Page 4 of Don't Fae With Dragons

I walk away from the cinder cone, stepping backwards, and call out for the staff to close the upper gate. As I watch the stone slide into place, locking the sky out of sight, another scent reaches me. This one is faint, and indiscernible. Lilac, perhaps, or lily of the valley, but decidedly masculine as well. It’s quiet, though, as if someone has disguised it. Strange.

Before I think too long about it, the granite gate above heaves closed with one final shudder.

CHAPTER 3: MILI

I’ve just left Chrysthinia’s home when I realize: today is the Summer Solstice. I promised Aurora we would attend the festivities together, too, so I must go home and rest for a moment to stay awake during the nighttime.

Since it’s the Solstice, Chrysthinia told me, the solar rays are in their strongest form. I suppose they told me as some consolation against my dream; if the Sun is strong, how can the Moon harm me? I wondered if this is true, or if the strength of the Sun will encourage the Moon’s activity. I shake the worrying thought off and continue walking.

The stroll back to my own cottage is peaceful; I say hello to the merchants in the square, and a kind woodland faery who I don’t know gives me a bundle of sage free of charge.

“On your future journeys,” she says, “this will guide you.” I smile, and gingerly take the herbal bundle. It’s soft in my hands, as if it hasn’t fully dried. I brush my pointer finger along the fuzzy leaves before continuing on my walk.

The Sun beams down on me, and I think of my conversation with Chrysthinia. They told me that my dream may have been a warning, and we discussed what that might bode for Ethelinda. I didn’t consider during our conversation, though, what it means forme. That’s simply how I live my life, and Idon’t mind; I’m concerned with the welfare of the town before my own. It’s a sacrificial way to live, but I accept it graciously. It’s a blessing and a burden all at once.

I just wish it wouldn’t cause me such worry when I am alone. Before I realize it, a tear has fallen down my cheek. I hurry home before anyone sees.

–––

After a quiet nap, I awake and start getting ready for the Solstice festival. I tried to rest alongside Aurora, but she clung so tightly to me in her sleep that I couldn’t bear it. Her tapered fingers dug into my shoulders and stomach. I didn’t last long before I moved to the small living area loveseat; Aurora did not notice me leave.

I throw on a pair of loose silk pants that cinch at the waist and ankles, then tie a scarf around my torso as a top before going to my vanity. I sit in front of my silver looking-glass and begin to part my hair, but apparently I’m some sort of masochist because I start thinking again of my nightmare. My hair is my beauty, friends and lovers have always said; it feels foolish to concern myself with a mere loss of beauty. Why would the Moon threaten to demean me in such a way? What could it mean? I shake my head to clear my racing thoughts, and settle into the work.

My fingers untangle small knots here and there, and I slowly relax into the rhythm of my small ritual. I’m not one for large celebrations, truth be told, and I much prefer the quiet moments spent before (doing my hair, or adorning my ears) to the actual parties. Aurora is the opposite, of course; as a faery ofthe night, her stomach for large celebrations and excitement far outmatches mine.

It is nice having her around to care for me during these times. When it’s good with her, it’s very good. She watches over me, doting and cautious, only letting her wildness shine through when she’s satisfied I’m taken care of. I appreciate her carefulness, although I’d like to see more of her spirit at times. I’d never tell her that, though–it would offend her, I’m sure.

Eventually, Aurora awakes and prepares. She throws on a gossamer tunic and a tiny skirt (which hangs even shorter than the shirt). She performs a home spell to call on the colors of the northern lights and soaks her hair and body in the airy pigment. Before I can protest, she spins me in the colored air, and I come out colorful, too. She smiles at our matching ethereal coating and pulls me out the door.

“Come along!” she calls to me.

“I’m going as fast as I can!” I cry out, laughing at her leaping pace.

We run all the way to the festival, then, which is held at the Western edge of town. It’s the most humid area of Ethelinda, since it’s on the coast of the ocean, and the grainy path shifts softly beneath our feet.

The sound of drumming is loud, overtaking my senses as we walk straight for the mass of faeries by the sea. The small courtyard before the water (usually home to small shops selling mercreature and siren wares) thrums with drunken conversation and laughter. The banisters and pillars of the central gazebo are strung with silky blues and greens; fireflies flit about the plaza, causing everything and everyone to flicker andglow. With a deep breath, I take hold of Aurora’s outstretched hands and she pulls me into the throngs of the crowd. I catch a glimpse of the volcano fire into the sky, and not sure what’s gotten into me but I feel increased blood flow in my feminine area, pulsating with the rhythmic drums. Maybe it’s just the celebration vibes but there’s no denying that lately my senses are a mess, and I keep picking up the unmistakable scent of dominance and control coming from the volcano. The dragon guardian is definitely a strong alpha. I can feel him ... everywhere apparently, including in my core. It’s a strange sensation but I must admit that somehow his scent just fits, spice and leather and ... passion.

The next several hours are a blur as Aurora brings me drink after drink of mulberry wine and honeysuckle cider. I allow her to, in part to appease her, and also to ease my nerves around such a big crowd. My nerves are shot by the end of the maypole celebration, but I’m intoxicated enough not to care. I laugh with my fellow neighbors and townsfolk, and receive kisses on the hands and gentle shoulder nudges.

“You’re too good to us, Mili,” one woman says.

“I’m glad you’re here to celebrate; you work too hard!” says another.

To all of them, I blush and respond, “You’re too kind, I just do what is right.”

After one man kneels before me and kisses my knuckle in drunken adoration, I turn to see Aurora fuming silently at my side.

“Aurora?” I ask. “Are you alright?”

“You’re drunk. You need to go home.”

I frown. I am tipsy, I suppose, but certainly not in any stupor. “I’m fine–”

“–No, I’msickof this party, and you’ve been ignoring me all night. I’m tired. I want to go home,” she interrupts, angry tears appearing on her lower lashes. I open my mouth to respond, but she looks so sad I decide there’s no use. I nod quietly and take her hand, which she grabs away from me. She storms off, back to the cottage, and I follow.

At the cottage, Aurora doesn’t hold the door open for me like usual. She pushes through angrily, and leaves the door swinging in her wake; I catch it, trying to hide my frustration, and walk through.

“What’s wrong, Aurora? Why are you so angry?”

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