The Other Past
The Other dives into a cloud of fog, releasing a guttural screech that tapers into a squeal sharp enough to slit skin. Announcing her rabid intentions to slay the young fae who snuck upon her nesting pillar and took her most precious egg.
She may have been sitting on it for too long—since well after her mate was felled and bled into the ground—but she could finally sense life within. Since bestowing it a silver thread of the mystical fiber within herself, life had finally begun to flutter.
And now it’s gone.
She blasts free of the mist as rage erupts up her throat, pouring past her open maw. Azure flame explodes against a tall nesting perch made by another long-passed Moonplume, crumbling it to pieces and shattering the silence.
There will be no rest until The Other has the thief clamped between her teeth and she’s shaken his heartbeat still. Then she’ll feast on his flesh—tear it from his bones strip by strip. Garbed in his blood, she’ll wait for his remains to turn solid from the cold, then crunch him into shards.
If she can just find him.
There’s a distant shout. Rattling. A series of animalistic squeals that lifts The Other’s hackles, sending a shudder down her spine.
She banks, hunting the sound, plunging through another sheet of mist hiding much of the spawning grounds.
“Go away, you horrid beasts!” The Other’s heart hitches at the shrill voice echoing through the din. “Leave us alone!”
The mist dissipates long enough for her to catch sight of an icy overhang, glimpsing a little fae much too young for this part of the world.
She should be in a stone nest with the ones who gave her life, wrapped in the furs fae have taken to wearing to protect their fragile skin.
Not here, guarding a small snow nest, surrounded by doomquills.
Prickly predators that are painful to chew on, that rattle and howl and raid dens dug into the snow—their main prey the fresh litters of more vulnerable creatures.
The very reason The Other often ends up with their spikes embedded in her gums.
She observes the youngling’s stance: little feet perched wide for battle, her angry yet fearful eyes so blue they could be forged from the flame that brews in The Other’s chest.
“Go away!” she screams, voice trembling. She thrusts a dagger forward, as though trying to make up for her lack of sharp teeth or claws. “Or I’ll use it!”
The Other notices the way her hand shakes, like she’s scared despite her bared teeth and loud threatening words.
Tucking her wings, The Other swoops closer, moving as one with the air currents so they don’t shriek against her hide. She cuts through more mist, emerging to see the largest of the spiky predators leaping forward with a howl just as the fae punches her weapon into the creature’s smooth underbelly.
Dark blood sprays the youngling’s face.
The creature tips its head and yowls, and something shatters in the young fae’s eyes. She sobs as her prey falls to the ground.
Dead.
The rest paw at the snow, wailing, long tongues lashing. Their intent obvious.
Approach as one. Disable. Kill.
The Other’s instincts rage, urging her forward. Roaring for her to protect.
PROTECT.
She folds her wings, tucks them flat against her body, and plunges.
Throwing them wide, she swings forward and drops to the ground, the motion kicking up an explosion of snow that buffets her silver hide, disorienting the now-screeching, scattering creatures that momentarily forgot they’re not at the top of the food chain.
The Other is.
The youngling doesn’t scream, doesn’t flinch or try to run. She falls to her knees and barricades the opening, her sad eyes still on the beast she felled and the swelling puddle beneath it.
The Other arches her neck and spins, letting all her rage and sorrow surge from her chest in a blow of blue fury that slaughters everything it swallows.
A fitting end for such dishonorable opponents.
While mutilating spiked bodies with her flame and violent sweeps of her claws, it occurs to The Other that perhaps the small fae doesn’t like killing things. That would explain the look in her eyes and the sad sound she made as her weapon slipped from the creature’s chest.
Seems strange since many fae don’t feel the same when they take life, happily grounding dragons to drain their blood into the ground. Preventing them from finding peace amidst the big black, like The Other’s beloved mate.
But that look in the youngling’s eyes … it echoes in The Other’s mind as she continues to blow her flames long after the final beast has fallen, reminded of times past. When dragons yearned to form a bond with one courageous and moral enough to earn it.
Not feared such connections.
Shaking off the thought, The Other bites down on her fire and spins, snarling as she takes in the surrounding mess. Bodies so affected by flame they’ve exploded into frozen shards now strewn across the snow.
Pleased with herself, The Other turns back to the snow nest, but the small fae is no longer shielding the entrance.
The Other stills.
A silver light radiates from the opening, spilling beyond, melding with her own. A soft screech wells from the cracking remains of an egg The Other coiled around for too many rises and falls. Then comes the gurgle of her hatchling taking breath and working its tiny lungs.
Another piece of shell breaks away and falls into the snow, revealing her beautiful silver young still covered in clear residue, bundled up as though it’s nesting in the sky. Beginning how it will end … as is the way.
It wriggles. Lifts its head a little. Tries to stretch its wings, causing more shell to push away as a whip of breeze carries its sweet leathery scent to The Other’s flared nostrils.
Female.
A daughter.
Her heavy body drops to the ground, wings splaying.
A foreign sensation swells in The Other’s chest—big and warm. As she studies her hatchling’s slender neck and the way her head wobbles around—too heavy for the developing muscles—The Other nests with the feeling. A form of love she’s never experienced.
Never considered possible.
Lazily, the hatchling lifts her lids, and The Other’s heart squeezes hard at the first glimpse of her eyes—dark and speckled with the many lights of their ancestors.
Beautiful.
They lock gazes from across the snow, and her young honks.
That sensation in The Other’s chest surges to such a mighty size she worries her ribs might break. A keening sound crawls up her throat.
I love you, too, Sweet One …
Her gaze shifts to the male fae tucked on his side within the snow nest, pale hair askew.
The same male who raided her nest, though she no longer harbors the desire to swallow him.
Not at the sight of his protective posturing—his arm bound around the remnants of her hatchling’s egg as he works to remove bits of shell so she can further free herself.
Loosening her small, misshapen wing from the sticky membrane that must’ve gotten too warm and shrunk, cutting off some of the blood supply.
“I’m sorry,” he sobs past pale lips, his words heavy with so much sadness.
The Other tilts her head to the side.
If she could shape his words with her much bigger, more fearsome mouth, she would tell him she doesn’t understand. Her young blood hatched. There is no room for sadness, only celebration of life.
She’s about to creep forward and nuzzle into the nest so she can scent her hatchling properly, when she realizes—
Where is the Little One? The small fae who took life to protect this flimsy nest and the ones tucked within?
Hopefully not crushed …
Pushing up, The Other swings her head beneath her belly, throwing a glance about her claws and down the line of her tail swishing through the surrounding carnage. Until she feels a strange tug on the long tendrils that spawn from her spine.
The Other goes still.
Is that—
Something prods against her leg, farther up. Another tug, followed by more clamoring against her hide.
Curious, The Other swoops her head around to peer at the small fae perched between her shoulder blades—breathing hard, still covered in the blood of her kill.
Her pale hands no longer tremble, but are fisted into The Other’s tendrils, holding on so tight the rapid pulse in her palms patters through the sensitive strands.
She looks in the youngling’s eyes, lit with so much determination they’re luminous.
“Shuile!”
Fly.
The Other huffs.
This small, breakable being with fingers too weak to withstand the force of flight wants to ride her into the frigid, unforgiving sky?
The Other doesn’t fly with a mount. Ever. She yields to nobody—especially not one so fragile.
Growling, The Other shakes, trying to dislodge the young back into the soft snow. Confused when she finds her still clinging to the same tuft of tendrils, cheeks flushed from the fast pump of her little heart.
A new fierceness screws up the youngling’s features as she bares her teeth and screams, “Shuile!”
For one so little, the word is big, making the silence shudder. Like the Air Goddess is listening.
“Shuile! Shuile! Shuile—”
Perhaps it’s the only way to get her off and make her stop screaming?
The Other looks at her hatchling—well protected within the arms of the wide-eyed male—and releases a low grating sound.
She lifts her wings and thumps them down, propelling into the sky with such force it would rival that of a falling dragon, expecting the Little One to slip free and plop upon the snow. Flustered when she doesn’t, looking back every few beats to check she’s still clinging on.
Fascination mounting.
The Mists swallow them, buffeting The Other’s wings as she scoops the icy air, soaring higher … thrashing with all her flexing might.
The Other doesn’t want the small fae to plummet to her death. She’ll catch her if she comes loose. Return her to the ground where she belongs in acknowledgment of the blood she spilled to protect The Other’s precious egg.
But it doesn’t matter how hard she beats her wings or how fast she dips or turns, the Little One doesn’t budge.
Not when the ribbons rise, then fall again.
Not when a storm sweeps in and batters them from all angles, coating the youngling’s dark hair with frost and clumps of snow.
Not when The Other soars so close to the moons she feels the world’s ever-present tug loosening its hold on her, the light of her ancestors drenching her wings. Hailing her to curl up and rest with them.
Again, the ribbons rise, arching so near that The Other wonders if they’re going to splash against her like they did so long ago, casting her hide silver.
But they don’t.
They dance just out of reach as the Little One begins to sing; a soft song that ebbs and flows with the ribbons’ movements. Like she’s translating their dance into something of such beauty that for a moment, The Other coasts.
Not thrashing.
Just listening.
The song calls to her soul. Tugs like her yearning to curl around her egg long after it was due to hatch. To eventually offer it some of the silver essence that filled her with the cosmic song she’s finally starting to understand; one final surge of hope.
It tugs like her yearning to find an eternal nest amongst the stars … one dae.
But not this dae.
Not with her new meaning perched between her wings, clinging with clenched fists, singing even as her lips crack from the cold.
It’s there, so close to those who’ve lifted into their final resting place, that The Other yields for the first time in her very long existence—and to a youngling smaller than her claw.
Leans into her welling desire to protect the little fae with the savage fierceness of one who suddenly has everything to lose.
The Other tames her thrashing heartbeat until it squeezes in rhythm with her Little One’s, hearing her gasp when their bond hatches with the ferocity of a bursting star.
She doesn’t offer her flame, knowing her Little One is not ready. That it would break her from the inside out.
But she does offer almost everything else.
Through the building threads connecting them, The Other feels the cold rush of her Little One’s shock. Her warm, blooming wonder. Feels the fierce strength of her spirit and the wild love she has for the ones who share her blood.
She feels the shape of her moral heart, so big and viciously bold. Feels the heavy sadness for her young’s crooked hatch, the knowledge of her small, afflicted wing not crippling The Other in the same way it has her Little One.
Fate works in magical ways, and even now those tendrils are plotting, tying knots that may not be understood or loosened until many rises come and go. But The Other does know one thing.
Her and her Precious Little One … they were always meant to be.