Siobhan left her stone cottage, and walked into her garden. The fragile blooms ran in riots of rainbow hues. The soft, sweet scent of her roses floated on the gentle breeze.
Patches of cornflower sky broke through the heavy canopy of brilliant green trees, whose branches twisted in intricate patterns over her home. A purple and yellow winged Pixie flung her insect sized body from daffodil to tulip, rolling in pollen, singing in high-pitched joy.
“Why, hello, Luna. I left a bowl of fresh milk for you on the sill. Do be sure to share this time, won’t you?”
A puff of yellow dust escaped the golden tulip as she sat up and grinned that innocent smile that Siobhan adored.
She collected her basket she’d woven from fallen sprigs last fall. The woven bits had become greatly worn, but parting with the object pained her heart. The basket was one of the first items she’d created by hand for her new life, a symbol of independence unlike any other.
Strolling through the opening of the ivy covered stone wall surrounding her cottage, she headed north to find the wild berries that clung close to the ground. Her full skirts swished over the tall grasses.
The forest darkened. She craned her neck in time to see a monstrous figure careening through the morning horizon. His wings fluttered uselessly at his sides, his nose pointed to the ground. The closer he came, the more the arrows protruding from his side were visible. A nasty gash ran from under his left front leg, to the center of his stomach. Blood dripped upon the tree tops. She cringed. Such a waste of a beautiful creature. No doubt, the Seelie had hunted the animal for coming too close to their precious homes. Goddess forbid, the wildlife mar their perfection.
He disappeared. Not soon after, a horrendous crash shook the world beneath her feet. She ached for the creature, stupid as it were to care at all for him. The circle of life and death wasn’t her concern anymore. Yet, she wondered. Did he still breathe? Could he be saved?
She dropped her basket, picked up her skirts and thrashed through the undergrowth. She found him a mile off, lying on his side, eyes closed. His chest heaved a shallow, desperate rhythm.
She inched closer, understanding well what an injured beast might do in desperation. When the brilliant blue and green dragon watched her, she barely noticed the triple iris no animal possessed. Intelligent curiosity burned underneath the agony. She closed the distance. Siobhan was by no means a helpless whelp without magick. She was a highborn Sidhe noble. Granted, in hiding, but all the same.
Bending over the first arrow, she readied a defensive spell, leaving off the last word. She’d be able to cast in less than a second, if the need arose. He lifted his head, huffed, and thumped back to the grass.
“You poor darling,” she cooed.
Her hand trailed to the next arrow, twice as deep. She winced. Only part of his chest wound was exposed. “I wish you had landed on your other side. I need to see all of this, before I can assess how best to help you.”
He grunted, and pushed himself onto his back. The pointed scales along his spine curved against the weight.
Her hand went to her throat. Had he understood her? How extraordinary! “Do not fret, dragon. I shall be quick. Then we can attend your smaller wounds.”
She realized her mistake in her promise. If she cast a healing incantation, she must rid herself of the defensive spell. The grand lizard shifted, growling under its breath.
“Do not be so forceful,” she muttered. Alas, this wasn’t the first time she’d placed herself in harm’s way. She rushed through an invocation first forward, then backward, as the spell called for. Not many practitioners used natural magick to heal anymore, but easier potions that required less skill, than ability to follow the written directions. Green specks littered the air.
She collected them one by one, molding the magick into a malleable ball. She smoothed the balm over the gash. The area glowed iridescent, the old magick stitching the edges together. Satisfied that over the next dozen or so minutes he’d mend well enough to move. The worst was over. She tended the arrows as gently as she could.
He hissed and writhed as she pulled out the first, growled at the second. On the fifth, his reserve of precious energy depleted. His throat vibrated, a painful purr as she removed them from his slick scales. She counted thirty-two arrows on the ground, and shuddered. How awful.
One more to go. On his neck, so close to the major artery. She crept forward, determined he slept. Yet as she loomed over him, his eye slid open again. Such pain and quiet fear. He was so brave, kind even. His muscles quivered under his scales, as if they fought to get away from one another. Was he smaller than he’d been a moment ago?
She touched the arrow and pulled. The scales violently rippled. She glanced at his face, startled to find his nose shorter, the color of his skin lightening by shade, to a bright, luminescent white. A horrifying crunching sound roared in her ears. The body of the dragon compacted, by threes, shrinking, leaving a naked, breathless male with pointed ears. Dumbstruck, she stood over him, bloodied arrow in hand.
She had aided a Sidhe? A shape shifter at that. Unheard of in many a year. Her mind reeled, terror shattering her. They’d found her.
Reeling back, she collapsed on her backside. Weakly, his arm rose, reaching for her, beckoning for her.
“Please, I give my most solemn oath that I mean you no harm. Help me.”
* * * *
Dearg combed the forest for the second consecutive day. The Knights had searched as well, fruitless in their efforts as he.
“Idiot!” He punched a tree trunk, the bark digging into his hand, pain clearing his palette for anger. On the cause of that rage festering inside of him, he’d been parted from his cursed friend. The chase had ripped them apart, and by fate’s decree, the Knights had followed him, and not Dearg. He’d come just in time to witness the blood spill from the skies as the blue and green dragon limped in flight from the fray.
Now his best friend and only ally in a world lay hurt in these treacherous woods, just as alone. Dearg smelled the blood, thick as molasses on the air from every direction. He didn’t dare shift, not with the Knights so close. Fallon’s sword that always swung at his side, found abandoned in the undergrowth of the forest.
A bad omen indeed.
A chill shivered in his blood. Dread ran in thick rivulets in his system. Much like Dearg, an enemy would have had to pry his sword from Fallon’s cold, stiffened corpse.
ns 15.158.61.16da2
