalline white arrow of light down into the town.

–––

I wake up gasping for air, and it’s a moment before I realize I’m clutching myself so tightly that my breath can’t reach my lungs. I loosen my arms, and immediately feel my body fill with the warm summer’s air.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the vanity’s mirrored silver across the room, and focus on my reflection as I calm down. My long black hair is strewn loosely around my shoulders, delicate wavy strands flung about wildly from my thrashing. I put both hands over my ears, they are overactive and get extra pointy during spikes of negative emotions. Even in the dark, my light hazel eyes glimmer with terror, shadowed softly by my long eyelashes. I wet my heart-shaped lips and take in a sigh that almost dries them again, but I sit back, ready to try and sleep again.

“Mili?” Aurora asks, appearing in the doorway suddenly. I feel a sudden twinge of annoyance at her intrusion, but tell myself I’m just grumpy from my dream. “Are you alright?”

I nod quietly, smiling halfheartedly at my loyal companion. I suppose you could call her my lover. Some already do. “I’m alright. I had the strangest dream.”

“What was it?” she asks, already settling herself next to me on the bed. I watch silently as she pulls nearly all the blankets off me, huddling beneath them. I barely hold in a sigh; Aurora means well, I know, but she’s simply oblivious at times.

I shake my head in response.

“You don’t want to talk about it? You’ll feel better if you do.”

This time, I fix her with a pointed look, eyebrow raised, as if to say, tread lightly . She holds her hands up in surrender, and laughs. Her bright smile sparkles in the candlelight of the room, and her green eyes twinkle.

“Alright, fine – no need to be so dramatic.”

“Thank you,” I respond. Aurora shrugs, smiling impishly.

I turn over, hoping to get some more sleep, but Aurora speaks again. “Was it very frightening?”

“Aurora, please,” I say. “I ought to go back to sleep.”

Aurora sighs dramatically, and rolls over on top of me. Her long blonde hair flows down onto the pointed tip of my nose, and I almost sneeze. “Hey, grumpy,” she says. “Come hang out with me.”

“I’m exhausted.” I sigh softly, hoping she’ll take the hint and leave me alone.

No such luck. Her eyes start to glisten with tears and she storms out of the room. I can never tell if her tears are real or just part of her dramatic persona - the kind that makes me wonder if she missed her calling as a faery theatrical performer.

I groan and call after her, “Aurora, wait.” I hear her storming through the house, then the sound of the back door slamming open and closed.

No hope for more sleep, then. I throw on a cloak and follow her, saying a silent prayer she’ll calm down soon enough. Anyway, who needs sleep when you have a melodramatic companion who can turn any conversation into a theatrical masterpiece? I should really consider finding her an agent.

–––

I walk through Ethelinda, alone, after Aurora eventually stops her outburst. The town has a muted radiance to it in the dawn; rather than the bustling streets of the afternoon, always bursting with sunlight and townsfolk of all kinds. In the early morning, the leaves droop from the trees lazily, twinkling with dew. I walk, and walk, and walk, all the way to the lake at the Northern edge of town.

The lake is almost completely still, save for the occasional bob of small mercreatures in the water. At the far edge of the water, forest elves sail on small twig boats across the water, laughing merrily in the dawn light.

This is my sanctuary. It’s quiet. I suppose I am, too; perhaps that’s why I feel most myself here, among the peaceful, mischievous creatures of the forest and the lake.

Most faeries of my town don’t venture this far out, wary of the looming volcano on the North horizon. I admit, it’s a formidable sight, but years of knowing the volcano’s dragon guardian only as a silent, detached creature puts me at ease. It’s been that way for centuries, and it’s supposed to continue that way. But lately, I feel inexplicably drawn to go closer and to get to know him, like a magnetic force is pulling me to him, to know him, to understand him in ways I’ve never dared before.

The dragonkind are dangerous, I know. They’re not gentle like the fae, but in truth I don’t know much about them beyond what my parents and teachers taught me. They’re aggressive, volatile, and uncivilized. They behave in fickle ways, following the whims of their individual nature more than the structure of their society, or their family. I can’t imagine such a selfish existence.

Worst of all, dragons adhere much more strictly to the Alpha/Beta castes, a social breakdown which has been all but abolished among the fae of Ethelinda. Our kind see sexuality as more of a necessity for offspring than anything else; we’d never allow sexual relations to define our interactions with others so deeply.

It’s almost brutish, from what I’ve heard; the dragons’ Alphas holding their mates tightly, possessively, aggressively . I would never allow myself to be treated in such a way. I have a hard enough time enjoying sex as it is. Aurora and I have relations, of course – as companions, it’s expected. That’s about as far as it goes, though. Expectation and quiet acceptance. It’s not passionate as the stories of the dragons tell of sex. Still, I prefer it this way. It’s uncomplicated, safe–sex is simply what’s expected. Nothing more.

I frown at my train of thought. I don’t know why I’m letting the thought of the volcano’s dragonkind occupy my mind on such a beautiful day. I suppose more than that, I worry my nightmare has put me into a funk.

I dreamt of moonlight coming down, sharpening into teeth, or fangs, then twisting into daggers at my window. It slid two viciously-clawed hands under my stained glass window, pushed it up, and let the daggers into my room – all while I slept unawares. Another beam covered my mouth so I could not scream as I woke up to see the daggers cutting my long black hair off in jagged slices.

Aurora was right; it did frighten me. I never have nightmares, but even if I did, this didn’t feel like a simple bad dream. It felt much more corporeal; like a curse, or a vision.

One of the mercreatures swims up and splashes me with his tail, earning a chorus of giggles from his hidden friends. I chuckle, thankful to be broken out of my brooding, and kneel down at the water. I pull up a bit of water into my fingers and flick it at the mercreature. He dodges my teasing attack, laughing once he’s a safe distance away. He disappears underwater with a small flourish, then, leaving me alone; I sigh at the solitude.

Perhaps I am lonely. Maybe that’s all the dream was, some cruel manifestation of my unwanted loneliness. Even being with Aurora is lonely; she sleeps through the day, since she’s a faery of the northern lights. As a faery of the daytime, I rest at night. We only see each other in quick moments, during the evening and the early morning. Our lovemaking is usually prompt and deliberate, not terribly romantic. It’s a match that works for both of us, but in quiet moments alone like these, sometimes I fear it’s not enough. Maybe there’s something missing.

Ethelinda is one of the Southernmost towns, warm and coastal; Aurora is from one of the Northern lands, which are harsher and colder. She has a crudeness about her that I simply don’t relate to, although she loves me deeply. She said that she came here because once, among the lights, she saw me and fell in love. Of course, I reciprocated her feelings; I would never deny someone expressing themselves so intimately. We’ve been together since.

I sigh and begin the walk back into town. There’s no need to sit and sulk on such a beautiful day, after all. Perhaps I’ll go visit Chrysthinia, the resident wizard of Ethelinda. They’re the quiet sort, far from the sort of gregarious, eccentric wizard of fae stories and myths. I feel comfortable with them, so I visit often – not to mention the importance of us working together to keep Ethelinda functioning harmoniously.

On the worn stone path, the trees lean in to touch me, brushing my shoulders with gentle leaves. I smile and twirl among them, my sheer, moss-green gown catching the soft light, flowing around me like a whisper. Small white flowers are woven into my hair, their petals trailing with each spin. Small gnomes peek out from their mushroom houses along the path, and I wave at them as I pass, their little eyes twinkling in the dappled sunlight. I hear the chirrups of their conversation as I walk along: Look, there goes Milica! There goes Mili, the great healer of Ethelinda!

It feels silly, suddenly, all my early morning fretting. As long as I’m here, in Ethelinda, caring for the town as best as I can, everything will be alright. The realization sweeps over me like a breeze of warm air, and I smile wider. The sound of quiet drumming from the inner town reaches my ears, and I step in time with the mellow rhythm.

Soon, I’m walking the narrow desire path to Chrysthinia’s bungalow; there’s no masonry to guide the way, just small walkways across their yard, trodden down by years upon years of visitors. As I walk, pixies flit about the higher areas of brush, retreating shyly into their hidden houses among the flowers.

I knock loudly, rivaling a jackhammer, knowing Chrysthinia won’t answer unless they’re woken by a loud enough noise. “Chrysthinia!” I call into the house. “It’s Mili. Are you home?” There’s no response for a minute, so I raise my hand to knock again, preparing for a second round loud enough that will call back the spirits of the dead.

Just as I do, the door creaks slowly open and reveals the small-framed wizard. “Mili,” they say quietly, almost (but not quite) smiling. I take in their freshly shaved black hair, complete with a delicately-trimmed pattern of swirls and sigils. Chrysthinia’s warm black eyes gaze, unflinching, into my eyes, and I pat their shoulder tenderly.

I smile softly. “Hello dear Chrysthinia,” I say. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you.” Something about the old wizard puts me at ease. Perhaps it’s because, in the entire town of Ethelinda, they’re the only one I truly relate to, in terms of our responsibility. I’m the reigning protector of the town’s inhabitants, but Chrysthinia is their healer too.

Chrysthinia hasn’t told me much about their past, but I know they didn’t always live here. They came from somewhere East, a land of sand, serpents, and lots of magick. They came here under duress of some kind, and now have sharply negative feelings towards the inhabitants of their previous homeland.

I’ve never probed further than that; Chrysthinia never even admitted those things to me directly, rather, they came up in conversational fragments. Eventually I pieced them together myself, though them and I never talked about it further.

“You have not disturbed,” says Chrysthinia. “It is always a delight to see you , I recognize you, Milica .” I know they do and I do too. I take a deep breath of happiness after hearing these words. They mean so much to me. They were passed down by my ancestors and they’re only uttered between the most special connections and relationships. In fact, if you don’t feel the words, you can’t say them, not in Ethelinda anyway, because these words are magickal here.

‘I recognize you’ conveys love that is not necessarily sexual in nature, it’s about a love beyond surface appearances and instincts, it is based on recognition of the other’s true essence, recognizing someone as a whole person with flaws and strengths, and respecting and understanding each other at a higher, deeper level.

Chrysthinia turn without a further word, then, and walk into the bungalow. I follow close behind, smiling softly at Chrysthinia’s quiet nature – they believe if words are not needed, none will be said. Thus, I follow them silently through their home, hunched over so as not to hit my head on the heavy wooden beams along the ceiling.

Chrysthinia built this bungalow themself, and didn’t worry about the plight of their taller visitors. I spend most of my visits ducking like I’m dodging imaginary arrows or sitting to prevent a headache. They plod along from room to room, their arms swinging lightly in time with their heavy steps.

“How are you, Chrysthinia?” I ask, once we’re finally seated in their cozy living space. Chrysthinia hurries around, fetching me tea with safflower and turmeric. They shake their head at me, unsmiling, and my grin slowly fades. “What’s the matter?”

“You look troubled.” They tut quietly and sit on the chaise across from mine. “What is your strife for?”

I don’t know where to begin. I thought I’d cleared my head since this morning, but having Chrysthinia ask so candidly, so guilelessly what’s wrong ... my mind floods again with worries. “I don’t quite know,” I say. “I had a strange dream. I’ve felt odd all day.”

“Drink your tea,” Chrysthinia says. I bite back a smile at their brusque attempt at hosting. They’re always like this; meaning well, but unconcerned with graceful wording. It’s a relief, sometimes, compared to the social meandering and sidestepping of the faerykind in Ethelinda. Freeing.

I drink my tea. “It’s lovely. Warm. Thank you.”

Chrysthinia waves their hand, as if to swat away my compliment. At that, I do smile. They roll their eyes gently and ask, “What was your dream?”

I tell them in somewhat vague terms about my nightmare: the Moon, the daggers, the silent intrusion. I tell them how it cut my hair, and kept me from screaming; I tell also how I woke up clutching myself so tightly that I couldn’t breathe. Chrysthinia’s face reveals nothing of their thoughts, which I take some relief in. If the dream does not bode well, at least I don’t have to face it while I’m reliving my terrible night.

Once I finish, Chrysthinia says, “Hm.”

“Well, what?” I react.

“I never liked the lunar forces much, and certainly not those where I hail from.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is a warlock caste,” says Chrysthinia, “who follow the Moon. I am of the wizardborn caste who follow the Sun. There were not many solar wizards in my home village. We were so far East, always in such constant contact with the Sun, that many children were dissuaded from bitter parents from pursuing a solar path and instead ended up following the Moon.”

“You chose the Sun over the Moon?” I ask.

Chrysthinia waves a hand again, brushing my question off. “Never mind. The Sun was too harsh for many, anyhow, and too ... available, I suppose you could say. A land polluted with ambition will never choose the direct route. I am a simple soul. I did choose the simple path. I do not regret it. Still, I had to leave.”

I furrow my brow at this. Chrysthinia never talks about their past, so why now?

“I speak too much,” they say.

“No, it’s just that you often speak too little ,” I reply. “Go on.”

“No more about my past,” they respond, frowning. “The Moon is ambitious as my homeland was. They are polluted with fancies of boundless power. I suppose you have caught their eye, if we’re under the impression that your dream was something real.”

“Like what?”

“Not a dream. A warning.”