Page 2 of Don't Fae With Dragons

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 fellin 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 yearsof 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 theirhead 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.”

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