There are fewer of us now.

Some have lost interest in the experiment.  Others have been consumed.  Some fled at the sound of her wings, and forget our Lord has more than teeth and tail.

We wait.  Time has no meaning except as a measurement.

We have always known her to be thus, as she thrust the serpent symbol at us.    All at first she saw our master fearing he hungered for her disaster.  But us “alone” as single “we,” a magic she simply cannot see.

We are a mystery to her, one she would well devour and absorb did she not fear our Lord.

Would that we could say, “I.”

Her eyes are the same.

They’re a shallow blue, a tidepool, a sip of time that barely tastes of a moment.  She is starving, but so do many of her ilk, as dreams turn to dust and wars to circuitry and the bones of the Mothers are blasted through for roads.   Shrews and dinosaurs, and the myths fade from histories with no room for maybes like the Dragons.

Like us.

But there is the heart.  Her solace, her only meal for years, easily.  Those that feed the Dragons want the ones that are fiery red, burning hot white and blue.   Fast cars, fast Dragons, quickly eaten and no real lasting substance.

Not like a sorceror’s love.

It is a strange feeling that we hold that he, the small power has not touched us.  Some are sad, some strive us to tempt, some are angry.  And within, we almost feel the “I.”

Would he love us if we were one girl?  Can he love us now? 

We do not think he will come this far.

She moves quickly, her bulk slithering behind her.  They say cats have whiskers to determine their likelihood of being stuck, so how does she fit her wings so carefully within the walls?  It is a question he would ask.  She is more serpent than bird, but neither fish nor fowl.   The halls whisper her name. 

“You have not eaten,” she accuses us.

Like all of them, she has a collection.

Thin strands of gold snarl a nest of thorns both iron and steel, clasps, buckles, and horns, and more to conceal.    Herbal concoctions as sold in auctions, feathers and bone, from the dead and the flown.  What meals here are untainted we are unacquainted.

But it would not be Hospitable to say that.

We remain silent.

Candles and magic both light the room, leaving odd shadows in colours that have names that lack music.  It is painted in dishabille, rather than inusitation.   It is not a place for guests, but we are still bound by what we are. 

Are we captive?  She cannot use her magic to bind us here.  We are lacking reference as to which world we have been brought, but while it is not inimical  to our kind, our gifts are unreliable without synthesis into the weave.  What is ours remains, what is our environment is suspect. 

She is not without wit or charm.

Or power.

She is in a quandry, for she cannot harm us without cause.  Devour us in entirety, and she would be breaking many laws. 

“What are we going to do with you?” she asks, and part of it is that the phrase brings her comfort, and part of it is a concern. 

Her scales are made at least partially of bronze, of her Mother’s coils, and they reflect the light in glittering hypnotics, and protect her from the many slings and arrows of outrageous fortune.  Her eyes are lidded in gold, and her teeth are firm and made of the bones of warriors.   Her wings are freight trains and hurricanes and her tail is the lightning bolt. 

Yes, of course, she is a Dragon.

But within us is the blood of another.  Peredur he calls himself now, and we are a reflection of his Angharad.  He would not forsake us.

He remains silent.

“Who are you?  What are you?” the Dragon asks.

He is the breath of life, and we are then the breath of thorns and ashes.

Ill-luck, we named ourselves.

We have decided that is how this will end.  In thorns and ashes, as our Lord had made of us, and ill luck for those who have stolen us from our will.

We answer her.

“Hey, E, you’re into that weird stuff, right?” He didn’t use the word ‘stuff,’ but that was the kind of fellow he was.

Oh, I could argue the point, because there was a lot of “weird stuff” I certainly wasn’t into, but this was before the internet was quite as pervasive, and for what Jonath meant it was probably something I could at least give an opinion on, even if it was only, “That’s some weird stuff.”  And I wouldn’t use the word ‘stuff,’ either.

Jonath pulled me over to look at his computer screen.  “What do you make of that?”

It took a moment for me to make sense of the sight.  First, it wasn’t porn, which was what Jonath was normally using his screen to view.  The lack of bare flesh was its own distraction.  It was a picture of a couple of everyday normal guys, one standing in front of a doorway, the other in front of a piece of furniture I couldn’t be bothered to give a name to…okay, the word escaped me for a moment, but it was some kind of cabinet.  The kind of picture with very little interest to people who aren’t somehow related, kind of like a good deal of the credits to a movie.

Then I caught the weird stuff.

The gentleman on the left, in the doorway, seemed to fade out, and the gentleman on the right, you could see his hand through the one on the left.

“Overexposure?” I asked.  “One of those photography terms.”  It kept my attention.

“Digital.  None of the other photos show it, nothing weird on the lens.”  He shrugged.  “These were photos I took on the trip to see my family. What do you  make of it?”

“That was what, four months ago?”

“Eh, I forgot about downloading them until Mom nagged,” he shrugged.  “But that’s kind of weird, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.  That’s some weird stuff.”

I went and sat back on the bed, going back to my comics.  To make conversation, I asked, “Where was that taken?”

“Oh, that’s my mom’s new place.  It’s huge, and really kind of weird.  Lady lives there, buries her pets in the yard, wanders up at night chanting and stuff.   Real Stephen King, what was it?  Pet Seminary?”

“Cemetary, I think.  I don’t read a lot of horror,” I lied, trying not to laugh at the idea of a place pets went to become priests.  I stood up and went back over to behind Jonath’s chair.  “You have any other pictures of the place?”

“Oh, sure, here’s the grave in the front yard.  Here’s one in the back.”  He shifted through a few other photos.  “Here’s this ancient telephone.  Still works,” he showed me a couple of other photos, some of his family.

I wanted to ask a lot of questions, but finally, just shrugged.  “That’s a restless place.  Things aren’t being left to their regular entropy.”

“We have replaced their regular entropy with new Folger’s crystals?”

“Well,” I considered it, “the idea of spiritual caffeine is an amusing one,” I admitted.

“Huh,” he grunted.  “Weird stuff, right.”

There are thoughts that open portals, because with most people (maybe not Jonath) thoughts lead to actions on both a physical and mental level.   When you make a decision, it is an action, if only of will.

“Your mom doesn’t live in the state, does she?”  That was an act of will, too.

“Uh, no.”

I swore silently.  I didn’t use the word, “Stuff,” either.  This was my theory as to why wizards weren’t pictured reading newspapers.  With great power and all that.  Really, it’s true of any specialist, although at least I wasn’t the kind of doctor who got cornered at parties to look at someone’s rashes.  (Well, once, and it led to the term “spackle demons,” so it was kind of a story to be told, but not relevant.)  How far did my responsibility cover?  Did I have some kind of territory?   It’s not like I got some kind of per diem to pit my will against the Bumps in derNite.

Maybe it’s because my rule of thumb is that if you ask “Is this somebody else’s problem?” it is officially a moral dilemma.

I went back to my comic books.   Jonath moved back in with his mom when he couldn’t complete the school year.  I’ve not heard from him since.

[postnote: Thanks to D. Thornton for the bones.]

When everyone present, the veche, the prince, and the rich merchants, had eaten and drunk all they desired, they began to boast and oh! the braggarts told tales that would make fodder for many fine witticisms of any a bard for long years to come!

That’s a classic line from these types of tales.  It fits with the aftermath of the announcement.  Cake was brought out, and the many friends of the bride and groom enjoyed the frosting and some of them had never had ice cream before, a story probably worth telling in itself by a storyteller better than I, and then the game began in earnest.

We will call the two teams Koshchey, the dwarf’s team, because it amuses me, and Claire, for Kievan’s friend.

“Why would they take my drink?” Claire asked.  “That doesn’t make any sense, because I could just get another.”

Sadko, her sylphic (as opposed to sylphan, because that sounds like sylvan, and is thus confusing to the ear) friend smiled.  “If it were of value, would you not fear it was stolen?”

“She said someone else would have it on the other team.”  She paused. “I did notice that the glasses are all quite different, so I should be able to find it.”

“No, we must confer with our teammates and negotiate its release.”

“Oh, I hope no one spit in it!”

Sadko knew it would not be so, and merely smiled.

Roo asked her partner, “What is it that we have lost?”

“It could be innocence, but it would be sheer impropriety to have losses so vulgar or of such notoriety,” her companion, who we name Nora laughed.  “However I overheard the words of one who made an exaggerated boast that it’s quite obvious our loss: the name of our host.”

“That is madness.  We were invited!”  Roo frowned.  “It is on the tip of my tongue.”

For yes, Vasilisa is a wise wizard.  That the invitation was remembered was to keep the trouble to a minimum, but the name, a name is less mutable, and can be hidden, but only until said.

“Is it an insult, or is it crass, that the other team asserts we took a glass?” Nora asked.

“Were it ambrosia, I would call it crass,” Roo suggested.  “But everyone knows the Gods drink `highly caffeinated carbonated colas’ these days.  Do we know what it looks like?”

“A pale indigo but not violet in hue, with cream coloured liqueur that turns it to blue.  Tall like a vase, but more like a square, a handle to lift it, but no real burden to bear.”

Have you caught your breath yet?  Good.  I have an idea of where to look next.

“Those people are…weird.”  Claire had tried for a number of synonyms that made her sound less, well, she was afraid she sounded like some kind of bigot, because she knew they were unusual, but all the ways you say that about someone end up sounding like you’re judging them.  Claire was, however, very frustrated.  She had tried to find another drink, only to be told they were out of glasses, or while she was searching for her own (she remembered it was a tall “adult milkshake” in a kind of rectangular blue mug) she’d keep almost seeing it but it would turn out to be someone else’s beverage. 

“You are not incorrect,” Sadko said, hiding his amusement as best he could.  “But do you have a specific in mind?”  He liked Claire.  She was like many mortals, oblivious to wonder but still in search of it. 

I see that this raises an argument for you.  We can speak of it later.  Let me finish this tale. 

“I don’t understand what they are looking for – do they really not know whose party they’re attending?  I would think Kievan would throw out this many crashers.”

“Crashers?  There has been no violence.”  Sadko chose his words carefully because violence was always a possibility, especially with some of those he saw represented.

“Party crashers.  What,” Claire smiled, somewhat distracted for a moment, “you never went anywhere without an invitation?”

Sadko’s eyes widened.  “That would be a serious breach of Hospitality.”   Yes, there was a capital ‘H’ in there.

Claire laughed. “You make it sound serious.  Not that I haven’t been to a few parties that could have used bouncers,” she shivered, instinct telling her that those at this gathering best suited for the idea were perhaps a little more careless with mortality than she would want to know.  “Honestly,” she changed the subject, “I didn’t know Kievan had so many weird friends.  Maybe they’re friends of the girl he married.”

“Perhaps,” Sadko agreed, with a sad smile.