Quindillian

Quindillian had always known what he’d wanted.

The Wind had always urged him to take flight, to see the infinite wonders of the world. And he’d wanted to heed that call and enjoy the adventures that were doubtless ahead of him. Growing up, he learned everything that could be useful to a traveler. And as soon as he was allowed to, he bade his clan farewell, launching himself into the wild blue yonder.

His clan had urged him to find someone else to travel with for safety’s sake, but Quindillian had declined. “A companion will only slow me down,” he’d declared. “I’ll do just fine on my own. It’ll be more fun!”

And indeed, for a long time, he had fun. Despite traveling alone, he wasn’t averse to stopping over with dragons or Beastclans. He forged friendships and spent many happy days exchangings stories with them.

Even being out in the wilderness didn’t faze him. He’d learned how to avoid danger, including storms...

But this one had managed to sneak up on him. He chalked up his inattentiveness to the hardships of the past few nights—a pack of ethereal tricksters had been hounding him—and began scanning the terrain below for shelter. But he saw only grassy steppes and sparse copses of trees. With the storm tugging on his tail feathers, he sped ahead, fighting back the twinges of fear that crept up his spine.

He spied something else through the gloom: the carved spire of a Wind monastery. “Time to go, Quin!” he told himself, and he put on a fresh burst of speed.... Wind dragons are naturally great fliers and a normal storm would have caused no issues for this particular dragon, who spent his days exploring with the guiding wind. This was, of course, no ordinary storm. Qundillian did his best to best his wings against the rapidly shifting wings, to keep himself righted, but it was to no avail. He became trapped in one of the twists and crashed into the monetary. If only he had known that destiny was leading him right where he needed to go.

The other monks helped carry Quindillian into the monastery. Zantindur, as one of their most skillful healers, oversaw his treatment and recovery. Quindillian soon regained consciousness, and when he learned what’d happened, he heaped praise and gratitude upon his rescuers. He was also apologetic: It would be some time before he could travel again, and he didn’t have much he could pay the monks with.

Zantindur reassured him, saying that Quindillian’s recovery was all the payment they needed. “But pray, tell,” he queried, “what were you doing out in that storm?”

Quindillian’s explanation soon led to him telling stories about his travels...his adventures. Zantindur listened out of politeness at first, but he eventually found himself asking questions. He was a bit shy around this exuberant stranger, but began to open up when he realized that Quindillian’s interest was always genuine.

As Quindillian recovered, Zantindur began to find more reasons to go to the infirmary. His patient, too, always seemed happy to see him.

“When I’m well,” Quindillian said one day, “why don’t you come with me? We can see the world together!”

Zantindur’s heart gave a great leap. And yet, what he said was, “I have many duties here...”

“Oh. Well, I can always come and visit,” Quindillian said. But his smile didn’t seem as joyful, and they both thought, “It wouldn’t be the same.”

Similar unquiet thoughts kept murmuring in their minds over the next few days.

“Isn’t this what you wanted? It’ll be easier to travel alone....”

“Isn’t this what you wanted? This monastery is your home....”

And at last, they each realized: “I didn’t know what I truly wanted...until now.”

When the time came for Quindillian to leave, he scanned the crowd of monks...but Zantindur wasn’t there. His heart ached within him. He’d known their separation would be difficult, but surely they could’ve said goodbye?

And in a sudden flurry of feathers, still smelling sweetly of herbs, Zantindur alighted beside him. “I needed to pack a few things,” he said by way of explanation, indicating the travel supplies hanging against his flanks. Quindillian, usually so loquacious, was briefly at a loss for words. But he smiled brightly and truly—the same smile on Zantindur’s face—and that was enough. They bade the monks a fond goodbye and soared away together.

The two Skydancers have been inseparable since then, braving Sornieth and its challenges, their love for each other growing deeper all the while. Zantindur remains the calmer half of the couple, dispensing wisdom and healing to those who need it. Quindillian is as gregarious as ever, always happy to trade stories with passersby.

“And what’s your favorite story?”

“That’s an easy choice,” Quindillian laughs. It’s a sunny day, and he and Zantindur have stopped by a small clan; as usual, he is surrounded by an attentive audience. Zantindur rests in the shade of a nearby tree, but he feels his lover’s gaze on him, and he looks up. The two of them share a gentle smile.

“I remember it like it was yesterday...Well, we both do. This is the story of how we found true love...”

~ written by Disillusionist (254672)
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