Aran

Aran woke to his mate gnashing her teeth by his ear.

“That’s it,” she snarled, and Aran was shoved, rolled away from her as she pushed upright.

He flailed off-balance, nearly falling out of the nest, groggy and disoriented by the sudden wake-up. “Wh? Biela?”

The Matron’s voice thrummed in the room like a distant crack of thunder, her cold displeasure apparent. “Inform me what is happening to you,” she said, not to Aran. In the dark den, he saw her silhouette spread out its wings, then draw them in tight against her body. Shadow rushed to comply.

Aran rubbed his eye, his brain too tired to piece together what had upset her, and his claws scratched oddly against his . . . lack of fur. Why was he, hard, and slick to the touch, colder even than the smoothness of his antlers—

His head moved too quick, too free. Aran all but twisted it off his shoulders, trying to feel for—

They were gone. His antlers, they weren’t—he grabbed for them, and his claws grasped nothing. “Biela,” he said, voice strained, his breath becoming a pant as he tried not to panic. “Biela, what’s wrong?”

She was too deep in her communion to reply. Aran scrambled backwards out of the nest. His hindleg slipped, crashing him down onto his back, and his wings flared out in delayed response—way too wide. As big as he was—Aran somehow got to his feet and staggered across the den to their shuttered window. He dragged the heavy curtains aside and pressed his nose up close to the glass, peering at the faint reflection the starlight offered him.

He stared, jaw agape.

After a minute, Biela joined him, her solemn figure appearing in the glass panel beside—his. His face. Aran reached out an unsteady claw, grazing the window. Better than touching his own hide, glinting dully in the night, no longer long fur mussed by sleep but sleek and shining even without sunlight. He feared to see himself in anything other than this haunting visage.

Biela’s tail flicked against his, and he automatically coiled his around hers. He was stunned by the ease, the naturalness of the motion, how lightly it moved without thick muscle and heavy coat weighing it down, how right it felt to wrap and grip. He clung to her tightly.

“How?” he whispered.

“The Grove laughed,” she said, returned to her flat calm. “Some mischief at play. Not its own. It simply permitted it.”

That was of no real help. Aran slumped to the floor, overwhelmed. Biela sat next to him.

“Can you . . . can you undo it?” he whispered, his voice squeaking out at a higher pitch than he’d ever had, even as a hatchling.

His mate hummed. “We will try,” she said at last.

And they did. For four moons thereafter.

~

Aran lay atop a low bed of seat-shrooms, a fungi selected for their sturdy yet pliable caps, allowing for comfortable seating, his head resting atop his forefeet as he watched the caravan unload their wares from packs and barrels. The clan wandered amongst the wagons, in some ways organizing the chaos, in other places adding to it. Laughter and excited chatter filled the clearing, not too different from the shrill cries of a hatchling den, though few adult dragons would admit to that.

Hatchlings. Aran’s feather crests. He rubbed a hindfoot against his side, the bandaged scratch from a careless tiny claw still aching dully. It hadn’t even been the kid’s fault, not really, they’d just tried climbing Aran like they always did during playtime. It was Aran, Aran who had changed, with no heavy fur to protect him, just these posh, useless feathers—

He took a deep breath, focusing his mind back on the present. He lowered his hindfoot, though the claws snagged briefly on his robe, sparking a flash of irritation. No one had ever told him how bothersome clothing was, how stiff and unwieldy. It stuck to places it shouldn’t, pulled archly against his stride, and don’t get him started on the choking sensation a collar gave around the neck.

A stray wind caught and tugged on his robe, flaring it around his shoulders and hindquarters, and he hurriedly pulled the fabric closer about him. Wretched or not, Aran felt naked without, something, to cover his body. He’d once chuckled at the notion of nudity, and modesty, how some dragons got embarrassed to wear nothing. Now he was just cold, all the time. So cold. How did anyone get by without fur?

“You there!”

The call drew Aran’s head up, pulling him out of his quag of self-pity. He looked out across the clearing, frowning as he failed to find its originator, and a tiny set of claws tugged at his robe. The sensation reminded him so starkly of a hatchling he half-rose, a rebuke for slipping out of the lair unaccompanied on his tongue, when he registered the fae merchant standing before him, a diminutive wagon just behind them.

“Woah there, pal!” the fae cried, crests folding and twisting in alarm. “Don’t step on me, now!”

“My sincere apologies, friend,” he said, lying back down so they were at a similar height. He forced a chuckle, remembering too late how he hated the sound; nothing remained of his deep chest rumble, his laughter now chiming like an array of small bells. “Just startled me from woolgathering, is all.”

“Wool? Why waste time gathering that, pah!” The fae turned and busied themself fiddling with their wagon, until jumping back with an expectant, “Hurrah!”

The vehicle burst apart, akin to a firecracker in noise if not light and heat, with shelves swinging open in a multi-tiered wardrobe. Gold link chains and sharply cut gems glittered obscenely in the midday gloom, making Aran squint.

“Wear riches, instead!” The fae puffed out their chest proudly. “Fresh off the anvil of a master silversmith in the Flamecaller’s Great Furnace itself! These dazzling pieces—”

“Fresh?” Aran asked, skeptical. He reached a claw out to the nearest ornament, a bracelet maybe, he’d never bothered learning all their names, close enough to feel for any heat coming off it.

The fae chittered crossly, flapping their wings to shoo him off. “They are very delicate crafts! Do not touch without my say-so!”

He obediently withdrew his claw, no warmer than he’d been before.

They huffed, crests shuttling up and down. “As fresh as you could ever hope for,” they said. “You know how far a trip it is, hm? From the Waste to here? Don’t like what you see, well, go out there and find something better yourself.” They crossed their arms and lifted their snout, considering the matter settled.

Aran supposed they must be waiting for him to break and apologize and buy their entire wagon at full price. The old him might have even felt sufficiently guilty. But he found himself too distracted to care. Just how far a trip was it? The clan had never gone near the Ashfall Waste in their journey from the Plateau to Wispwillow Grove. They’d gone by boat for the most part, almost a straight line across the Sea of a Thousand Currents, avoiding plagued regions and pausing only at Flotsam Town enough days for their ship to stock up on supplies. Aran had never had an interest in the Waste—the mere thought of visiting made him sweat.

“If you don’t like anything, you can just say so,” the fae sniffed, leaning their meager weight on a shelf to cram the contraption back into its folded form.

“Wait! I’m sorry, they’re lovely, but I don’t suppose . . . you could tell me a bit more about this silversmith? The Furnace? What’s it like there?”

The fae hesitated. They peered at Aran suspiciously. “I imagine it’s much like your precious Hearth! Lava, lava, and more lava! Whether it’s sitting in a pool or exploding in your face is just personal preference! Might get some actual fire, if you’re lucky!” They began packing up their wagon in earnest, clearly uninterested in Aran anymore.

The Hearth, the Hearth—Emberglow Hearth!

Aran stood up and stepped over the fae and their wagon, not processing their indignant squawk until he’d strode well past them. Whoops. I should go back and apologize. Instead, he braved the caravan proper and dove into the crowd, determinedly maneuvering it with his destination firmly in mind.

The Matron was at the rearmost end of the wagons, crouched before a gameboard sketched in the dirt with a wizened snapper smoking a pipe across from her. Through half-slitted eyes, the snapper watched the Matron, who stared down at the scatter of game pieces with the intensity of a hawk.

Aran didn’t wait for the match to finish but sidled up to his mate, scarcely nodding to the snapper elder before whispering his idea, the thought, a sudden itching urge he could not ignore, into her ear. She held still until he finished, then turned her head to regard him. He stared into her pale green eyes, so like his own—at least those had not changed—yet utterly unreadable.

Suddenly she bonked her head against his shoulder. “Go, dear. I had hope not to fail you, but if this is what is necessary.” Her wings lifted in the slightest of shrugs. “Then it must.”

As he rarely did, Aran buried his head in her mane, exhaling in relief. Of course she’d understand. Of course she’d send him with her blessing. “I’ll depart now,” he whispered, “so that I may return all the sooner.”

She bore it patiently, then twitched, and he stepped back. The snapper eyed him thoughtfully and Aran dipped his head again, properly this time. “Pardon my rudeness.”

The snapper cackled so harsh and croaking, the nearest raven shed its feathers in envy, and Aran watched her pipe jolt up and down within her jaws without slipping. “Only gave me time to win.” She decisively shoved a piece forward on the makeshift board and leaned back, puffing smugly away at some pattern Aran could not discern with a glance.

The Matron retained her composure, but for a patch of fur that puffed at the base of her tail. Aran winced, and took his leave, so as to not distract Biela during the next round of haggling.

He’d pack some belongings, some supplies. Then he’d track that fae down and get a more detailed travel route to the Ashfall Waste. He was going . . . well. In a way, Aran supposed he was going home.

Aran paced up a bridge arching up over a pool of lava, a cloud of fishy cotton candy clutched in his tail. His steps slowed as he neared the bridge’s apex, then he stopped and looked out over the scattering of lava pools honeycombed across the landscape. Many were bridged like his own, but dragons also strolled right by the edges of the pools, apparently undaunted by the broiling death licking at their feet just a feather away.

Of course, fire dragons put their eggs in those things, so maybe they just hatched like that.

Speaking of . . . Aran sat back on his haunches, tail curling around to keep his cotton candy off the ground, and watched a small group of coatls approach a lava pond only a wingspan in length. Three of them had orange eyes and were obviously well at ease, feathers fluffed and tails curled up happily. They were encouraging the fourth, another coatl but with dark eyes—purple or brown, Aran couldn’t tell at the distance—to approach, who seemed skeptical at best. Still, they eased a woven basket to the ground and unlatched it. The other three chirred encouragement as their friend carefully lifted two craggy brown eggs from within and scooted closer to the lava pond. Aran watched the parent’s face twist, tongue flicking out uncertainly as they peered at the bubbling surface. Then they clenched their jaw and dropped both eggs in at once. Aran’s heart gave a lurch as they slipped beneath the lava—then reappeared a second later, bobbing gently with the slow current of lava.

The coatls cheered, slapping the parent on the back with their wings and coiling tails with them. The parent pressed against their friends for comfort, still watching their eggs. Their outer brown shells had cracked from the lava’s heat, but rather than break away completely, lava gradually crawled up to glow within the fissures. They resembled the Hearth itself, actually, and Aran tilted his head, entranced by the sight.

At last satisfied their eggs weren’t going to explode into a thousand shards, the parent coatl turned and wrapped their wings around their three friends the best they could. A soft keen rose from their chest, heard even by Aran, as the coatl sang their relief and gratitude. The other three joined in, voices melding.

Aran couldn’t stand it. The itch, the ache, in his chest, was too great to bear. He rose and walked swiftly down the bridge, away from the joyous group, his fishy cotton candy whipping from side to side from the force of his flicking tail.

I’m supposed to be happy here, he thought in half-rage, half-despair. The gnawing anxiety worried at the nibs of his feathers. What was wrong with him?

This area of the Emberglow Hearth was claimed by a fire clan, but made open to travelers, particularly those coatls visiting for their migratory mating. Shale-roofed huts clustered in junctions wide enough between lava pits to hold the dragons wandering in and out of the buildings to purchase food, lodging, and other comforts. Of course, a majority of the huts were forges; the sounds of clanging metal was almost louder than the din of that damned coatl singing. Aran threaded around such dragons, headed for his own accommodations. The trip had been a bust, so what, he would just go back and, and, claw his own hide off. Craft his feathers into dangling toys for the hatchlings. He dodged a entire cart of brown eggs rattling down the rough street, alright, several celebratory coatls hanging off the sides, and stared after the,

“Hey stranger,” a dragon called from the entrance of a hut. “Looking for—”

Aran rounded on them, his feather crest flat against his skull, hissing, “I am not looking for company for the evening, I have a partner, she’s just—I’m just—” He stammered, the sudden venom draining away as realization snaked in to coil heavy and cold in his belly.

He missed Biela and the hatchlings, a lot.

“I’m away from home,” he finished, the words coming out thickly from a closed throat. He tried to clear it and blinked rapidly, embarrassed to burst out in such a manner in front of a stranger. “I’m sorry,” he told them, quickly ducking his head to draw the joint of his wing across his snout and steady himself. He’d had to stop using his foreleg for that after his robe caught on his feather crest one too many times.

The hut-owner, a blue-furred tundra, looked more amused than upset. “First time, eh,” they said, not unsympathetically. “The lady couldn’t come along?”

Aran shook his head, miserable. “Is it like this every year?” The mere thought of having to make this same trip yet again—and again—for the rest of his life—Aran tried not to think about it.

The tundra tugged on their mane. “Not every coatl returns annually, ‘least as far as I know.” They shrugged their wings. “Couldn’t tell you the exact number.”

Aran wanted to know if others felt this way, this terrible hollow in his chest, if coming to the Hearth was supposed to alleviate that, if one was supposed to want to come. The tundra was the wrong dragon to ask, of course, and Aran had already wasted enough of their time.

“You called out to me before,” he said awkwardly, feathers prickling self-consciously. “Um, sorry, did you need anything?”

They chuckled, “Just a customer,” and stepped to the side, sweeping their wing back to gesture into their hut—a forge, Aran could see, from the sign emblazoned with an anvil hanging over the door. They tilted their head in invitation. “Care to take a gander?”

Aran was going to politely refuse and remove himself from the scene, but glancing inside the shop, he saw not the typical armor and weapons on display, but gleaming thin-linked chains embedded with intricate cut gems. Racks and shelves of them, in silver and gold, each stone its own subtle individual hue. Aran was intrigued.

He took a step forward. “You made all these?”

The tundra backed up, drawing him into the shop. “Not entirely. I have a partner, too.”

“EH?” Popping out from behind a woven screen, a spiral wrapped in cloths and wearing an eyepiece fixture on their horns glared suspiciously at Aran. Their voice was a high-pitched shriek. “COME TO PURCHASE? NO? THEN GET OUT!”

“Let him see our wares first, darling,” the tundra said smoothly, and with a hiss the spiral ducked out of view again. Sounds of a very small hammer tink tink-ing against what Aran guessed to be a gemstone started up.

“From Dragonhome,” the tundra explained. “Nebb handles the physical craft, and I—” They tapped a claw against the nearest jewelry piece, a circlet with four brilliant white stones. They flared a brighter glow at the touch, washing the room with the scent of magic. For once Aran was glad not to be a gaoler; the stench would’ve been overpowering to his sensitive nose.

The tundra smirked. “I cover the rest,” they said in faux-modesty, eyes sparkling humorously.

“Impressive, both sides of it,” Aran said, wandering between displays. He held his claws up against a few pieces to check its color on him. “Enchanted just for extra flair, or is there some utility . . . ?”

“Depends on which spell you’re after?” they invited.

But Aran wasn’t sure. He rounded a few more racks. Biela wasn’t one for fine jewelry, really, but maybe if he found just the right foreleg brace or tail ring . . .

“THE MEANINGS,” Nebb screeched from their corner. “DON’T FORGET TO EXPLAIN THE MEANINGS.”

“Yes.” The tundra joined Aran where he stood before a display of matching bronze and emerald pieces: beaded drapes for the wings, joined to a graceful collar, and rings sized nicely for his tail. His tail? But yes, Aran pictured himself in the set. The green would bring out his eyes beautifully.

“These are for courage,” they told him. “For facing the unknown with grace.”

Aran ran claws down a wing drape. Its beaded emeralds clinked lightly, not unlike a coatl’s own purring laughter, and it didn’t hurt his ears to hear.

He swallowed. “I used to, ah.” He cleared his throat. “Used to have a thick coat of fur. Not unlike you. Now there’s just—” he gestured disdainfully at his body— “and this horrid thing, so I don’t catch cold.” He plucked at the trim of his robe. “So, I wondered, if you might have a spell for generating, heat? Not open flame,” he added hastily, thinking of his hatchlings curious claws. “But, warmth.”

Oh, to be warm again. That, Aran did not begrudge the Waste. He couldn’t stay here forever, though.

The tundra looked at him and Aran wondered how often they, in the fire region, got that request. But they dipped their head. “Let’s try it out, shall we?” They lifted the collar off the display. Putting it on would require Aran undressing first.

He clicked his jaw, for once more excited than nervous. He could do that. Just try it out.

He pulled the robe up over and off his head.