Panacea

Here is her first memory: She is a child in the sunlight, the lawn is warm and windy, and she is chasing a dandelion puff. (If she catches it, she’ll get to make a wish.) She trips over her feet, tumbling to the soft soil and grass, and she cries out for Illa. She would be crying, if she could, but instead she only manages distressed snivels as she runs into the tundra’s fur.

She tries to, at least, before the barrier stops her midway through. The air solidifies into an invisible wall between the two, and the child freezes, remembering her lessons.

She needs to keep her distance. Right. Otherwise, she might get her mom sick.

“Illa! I got hurt!” She whines, raising a paw to show her scraped knee. The Tundra squints at it for a moment. Her voice isn’t unkind as it drifts through the space between them.

“It’s nothing to worry about.” She assures the child gently. “Do you know what you were born from?”

It’s a speech she’s heard before, but she doesn’t understand it, not really. “Bac-ter-re-a.” She clicks, forcing out each individual syllable in a vain attempt to pronounce it right. “Evil-lu-shone”.

“And most importantly of all, survival.” Illa assures her.

“And virus!” She chimes in, because she knows that one, too. She likes that word best because it’s the easiest to say.

The Tundra’s eyes crinkle into a smile, and she almost looks endeared. The child puffs up her chest, secure in the knowledge that her guardian is proud of her. “See? It’s already stopped hurting, hasn’t it?” Illa prompts, and she looks down at her knee with wide eyes. Oh. It doesn’t hurt, not really? It’s sore, though, and she winces when she gives it an experimental poke.

“You’re a very special dragon.” The witch explains. “You can survive any hardship, and so can those you accept under your wing. Plague isn’t just rot, you see? So you don’t need to be scared when you get hurt.” She motions back to their hut, turning her back on the hatchling. “I have a lot of important work to do, so try to let me focus on it, okay?”

The child nods, wilting even as the Tundra smiles and Illa turns to leave. She listens for a while longer, to the birdsong, to wind, to the dandelion puffs floating far out of her reach.

Her knee still aches, and she wishes she had a band-aid.

Illa named her Pandemic. Whether it was before or after that day, she doesn’t remember.

Her next memory is of her scrambling up the staircase, claws digging into the wood in her hurry. It’s sunny today! She can play in the backyard again, and maybe some more birds have shown up to the bird feeder, even? Her favourites are the tiny ones, they’re bright green with rapid, fluttery wings. She hopes one of those has shown up.

The door isn’t locked. It never is. She jumps up to reach the handle, clings to it as the rickety wood swings open, and-

The lawn is gone. That’s the only way she can describe it. It’s gone. Green grass has shrivelled into dead browns, speckled with gouges of black, pustules of infection glistening red and green. She thinks she screams.

There are bones around the bird feeder, and that’s what makes her cry.



It takes a virtual flood of nature magic from Illa to fix the garden. The witch is exhausted after that, collapsing unceremoniously onto her bed. Pandemic wishes she could help - she offered to help! - but she can’t.

Helping isn’t in her nature.

She watches the birds from the window, after that. It takes them weeks to return to the bird feeder.

Tiny bones mark the lawn, now, overrun by weeds. Pandemic thinks she should find beauty in it, right? Something about survival? Illa says stuff like that, but she doesn’t really understand it.

She doesn’t think it’s pretty. It just makes her sad.

There are certain precautions you have to take, when you invite the embodiment of Plague herself into your home.

The amulet rests firmly around Pan’s neck, even when she’s sleeping - it’s a silent barrier that keeps other dragons (namely, her mother) a safe distance away. It’s not that she’s not allowed to leave the house, it’s just… not a good idea. She saw what happened to the yard. Illa is working on spells and enchantments to contain her magic, so it’s fine.

It’s fine.

She watches from the window, metal cold around her neck.

Months pass, watching from the window. Summer turns into winter, and then back again, and again, and again, and again.

Pan loses count of how many winters it’s been.



Pan is closer to a grown drake than a hatchling, now. She doesn’t believe in ghosts. That would be stupid. It’s just that her room feels like it’s haunted, okay? The floorboards in the basement are always creaky, and there’s scratches on the floor. Her books are worn and well-loved, even the ones she’s never opened. Worst of all, there’s this… dusty, long-abandoned cookie jar on the top shelf. Okay, the cookie jar shouldn’t be spooky, especially with its bright colours, but dulled by dust and age, it looks… sad, somehow?

She really has been here too long, if she’s personifying the cookie jar.

She wants to leave. Her claws itch and she paces throughout the day. She’s pent up and bored. Illa introduces her to crafts - sewing, cooking, candlemaking, painting, but they don’t address the itch, not really. They’re distractions, and they grow less and less effective by the day.

“How are the spells coming along?” She asks her mother with a slight tilt of her head, tucking her wings over her body to catch any corrosive drops that might fall from them. It’s not the most comfortable angle to hold her wings at, but it does beat sizzling holes into the floor.

“I’ve been working hard at it.” Her mother assures with a sorrowful smile. “It’s a hard case to crack, I’m afraid. You’re a very special dragon, Pan.” Illa always says that. Never dangerous, never flawed. Special. Maybe she believed it as a child, but…

“Not all it’s cracked up to be,” She murmurs, “Being special.”

“Plague is always the hardest blessing to bear.” Illa answers in turn. Pandemic does not answer. “She is not merciful to even her chosen. But you’re different, Pandemic. You are kind.”

She does not feel kind. She just feels tired.

Her bed grants her no peace, that night. She dreams, but it is not restful. She turns in her sheets, and when sleeping finally overtakes her -

A voice, distant and hazy -

“... this is… really the way it has to be, huh? It’s just… such a waste. There’s no reason it had to be like this. No reason at all.”

“I know. I’m sorry. You did everything you could. … Thank you, though. For trying.”

It couldn’t have been more than a second later when she blinks awake, but there is no source of the voices, no creak of the basement floorboards. It’s not even morning, and the room is still dark when she wakes, but somehow, the air tastes different.

It reeks of ozone, and there is a note on the corner of her nightstand.

She’s not curing you. Ask her about it and don’t back down, no matter what she says.

You’re so much stronger than you realise yet. I’ll see you someday soon.

- N

Pandemic clutches the note in her claws, and breathes in through her teeth, squinting to make out the words in the low light. “Hello?” She calls out hesitantly, her claws itching for battle, for blood, ancient instincts flickering awake. She braces herself, but there is nothing and no one when she turns the corner. Only the stairs, leading upwards towards the front door, swung open towards the empty night sky.

… had Illa left it open when she came home tonight?

She thinks she should be afraid, but something hotter breaks through the fear that it takes her a moment to identify as anger. How dare someone trespass in her home? In her room? She doesn’t have much except her privacy, and for it to be invaded stings at her ego. She stalks up, her crest bristling, wings instinctively spreading out in a warning stance -

“Who’s there?! Get back! We need to talk!”

- Before she remembers herself, snaps her wings back into place as acid drips and drizzles down the carpet. She curses under her breath, split between darting out the front door to find the intruder and cleaning up the mess. If there was ever anyone there, they’re gone now, she realises dimly. She can’t follow them out the front door. She’ll kill everything she touches.

Still, she stares, for a long moment, holding the note in her trembling claws. Something shifts, heavy footsteps approaching her, and she spins, her claws bared, teeth flashing into a snarl-

And she stares face to face with her mother, who stands at the top of the stairway, silhouetted against the sky. In the low light, Pan can’t make out her face. She swallows hard, and forces out the words she just can’t explain.

“You aren’t fixing me.”

Illa freezes, stiffens. “Where would you ever get that idea? Pandemic, I’m trying as hard as I can.” She implores, and the Wildclaw stares for a long moment, letting out a long breath through her teeth.

“I’ve been like this since I was a baby, mom. Will anything ever change?” She pushes, taking one step up the stairs. “Because I’m starting to think- to think it won’t.”

“That’s no way to speak with your mother, Pandemic.”

She pauses, because… no, it’s not, it really isn’t. She’s being ridiculous. She can’t trust some- some random note over her mother. Shame instantly floods her as she remembers herself, swallowing hard. She breaks her gaze, staring down at the ground. Her bulging eyes can’t water, which is a blessing in disguise, right now. Something about crying right now feels humiliating.

“Can I see your notes on my condition, at least?” It’s meant to be a command, but it comes out like a plea. Illa merely shakes her head, displeased.

“No. You’ve caused enough racket for tonight, Pan. Go back to sleep.”

Don’t back down, the note said, in bold black ink. She has no reason to trust the message. She’s sheltered, not stupid, surely she’s not that hungry for companionship - companionship that she can’t even see. She’s practically chasing ghosts. Even if she did someday meet this N, Pandemic would never be able to touch them, so really- what kind of friend could she be?

But at the same time...

… it’s not an unreasonable request, asking to see her notes, is it? It doesn’t feel like one, at least, not to Pan. Maybe the refusal is just a punishment for her. That would make sense. This is important, though, to the Wildclaw, and that’s not wrong, is it? Denying her the peace of mind that proof would give her just for a momentary outburst, it’s not… it’s not fair.

“No.” Pandemic answers quietly. “I just want to see your notes. I deserve to know everything I can about my condition, right?”

“They’re dense with complex explanations about magic.” Her mother explains, apologetically. “They wouldn’t explain much of anything to you, I’m afraid, but I can tell you everything I know here and now.”

… why doesn’t that feel right? She doesn’t know why, she just knows that it doesn’t. Don’t back down, that damned note whispers in her ear. “That’s fine.” She nods. “I’d just feel better with the peace of mind that you’ve been working on it.” She wants to tack on an apology in the awkward silence that comes after, but she holds her tongue. If she gives an inch, she’ll lose her will and bow, she knows it.

And she doesn’t want to bow right now. It feels important not to, something whispers from deep in her gut. Pan will just see the notes, and she’ll go back to sleep, that’s it. It doesn’t feel like much to ask.

… so why isn’t her mother agreeing to what feels like such a simple request?

“Pan,” Illa scolds in response, none too gently. “That is a horrible thing to accuse me of. I don’t have anything to prove.”

Pandemic still can’t see her face past the shadows. She takes a second step up the stairs.

“I had a nightmare about it.” She lies. It comes surprisingly easily. “It would just make me feel better and help me go back to sleep, mom, please.”

She stands firm. “I said no. You can grab a snack to help you get back to sleep.”

“... but why not?”

“You’re not a hatchling anymore. I’m asking you to accept my boundary, Pandemic, and I’m offering you reasonable alternatives. What else do you want?”

Guilt bubbles up, hot and low in her chest. Framed like that- is she the bad guy here? It gathers at the back of her throat. You’re right, I’m sorry. It would be so easy to say, it’s what she wants to say, but the note whispers otherwise. Illa isn’t going to cave.

Pan can’t, either. She removes her amulet and stalks up the stairs, Illa stumbling back in shock. She ignores her mother’s babbled pleas as she barges into the Tundra’s study, through the one locked door she was never permitted to open. The lock is no obstacle. It sizzles and melts to her touch.

Her mother’s workshop is… small, poorly lit in the moonlight, papers ordered neatly in stacks. A set of runestones rest on the table - one, two, three, eleven, one for each flight, humming and pulsing in time. The arcane and the plague one have grown dim, their light sapped and their power drained. She senses no magic from them anymore.

But for the papers… She lifts the one off the top of the pile, and she squints, pauses, desperately tries to understand.

Her claws shake, her wings drip venom, and Pandemic laughs. Its all she can do, a hysterical laugh wrenching itself from her body. She laughs as her- as Ila is entrapped by rotting pustules and tendrils of pure infection, their home trembling under the weight of so much magic.

“Pandemic, please- please listen!” She begs through her confines, burning blisters forming beneath her fur. “It’s not… like that. I care about you. I love you.”

“You made me like this!” She practically screams back, the pustules tightening until they burst in a shower of infection. “What am I to you, then? Your weapon?”

“My daughter.” Comes the strained answer, and Pandemic stands perfectly still. The infection recedes, leaving the Tundra free- not healthy, but free. She should be grateful enough for that.

The Wildclaw bears her too-many teeth in a warning grimace to come no closer. “You’re pathetic.” She hisses. “I’m leaving. If you try to find me again, I will kill you.” She stalks, turning her back to the pathetic witch, looking towards the door.

It’s still open. The first rays of sunlight have started to creep through the hallway, and outside, the birds are singing. It’s a beautiful day. It’s a beautiful day to break free.

“Pandemic!” She shouts, and despite herself, the Plagueborn freezes. She knows that tone. It’s the tone that means she’s in trouble. Despite her better judgement, she looks back as her mother lets out an awful, wheezing cough. She tries to stumble to her feet, but she cannot stand, and Pandemic kills the impulse to rush over and help her to her feet.

She’s free. From her lies, from this tiny blasted house. She holds onto her anger with both hands, making an active effort to keep it burning.

“Please-” She’s begging, genuinely begging. “If you leave, then- then where will you go? Your powers are too much, you’ll kill- you’ll kill everything you touch.”

Pandemic freezes. Illa lies in a broken heap on the floor. She coughs again, stuttering- “I’m the only one who knows you. I’ve been learning and studying how to neutralise your plague magic since you were born. Nobody else can help you, if you leave, you’ll never- you’ll never be free from it.”

Silence reigns throughout the little house. Pandemic steps towards the open door. The sunlight is so warm on her scales, somehow feeling more real than it does through the window.

The birds sing. In the yard, below the grass, there are hummingbird bones.

Quietly, she reaches out a claw. Ever so gently, she crushes all her hope and swings the door shut. It closes silently with a definitive click. Illa keels over in relief, and Pandemic just feels… tired.

“I promise I’ll keep studying-” She scrambles to say, “I’ll figure out how to fix this. And then you can leave, and see everything you want, do anything, Pandemic. Thank you. Thank you- I love you. I love you so much.”

The Plagueborn shudders quietly. “I love you too.” She manages. It’s not a lie, and it’s not the full truth, either. She looks down at the shuddering Tundra, and quietly picks up the amulet she dropped to the floor earlier. She slings it along her neck, and the invisible barriers between her and the world click back into place, as if they never left.

In that moment she feels so, so tired.

“I’ll fix this.” Illa manages, finally managing to heave herself back to her feet. “I’ll fix everything.”

What choice does Pandemic have except to believe her? “Until then, I suppose we’re stuck with each other.” She answers hollowly. It seems like the funniest thing in the world, in that moment. But she doesn't have the energy to laugh.

“I suppose so.” Illa answers in turn. Pandemic turns, locks herself in her room, and does not leave for what feels like an eternity.

Illa gets to work fixing the house. It takes three weeks before the lingering plague magic is cleansed.

In some small mercy, she buries the animal bones and prays to Altair that her daughter never finds them.




Diseased Dollmaking 1