The stegoceratops lived in a lily wood, and she lived all alone. She was old, not old enough to be wearing the brownish spots that appeared on her kind with the passing of time, but older than most, nonetheless. Her eyes were innocent and wise and bluer than the bluest ocean.
She did not look like the dinosaurs one might find in a book; indeed, she was a hybrid unknown to science, but she was also thin and lithe and fleet of foot. She differed from her own people in that she had a third horn and two graceful wings that adorned her olive back. It was funny, the stegoceratops thought, that she looked this way, only she stopped thinking about it once she realized something, but that something left her as quickly as a wisp of smoke dissolving in the wind.
It came back.
Somehow, it seemed to her that the words were not right. She asked herself what words she was thinking of, and to that, she had no answer. Or perhaps she did, because she distinctly remembered the passages being phrased differently, only she wasn't sure what passages she was referring to, and she had forgotten what she was thinking about anyway.
Her horns were sleek, so sleek that the light ran down them in unbroken lines, and her plates were the color of rust, if rust was beautiful. And as for the wings, she remembered why she had them, and then she didn't, and then she went back to grazing.
She stopped what she was doing when two men appeared in the woods, riding burly triceratops. The animals did not look like her, exactly, because they were stupid beasts, and she was much more beautiful than such simple creatures. The men came to a halt, and she remained in the shadows.
"This land has changed. Can you sense it? She's here."
"Who?"
"The stegoceratops."
"There are no stegoceratopses."
"Not anywhere else. She is the last."
The last? That couldn't be. The stegoceratops frowned in puzzlement. Where were the others? There had always been stegoceratopses. Why should they disappear, and why now? Were the men lying? Did they not know any better? Perhaps they were simply foolish, or else deluded. The stegoceratops would have liked to believe that this was the case. Belief, of course, was not always accurate.
In any case, it was a mystery that wasn't going to solve itself. She was soon on her way, walking man's road, but that wasn't quite right, because she was in the book. What book? She didn't know. Why had she thought of such a silly thing? She was sure she had a reason, and then she wasn't, and then she forgot altogether.
Along the road, she was very nearly captured by a colorful, bipedal hybrid, who mistook her for a stegosaurus. She was puzzled that he could not see her wings. And shouldn't he recognize her anyway? It seemed to her that she knew him, or at least knew someone like him outside of her dreams. But she wasn't dreaming, was she?
Was she?
Her answer came by chance when a butterfly landed on her front horn. She smiled at the insect, examining the gilded delicacy of its wings.
"Have you come to sing me a song, butterfly?" she asked.
The bug remained silent. She looked at it with worry, feeling a faint sense of dread brewing in her stomach.
"Butterfly? . . ."
It stopped beating its wings.
"You shouldn't have come here," it said, barely audible.
The stegoceratops' face fell.
"What? . . ."
"This was a mistake. You could die. The Red Entelodon is looking for you."
"What is the Red Entelodon? Why are you not singing me songs?"
"You're not in a book anymore," the butterfly whispered, "The danger here is very real. It may seem like a dream or an illusion, but don't forget that you have no mortal body while you're here. All that remains is your consciousness, so matters of the mind will destroy you. You're not safe."
The stegoceratops shook her head.
"No, I have to find them. That's why- I mean- it's not- Look, you're not following the words! You don't even know my name!"
"You don't. You've forgotten. But I know. I know because I've been here for far longer than you or the projections you create. Of all the people you will meet in this land, there are only three that are actually here, you being one of them. And then there are those who were already present: the ones you set out to find. Do you remember bringing them here, to the land where they can be reached? Not everyone gets a second chance. You're lucky."
"Say my name," she rumbled.
"Claire. Your name is Claire."
This made her wonder. She stopped wondering, then started again, because it seemed to her that what she was wondering was important. The thought vanished, just as the others had. But now she had a feeling. That feeling would not go away. She knew what she was here for.
"I must save the others."
"That is why you came, yes, but it won't be as simple as that," the butterfly warned her, "You have a long journey ahead of you."
"I know," the stegoceratops said, "I'm ready to face the world."
The butterfly hovered above her horn, then rose gently on the wind, which had begun to kick up.
"Good luck."
"And to you too."
"I'm not the one who needs it."
The stegoceratops did not think that she needed good luck, and perhaps if she had, she wouldn't have been so careless. She lay down to rest a few hours later, sleeping in plain sight. She did not realize how vulnerable she was until she felt a spell being cast upon her. When she woke up, she found herself behind bars.