Art Sales

They whispered to her. As she passed them on her way, when she paused beside a river to rest, they’d find her and speak to her.

When she was younger, she had no control. The voices flowed over one another, their cadence deafening. The whispers were screams and the voices angry. But with time, she learned. Only the loudest, most determined, could be heard now, and even then, faintly.

“He killed me,” said a voice, softly and nearly inaudible beneath the trickle of the brook.

“I’m sorry,” Asteria murmured, more out of reflex than anything. She knew the voices didn’t always hear her, that some were only sated through violence and vengeance. But she couldn’t very well help every spirit she came across, and sometimes words were all she could offer.

“He was always so nice,” the voice sighed, as Asteria packed her things and stood. “Always bringing me presents, telling me he loved me. He was the best thing that ever happened to me.”

“More like the worst,” she replied absently. Her clan was only a few miles away, and if she was quick, she could make it back before nightfall. But there was a chance that Fleta was still on a rampage, calling her a fraud and whining as if Asteria had any control over the future. All she did was tell it how it was, and fate was fickle.

The voice had fallen silent, and Asteria paused. It almost felt… sullen. Resentful even. And she sighed. The one time she let her mouth get away from her, and the stupid thing could hear her. “I’m sure he was wonderful,” she said as concession. And though the spirit was still silent, the air felt lighter somehow.

Stupid love-struck idiot.

“He was always so nice. Always bringing me presents. Telling me he—”

Asteria hurried away.

They repeated themselves sometimes, a broken record of pain and misery. She used to try to reason with them, urge them to give her some hint or clue on how to help. But their mantra only continued, with only the faintest reaction to her voice.

It was best to leave them be.

She had more control when she initiated the communication. Could actually get something meaningful from them, could hear something more than just echoes. But it was exhausting, actively seeking out a specific spirit, and even then, they might not be cooperative.

It was fickle. Everything was fickle.

Time, and fate, and future, and spirits. Voices that came to her out of the blue, crying or screaming or whimpering. The visions that buckled and swayed beneath her touch, turning at the tides and flowing every which way.

The others thought her craft was solid and accurate. That anything she saw came true. That everything she heard was real. But every dragon was in charge of their own fate, and a small change could throw the entire tapestry off.

It didn’t stop them from blaming her in the end.

She dealt in secrets. In learning and discovering as much as she could no matter the cost. She kept pushing, kept shoving, always needing to know more, to find more.

It was lonely work, but she preferred it. Always had. It let her research in peace, to try new spells and new magic. And she was happy. Content even when others didn’t understand her. Even when people viewed her with suspicion or wariness.

… She wished they’d stop. Wished they’d leave her in peace, to pursue to her heart’s content. But they were always there, at the edge of her vision as she went about her search, lurking in the corners and listening to her talk.

If they wanted to waste their time following her, then so be it. She had better things to do than to care about them.

“It must be tiring. Trading it away, coveting it like currency. I can’t imagine…”

“What are you going on about now?”

The two were hiding behind a couple of bushes, Reyna a few feet away doing yet another deal for yet another secret. They weren’t the most inconspicuous of dragons; in fact, Lila wasn’t even trying to hide anymore. But still, they were doing their jobs, and Reyna never seemed to care whether or not they were conspicuous.

… Or maybe she was just that oblivious.

“Just, wouldn’t it be lonely? She’s always by herself, and she’s just… you know?”

“No,” said Lila, and Mina sighed.

“Can’t you at least pretend? For me? No one else is here, and you can just—”

But Lila shushed her, perking up as another dragon appeared. Reyna was talking to him, head tilted, lips twisted in a lopsided grin. It was a wonder she hadn’t gotten herself killed yet. But Mina supposed that Reyna knew what she was doing, even if the rest of them didn’t.

“Isn’t that the same dragon from last week?” Lila asked, shifting to get a better look. They were too far away to hear their words clearly, but it was obvious Reyna wanted something, and the other far too willing to give it.

Mina sniffed. “I wouldn’t know,” she said airily. “You left me behind.”

A poignant pause, and Lila turned to stared at her. “Oh, please. Tell me you’re not still mad about that.”

“Who’s mad? I’m certainly not,” Mina said. “Besides, I’m sure anyone else would like my company. Even Reyna.”

“Yes, of course. Getting in the way of her research, messing up her spells. And then there’s the small matter of her crazy magical powers. Or did you forget about that too while you were busy reminiscing about how dreadfully tragic her life is?”

“I didn’t say that! I just thought she’d be—”

“Lonely. Because that is a definitive trait of someone happy. But look at her.” Lila gestured. Reyna was grinning, eyes bright in her success as she turned away from the dragon, humming some song they’d never heard of beneath her breath. “She’s fine.”

“But—"

“Stop defining people based on your perceptions. Reyna has her brother, her books and scrolls and studies, and that’s all she needs.”

Mina huffed. “I still think it’s lonely.”

In the distance, Reyna ambled away, a slight skip to her step, a sway to her walk, that same song spilling from her lips.

“She doesn’t.”

He never expected to come across her. The rains were too heavy, the winds too strong, and no matter how Anubus squinted, he could barely see three feet before him.

It had been a mistake to come out so late. But he thought he could make it back before the rains came down, and the excitement of a potion being so close to completion had overruled his common sense. A lapse in judgement. One he was loath to repeat.

He was huddled beneath a tree, wondering if he should just forgo the entire adventure when she appeared, sliding into the spot beside him and brows furrowed in slight confusion.

“Who are you?”

“Your worst nightmare.”

But rather than look at him strangely, or take the more logical route and assume he was a threat, she laughed. “Is that so?”

It was strange, looking back, that that one meeting could have changed his entire life. But now, sitting beside Athena, whispering in her ear and getting her soft laughter in return, he supposed he was lucky. Grateful, even.

It wasn’t every day that a rain-soaked evening turned out so well.

She was going to die.

She could feel it in her body, in her soul. The strength leeching from her muscles, the breath torn from her lungs, and she knew.

How much? How much longer until she was impaled on the end of a spear, until she was dead and gone and no one would even remember her. Just some nameless soul, a rotting corpse on the ground, and a muttered question of, “What happened here?” and a similar dismissal, “Who cares.”

The Beastclans moved with practiced synchronization, speed and strength and no reprieve, striking so quickly that Morrigan stumbled, nearly fell, but caught herself just as an arrow whipped past her throat. Her vision was hazy, nerves on fire. Every part of her ached.

But Morrigan made herself get up, to face them with a smile even as her mind screamed at her to give up.

Death made for a terrible story, after all.

When he arrived, she snarled at him. Or maybe she didn’t. Maybe it was all in her head. That she was already dead and dying, dreaming of what could’ve been. It was hard to stay awake, to focus on anything but the ground beneath her feet and the blood roaring in her ears.

He might’ve said something, he might’ve done something. She wasn’t sure. All she knew was that he was beautiful and strong and she was exhausted, so dreadfully tired of everything and everyone and just wanted to—

She was embarrassed when she woke up. Fainting like some damsel in distress, having to be saved by some knight in shining armor. And she told him as much when he appeared.

“I didn’t need your help.”

Her wounds had been bandaged, her world a familiar drugged haze of painkillers.

He looked surprised, mouth parted slightly before blurting out. “Of course not. Did you see how many you killed?”

She hadn’t. And he laughed, regaling her of the fight, of helping her back and how, even half-conscious, she had still argued with him every step of the way.

Love at first sight. Such a cheesy, romantic thing to say when the world was so brutal and cold. But as she listened to him talk, watched his eyes light up as he laughed, she supposed that that phrase was as good as any.

Her world ended in a cacophony of noise. Shouts and screams, the thud of hundreds of footsteps, a dizzying array of lights and sounds and calls of, “Someone get help!”

An accident, they whispered as they passed, pointing and gawking as if she were some dismal zoo display. And she hated how they said that word. Hated how they looked at her afterward, pitying and concerned, as if she were nothing without her career.

But they were wrong. She was so much more than a dancer, so much better than everyone else. She held her head high even as the world moved on without her, as other performers took to the stage with her name mentioned only in passing.

After the flurry of activity and back-to-back shows, life was so dreadfully boring. It was a wonder anyone could do anything. Days blended into one another, nights long and cold, and Julie retreated from society with all the grace of a matriarch. No one appreciated her, despite her wonderful company and her willingness to give advice. It certainly wasn’t her fault they couldn’t take a bit of constructive criticism.

(Though it was certainly more like scathing remarks and thinly veiled insults. But really, that faux pas and that horrible routine? They should be ashamed to call themselves dancers.)

And besides, they should count themselves honored that she even bothered correcting them. Her lavish lifestyle was certainly an acquired taste, but fame favored few. And she was one of the lucky ones.