August

the researcher, the rescuer

he was a botanist, an archaeologist, a researcher and a scientist. he and some fellows from the land of ice went on an expedition to the ashfall waste, studying the peculiar plants which grow in the sooty soil there.

while examining some odd flower, he accidentally broke through the earth into a long-abandoned den. nestled between dusty bones lay two eggs. two strange, scaly, still-warm eggs. he took them to study, initially. they couldn't possibly still be alive.

yet, as he settled to sleep, he rested them against his side and draped his wing over them. instinct, perhaps, or a thoughtless hope to keep them safe.

his warmth woke them. he woke to the sound of cracking eggshells, and watched in shock as two tiny beasts poked their heads out from their shells. he recognized them with horror and guilt and joy- horror for what their kind had done, guilt for what his kind had done in retaliation, and joy, because they were alive, not extinct, not gone forever.

he knew they would not be safe among his gaoler kindred- he felt joy for their return, but others would not be so happy. so he took them and ran, ran from his friends all for the sake of these little strangers.

he named them for the plants they reminded him of- the girl, nepenthes, the pitcher plant, for as sweet as she looked she was feisty and ravenous; the boy, lathyrus, the sweet pea, for he was as gentle as could be.

he taught them the names of all the plants they saw as they wandered, which were safe to eat and which would sicken with a touch. he taught them the names of the animals, and the winds, and the kinds of dragons. he taught them numbers and words and stories- he taught them everything but the story of their ancestors.

when he found the clan, he and his children were welcomed with curiosity and joy, rather than fear and hatred, even by the gaolers within. he felt his children were safe there, and stayed, until his little ones were not so little.