It is time to officially announce the members of Team Tolkien for the 2025 Inklings Challenge
Members of Team Tolkien are challenged to write a science fiction or fantasy story within the Christian worldview that fits into one of these two genres:
Secondary World Fantasy: Stories that takes place in an imaginary realm that’s completely separate from our world
Time Travel: Stories featuring travel through time
These genres are open to interpretation, and creativity is encouraged. You can use either or both of the prompts within your story, or if you’re feeling ambitious, you can write multiple stories.
Members of Team Tolkien are also asked to use at least one of the eight Beatitudes to inspire some part of their story.
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they who mourn, for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the land.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are they who are persecuted for the sake of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Writers are challenged to complete and post their story to a tumblr blog by October 21, 2025, though they are encouraged to post earlier if they finish their story before that date. There is no maximum or minimum word limit. Writers who have not completed their stories before the deadline are encouraged to post whatever they have written by October 21st and post the remainder at a later date. Writers are also welcome to post the entire story after the deadline.
Posting the Stories
All stories will be reblogged and archived on the main Inklings Challenge blog. To assist with organization, writers should tag their posts as follows:
Mention the main Challenge blog @inklings-challenge somewhere within the body of the post (which will hopefully alert the Challenge blog).
Tag the story #inklingschallenge, to ensure it shows up in the Challenge tag, and make it more likely that the Challenge blog will find it.
Tag the team that the author is writing for: #team lewis, #team tolkien, or #team chesterton.
Tag the genre the story falls under: #genre: portal fantasy, #genre: space travel, #genre: secondary world, #genre: time travel, #genre: intrusive fantasy, #genre: earth travel
Tag any themes that were used within the story: #theme: poor in spirit, #theme: mourn, #theme: meek, #theme: righteousness, #theme: mercy, #theme: clean of heart, #theme: peacemaker, #theme: persecution
Tag the completion status of the story: #story: complete or #story: unfinished
Team Members
The writers assigned to Team Tolkien are:
@afairmaiden
@ashknife
@bookwormswillruletheworld
@bytes-and-blessings
@c4ts4ndstuff
@catkin-morgs-kookaburralover
@clarythericebot
@confetti-cat
@ecceagnesdarling
@esters-notepad
@find-the-path
@galahadiant
@greater-than-the-sword
@griseldabanks
@humanradiojmp
@icwasher
@in-echoes-forever
@incomingalbatross
@justhereforthesherlock
@kanerallels
@lauraschiller
@leseigneurdufeu
@lover-of-the-starkindler
@muse-write
@nervousbookmouse
@no-mere-mortals
@physicsgoblin
@queenlucythevaliant
@quill-driver08
@redaarin
@rkwilder
@rosesnvines
@secretariatess
@seleneisrising
@simplyghosting
@starriverarcaneparallax
@sunflowerjune
@themightytej
@tornadointhetundra
@yet-the-world-spins-on
Writing resources, including the Challenge overview, FAQ, writing prompts, and discussions of the genres are available at the Inklings Challenge Directory. Any writers with further questions can contact the Inklings Challenge blog for guidance.
Welcome to the Inklings Challenge, everyone! Now go forth and create!
Team: Team Tolkien - "Time Travel"... ish. Okay, that's a little bit of a stretch. Maybe thematically.
Beatitude: "Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy."
@inklings-challenge
Title: Sunny Valley Daycare
note: I wrote this all today
“I’m great with kids,” I told the woman at the desk. “Really.”
She looked at me over her glasses, and I wasn’t sure she believed.
I wasn’t sure I believed either. My only experience with kids so far had been babysitting my bratty cousins when I was fifteen and they were nine and ten. They’d given each other haircuts with the craft scissors while I was upstairs doing homework, and I’d been banned from babysitting ever again.
“Fine,” she said. “You’re hired. You can show up tomorrow at 10am and we’ll give you a little tour of the place.” Ms. Angelica had a tired, care-worn aspect, it seemed, when I had first laid eyes on her, but now she smiled warmly, and I thought I could see a sincere grandmotherly air coming through.
“Oh, one other thing.” She eyed the phone in my hand. “We have a strict no-cellphones policy. It’s for the children.”
“Of course, ma’am.” I quickly hid the thing in my purse. “Privacy concerns, I get it.”
The next morning, when I showed up, I left my phone in a wicker basket near the door of Sunny Valley Daycare, behind Ms. A’s desk.
The building was in a poorer part of town. It was part of a concrete strip, with an empty building on the left and a tax office on the right. There were shabby apartment buildings before and behind. But over the building, in bright, inviting letters in primary colors, were some whimsically tilted letters spelling out, “Sunny Valley Daycare”. Posters of smiling children and animals and cartoon insects filled the windows.
“Here’s where we have the babies,” said Ms. A, opening a door to a room with thick mats where about twenty babies under the age of two sat or waddled about from toy to toy chewing on bottles. I noted a couple of other aides there, but none of them looked at me.
“When you work in here you’ll be doing lots of diaper changes, bottles, and so on.”
She opened the next door. “Here’s the toddlers.” There was a room full of toddlers, with bright paintings on the walls and crayons and paper strewn about some tables.
At the third door she showed me a room with several dozen 3 and 4 year olds. In this final room at the end of the hall, there were large windows, streaming plentiful golden sunlight. The walls were filled with colorful educational posters, and like before, there were craft projects in progress, with painting added to the mix. There was a bright red and blue checkered mat across the floor.
“We’ll start you here,” said Ms. A.
I was delighted to start there, and felt it would be easier. At least the kids could talk.
Every day after that I got on at 10. I dropped my phone in the basket and got straight to work. We were working on the letters and numbers right now, and the boys and girls were making good strides. It was nice. Not only could the kids talk, they were eager to do so. I found out everyone’s favorite dinosaur and favorite color and favorite food pretty quickly.
Starting at 10, I was never there for the arrival time, so I never saw any of the parents or guardians, who came by between 8am and 9. My shift was over at 2, as well, and I was pretty sure that pickup was at 3. It was a very convenient shift, so convenient for me that I didn’t dare to question it for fear it would be changed.
In the same vein, although there were dozens of children, there was never anyone in the parking lot but me. I guessed the other staff parked down the street because the lot got too full when the parents came by for pickup and dropoff, but what with my late arrival and early departure, no one ever complained about my parking.
Things continued on that way for 3 or 4 weeks.
I moved from the pre-K room to the toddler’s room, and then one day finally I was put into the babies’ room. I was all nerves about it.
“I haven’t really worked with this age group before,” I admitted. “They’re a bit more… dependent. I worry I’m going to do something wrong.”
“If anything’s wrong they’ll let you know, darling,” said Ms. A. “They do tend to be a bit fussy, but they respond well to comfort.”
Sure enough, soon after I got into the room one of the babies started wailing. I looked at her and back at Ms. A. She nodded.
I picked up the baby, with a “hoof” at her weight. She was wearing a sticker labeled “Jane”. I bounced her gingerly in my arms. Gradually Jane started to quiet down. She snuggled in closer to me, sucking her thumb and starting to close her eyes.
I blinked rapidly, looking at Ms. A for approval.
She nodded in approval.
Still feeling slightly stunned and awkward, I began to sway to rock Jane, surprised it seemed she had already fallen asleep. She had a slight smile on her lips. For a moment I felt as though she weighed almost nothing at all.
Ms. A smiled and nodded. “Good,” she said. “That’s good.” She sounded suddenly older when she said it, a rich, full accent that reminded me of my great-grandparents.
“We have to be good to them, darling. You never know if this is the only love they’re going to get.”
“I was slightly confused and disturbed by her comment, but didn’t say anything. I suppose I assumed she had misspoken in some way. It was indeed possible some of these children weren’t being loved at home, and the thought was heartbreaking. I wondered what Ms. A had seen in her time.
“Our kids come from … troubled backgrounds,” she supplemented.
I was surprised, at that, since they’d all seemed quite ordinary to me, but I wouldn’t know.
After that, when I went back to the pre-K, I hugged the kids a little tighter as I was leaving. They seemed to appreciate it, I thought. They were coming along pretty well in their letters and numbers, and I felt proud of myself.
“What’s it like where you work?” my mom asked again. “I wish you had at least one picture or something.”
“I told you about the cell phone policy,” I said.
“I know,” she said. “Well, it’s a shame that they don’t even have a functional website. If they ever take some official pictures or something, be sure to let me know.”
I nodded. “Yeah.”
As it turned out, an unexpected opportunity occurred the very next day. After work I stopped by the store to pick up some milk. I reached for my phone to check it off my list. My hand came up empty in my purse. It was just at that moment I realized I’d left it at the daycare, in the phone basket.
It would have been another 30 minutes home, and I had no choice. With the milk warming in the backseat, I turned around to get my phone.
I pulled up to Sunny Valley under a gray sky. At first I thought nothing of being the only car in the lot, but then it occurred to me that it was 3pm. Wasn’t this pickup time?
I locked my car and slipped into the building. The door squeaked as I pushed it
open. I looked around. The place appeared empty.
“Ms. Angelica?” I called out. There was no answer.
Pickup time had come and gone, it seemed. Even the other aides were gone. Sunlight still came through the far windows but it felt colder than usual on the red and blue carpet. Perhaps Ms. A was in the bathroom doing some janitorial work. It didn’t matter, I was only here to get my phone. I walked around behind the desk area and found the basket with my phone in it. There it was, sure enough.
I picked it up, then a thought occurred to me.
There were no kids around right now, so surely that meant it was okay to snap a picture of the building, at least.
I pulled up my camera and tried to get the floor, with the toys and the sunny windows and the colorful mats, in the image. Strangely, the lighting seemed really bad. I examined the picture more closely. It had come out all dark except for the spots of light at the windows. Something was really badly wrong with my exposure settings, I thought.
But no time to stick around, it would be awkward if Mrs. A came out and saw me with my phone. I had a pang of half-guilt. I went out to the car and turned on the engine, then I sat in the lot and started fiddling with the image.
It wasn’t… but this couldn’t be the image I’d taken inside the daycare. Could it? The building was empty. There was nothing on Ms. A’s desk, not even a computer. There was trash all over the floor. Trash? No, that was plaster and drywall. There was a gaping hole in the ceiling. Only the windows were there all right, but there were no toys or mats or posters.
I looked up again at the building, and my heart jumped. The posters were gone. The windows were dark, I couldn’t see inside at all. On second look, they were blacked out. Where was I?
I jumped out of the car, ran up to the building and pulled on the door I had just come out of. It was locked.
This was the right building, wasn’t it? But of course it was, I was just inside. Bewildered, I stepped back to look up at the words on the building.
At first it seemed empty. The place was a derelict. Not even the tax office was open. If I hadn’t known better, it would seem like the entire strip was abandoned, probably slated for demolition.
Then I looked a little closer. There once had been letters on this building, yes. But the only trace remaining was the place where the paint underneath was a little less sun-faded, a little less flaked, leaving a dim stencil of the writing. The words were hard to make out, but I squinted until I could read what they said all the way to the end.
SUNNY VALLEY ABORTION CLINIC
On my way home, I received a text from an unknown number.
Fiona had been called a “problem child” before. A “nuisance” by less charitable tongues; a “difficult girl” by more charitable ones. To hear her mother speak, setting Fiona on the beaches under the cliffs of Dover would be the best way to avoid invasion, as surely not even the nazis would wish to have to deal with her if they could avoid it.
But Fiona's mother, though famous in her own microcosme of London society, was not in charge of the defense politics of Great Britain in this winter of 1940, and so when it was decided the children of London were to be sent away, it was to the countryside, and not the beaches, that Fiona was sent.
She arrived by the last train of the day in Lambford, a small village that was home to a hundred farmers and their families, if one counted the hills and valleys around the village as part of it; it was also home, under the same logic, to a baronnet's family, the Boones of Lambford, who lived in Ravenhurst House, half an hour by car from the station of Lambford. Those Boones of Lambford were the ones who would keep her, her mother had said, not by virtue of having many free rooms, an argument one would surely find sensible in that situation, but by virtue of being related to her by blood. Boone was, indeed and as a matter of fact, Fiona's last name.
She arrived in Lambford, as it has been mentionned, by the last train of the day. There she stood, for a good half hour, under the pouring rain, on a deserted platform, in her burgundy coat and matching hat, with a small suitcase in her hand – it contained a spongebag, her teddy bear from when she was three, although she'd told her mother not to pack it, and a couple of changes of clothes. Her grandmother, the old Lady Boone, had told her mother that there was plenty of clothes and toys at Ravenhurst House, and the little girl needn't be loaded like a packmule.
Of course, all that was all fine and dandy, but of very little use to Fiona now that she was drenched and alone at the station.
Finally, as the sun was setting, a horse-drawn cart came into view. It was led by a pile of clothes, at the center of which probably lay a person, although that person was not visible at all beneath the fabric.
The pile of clothes grunted towards Fiona:
“'you the girl I have to bring to Ravenhurst House?”
By that point, Fiona, who was twelve, and a very impatient child, had decided she would take the first hand out of the station, whoever it belonged to, and she jumped in the cart with a resounding “yes!”, without much care to make sure the pile of clothes had actually been sent by her grandmother.
The pile of clothes deployed an umbrella, a very futile effort considering Fiona was already soaked, and clicked its tongue at the horse, making it turn around and lead them back from whence the cart had come.
“You prob'ly wonder what Ravenhurst House looks like.” the pile of clothes said.
“Not really.” Fiona said.
She didn't care a notch what the house looked like or whether she would get along with her grandmother. She hated everything and everyone at the moment, although she reserved the right to change her mind later, when she would be dry and fed.
“Well, that's the monstrous thing in the distance.” the pile of clothes went on, pointing to a dark silhouette on the horizon. “Built in the middle ages, will ya believe that?”
“I don't see how it could be hard to believe it.” Fiona shrugged.
“Aye, I guess.” the pile of clothes shrugged back.
The rest of the journey happened in complete silence, which Fiona quite liked. Then, at the door of Ravenhurst House, she was greeted by the elderly Lady Boone, her paternal grandmother, who thanked the pile of clothes (a Mr Boggis) for bringing Fiona back from the station.
“Is Mr Boggis your servant?” Fiona asked as she followed her grandmother in. “Mum said you had servants and lived the castle life.”
“How candid it sounds when it comes out of a child's mouth.” Lady Boone chuckled. “This house isn't what it used to be. There's Mr Boggis, the gardener, and Mrs Highweaver, the housekeeper and cook. I guess you could call them my servants.”
“As opposed to what?” Fiona asked.
Lady Boone had a nostalgic smile, and deployed her arms to embrace the whole of the house.
“As opposed to the fifteen servants – not counting the gardeners team – that staffed this house when I first arrived there, I suppose.”
“Was it when you married my grandfather?” Fiona asked.
“Let's get you out of these drenched clothes, and get you fed. Then we'll answer all your questions.”
Not ten minutes later, Fiona was eating chicken soup in clean pajamas, and Lady Boone, with her own bowl of soupe in front of her, explained to Fiona:
“I knew your grandfather of old. I was a child in the 1860s who came to play with him and his brother often, long before I married him in 1890.”
“So you were friends?” Fiona asked.
She'd always found it weird that people might want to fall in love and marry someone. That was a grown-up thing only, in her eyes. But finding comfort in the company of a friend certainly was a universal experience.
“I loved both the brothers dearly.” Lady Boone said. “We were the best friends in the world, with a couple of other neighbours.”
Fiona looked at the wedding portrait crowning the chimney. A man in a navy uniform and a lady in an empire-waisted dress were staring ahead, next to each other.
“Is that you and Grandfather?”
Lady Boone looked at the child, bit back a “how old exactly do you think I am?” by fear of the answer, and elected to reply:
“No, these are your grandfather's grandparents. I have a photograph of your grandfather and myself, wait a minute.”
She rummaged through a couple of drawers in that same dining room, and came back to the table, giving Fiona a black and white photograph of a much more period-appropriately dressed victorian couple in the 1880s.
“We weren't married yet.” she added. “He had just finished college and I was managing my father's estate as he was ill at the time, but he came to visit me every occasion he had.”
She put another picture next to it on the table, a watercolour drawing of five children playing in the grass, this time.
“Your great-uncle, Michael, had painted this. He was quite the artist. That's him, over there, and that's your grandfather as a teenager, and me, in the pink dress, and the blue dress is our neighbour Rachel, and the last one is George Renfield, an old friend of ours as well.”
“What happened of the group of friends?” Fiona asked.
Lady Boone sighed mournfully, and cryptically answered:
“Life happened. I believe I am the last one left alive, although I have had no news of George in fifty years, and for all I know he might be alive somewhere in the colonies.”
“Uh.” Fiona said. “Where am I sleeping tonight?”
The change of topic achieved to shake off the memories from Lady Boone's mind, and she led her granddaughter through corridors and staircases to the bedroom that had been made up for her.
*
It was about two in the morning when Fiona woke up in a startle, and, guided by some instinct she didn't know she possessed, she went down the first flight of stairs she found, and opened a door. That door revealed two kids sitting on a carpet, playing a boardgame.
One of them, a blond boy, looked in her direction, and asked:
“Who are you?”
The other boy, with brownish hair, startled, and looked towards Fiona, but didn't see her.
“You goof!” he exclaimed, punching his brother's arm. “You scared me for a second.”
“What do you mean?” the blond kid asked.
“Well, what with looking at the door and speaking as if there was some intruder!”
“You mean you don't see her?” the blond child asked.
“Shut up, Michael.” the brown-haired child retorted. “This is 1879, for God's sake. I don't believe in ghost stories anymore.”
Michael and Fiona shared a look that make it clear to both of them that the other was just as surprised as them, and then the soft glow of the candles lighting the room disappeared, as did the boys. Fiona found herself alone in a cold room, from which she barely found her way back to her own room.
*
At breakfast the next day, Lady Boone asked Fiona how her night had been. As Fiona had never been one to let politeness get in the way of a bit of complaining, she quite frankly replied:
“I got woken up at two, and then I think I saw a ghost.”
Of course, she expected her grandmother to laugh at the declaration, but instead, she came closer, and fiercely asked:
“Was it from the future, or from the past?”
“What are you talking about?” Fiona asked, bewildered by the reaction.
She had expected doubt, not that question!
“Was that ghost dressed like in past ages?” Lady Boone asked again. “Please, answer me quickly.”
“It was a child from the last century.” Fiona shrugged. “Does it really matter.”
Her grandmother let herself fall back on her chair, and sighed:
“It's no use hiding it from you anymore, but I thank God that it was the past that spoke to you.”
“Hiding what from me?” Fiona asked, curious.
“There is... some weird thing going on in our family.” Lady Boone said. “When one of us comes within a year of their own death, they will receive the visit of a visitor from the future, there to help them with some business they have. And of course, it means that from time to time, one of us will randomly find themselves going back in the past, and be that visitor of the future for someone else. I know it to be true because I once helped out a young girl from the War of the Roses, when I was about sixteen.”
“A young girl?” Fiona repeated. “So she died a year later?”
“I am afraid so.” Lady Boone said.
“And so my new friend the ghost will die in a year as well?” Fiona asked.
“A year for him. It's fifty or five hundred years ago for you. The death is inevitable; but we can give them some peace of mind or some advice, or simply be their friend for the time they have left.” Lady Boone replied.
“So what, we can see ghosts?” Fiona asked again.
“No, we really do travel back in time.” Lady Boone said. “I have taken back from my travels to the reign of Richard III a couple of objects which I can show you later if you wish. Likewise, make sure not to get too far from the house when you do travel back. The walls haven't moved in centuries here, but you might find yourself in someone else's house by travelling to the past, sitting in a field, and travelling back suddenly into a newly build neighbourhood in our time.”
“I imagine it would be rather awkward.” Fiona said.
“Quite awkward indeed.”
Fiona was not fully sure that her grandmother wasn't pulling her leg with that story, but at the same time, she knew she had met that ghostly boy, and his brother who couldn't see her, and despite the nonsensical tone to it all, it seemed to Fiona that it was the truth. All that was left to figure out was which of the boys was supposed to die, and what her role was supposed to be in it.
Author's Note: Since most of my original stories are Secondary World fantasy novels, I thought I'd use the @inklings-challenge to write something in one of those worlds I've already developed. This is the backstory of one of the supporting characters in my story The Ambassadors. In the main story, he's a middle-aged man, so it was lots of fun to catch a glimpse of him when he was much younger. He's one of my favorites, so I hope you like him!
Something that would be clear if you knew the main story, but I couldn't figure out a smooth way to explain in the prose of this story, is that the character changes his name in between scenes. The POV character remains the same throughout.
Also, Gyvael = guh-VIE-ell
With one last, earth-shattering roar, the great dragon crashed to the ground, shuddered, then fell still. For a moment, a ringing silence. Then a chorus of a dozen ragged cheers echoed off the mountainside as knights raised swords, shields, and bows in triumph.
Gavin didn't cheer. All he could do was stand, breathing hard and staring up at the green-scaled haunches rising over his head like a shimmering green hill. The long, spiked tail he'd been desperately dodging mere moments ago now lay still on the ground, like one of the huge snakes they said lived in the wild forests to the south, that bore no venom in their bite but could wrap around a man while he slept and crush him to a pulp.
He looked down when he heard a rattling sound, and realized his hands trembled on the hilt of his sword. The plates of his armor clanked together quietly. He quickly sheathed his sword again. It had not tasted blood.
With greater difficulty than he should have had because of his trembling hands, Gavin pulled off his helmet, breathing deeply of the fresh mountain air. It was over. His legs felt like jelly, his heart thudded dully in his chest...but at least it was over.
“Friends!” cried a voice. “My brothers!”
Looking up, Gavin saw Sir Renwick standing on the back of the felled dragon, holding his sword aloft. He'd taken off his helmet as well, and now his black hair fluttered in the breeze like a banner.
“At last we have slain the beast! We have won much honor today!” The knights lifted their voices in another rousing cheer, and Sir Renwick waited for them to quiet again. “But more importantly, the flocks and fields of Grenmoor need fear this monster no longer. And we have taken one more step on the path to peace in our land!”
“Three cheers for Sir Renwick!” someone called, and everyone joined in while Sir Renwick grinned and lifted his sword in response.
Everyone except for Gavin. He tried to feel the exuberance the others felt—his first dragon! Protecting the innocent people of his kingdom! It was all he'd ever wanted, all he'd ever dreamed of when he'd become a squire so long ago.
And yet Gavin found his gaze straying to the head of the enormous green dragon. He could see one eye, half-open and staring blankly at nothing. Just minutes ago, those eyes had been flung wide open, filled with fear. Desperate terror. Furious rage. It wasn't all that different from the eyes of cornered animals on the hunt...and yet....
“So how do you feel, Sir Gavin?” A hearty voice and a hand clapped loudly on his shoulder broke Gavin out of his thoughts. Looking up, he saw Sir Renwick examining him with a shrewd eye and a sympathetic smile. “You are now a dragon slayer!”
Gavin swallowed, finding himself unable to look his captain in the eye. “I didn't...my sword barely touched the dragon.”
“Ah, true.” Sir Renwick put his hands on his hips, surveying the dead dragon with satisfaction like it was a field they'd just tilled with their own hands. “But your distractions with its tail were vital to our success. Sir Sigmund and I could never have driven home the killing blows if we'd had to worry about being clobbered with that.” He pointed at the cluster of deadly spikes at the end of the dragon's tail lying a few feet away. One had scraped across Gavin's breastplate and left a gouge in it that he doubted any amount of buffing would get rid of.
Looking back at Gavin's face, Sir Renwick's expression sobered. “You showed true bravery today, Sir Gavin.” He put a hand on the younger man's shoulder again, shaking him slightly. “I assigned you to the position I did, not because I didn't think you could handle the greater responsibility, but because I knew you would not let me down. And you have not. You should be proud of what you've done this day.”
Gavin nodded. He tried to smile, but his muscles didn't seem to want to obey him.
“Also,” Sir Renwick added in an undertone, glancing around to be sure no one was eavesdropping, “there is no shame in feeling a bit unsteady after your first dragon. I keeled over in a dead faint after mine. But if you want to get sick in privacy, I might suggest the cave.” He nodded to the den from which the dragon had emerged. “The men will be a while collecting trophies anyway.”
With another bracing clap on the shoulder, Sir Renwick turned and headed over to where a couple of the other knights seemed to be trying to remove the dragon's huge head. Several others were sawing away at talons or scraping off the enormous green scales. Sir Jarold seemed to be trying to catch some of the blood still dripping from the dragon's wounds in a flask. Dragon blood was worth twice its weight in gold at an apothecary.
It was the same as when they felled a boar or hunted down a pack of wolves. They would skin the animal, eat its meat, and sell its pelt. So why did his fellow knights' actions suddenly feel like a violation?
Gavin followed Sir Renwick's advice and trudged into the cave, though he didn't exactly feel sick or faint. He just couldn't stop trembling. And he couldn't get the sight of that mighty beast out of his mind—rearing up on hind legs, wings stretching out to either side, roaring and snarling with eyes so full of fear....
He sighed, shaking his head as he wandered farther into the cave, trailing a hand on the rough wall. What was wrong with him? It must just be the nerves. Never mind that he had been in danger countless times, even killed a man when they'd surprised a camp of brigands who'd been waylaying travelers. But he supposed it made sense that a dragon would be on a completely different level.
Gavin suddenly realized he'd turned a bend in the passage and could no longer see the cave mouth. He halted, intending to turn back...but then he realized the cave wasn't completely dark as it should have been around the bend of a rock wall. Farther in, a dim shaft of light filtered down from some opening high above, gently illuminating the inmost chamber.
Something glittered on the cave floor, casting prismatic reflections on the walls. There were all those tales of dragons sleeping upon a bed of treasure, hoarding it for years until an intrepid adventurer stumbled upon it and made his fortune. Never mind that Sir Renwick had laughed and told him that no dragon he'd ever faced possessed so much as a single golden coin—for what use could such riches be to a senseless brute?
Nevertheless, Gavin continued into the inmost chamber to investigate. Several bones lay in the corner, a testament to the dragon's meals, but much fewer than Gavin would have expected from the den of a ferocious predator. And the stench of death and decay was absent from the cave, as if the dragon routinely cleaned its living area. A pile of dead leaves and branches lay against the far wall, with a depression in the middle like an enormous nest.
And there, safely ensconced within the space where the dragon must have lain to sleep, sat an enormous egg. Almost as big as Gavin's head, it lay in a puddle of light from the hole in the ceiling. And this egg wasn't white or brown like any egg Gavin had ever seen, nor was it blue like a robin's egg. This egg glimmered a vibrant purple, like a single enormous amethyst.
Sinking to his knees in the nest of soft leaves, Gavin pulled off one of his gauntlets and reached out a trembling hand. His fingers brushed the smooth shell, warm to the touch in the sunlight. Upon closer inspection, he saw faint pinkish striations in the purple shell, almost like veins in a stone.
Then, as his palm caressed the smooth curve of the egg, something moved inside.
Gavin froze. There it came again, a gentle nudge on the other side of the thick shell.
Suddenly everything made sense. The fear in the dragon's eyes, the ferocity of its battle against them even though the nearby villagers said it would only raid their flocks under cover of night, and fled immediately as soon as it saw them. It—she—hadn't merely been fighting for her life. She had been protecting her child.
Gavin knew what he ought to do. What Sir Renwick would no doubt order, if he knew what was in here. They couldn't risk another dragon growing up to terrorize the countryside again. And leaving it to die alone on the mountainside would be cruel. It wasn't a fate they would deal out even if this were a wolf cub.
While his left hand fell to the hilt of his sword, Gavin's right hand still rested on the dragon egg, so warm he could almost believe it was living flesh. Within the safety of the eggshell, there was living flesh. A small version of the enormous beast they'd just slain, so small it could fit into his arms. Would it have scales as green as its mother? Or would they be the same lovely purple as this egg?
It would be so easy to put an end to this dragon. Crush the shell, let its contents bleed across the floor. Then he could truly call himself a dragon slayer. He would rid the world of another menace to humanity. Bring the days of peace closer, as Sir Renwick had said.
Slowly, he drew his hand back and pushed himself to his feet again. He stared down at the egg. So beautiful, so helpless. So full of life.
Gavin squeezed his eyes shut and let out a sigh, realizing he'd already chosen his path. Making the sign of the Eagle on his forehead, he muttered, “Great Eagle shade me.”
Then he gingerly took the egg in his hand and, after a moment's thought, placed it gently in his helmet that he still carried with him. Pulling off his other gauntlet, he carefully laid them over the top, hoping to hide the glimmer of the shell somewhat from prying eyes. Maybe the others would still be busy about the dragon's corpse, and he could wrap a blanket around the egg before anyone thought to look for him again.
Strange. When he'd been facing down the mother dragon, intending to take her life, he'd been shaking in his boots. Now that his mission was to preserve life, he found himself incredibly calm.
Maybe that meant this was the right thing to do.
~*~*~*~*~*~
Glaive trudged up the mountainside, carrying the basin of dishes he'd just washed in the river in one hand and a bucket of fresh water in the other. His feet followed the path they now knew by heart, which had probably first been beaten down by deer, or perhaps foxes.
Neither one came anywhere near anymore. Not when two members from the top of the food chain had taken up residence here.
When Glaive stepped over the moss-covered log he'd started to think of as the front gate, he caught sight of the deadly predator who'd scared off all but the smallest and swiftest of rodents.
Gyvael lay on her back, leathery wings sprawled to either side, long tail twitching, while she batted with her claws at a large orange butterfly. It didn't seem to mind, dipping and dodging between her claws as if they weren't there, then descending to perch delicately on the tip of Gyvael's snout.
Glaive paused for a moment, smiling fondly at the sight of his dragon going cross-eyed as she tried to keep the butterfly in view. Gyvael's scales glittered in the sunlight like a pile of amethysts, a treasure trove just lying in the grass as if someone had carelessly dropped it there.
With a trill of delight, Gyvael wriggled about on the ground. “It tickles!”
The butterfly fluttered away, and Gyvael tried to leap up and catch it again. Her wings flapped wildly, but she only rose a foot above the ground before she dropped back to earth again with a disappointed sigh. She watched the butterfly zip out of sight with a longing that Glaive had begun to notice more and more with every passing day. She wanted to take to the skies herself. It was where she was meant to be.
The smile slipped from Glaive's lips as he set down his burdens just inside the mouth of the cave they called home. She still had much growing to do before her wings would be strong enough to carry her weight...but she was growing so fast. Already, as she loped up to meet him at the fire pit, her head came up to his shoulder. Soon, she would be taller than him. Bigger than him. Soon, it would be easier for her to protect him than the other way around.
Gyvael greeted him in her usual fashion of butting her head under his hand so he could run it over her skull and down her neck like petting a cat, even though now she had to bend her long, sinuous neck much farther down than those early days when she was fresh out of her egg and could fit in the crook of his arm. She looked up at him with sharp amber eyes, her pupils mere slits in the bright sunlight.
Immediately, Gyvael stilled, resting her chin on Glaive's chest as she gazed into his eyes. “What is it? You look...sad.”
Glaive grunted, but couldn't keep a small smirk from the corner of his mouth. “Growing too perceptive, you are.” He tapped the tip of her snout. She crossed her eyes in response.
Stepping around one huge, leathery wing, Glaive strode over to the fire pit and sat down on his usual stump, staring into the pile of white ash from the morning's fire. Gyvael flumped down next to him, settling into the depression she'd made in the ground from many days and nights of sitting right here to eat her meals. Glaive had given up long ago on reminding her there was an entire other side of the fire she could fill, rather than sitting right next to him every time.
Gyvael rested her chin on his knee, looking up at him expectantly. “Are you going to tell me a story, Glaive? But it isn't bedtime.”
He reached up to pat her on the head, then thought better of it and let his hand fall again. Clearing his throat, he looked away—at the ashes, at the sky, at the boring rock wall, anywhere but at those big, adoring eyes. “Yes. I have a story to tell...but I'm afraid you won't like it.”
Gyvael shifted to a more comfortable position, resting her head on his foot instead. “It's true,” she said thoughtfully. “Some of your stories aren't very nice—like the one about the scorpion and the frog. But I always learn something from them.”
Glaive swallowed painfully. He wished she would never learn what she was about to. “This is a story I've known for a long time I needed to tell you,” he said, licking lips suddenly gone dry. “I told myself I would wait until you were old enough, until you were ready...but now I think you have been ready for a good long while, and really I've been waiting until I was ready. But I never will be. I can see that now, so I think I need to simply tell you.”
“You should, because you're not making much sense like this.” Her voice carried the dry humor he'd grown to love so much from her, but she just gazed at the fire pit, like she usually did after begging him for a story after dinner. He couldn't tell what she thought of his stumbling attempts at an introduction.
He drew a deep breath, squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then began. “I've told you how I found your egg in a cave, haven't I? How your mother was not there, and so I took you home, where I hoped to hatch you and raise you in safety.”
“Yes,” Gyvael murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Glaive clasped his hands together to keep them from trembling. “I...did not tell you the entire story of that day. I didn't simply stumble across the cave while wandering about. I was there...because of your mother.”
He told her everything, the ugly words spilling out like blood from a wound. She already knew he'd been a knight before he'd been forced to flee for both of their lives. She knew the knights would be called to protect the defenseless from those who wished them harm. But he'd never told her that one such cause of harm had been her mother.
He talked of the journey to Grenmoor, the frightened farmers who spoke of a great shadow in the night that sent their animals into a terrified frenzy. Sheep and cattle stolen from the fields. The terror clouding everyone in that village, wondering when the dragon would grow tired of mutton and eat one of their children instead.
Glaive told her everything of how the battle had unfolded. Though he spared her some of the more gruesome details, such as the head now mounted on Sir Renwick's wall, he didn't hold back anything of his own part, how he'd harried the dragon and distracted her just enough so the others could strike the killing blows. So they could cut her down where she stood, desperately defending her unhatched child.
Finally, he reached the part where he'd hidden her egg and carried it all the way back home to hatch in safety. Gyvael knew the rest, how Glaive had tried to keep her secret, until inevitably they were found out and had to flee for their lives. How long ago it all seemed, though they'd barely been in this rough home of theirs for a mere six months.
“I did not strike your mother down with my own hands,” Glaive finished heavily. “But without me, the man who did so may not have succeeded. Had I not been there...perhaps your mother would be alive today.”
He couldn't bear to look down at her. He didn't know which he dreaded to see more: anger at him for what he'd done, or the aching sadness of the mother she would never meet. Every now and again, she would mention her mother, wonder where she was, cautiously hope that one day their paths might cross and she could get some answers.
Now she had the answers. But what would she do with them?
Many long minutes passed, the air weighing heavier with each one. It seemed the birds had forgotten to sing and the insects to buzz, as if all nature waited with bated breath for the verdict.
Finally, Gyvael pushed herself to her feet. She moved slowly, as if with great effort. “I...would like to be alone,” she murmured. “Please don't follow me.”
She trudged off into the trees, head hanging low. Glaive watched her go. Even her scales looked dull in the sunlight, the purple of a bruise rather than an amethyst.
Glaive dropped his head into his hands. He remained sitting by the dead fire for a long time.
~*~*~*~*~*~
The night held no rest for him. Glaive lay on his blankets, staring out into the moonless night and listening to the crickets. The absence of a large, warm mass lying next to him and breathing loudly made it surprisingly impossible to sleep.
Up before the dawn, Glaive set about his usual routine of lighting a fire to ward off the chill of the mountain air. He'd had nothing to eat since breakfast the day before, but he still didn't think he could force anything down. He didn't even put his little kettle on the fire to make the herbal tea he'd developed a taste for, though Gyvael always wrinkled her nose and said it smelled like skunk.
As if the thought of her summoned her presence, the bushes rustled nearby, and out stepped Gyvael. Moving slowly with drooping head and wings, she looked as though the night had been just as rough for her as it had been for him. It wasn't as easy to find signs of tears on a dragon's face as it would have been on a human, but he'd seen her cry plenty of times before, and he could read the signs now.
She looked up at him, and he hastily dropped his gaze. He didn't think he could stand to see hatred or fear in her beautiful amber eyes. Or even worse...cold indifference.
On impulse, Glaive reached over and grabbed the sword he still kept by his side at all times out of habit, though it hadn't left its sheath in months. It still slid smoothly out for all that neglect, and glittered in the early morning light as Glaive thrust it point-first into the ground before him. The gesture was unnecessary, with Gyvael's sharp claws, but....
Glaive threw himself to hands and knees on the ground, bowing low before Gyvael with the back of his neck exposed. It was the same position he'd seen several times before in his lord's castle, when a murderer had confessed to his crimes or an official had been caught in some scandal.
“I have wronged you,” he said. “I have taken from you that which can never be restored. I do not ask your forgiveness, for I know there is none for one such as I. Therefore I submit to you, that you may do with me as you wish.”
Words he had heard so seldom before, and such a long time ago, now fell so easily from his lips. Even that seemed to confirm his guilt. He was a murderer just as surely as the man whose execution he had witnessed.
Gyvael stepped closer, her hot breath curling on the back of his neck. Glaive closed his eyes, waiting....
Her head slipped under his chin, nudging it upwards just as she always did with hi hand when she wanted him to pet her. For a wild moment, he wondered if he would feel her sharp teeth crush his throat...but all she did was push him upright, and then leave her head tucked under his chin.
Glaive opened his eyes and saw her wings raised over his head like a great purple tent. Then she began to purr.
Tears sprang to his eyes at the familiar vibrations reverberating through his whole body as she leaned up against him. “You should hate me,” he whispered. “You should...want me dead.”
“Then I would have no one.”
There was such an aching loneliness in her voice, Glaive reached up to lay a hand on her neck before he could think better of it. But she didn't seem to mind.
“Maybe...you are part of the reason my mother's dead,” Gyvael whispered. He could feel a hot, wet spot expanding on his shirt where her tears soaked through. “But you're also the only reason I'm alive. It would've been easier to kill me, but you didn't. I'm not going to kill you for that. What would that solve?”
Glaive drew a deep, shuddering breath, as if suddenly, his lungs could expand again. “I'm sorry,” he gasped out. He realized that was the first time he'd spoken those words since he'd begun his story the day before. Because if he let himself apologize, that would open the door for....
“I forgive you,” Gyvael said.
Glaive wrapped both arms around her as tightly as he could, while she purred a soothing rhythm in his ear.
Okay Inklings this year is somehow even LONGER so! First part here, and the next two will be forthcoming over the next couple days. It's just gonna be WAY too long to be in one piece
@inklings-challenge
Link to playlist (not mandatory, just fun, and it's tradition at this point) and a link to part two and part three!
The sounds of life were like a special kind of music to Enver Connally. The chaotic timbre of his squad mates bickering over breakfast, the up and down drumbeat of his heart during sparring. The chirp of a bird in the woods as they patrolled the border, or the wind through leaves.
But war wasn’t music. It was a discordant, aggressive, loud cacophony, assaulting his ears as he tried to stay alive.
One would think he’d be used to it by now. He wasn’t.
A two-note crackle of rifle fire echoed past his ears, and Enver tried not to flinch, gripping his own weapon tighter. Instinctively, he looked back to make sure none of his squad members had fallen, and met only with unfamiliar faces.
He’d been the self appointed guardian of his squad. The one counting heads and lifting spirits.
But that was before the skirmish on the banks of the Aniva River. And now he didn’t know how he fit into this new squad. A mismatched note in an otherwise unhesitating song.
“Eyes up, boys.” Sergeant Kazinsky’s voice was a smooth baritone, like polished river stones pulling them away from fear, weighing them back into reality. “And Rita.” Rita Tanner gave a two fingered salute, the smirk that Enver rarely saw her face without pulling at the scars along her cheeks.
“We’ve got about two miles of ordnance to make our way through,” Kazinsky continued. “If the other team does their job, we’ll have the opposition trapped, and might get out of here before dinner.”
“All we gotta do is not get blown up. Piece of cake.” The quip came from Clifton Ives, as it always did, and Kazinsky shot him a glance that had him straightening, just a little. At his side, Nikan Galanetz was clutching his own rifle, looking like he might be sick. He was the other new member of the squad—just as out of place as Enver felt, but with only six months of experience.
Enver had been there, though it felt like a million years ago. A twinge of sympathy went through him, and he caught the kid’s eye, giving him a little nod. The barest smile crossed Nikan’s face in response. Better than nothing.
“Be ready,” Kazinsky told them. “When our scouts get back—”
There was a rattle of stones and earth, and two more soldiers slid down into the ditch where they were sheltering. Giving a quick salute, the woman in the lead, with wildly curly hair bundled back from her face, said, “Back, Sarge.”
Kazinsky nodded. “Report.”
“We’ve got the numbers,” the woman—Annaleis Esparza. Enver had worked with her as a scout in his old unit, too. She was one of the best—told him, settling into a crouch. Her hand rested on the blade at her side, and Enver tensed. There’s more.
“But,” her companion added. Sean Monahan was an exact contrast to his fellow scout—pale where she was dark, short where she was tall, and twice as superstitious. To say nothing of his pessimism. “They’ve got some top notch casters. There’s a shield up—” Rita cursed, receiving a warning glance from Kazinsky— “and there’s more magic users to spare.”
Great. One of the many downsides about being at war with a counter whose population were 85 percent magic users was, well, everything. Where Harrowdale’s strength was innovation and industry, Alcea’s magic users could match them. Especially with the latest spell, which tore their rifles to bits with ease.
Enver could see Kazinsky realizing the same thing. “Rifles away,” he ordered. “Swords at the ready. Rita, crossbow. Esparza, you’re still a good archer?”
“Better than Sean is,” Annaleis confirmed.
“Time to prove it. Find a vantage point, get some magecopper, and try to pierce that shield.”
“On it, boss.” Annaleis disappeared up the rise, and Kazinsky turned to face the rest of them.
Face grim, he said, “On me.”
“We’re still going in?” Nikan’s voice cracked halfway through his protest, and Clifton laughed, slapping him on the shoulder.
“No choice, brother. Keep moving or start dying.”
Swords slid from sheaths, shields were pulled from backs, and the squad started moving. Kazinsky took the lead, and Enver brought up the rear, one eye on his surroundings and the other on the rookie. Nikan was clutching his sword with a trembling hand, but he didn’t stop. He’s not freezing. And sun knows I froze my first time out. He’d been younger, though. Hopefully.
For a while, the only sound was pebbly dirt crunching underfoot, and the squad’s steady breathing. They were crossing what had been open farmland, before the Alceans had pushed across the border again, trying to claim it as their own. Enver hoped the inhabitants of the burned out farmhouse he saw had been evacuated.
A few more steps. And then he saw it.
Curls of magenta light, swirling up from the grove of willows shrouding the nearby pond. Spell caster.
He didn’t have enough time to recognize the shape it was taking before Clifton shouted, “DOWN!”
This time, Nikan froze, and Enver dove toward him, dropping his sword as a transparent spear of magenta flew through the air, skewering the ground around them. Enver smacked into Nikan, both of them crashing to the ground as it exploded. He felt the impact of shrapnel against his armor, but it didn’t break through, and he rolled to his feet.
And now the Alcean soldiers were appearing, swinging swords illuminated in different colors of light. Spells, imbuing their weapons with powers that Enver never wanted to discover. He found his sword and took a stance, hand tight around the stiff leather grip.
The area around him exploded into combat. Rita was taking shot after shot, crossbow bolts skating across the field. Kazinsky was at her back, fending off an approaching duo. Enver saw an arrow plunge down into the willows, and one of the clouds of light disappeared. One of their best casters down. Thank you, Annaleis.
Steel grated against steel in a discordant high note, and Enver raced to help Clifton, who was staggering back away from a massive Alcean soldier, who was bracketed in mustard yellow light. He swung his blade, and Enver saw a blast of familiar, jagged shapes flying toward him. Fire spell.
He dove under them, tucking into a somersault and leaping out of it, slashing his sword across the man’s arm. Heat flared behind him, but Enver didn’t look back, not even when the Alcean fell and Clifton gasped a quick thank you.
That was war. You kept moving.
The other team had arrived, and were in the thick of combat. Enver caught a triumphant grin from Rita, heard Clifton start to whistle as he drew a knife. This was just another day’s work, now.
And then. He saw one of the spellcasters step out of the willows, lifting a hand. Magenta light poured forth, striking the ground around them, and Enver saw half a dozen spots light up.
Oh, no. He knew this spell. They all did.
It was a simple one—a massive explosion, meant not to kill, just to disorient. And then came the second hit. Not meant to send you flying, one that would suck you in like a whirlpool. And then it would drop you out, halfway across the country, above a cliff or a jagged outcropping of rocks, or just from somewhere very, very high.
And that would kill you. Or at least take you out of the game so efficiently your team would have no chance of getting you back anytime soon.
I hate this spell.
“MOVE!” Kazinsky’s shout pushed them into action, and they did, sprinting forward at the same time as the Alceans around them. Enver saw Nikan stumble, and he lengthened his stride, just in time to push him forward. Just as the explosion hit.
The trick was to roll, to get as far out of range as possible. Then, you might have a chance.
But Enver had spent his last stride trying to get Nikan clear. So when he went flying, his head cracked against something hard, and his vision went up and down, jagged lines flaring through it. The air went out of him with a whoosh.
Dragging in a painful breath, he pushed himself upward, scanning the surrounding area. A massive circle, about three yards wide, was still glowing violent magenta. The blast radius. And he was still in it.
“Enver! Move!”
Clifton’s shout was just cutting through the air when another blast erupted. Enver barely had time to pull the knife from his belt and slam it into the ground before a whirlwind came to life around him with a roar. Even with the anchor, he felt himself slipping backward. Rita was being held back by Kazinsky, and Nikan was staring wide eyed at—
Oh. I’m not alone.
There was someone else in the blast radius.
And she was Alcean.
Enver caught the barest glimpse of her as she clung to the grass around her desperately. Dark red-brown hair braided and pinned back, her skin a warm shade of brown. Dual swords were strapped to her back, and she wore traditional Alcean armor. But none of that was what struck Enver.
She didn’t look surprised. Not scared, or shocked, or even really upset. She just looked…resigned. Like she’d known this would happen.
Over the roar of wind, he heard the grass tear, and the Alcean warrior went flying backward. She smacked directly into him, and his knife slipped. Together, they were swept up and swallowed by a whirlwind in the ground.
For a moment, everything was silent. Enver couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. Couldn’t breathe, and for a heartbeat he thought the earth would keep them prisoner forever.
And then the world came exploding back to life, and he was falling out of the sky.
A brief glance took in their surroundings. They were on the coast—miles from where they’d been fighting, depending on which coast it was. Cliffs jutted beneath them, with jagged rocks slicing the savage waves into pieces.
And they were plummeting straight toward it.
A scream caught his ear, cut off halfway. To his left, the Alcean moved, teal light coalescing around her hands. As they dropped, straight toward the rocks, she cast a hand out, and a cord made of light moved with it. Coiling like a whip, it snagged at the cliff face, burying itself in the rock.
Enver was going to have to try something a little more simple. Gripping his knife tightly, he let gravity take him down, listening to the harmony of wind and waves below. And as he drew closer, he twisted, spinning toward the cliff.
The blade slammed against the stone, letting out an earsplitting screech—and then he jerked, suddenly, to a stop that reverberated through his bones.
It had caught on a crack.
Enver barely had time to marvel at the miracle that had been dropped into his lap—again—before he heard a scream, a full one this time. A little ways above and to his left, the Alcean soldier had caught herself, but the sickening pop that rang out told a far more ominous story than his own. One of her arms fell free, and she clung to her magic desperately, eyes wide.
She won’t last. With a dislocated shoulder, she had one less hand, and the pain would break her concentration. Enver had seen it before.
In a few minutes, she’d fall.
One less Alcean. One less enemy.
That’s what Noran would have said, from his old unit. His friend had lost family to the Alceans, and had never quite gotten over it. He was still spitting curses the day they killed him on the banks of the Aniva.
Enver had loved his friend. But he wasn’t him.
The Alcean’s face flashed to the front of his vision—not even afraid. Just resigned. Not expecting to be saved.
She’s alone, too. Especially now.
Rock cracked, and he heard her cry out again, voice tight with frustration. Not for the first time, Enver wished for his sword.
Although…
With some difficulty, he slipped a hand under his jacket. Strapped to his back, he kept a few precious, personal items. Not his, but his old squad’s. Things they hadn’t been able to send to anyone else.
His hand closed around a hilt—Penny’s sword. Yanking it free, he hit the switch on the side of the hilt, and flicked his wrist. The blade burst to life, locking into place seconds later. Thank you, Maguire. The smith who’d made it was the best in the business.
Hauling back, he slammed the blade into the crack where his knife was, wedging it in place. Gripping tight, he slowly shifted the knife out and back to his belt—just in time. The teal light above him vanished, and the soldier dropped.
No, you don’t. Bracing a boot against the stone, Enver lunged, and managed to grab her arm. She let out a cry as he hauled her up. Gritting teeth as she tried to pull away, Enver managed to gasp, “Hold on!”
She went still. So still he wasn’t sure if she’d listened, or just passed out from pain. Glancing down, he caught a glimpse of brown eyes boring into his. “We need a way up,” he told her, looking back up. Ten feet up, maybe? That’ll be a nightmare to climb—
He heard the magic before he saw it. A gentle hum, like the strings of a violin, and suddenly pale teal light was surrounding them. As Enver watched, fear drumming the same beat as his heart, it built under them, growing stronger and stronger. And then it burst up, sending them flying up toward the cliff’s edge. Enver’s sword tore free from the crack with another screech, and he lashed out desperately as they shot up.
It sank into the dirt at the top, and they jerked to a stop before they could plummet again. The teal light flickered, and Enver realized it was holding them up. Just barely, securing them from another fall.
But it’s good enough. Straining every muscle in his body, he hauled himself up, getting a boot steady against the cliff and pushing. Inch by inch, second by second, he got himself up and over the edge, one hand still locked around the Alcean’s arm.
The minute he rolled over onto solid land, he turned, sprawled on his stomach, and grabbed her other arm. She let out a hiss of pain, but awkwardly caught hold of his arm. The teal light around her was fading by the second, and he could see fear in her eyes now.
“Sorry,” he told her, and pulled.
Her scream echoed off the cliffs, scaring several nearby birds, but she scrambled up and over. The magic around her disappeared just as she hit the dirt, and for a moment, neither of them moved. Just gasped for breath, clinging to the ground. And each other.
She was the first to move, hands pulling away from his, and Enver reluctantly hauled himself to his feet. Only when they were both standing did he realize he was several inches taller than her. And he was holding a sword.
As one, they stepped back, and took in their enemy. The enemy who’d just saved each other’s lives.
~~~
All good Alcean soldiers hated Harrowdale. At least, that was what the drill sergeants would have you think. The hatred would fuel you and your magic, get them one step closer to winning the war.
Inessa would have hated Harrowdale more if an Alcean hadn’t been the one who betrayed her first.
And he had been. Alvin Melith had been her wingman, her partner on the battlefield and—she thought—her friend off of it. Which was why it had come as a surprise when he handed her over to Harrowdalean renegades to be tortured for information.
(as if being the daughter of a general meant she had special information. All she’d ever gotten from General Lang was disappointed looks, brown eyes, and apparently, her stubbornness.)
But now, she’d been expecting it. Discrediting a good soldier with five years of service to her two, a soldier who’d been a top tier caster and the son of a high ranking lord to boot, had crushed her career like a grape tossed onto a floor of dancers. So when Avery Bedlam had cast the hither-bomb spell, he hadn’t cared if she was in the middle.
And Inessa couldn’t pretend to be surprised.
She’d been done trusting even her own people for a long time now.
But she’d also expected to die when the bomb pulled her in. And yet, judging by the screaming agony from her arm, she was alive.
Thanks to the Harrowdalean soldier facing her right now.
That might be about to end, though, Inessa thought. The odds were simple. He had a sword—and so did she. Two, in fact. But she only had one arm, and with the pain etching itself through her body, casting was going to be nearly impossible. It had taken all her reserves just to help get them up the cliff.
Them. Why did I help him?
Because he was holding you up, idiot. The sarcastic voice in her head sounded remarkably like Anya, her younger sister. Inessa bit her lip hard, trying not to miss her. Trying not to think about how she would never see her again.
Don’t flinch, she told herself, despite the fear already thundering to life. Knowing you would die was one thing. Knowing pain would accompany it was entirely another. She clenched a fist, trying to summon some magic, anything to prevent—
“Truce?”
Her concentration slipped, teal sparks sputtering away from her fingers as she stared at the man facing her. “What?”
“Truce,” he repeated, pressing a switch on the side of his sword. The blade retracted with a click, and he dropped the hilt to the ground deliberately. Lifting his hands in the air, he said, “We’re miles away from the border. You’re hurt, and I’m exhausted. And I don’t want to kill you.”
The words he was speaking were so foreign, so unexpected, all Inessa could do was stare. “What?”
“Did…you actually not hear me, or—”
Inessa almost snorted at his slightly nervous tone. “I heard you. But…” she paused, studying him for a minute. Dark hair cut shorter than the fashion in Alcea, but not buzzed short. Blue eyes darker than any she’d seen before, a striking contrast to the burgundy of his uniform. Harrowdale colors. Not your friend. Dark memories flickered through her mind, and the scars on her back seemed to burn.
But. She was injured and in no position to cast. And her enemy just saved her, and was currently looking at her with the most earnest, open gaze she’d ever seen in her life. Like he’d spill a vein if she asked for it.
It was disconcerting. But it would keep her alive.
“Truce,” she agreed, and some of the tension in his shoulders eased.
“Good.” Glancing around, he asked, “So…any idea where we are?”
For the first time, Inessa actually looked at their surroundings. Rich blue-green water a few shades lighter than her magic, cliffs soaring above the waves. It looked like another world, compared to the blood soaked fields and pond they’d left behind.
But it wasn’t. In fact, she was pretty sure she recognized it. “I think…we’re in Alcea,” she said slowly. “Up north, near the Venlann border.”
Her family had gone here on vacation, once. When her father wasn’t busy with the war and before her mother had retreated into her rooms and never left home again. Before they’d lost Cassio to the war.
“So we’re in your territory,” the Harrowdalean said, jolting her out of her memories. She looked back at him, and saw him watching her. “Can you lead us back to the border?”
The border. Where their people were trying to kill each other over a war older than time. Inessa swallowed, suddenly aware of the weight of the swords on her back.
She should kill this man.
It was her duty, what she’d signed up for when she joined the army. It was what tradition and honor and her king demanded of her.
And all those things demanded it of him, too.
But instead, he’d saved her life. And offered a truce, even before he knew where they were.
They were without food, water, or any real equipment. They had no allies, she was injured, and he was in a foreign country.
They needed each other.
The last person you needed, who you relied on, handed you over to be tortured, her mind whispered. If anything, you can expect that even more here.
Then at least I’m prepared.
“I can,” she told him. “But I’ll need my arm fixed first.”
He nodded. “I figured. I’m Enver, by the way. Enver Connally.”
And here it was. The part where she reciprocated and turned herself from an ally, however strange, to a piece on a chess board. But Inessa didn’t have the energy for subtlety right now. And truthfully, the less she had to wait for things to go wrong, the better.
“Inessa Lang,” she told him, searching his gaze for surprise, for the moment when he remembered there was a General Lang in the Alcea army.
There was nothing. Instead, he smiled, just enough to warm his features. “Nice to meet you, Inessa. All things considered.”
To her utter shock, a laugh bubbled up in her chest as she took the hand he offered and shook. “All things considered,” she agreed.
The smile grew. “Let’s see what we can do for that arm.”
This is the first part of my @inklings-challenge submission! I'm not sure how many parts there will be, but I won't tag the challenge blog again until the story is (hopefully) completed, within a single reblog chain. I have many ideas. Oh, and in case you're concerned, this is NOT a story that will involve a great deal of gore... any horror aspects are psychological, not physical. And I'm always open to feedback, please please, as specific as you like. Anyway, here we go. Thanks to those who contributed names, various, for side characters—you know who you are.
~
The sun had just set; violently lovely, painfully rich, so that Mercy had to squint against it to see a fraction of its beauty. It was the last day of summer, and soon the darkening fall of autumn would take hold of the world and drag it kicking and screaming into the ever-mild Victorian winter. Soon she would be able to wrap up and enjoy the cold air on her face as she went for long walks.
That soon was only a promise, not yet; now was the warm, worn-out hush of departing summer, and the world sighed with golden weariness, ready to be tucked up peacefully in a pumpkin spice blanket.
She turned to go inside, joy brimming in her eyes and turning the corners of her mouth up. Summer was done, and she was glad it had been and glad it was going. Nothing could shake Mercy's contentment in that moment.
She went inside, and left the light behind. The house hung heavy with shadows, the gloom of gathering evening. It was late, though light still clung to the outdoors world, and Mercy was sweetly tired; she moved quietly through the rooms, then cataloguing the tasks of the morrow as she had a glass of water in slow, lazy sips.
Luke entered the kitchen, and the first thing she noticed about her brother was that he was staggering a little, as if drunk or hurt. When he greeted her his words were slightly slurred.
“Are you all right?” she asked, more out of habit than anything else. It was pretty clear that he was not.
“Fine, fine,” said Luke, and laughed with a shade of hysteria. “Mercy, you don’t understand; you can’t understand, not yet.” He got a glass of water too, and drank it in three shaky gulps, as if there was some fear she could not perceive; some dread sitting secret and engorged in his ribcage. Then another, while she watched in increasing wonderment.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m just thirsty.” He grinned small and tight, teeth baring. “Probably worried about my maths test tomorrow.”
“I didn’t know you had one.” Was he even doing maths at uni? How had she missed that?
The grin turned to a grimace and he shook his head like a cat with a fly on its ear. “I don’t. I don’t know why I said that.” His expression twisted into fear, lips drawn down as if he would never smile again. “Mercy, I—I’m sorry, for everything, everything I’ve ever said or done that wasn’t Christlike, I—I’ll do better, if God spare my life. I’m sorry to scare you now—I can see it, you know, I can see you don’t know what’s going on and I swear I don’t know either.” Luke was once again the kid she remembered, two years older and not much wiser, and the fear of the unknown glittered on his beloved face.
She gazed at him. “I love you, and for what it’s worth I forgive you for everything. But Luke, Luke me dear, what are you saying?”
“I’m not—I mean I’m—” He fumbled for words, and every moment the fear in his face became more staring, more blank. “I don’t know who you are,” her brother said at last, and the words dropped like stones into the silence. That was the precise moment at which Mercy realised that the ripples from those stones would continue to wash through her life for a very long moment.
Also the moment at which she realised she had no idea what she ought to do next. She was still, waiting, like an animal afraid of the hunter.
To her relief Mother walked into the kitchen, steps tight with fear and face drawn with it, carrying a heaviness of some kind of communication Mercy both longed for and dreaded. “Mercy,” said her mother in a low, low voice, “you have to ring the police. We’ve got to—”
Luke’s face contorted into an inhuman expression and he lunged at Mercy, reaching for her as if she was prey. She turned and ran, and her mother’s cries rang in her ears as she slammed the door in Luke’s face, locking it with hands that shook so much she could scarcely command them to move. She had locked herself into the bathroom; the only escape route was out there, past Luke, who was screaming something she could not understand.
But she had heard enough to understand what was going on.
He was showing the same symptoms that had been seen in the animal population for years now; some kind of disease nobody had yet classified, which had originated apparently in cats (first seen in a lion at Melbourne Zoo) and had been slowly spreading to other animals.
Two years ago, those same symptoms had begun to be apparent in Nini, the family dog, just before she died of kidney failure. The vet had brushed it off, saying it was just end-stage kidney failure and not that disease, but at the time Mercy had been concerned, and she remembered a scratch Nini had given Luke. But as time passed and Luke showed no sign of any kind of infection, she’d stopped worrying, and eventually forgotten about it.
She heard the front door slam and only then remembered to scramble for her phone, dialing triple zero after about four attempts.
“My brother Luke,” she said, to the operator, “he needs care, I don’t know what sort of care but he needs it, he—he’s diseased, he’s going mad.”
The person on the other end of the call was silent for a moment, then said, “Can you explain his symptoms? What is going on right now?”
“A few minutes ago he was sounding perfectly fine.” Her voice quivered. “He started apologising and looking afraid and not acting like himself, then when Mother suggested calling the police he lunged at me—but you’ve got to understand it was more like—like an animal, not like a human being. Not like Luke. I think he has the disease that makes the animals act irrationally, you know.”
“That’s an animal disease and we have no reason to think it’s jumped across to humans,” was the operator’s response. “Calm down and explain what’s actually going on.”
She managed to, with some superhuman effort, explain what she had seen and heard. They said they’d send an ambulance, and for her to keep talking to him through the door, if she could; once there, they’d assess the situation.
“Luke,” she called, once she was sure the ambulance was on its way. “Luke!”
Crashes, as if he couldn’t quite stabilise himself and was falling into the wall at every step. “Mercy,” he said, but his voice was high and tense. “Mercy! Thank God you’re there. I need—I need you to pray very hard, Mercy. I think I’m going mad. I—” He broke off, then resumed in quite a different tone. “I’m so hungry. Why won’t anybody give me anything? And it’s getting dark. I don’t like the dark. I don’t like the dark. I don’t like the dark. I’m so fearfully hungry. Can’t someone come and give me a blanket? It’s so cold and dark. I’m at the bottom of a hole and I’m never going to get out and I’m scared. Can’t you see them, swinging nearer? I think they’ll fall on my head.” He screamed suddenly and Mercy started so violently she dropped her phone with a clatter.
“Who’s there?” he cried in a thin voice. “Who’s there? I can hear you. Don’t think I can’t hear you whispering and muttering. I think you’re all talking about me and you want me to live and I’m scared. I’m scared. I don’t like the dark. Mercy! Mercy!”
And she was suddenly sure he was not calling for her. As they waited, dusk crept into the house and all around her, like an embrace she could not shake off. Luke muttered, cried out, sobbed and yelled, sometimes aware of her presence and sometimes not. Once he worked his fingers under the door and said quite lucidly, “Mercy, can’t you just hold my hand? It’s so cold. Please.”
She did, and his skin was warm and human and her dear brother. But then he snatched it violently away and began yelling about nothing that made any sense and the world cracked a little more about her again.
If she had not ended up in the corner of the bathroom, arms wrapped around her knees and rocking back and forward with little awareness of her surroundings, Mercy might have seen Luke one last time. As it was, she saw and heard nothing as he was taken away to the emergency department for evaluation. Of course, days later when she might have seen him again, everything had already started to crumble.
It was the last time she would see her brother Luke. By the time he was no longer in the confines of the hospital, he was known by everyone only as Patient Zero—the one who started it all.
A spur-of-the-moment story for @inklings-challenge
The princess steps into the center of a whirling masquerade. She is resplendent in green as the Queen of May. A man slips through the crowd and stands before her, dressed all in brown as the Autumn King. He bows with a flourish, silently asking for a dance.
She stands like stone. “You should not be here,” she says.
“Can I not dance with my wife?”
He reaches for her hand. She pulls it away. “I have no husband.”
“In this place, no. Yet I remember otherwise,” he says. “And so do you.”
She turns on her heel and strides away. He follows, quick as ever. The dancers part around them like water. She scowls. He was always too clever for her, always too quick. Even a world of her making bends to accommodate him.
“Do you know what I’ve done to find you?” he asks. “The countries I’ve crossed? The mountains I’ve climbed? I’ve fought gryphons and giants. Searched for treasures lost since the invention of time. Flown to the moon and tunneled to the center of the earth.”
“I’m sure you enjoyed yourself immensely.”
“I bargained with the four winds, gave up my shadow, traded three days of my life just to have this moment with you.”
“I am sorry you wasted your time,” she says. “Do what you will, you cannot take me from here.”
“No,” he agrees. “You are trapped here by your own will, and only by your will can you escape.”
She chose this day well when she arranged her escape. The grandest ball the Mountain King ever held, the day of her sixteenth birthday. Long before she ever met that too-curious trickster who stole away her heart with cheap promises. Here there is music, beauty, bounty, every pleasure she can imagine. She will gladly live in this day forever if it means freedom from her ties to him.
“You think you can persuade me,” she sneers.
He laughs. “No one in the twelve worlds can do that.”
“You think you can steal me.”
Even behind his mask, she can see his gaze darken. She has offended him. “I will not steal a wife.”
“What do you call our wedding day?”
“You chose me.”
“Do you call it choosing, when you hid your true face behind so many lies?”
“You had your own secrets.”
“Do you blame me for hiding them?”
“No,” he says.
She stops. Of all the things she imagined him saying, this was not one of them.
“No,” he says again. “You were right to keep your secrets. I was wrong to seek them out.”
She turns to look at him. He removes his mask, revealing his deceptively young face. His eyes, once blue, have turned greenish-gray. His face has three jagged scars.
“You hid from me,” he said. “As I hid from you. I should have been patient--proved that you could trust me. Instead, I forced my way into your secrets and destroyed everything. I'm sorry.”
She is speechless. She expected excuses. Dazzling explanations.She had never expected contrition.
He reaches beneath his jacket and removes a small glass pendant. It shines the same bright blue his eyes had once been.
“This is yours,” he said.
Her heart. Taken from her in a childhood curse so long ago. Only her husband could put it in its proper place, if it remained unbroken during five years of marriage. Prince of thieves that he once had been, he had found it and broken it on the eve of their second anniversary.
“You repaired it,” she said.
“I replaced it. With mine.”
She has seen him in a million lies. This is not one of them.
“You may stay here if you wish,” he says. “I came only to atone. I do not expect you to forgive me.”
He places the pendant in her hand, bows, then turns away.
When he leaves, she knows she need never see him again.
“Wait,” she says. She removes her mask. “Don’t leave without your wife."
He stops. The other dancers disappear.She puts her hand in his and kisses him as she did on their wedding day.
He is alight with joy as she pulls away. "Does this mean--?"
“I forgive you,” she says.
He laughs aloud.
The heart he gave to her, she freely gives to him. The blue returns to his eyes as their hearts are restored, new and whole.
As the curse crumbles around them, they leave the ballroom behind.
Note: I don't really know what this is. I just know it wanted to be written. So with that...happy @inklings-challenge 2024! I'll probably be back with something else later this month...?
The one thing Anamara wanted most in the world was a savory pie fresh out of the oven.
"With a golden, flaky crust," she told her reflection.
Her reflection, wavering in a rain-rippled puddle next to her right boot, stared morosely back at her.
"What was that?" Seaworth called from up ahead.
"Pie!" Anamara answered, and stomped her reflection away. She continued stomping, throwing up arcs of muddy water with each step, until she'd caught up with her companion. "I want pie."
"Ah. Pie." Seaworth peered out through the curtain of rain created by his hat's broad brim. Anamara was halfway convinced he had it on backwards. "Apple or pear?"
"Venison. With potatoes. And butter. Maybe some cheese."
This earned her a grunt. They stood together in silence for a moment, contemplating the weather.
A lump under Seaworth's turned-up collar shifted, and the tip of a tiny leathery wing with a claw on the end poked out. The claw hooked into the scarred leather of Seaworth's coat and a miniscule dragon dragged itself out of its makeshift cave. It cocked a glimmering eye at Anamara. Smoke curled from its nostrils.
"Should you have brought her?" Anamara asked, staring at the dragon.
Seaworth craned his neck around. The dragon stretched out to butt its horned nose against his. "I couldn't leave her behind," Seaworth said. "Not like they ever give me much choice." He patted the deep right pocket on his coat; from within, another dragon let out a happy trill.
"But is it safe?"
"They aren't called ‘darts’ for nothing." He scratched under the chin of the dragon on his shoulder. "Coward," he told her affectionately.
Anamara wasn't convinced, but arguing never did any good where Seaworth was concerned. She let him croon to his dragon while she caught her breath.
Finally the little dragon had enough of Seaworth's honeyed insults and bit his finger. Instantly Seaworth was back to business. He adjusted the rifle slung across his shoulder, squared his hat on his head, and resumed his long, marching steps with a cry of, "Onward, then!" The dragon slipped back down under the shelter of his coat.
Anamara trudged after him.
Seaworth could go like this for hours, never faltering a second off of the pace he'd set. Anamara swore tree roots slid out of his way so he didn't have to break stride. It was one of the reasons he'd been assigned to his particular circuit, a large stretch of mountainous forests along the western reaches of the preserve.
Anamara's own boots slipped and scrabbled through the carpet of muddy leaves. She didn't complain, though, and she didn't tell him to slow down. She'd demanded to come, reminding Seaworth that, technically, she was his superior and the preserve was her responsibility; the least she could do was keep up.
Not ten minutes later, Seaworth glanced back, saw how far behind him she was, and drew up under a gnarled pine to wait for her. He tried striking a pose; the effect was ruined by the spiderwebs and twigs in his beard.
"Missing your office, Miss Rushwell?"
Anamara scowled. "And all of that paperwork? Not at all." She put her hands on her hips and drew in a deep, shuddering breath. And then another, as her lungs remembered their accustomed capacity. "I'm finding this forced march quite invigorating."
Seaworth grinned. "Excellent! At this rate, we might just get you home in time to enjoy that pie." He tipped his head toward the trail. "Mind your feet up ahead. The rocks'll be slick in this rain."
Not twenty paces beyond, the path suddenly dropped over a steep ledge. Only then did Anamara finally notice a waterfall roaring under the steady shush of the rain. The river that had been meandering off to their right swung sharply toward them and plunged over a short cliff. As Anamara started after Seaworth down the trail, she saw that the waterfall ended in a shallow pool. Beyond spread a world of mud and green water full of reeds.
The trail climbed down alongside the little waterfall, worn down over time to bare rock and exposed tree roots, all slick with rain. With no good handholds available, Anamara was forced to go almost at a backward crawl for fear of losing her footing.
Seaworth kept on with his swinging stride, heedless of the poor footing. He reached the bottom well ahead of her and waited with his hands in his pockets for her to catch up.
He didn't have to look so smug about it.
As Anamara fruitlessly wiped her muddy palms on her pants, Seaworth searched the bog. Or was it a marsh? Cast in gray, overshadowed by weeping trees, and possibly through her own blurred vision, Anamara had a difficult time deciding what exactly she was looking at.
"Are we going through that?" she finally asked.
"That's the goal. Ah." Seaworth tipped up his hat, sending a flood down his back. He pointed out across the vague watery landscape. "The nest is there, under that dead tree."
"Oh!" Somehow she'd been worried they had further to go yet. Relieved, Anamara started off toward the tree Seaworth had indicated.
She managed three steps before she found herself up to her shins in icy water. Up to her knees. Up to—
Seaworth's hand grasped her arm and hauled her free of the water and sloshing back to safety.
"Now what possessed you to do that?" he drawled. His voice was very close to her ear.
Startled, Anamara jerked away, pulling them both off-balance and nearly pitching herself back into the water. Seaworth, naturally, found his balance in an instant and caught both of them.
As soon as Anamara was steadied on solid ground, she eased her arm free of Seaworth's grasp. "Thank you," she said, somewhat curtly.
Seaworth flashed a lopsided grin and scratched under his hat. "You ought to know better than to go blundering into unfamiliar ground."
"Yes. Well." Needing to look somewhere, anywhere other than his face with its ridiculous grin, Anamara examined her boots. They were full of water. And possibly tadpoles. She glanced around hopefully for anywhere to sit down.
"Might as well leave 'em for now," Seaworth said. "The rate you're going, you'll only get more water in 'em before we're through." He waited until she was looking at him again—he even bent down his head so he could meet her eye from under his backward hat. "Follow my steps, yeah?"
He was using the same tone Anamara used when she was giving tours to school children.
Anamara flapped a hand at him. "Fine." She wriggled her toes in their new personal ponds and grimaced.
Seaworth took that as his signal and started off.
Thankfully, he set the pace at something nearer to a stroll than the march of earlier. Watching where he stepped so she could follow, it seemed to Anamara that they traveled miles before reaching their goal. A hush hung over the bog-marsh-thing, the only sounds the faint rush of the falls, the steady whisper of rain through the trees, and a distant echo of birdsong.
And the squelch of Anamara’s socks in her watery boots.
She desperately wanted that pie. The only problem was that for her to have that pie, she would have to make it, and considering how her day was going, she didn't think she'd have the wherewithal to manage such an undertaking once she made it home.
Whenever that would be.
Anamara didn't see Seaworth pull up short in front of her. She rammed directly into his back and got a nose full of the complex bouquet of dragon ranger: damp leather, oil, gunmetal, mud, and…lavender?
Seaworth swiveled to snatch at her on instinct, in case she was about to try drowning herself again. Anamara shook him off. "Sorry," she mumbled.
"Mmph. Well, here it is."
Seaworth eased himself into a crouch and draped his arms across his knees. He gestured for Anamara to join him. She didn't even see the nest until she was hunched down, her ankles aching against her stiff boots.
The remains of a clutch of dragon eggs lay scattered over a well-worn bed of wetland grasses tucked under the arching, coiling roots of the dead tree. The eggshells were blue and green and speckled with iridescent spots. A faint odor of dragon, something like turned earth and cinders, still hung in the air.
"It wasn't raided?" Anamara asked.
"No."
Something in Seaworth's voice drew her gaze from the nest to her companion. Seaworth was rubbing at his mouth with his calloused hand, his eyes distant and oddly bright. He didn't notice Anamara staring, didn't elaborate on his conclusion that it wasn't predators that had destroyed the nest.
Startled, Anamara looked away. The marsh offered no clues that she could see, so she cast about in her mind for any old lessons that would explain what they were looking at. Dragons, no matter their size, were fiercely protective of their eggs. A dragon who nested at ground level was especially prepared to fight, until and beyond the time when the eggs hatched. She wasn't certain what sort of threats a marsh presented, but surely none of them were so terrible….
"She destroyed them?" she asked, her voice breaking a little. "The dam?"
Beside her, Seaworth shook himself. He cleared his throat. "Yes. She knew she couldn't defend them. Whatever was after her was too dangerous. She—" He drew a deep breath, scrubbed at his chin. "It was a Starwing. Delamere's Lesser, I think."
Shaking his head, Seaworth pushed heavily to his feet. Now it was his turn to look around. "I've never seen one in real life. Last I heard, they'd been pushed out of this region. Well, you know."
Anamara took his offered hand and stood, her eyes still on the nest. "When I read that in your report saying what you'd found, I think I cried." And now it was gone. Hopefully just to a new nesting spot somewhere in the preserve, though there wouldn’t be another clutch this season, and probably not next season.
Seaworth took his job as a ranger very seriously. Not to say none of the other rangers did as well, but he was fearsomely dedicated, often going above and beyond what was expected of him in order to keep the dragons and other wildlife under his watch safe from unnatural danger. Anamara could see his frustration in the hard set of his eyes, and only then did she realize how bothered he was by this situation.
Anamara hesitated before gently touching his arm. "I'm sorry."
Finally, Seaworth looked at her. His eyes were still troubled, but he smiled and dipped his head. "It happens. I was starting to think my string of luck was too good."
"What do you think it was?"
"Now that's the question. Starwings are mean as badgers. Anything that can scare one into this…?"
"Poachers?"
Whistling through his teeth, Seaworth shook his head. "I hope not. Clumsy fools, if so." He squinted over her head, out into the marsh. "I suspect some kind of animal. Not saying that's better. Of course, if it is an animal, I won't interfere. That's just life. Unless it's gone wrong somehow."
Anamara frowned. She didn't like the sound of that. Worse, it wasn't something she'd ever had to deal with; not as a ranger, and certainly not during her short time as director. "Well, I guess we'd better find out."
