Art Sales

It wasn’t that hard.

Dragons looked at her and thought such tasteless thoughts. Egotistical, pompous, ostentatious and opulent. They saw only what they wished to see, judging her on appearance and attitude as if that was all she was.

She waltzed into the marketplace, sun reflecting off jewelry and feathers and looking every bit as regal and demure as a queen. They turned to watch her, some in awe, others in distaste, but they looked all the same. And in the end, it was their fault, wasn’t it? For not catching the wares as they restocked, for being distracted by something as plain as another dragon.

They called her a thief, a scoundrel, a siren. Cursed her and insulted her. But Diaphane just dipped her head, smile soft and small and with the barest hint of pleasure, and went on her way.

It wasn’t that hard, Diaphane would say. Anyone with sense could do it. Just a gentle nudge, a tilt of her head, and everyone was falling over themselves to gawk and stare at splendor and beauty as if that was all there was in the world.

Words failed her. Lips moving soundlessly and hands trembling. The curtains were drawn, the room dark.

She could’ve lightened it, could’ve thrown open the windows and tried to smile. But she waited, a silent shadow as they broke down around her. Choked sobs and tears and heartbreak.

There were words she could say. Placative, compassionate. But she swallowed, mouth dry. Tried to find the right ones, the comfort she had to provide. Tried to clasp her hands to keep from shaking, biting her lip to keep from breaking.

‘I’m sorry,’ stood on the tip of her tongue. Small and insubstantial. Vague and impersonal. A word said to bumped strangers or a child with skinned knees. A word said when others failed, when all else was lost and suffocating.

I’m sorry. It must be hard for you. Is there anything I can do to help?

She stayed silent, feeling like a ghost in her own room. Would’ve stayed all day if a hand hadn’t touched her shoulder and drawn her away.

“Were you close?” Asclepias asked, and Isachne blinked, swallowed, looked away.

It was brighter outside. Cheerier. Dragons bustling around, unmindful of tragedy or loss. News would get around soon, but until then…

“Yeah,” she said and cleared her throat. “A bit.”

She could still feel the weight of her hand against hers, hear her laughter and cheer. Always bright and happy, an exuberant greeting and a joke for the day. There’d been so much hope. But that was the problem with hope. It wiggled in no matter how she tried to stamp it down, rooted out a hole in her heart and festered.

She had been getting better, too. Should have never faltered and slipped away from their grasping fingers and searching lights.

Isachne stared at the floor, knew what he’d say. It happens. We can’t save them all. We just have to move forward. All manner of things. And she knew that. She knew. But that didn’t stop the way her heart lurched at the thought, of her throat closing at such a tiny flame extinguished too soon.

Asclepias looked at her, gaze searching. And said, “Do you need a break? I can take your load if you need me to. There aren’t that many.”

Her throat worked soundlessly. Swallowed. “No,” she said. “No. It’s fine.”

“I’m here to support you.”

“Thank you.”

Isachne stood for a moment more, alone in her bubble and watched the dragons bustle past. The sun still shone. Life still moved on. And she took a deep breath, let it go, and forced a smile.

“Good morning,” she said, walking in. “What brings you here today?”

You are blind.

You see shades of black and white. Grey and monotone. Colors bleeding between grasping fingers. Lost beneath scrabbling hands.

You see the night. The black of sky, the thin pinpricks of light. The moon hanging above the clouds, shadows dark and opaque. You shift and wane with the moon, full to half to slivers, your shining laughter to ringing silence to downcast gazes and longing eyes.

I want to pluck away your blindfold. I want to open your crystalline eyes. Fill your world with rapture and color.

You are the morning, the radiant light. The resplendent hues of reds and yellows and in between. You are everything. We thirst for your presence, devour your every word. Your very existence is ambrosia and liquid gold and we are hapless against your splendor.

You are perfect. Ethereal.

But you are blind.

Your colors are muted, your world is dark. You stare at the night, the sky, the clouds, and wish for something more.

You see shades of black and white and long for a world of color.

If only you’d see your own.

She could hear the notes. Feel the music in the air. Behind the background of clan life and the murmur of dragons, she could hear it.

It was exquisite. A melody so encompassing, so wondrously—

“Your face looks weird.”

—And the moment was shattered.

Samantha looked down at the hatchling sitting in front of her, staring with the intent rapture that only young children had, smiled and said, “Does it?”

“Yeah,” said the Imperial. “It got all squishy. Like a— a—”

“—A muck!” chirped another hatchling nearby.

“Yeah!” trilled the Imperial. “It got all squishy like a muck.”

And Samantha laughed, settling down beside them. “And do you know what muck looks like?”

The hatchlings hesitated, glanced at each other. “… I don’t know,” said the Imperial. “But I heard Isaah talking about it! He said— He said—”

“That the cauldron was being mean! And gave him too much silver muck.”

“Well that can’t be good,” Samantha said. “Why don’t you two run off and help him? Maybe you’ll bring him good luck.”

And off the hatchlings went with screeching laughter, and Samantha tilted her head and sighed.

It was too bad the music stopped.

She cared for the hatchlings, the eggs, every member of the clan. She took her time to smile and laugh, to make everyone feel welcomed and appreciated. And if sometimes their gaze lingered for far too long on her left shoulder, or their eyes never quite met hers, she never let it bother her.

To her, it was a badge. A lesson. A remark to everyone she met. She raised her head high, kept her chin up, and dared them to say anything.

To the hatchlings, she smiled, soft and gentle. Told them stories, let them ask questions. And when her mark came up, as it inevitably would, she taught them how it made things better.

Her mutation didn't make her wrong or inferior or any manner of things. It made her just the same as them. And if anyone said otherwise? Well, she just had to prove them wrong, hadn't she?

He never realized anything was wrong.

They did their best to shelter the children, only vague remarks and attitudes. There were doors they were told never to look behind, strange noises in the night, but nothing that shone through the haze of childhood.

Looking back, it was a wonder he never realized it sooner. Parents disappearing at odd hours of the day, mysterious stains around the building the color of rust, the amount of times they were shushed and told to go play somewhere else. But that was normal.

It was only abnormal when the other children disappeared too.

It was only abnormal when he was woken in the middle of the night, pulled from his warm bed despite his protests and a dagger pressed into his hands.

His sleep was riddled by nightmares afterwards, the air saturated with blood. He jumped at every shadow, every slam of door and the clomp of footsteps.

“It’s alright,” they cooed. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

Somehow, it was never all that reassuring.

He tried not to let it bother him. Tried to appear strong and unaffected. He smiled as much as he used to, laughed as often as he could, involved himself in all their clan activities even as a part of him screamed that it was wrong and terrible and this wasn’t right.

He was gone by the turn of the year.

He was so sweet, wasn’t he?

A lamb in a den of wolves. Bright-eyed and naïve. Innocent and so very precious. She wanted to cherish him, pull him close and devour him.

And here he stood. Li’l [NAME], all grown up, staring at her with wide-eyes and that ever present spark of fear.

She smiled. Beckoned to him. “Mommy misses you. Don’t you think it’s time for a family reunion?”

He took a step back, shoulders tense.

And oh, how he surprised her. Ruthless and cunning, the best of them all. He deprived her of her powers, shackled her strength. She could feel her magic beneath her skin, twisting and churning. Yet no matter how she searched inside her, reached for it, they slid from her grasp like water down a drain.

She tossed her head back and grinned, so absolutely proud despite it all.

“Are you going to kill me, sweetheart?”

He gaped at her, burst out, “No!” Scrambled for the words to say. “Never! I’d never—"

He was adorable. So young, and already as malicious as any. Acting all flustered and worried as if he didn’t know that death was often the kinder option.

“Oh, darling,” she breathed, eyes glinting. All playful and sly. She leaned in close, breath teasing his ear. His face twisted in revulsion, but that would change eventually. It would just take some time. A little nudging here and there.

“You’re exquisite.”

After all, she wasn’t going anywhere.

He wasn’t lonely. As the nights stretched on and the days loomed, and every day toiling and working and looking forward to the next project, the next deadline. And he was fine with that. Happy even. This was the life he’d signed up for, the life he wanted. It was everything he dreamed of and more.

He laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, working through the latest problem to the latest invention, and always dealing with his coworkers and their insistant, “Are you sure?” and “I don’t think we should.”

As if he’d ever steered them wrong before. As if he’d ever done anything without meticulous planning. As if they ever did anything but whine and moan and talk about how much work there was and how much pressure, and there were more important things in life than work, Kenya!

But it was fine. Things were progressing smoothly and in a few months time, he’d be done and out of there.

“Don’t you get tired,” his friend once asked, “doing all that?”

“No,” he said, and his friend paused, squinted at him.

“Uh huh. Okay. Well, once you decide to get off your high horse and actually take a break, some of us guys are getting together if you wanted to come.”

And then he was alone with an empty glass in front of him and rolling his friend’s words over in his mind.

Arrogant? Him? Never.

He just had more sense than to throw away his life on trivial matters. And if they weren’t going to take it seriously, then that was their fault. Who needed them anyways?

He stared at the empty chair across from him, listened to incessant ticking of the clock, and scoffed.

He wasn’t lonely.