They say her name is a whisper. Spoken only in quiet breaths that cut through the night like knives. They say she will outlast. As long as those who would tread the lines of our world and Theirs remain. They say she knows. Stories and tales woven and weathered by time and fading memories. They say she archives. Records written in ink on parchment or digitized in countless screens. They say she helps. Call out for the Keeper. She will find you.
You are a fool. You shouldn’t have accepted such deal.
You shouldn’t have cheated at exams and accepted scholarship they brought.
You shouldn’t have ruined Pince’s things.
You shouldn’t have involved yourself with Forbidden major.
You shouldn’t have come to Elsewhere University at all.
You shouldn’t have done many things, but here you are and thinking otherwise is stupid. May ifs never helped anybody. Pince is bitch, but she is bitch who survived four years as part of Forbidden major, and she has your Name and knows you cheated. She is willing to give up both memories (you have bottle that can suck them out if they are freely given, courtery of weird fae who read too much Harry Potter) for small, small price.
It takes you four months to get inside. Old English building is, well, old and abandoned and ruined and something in back of your brain freezes from fright and tells you to flee, but you ignore it even as it pounds upon your skull like hammer.
Caves and tunnels that stretch below are dark, humid, rocky things, full of sharp cliffs and steep paths. You almost break your neck trying to find way deep, deep down even as your mind is clawing itself in pieces.
The faery ballroom you find is stuff of dreams, even abandoned and ruined and scorched like this, and you have to close your to prevent yourself from being overloaded with its majesty and left kneeling at side of forgotten statues (the screams in your bones certainly help).
When you get to bottom, you think you should have risked expulsion and coercement. At least you would have lived.
Here is thing about dragons-they are creatures of Else, but of blood and bone too. In some cases it means you get no benefits but all weaknesses. You aren’t so lucky to deal with such things.
Dragons have magic in their hearts, magic that allows them to fly and exist and shrug off attacks with their thick hide and magical fire that cannot be extinguished but can consume anything. And they aren’t bound to only speak truth (not that they speak to lesser beings all that often), nor can belief limit them, nor can they only exist in thin spaces of world (though they are much, much more preferable). They are bit like Crows in that regard-they have power, and they don’t use it to play games or bargain-they just take.
Some will tell you first dragon was ordinary lizard that stumbled in deep Elsewhere and was changed by its magic. Others will claim that fae created dragons and all other such creatures like vampires and werewolves, while yet third will claim original dragons were powerful halfbreeds. Whatever the truth is, you can’t move from screams of your ancestors you inherited with your blood.
Wyrm rises, for even smallest footstep can alert it. Gargatuan, majestic and terrible, muscled body and thick hide and sharp claws and sharper teeth and wild eyes and fire that can consume even immortal, shapeless fluid true form of fae. It’s wings are as wide as roof of EU’s buildings, it’s teeth as white as it’s marble and it’s eyes as angry and arrogant as that of it’s most elitist professors.
And it smells thief thief thief all over you.
You can’’t move. You are small, small thing, a fly and prey who meddled in things she should have left alone. You are no hero to charge at Wyrm, even if you had training and weapons and magic. You are just dumb, dumb girl who bargained stupid bargain. And Wurm advances, it’s eyes lazily locked on you, considering whether to smash, eat or burn you.
Until it smells something else. And Else, of course.
Something Fair.
It turns, with rage and mockery and hunger, to face foolish fae, the small sprite that dared go against one of Great Drakes of Old, a puny thing of magic and elements bound to Else that bore it and stupid beliefs of mortality that force it to accepts limitations and weaknesses imposed by belief…
There are many times, many realities, many EUs, all bound by Elsewhere.
There is EU where dragons have risen and rode across skies and burned down world.
There is EU where strange plague broke across world and dead rose against living.
There is EU where war came in silver ships from above and blasted down world.
There is EU where men became wild wolves and society collapsed in death and packs.
There is EU where men made contact with demons, and fallen angels whispered lies and sins into ears of men.
There is no world where a creature has risen against Tall One-or at least continued to exist to live tale (not dead, but unmade-big difference. Death is state of being, and Tall One condemns you on unbeing from moment your soul comes in existence).
Wyrm has lived for tens of thousands of years, born from egg of another Great Drake, it has ravaged and burned and feasted on foolish beings, mortal and not since it can remember. It murdered heroes, destroyed cities, stole hoards and castles.
And yet, it is a small, small thing, a speck of dust to this abomination, avatar of True Royal, piece of creature from Before the first universe and very time came to be, a mad, senseless thing that predates belief and life and reality, above gods as it they are above ants Power that could break creation without noticing, like swatting a fly, the monster from bottom of Elsewhere, one of those so so deep that they are almost close to The Queen (pray, pray She never wakes up).
It is a piece, as close to True Royal and as similar as scale is to Wyrm’s power. But what does it matter to small, small things when creature scale came from is greater than infinity.
The Tall One passes, as if Wyrm isn’t even worth noticing (it prays it is, prays so hard to gods it can’t name), without sound or shadow, and one of it’s long, long fingers brushes your shoulder.
You have been Forbidden Major too long to not know what tragedy it heralds.
“Could you still eat me?” You ask, desperate. You think you see glint of tear in amber eye as Wyrm shakes head and shivers curled in corner/
Part from story I may or may not write someday. I hope you like it. Thanks for this amazing world and thanks to all fantastic writers who wrote other stories and made each day enjoyable. I hope you are okay with me using Tall One like this.
