Nicola
It was as if they were gods. Winged beings that soared high above the golden cities that we had been forced to build. They were beautiful, with all shades of gold woven into their hair, and all shades of green trapped in their eyes. They were our masters. We were their slaves.
They forced us to labor, every day, under hot sun and burning whip. We were forced to build their cities, their palaces. Monuments to their past domination over us. They had been here for a few decades or so, having conquered our small village with overwhelming force. I wasn't alive then, of course. I heard the stories from my mother. Even a long day of working in the kitchens and scrubbing floors couldn't deter her from sitting me down and telling me of happier times, when we were free.
"Ah, I remember a time when we wouldn't have to scrounge for these herbs." she would say as she soaked her hands in healing rosemary and chamomile.
I bounced on her knees happily. "Tell me about the festivals again, Mama!"
She smiled, fatigue burrowing deep into the lines on her face. "You never tire of hearing about those, do you?" I shook my head, blonde locks flicking me in the face. I did not yet know what those locks would bring to me, being young and more naïve then. "Very well. You remember the story of the Festival of the Moon, don't you?"
My head bounced up and down. "Uh-huh. With the coyote, and the rabbit, and the coyote howling."
She would pat my head then. "Yes. The coyote was dearly in love with the moon, but was forever plagued by the knowledge that it couldn't reach it."
"What does 'plagued' mean?" I interjected.
"It means that he really didn't like it." She said, her voice gentle as a spring breeze. "So he prayed to the gods to let him know the moon."
"Did they say he could?" I asked. I already knew the answer, but I loved to ask the question anyway.
She smiled and tapped my nose with her sweet-smelling hands. "Of course they did. Even the gods won't interfere with true love. But it came with a price. The coyote would have to recognize the moon in order for her to stay. The coyote agreed, and the gods put the moon on Earth in the form of a rabbit. The coyote, acting according to his nature, did not see that she was the moon. He only saw his supper. He caught and ate the rabbit, but as he killed her, the silvery moon rose out of her body to rejoin the sky. 'Oh no!' the coyote mourned. 'My one true love! She was the moon!'. He howled his despair to the sky, begging the gods to let her return. But they didn't, because he couldn't recognize the moon in its earthly form."
"So we celebrated the coyote every fall!" I chimed in, my small voice practically chirping in delight.
"Yes, and do you know why we celebrate in the fall?" she asked.
I blinked. She had never asked that question before. "Because of the harvest moon?" I guessed. It was a good guess. Many people would have thought the same. But, no.
She wrapped me up in a big hug. "No, Nicola. We celebrated in fall because fall is the time when all things end."
"Oh…" I couldn't really understand what she meant, being so young. It was a rather solemn thought for a six-year-old, but I held onto it nonetheless.
I had no father, but we were content without one, As it were, it was hard enough to care for two, let alone three. My mother took to her bed when I was only eight, forcing me to earn our keep. I did the work of two, working in the quarries and the kitchens. Two years after she told me that fall is when all things end, she died. It was on the first harvest moon, the great orange globe hanging in the sky. A coyote howled in the distance as she breathed her last breath. Of course, as she was a slave, there was no funeral. She was burned, along with the five or so more people that had died recently. We were not allowed to mourn, our stone-faced guards raising a whip if we even so much as blinked.
I lived alone in our small hut outside the city after that. All the slaves lived outside the city. Our original village had been kept, and we lived in it, comfortably, though not happily. The Winged Ones made life little better than a living hell. I grew calluses on my hands that no girl should ever have. Even though we were already slaves, they taxed what little we grew ourselves, outrageous amounts that would leave families penniless and broken, and even more indebted to them. There were whispers around the village then, whispers of rebellion and treachery. We were tired of slaving away every slow, infernally tormenting day. The whispers were quiet, but our masters, Winged Ones, they were called, still heard. They beat us harder every day, whipping our skin raw. And still, despite all the hardship, the pain, the labor, the whispers remained only whispers.
Until the day we fought back.
We waited until dark to strike. Then, we stole into their vaulted palaces, always high-ceilinged for flight, and bound their wings so they could not fly. They were our equals now. They had sought to destroy us, but it was them, them who were being destroyed.
The sky rained blood that night.
The sun dawned the next day as it always had, first touching the gold-clad palaces, then our dirt-grimed faces, and then the blood-stained wings of our former masters. We had won. There was much celebration that day, gorging ourselves on the delicacies they had always hidden, dressing in the rich clothes they wore, and marveling in the large holes torn in the backs for wings. It was one of the few happy memories of that time that I would carry with me.
That night, I escaped into the woods for time to breathe. For once, the others had welcomed me, and we had much merry-making in the aftermath of the revolution. I had grown tired, though, and I found myself here. It was a familiar place to me, as I had come here often as a child to escape the bullying of other children, they taunted me, saying how like our master I looked, with my own hair, like woven gold, and eyes, as green as a forest leaf. The quiet sanctuary of the towering trees and gentle birdsong became my secret, and I snuck away whenever I could. Of course, these nighttime forays had garnered me many beatings from the overseers. My back had long since been striped with scars.
I slipped through the trees, as silent as other denizens of the forest, and found myself by a small pool. Cataracts poured cheerfully into its depths from a small mound, and moss-covered rocks competed with cattails and watercress to shield it from sight. I sank onto the soft bank with a sigh, dabbling my feet in the spring and enjoying the warm silence that filtered through the trees.
A bird landed on a branch stretching over the cataracts. It was a small bird, almost jewel-like in the stretch of the sun. It cocked its head at me as I stared in wonder. I had never seen a bird so close before. Only winging their way high above the city, soon out of sight, always out of reach.
I reached out a hand gently. "Hello there." I said softly, beckoning the bird closer with my thoughts. To my surprise, it gave a small hop-skip and alighted on my hand. It tilted its head again and chittered up at me. I just stared at it, amazed by its lovely brown wings and emerald green breast. It seemed to almost frown, if that were possible for a bird, and chittered again, sounding a little harsher this time. I blinked in surprise, almost hearing words in its chatter. "I'm sorry?" I asked, confused.
The bird bobbed its head and chirped. This time, I could clearly hear its words. "Why don't you have wings, Winged One?"
"I'm not a Winged One." I said stupidly. I had no idea what this bird was talking about. Stars, I didn't even know they could talk!
"You are, you are!" It chattered. "A daughter of the Winged Ones, but you have no wings! A new one!"
"I'm human." I protested, my golden hair, so like theirs, falling into my green eyes, also so like theirs. "I'm not like them. They enslaved me! I hate them!" the utter incredulity in my voice was tinged by just a hint of doubt. After all, no one else had blonde hair; not even my mother.
"Nicola, who are you talking to?" a familiar voice came from behind me. The bird startled at the noise and flew off into the forest.
I whirled around, rising and trying to follow it. "No, wait!" It didn't stop. "What did you mean? Come back!" my cry echoed after it, vanishing in the vast reaches of the forest.
My best friend, Kiara, grabbed my arm. "Nicola!"
I spun to face her. "Kiara." I was breathing heavily, the motion of spinning so much leaving me dizzy.
"Who were you talking to?" she asked, her nut-brown eyes filled with concern. She was what was considered "normal", with brown hair and eyes. Most of the slaves were like that, with the occasional blue-eyed child. None had blond hair. None had green eyes. None were like me.
"There was a bird…" I replied softly, my mind winging away with it through the sun-striped trees.
"O-kay…" she said, brushing it off as another fancy of mine. Normal village folk knew that a bird would never even come close to them, let alone talk to them. Kiara knew I was strange, and didn't care about my hair or eyes. She helped me stand up for myself in the village when the boys threw stones, calling me a no-winged devil. She grabbed my arm again. "That doesn't matter right now. We need to get back to the city." she began pulling me back toward the dusty city and away from the pool, the trees, the quietly streaming sunlight…
"Why?" I asked, wanting to stay here, where it was peaceful, and the sheer majesty of the forest absorbed all sound.
"They're going to hang the King!" her voice was full of excitement at the prospect of seeing the man that had put us through so much swinging from the gallows that had taken the lives of those that tried to escape. Within seconds, we were in the open, the brightness of the sunlight shooting lances through my eyes after the cool dimness of the forest. I blinked, trying to clear out the colorful spots before my eyes suffered from the temporary blindness.
Drums sounded ahead of us, a long, slow roll that began to rattle along with my heart. People were gathered in two longs lines along the parade ground ahead of us, the same parade ground where we had suffered the whip for various reasons, and sometimes no reason at all. People I had known my whole life, that I had worked with, played with, that I knew would never hurt a fly, were calling out for blood. Kiara let go of my arm and plunged eagerly into the crowd. I followed behind reluctantly, standing on the fringe of the jostling crowd. I didn't want to see someone killed, even if they had enslaved us.
Suddenly, someone shoved me from behind, sending me sprawling into the clumps of people clustered in front of me. I cringed, expecting to hit them, but they separated for some reason, giving me room to keep falling. I eventually fell to my knees at the front of the crowd, in full view of the parade ground. I stood hurriedly and tried to shrink back into the crowd, but a roar rose up among them and they surged forward to press against the erected barriers.
The fallen king of the Winged Ones was coming down the parade ground.
His wings were bound behind him, their once gleaming white feathers stained black, sticky, and soiled from his imprisonment. He was shoved cruelly along, the butts of the wooden javelins we had used to fight jabbing into his back as he stumbled forward. Dressed in burlap sacks, this once majestic figure had been brought down to a level that was less than we had been as slaves. I bit back a cry. It was too cruel, too pitiful.
He stumbled from a particularly vicious jab and fell to his knees in front of me. My knuckles turned white, and my fingers dug into my palms with the effort of holding back the unexpected fury that welled up inside me. I stared down at him, wondering how in the world could my people, humans, treat someone that way when they themselves knew what it was like. He raised his head, and our eyes met.
His hair had fallen over his face, the golden locks lank and greasy on his forehead. His green eyes, green like a forest leaf, stared up into my own in shock. He held my gaze; I couldn't look away. Finally, after what could have been hours, days even, but in reality was only seconds, he was dragged to his feet and shoved onward. He didn't look back, not once, but I could still feel his eyes boring into me. I shivered from some unknown chill, and watched him mount the steps to the gallows.
As they put the heavy rope that would end his life around his neck, he looked up at the crowd that roared eagerly for his blood. He raised a hand, and they immediately fell silent, more out of habit than choice.
"You have bested me and my people." His voice was as calm as if it had been any other day. "I commend you. It must not have been easy."
"Yeah, right! You idiots were pushovers!" one obstinate slop yelled. The crowd jeered in agreement, but fell silent as he raised his hand once more.
"I understand then, that we were easy to defeat." He continued. "Nighttime has always been a weak time for us. You chose the right time to strike." He cast his gaze across the crowd, and eventually fastened onto my own. A ghost of a smile kissed his lips. "And now my daughter is free." A ripple ran through the crowd. A daughter? What daughter? None of us had wings.
I swallowed visibly. This would not bode well for me; I could tell.
"My daughter was born wingless, a defect in our race, but I loved her with all my heart. My wife, however, was of a different mindset. She believed that none without wings could be counted as a member of our race. She had my daughter spirited away, and given to her handmaiden." His voice broke, weighed heavily by emotion. I stiffened. My mother had been the Queen's handmaiden, before she grew too sickly to work under her harsh eye. I tried once more to shrink back into the crowd, but his gaze had captured me and held me prisoner where I stood. "She lives among you, as a human." His voice began to choke, and the gleam of crystal tears began to shine in his eyes. "And she has grown up and grown beautiful." He hung his head in shame. "My only wish is that I could have watched her…" his voice trailed away as he wept, tears running tracks down the dirt on his face. He was no longer a ruler, but a broken man. I found I was able to move again, as he had broken his gaze. I slipped back into the crowd, hoping to get away before he was hung, and before the crowd realized who his daughter actually was.
I was too late. The executioner took a hold of the lever that opened the trap door beneath the feet of the king. He jerked it back, and the soul of Anor Anoch-tha, last ruler of the Winged Ones and the father I had never known, went winging away into the sky, never to land among mortals again.
Thierry
I was never very good with people. My own people always avoided me; out of fear or disgust I did not know. Most Draconians could change forms to their dragon-like counterparts within a week of hatching. They were flying about by the end of the month, and those gifted with magic began studying at the end of their first year.
It had been nineteen years, and I still could not change forms.
It was never a problem when I was younger. All the rough-and-tumble games that boys played we played in both human and Draconian form. No one thought it strange that I would remain in human form. Many children did so, as it increased agility in the game.
But years passed and childhood faded away into classes that were taught entirely in Draconian form. Trouble followed me like a shadow in those days. No one knew about my… handicap. That was what my father always called it. He hated that his son wasn't a protégé, like he, himself, had been.
Oh, it wasn't that he hated me. He merely hated the fact that I couldn't change forms. No, hating me would have been like hating himself every time he caught sight of his own reflection. It was well known in our family that sons always looked exactly like the father, but had the mother's eyes. My father, like his father and the one before, had dark skin, the color of rich caramel, and jet black curls. His mother had dark eyes, near black, and they shone in my father's face like pieces of obsidian. He was a tall man; slender, but with strong, ropy muscles that one would not expect from a man of his standing. Though he was one of the leaders in our tribe, his position as a magisterial judge did not require physical prowess. Despite that, he kept in top condition as a memory of his days as a soldier.
Being a judge, my father came across many intriguing people, but none, he told me one night as I sat on his knee, as intriguing as my mother.
"I still remember the first time I saw her." He said, eyes misting over in memory. "She came into the court as a pickpocket. Her hand had been caught inside the purse of a visiting dignitary. The minute saw her, I knew she had a story, and that it was one I needed to know."
"How did you know?" I asked, her ice blue eyes opening wide on my face.
"There was just something about her." He came back to the present as she came into the room. "After all, it's not every day you see someone with such firey hair and cold eyes." He added teasingly.
"Jonathan!" she chided him gently. Despite her firey nature, she was always gentle with me and my father. He merely smiled at her chastising, his polished goatee turning him into a lesser devil. She sighed, shaking her head. "Don't listen to a word he says, Thierry." She said, heading for the opposite door. "He'll fill your head with sparkles and have you chasing rainbows before you turn six." her tone was stern, but a dance of mischief wove its way beneath the harsh words.
My father laughed as she left the room, a great, rolling laugh that exploded out of his chest in a manner vaguely reminiscent of a storm. Small wonder that he had gained the nickname "Thunder" as a soldier. "Papa," I asked when he had finished. "Why did you choose Mama when she was a criminal?"
He regarded me with silent eyes for a moment, the broke into a gentle smile. "Thierry, the one thing you must always remember is that everyone has a story." He ruffled my curls. "The first time I saw Alae, I wanted to know everything about her. When you meet the woman you want to spend the rest of your life with, you'll see." I had no idea what he meant, but my eyes were still wide from his story, and all my five-year-old self could do was nod.
As it turned out, Alae, my mother, was a weaver. Maker or carpets, mostly, she had been ripped off one too many times and was about to starve. You see, my mother, though living and dealing among Blue Draconians, was a cross-breed of Red and Blue Draconian. The resulting blood left her without a breath weapon from either side, neither Fire nor Ice, and carpet buyers bullied her into cutting her prices drastically. Despite that single handicap, she could still change forms, and her Draconian form swirled with hypnotic shades of red and blue.
My father left her off with a warning, angering several important people in the process, then proceeded to visit and purchase a carpet from her. The marked price was ten gold pieces. He paid thirty. In the end, they had charmed each other enough that he would grab for any excuse to drop by. He finally proposed, and my sister and I were born, seven years apart.
Lira, my older sister, was beautiful, talented, and gifted with magic. Her Draconian form was such a verdant shade of blue it looked green, and her black hair was pin straight rather than curled. She had Papa's dark eyes and skin as well. She thought I was a twat, as most sisters think of their little brothers, and did her best to ignore me. It wasn't hard. Magic students studied at a completely different school, and she boarded at the school itself.
I, however, was stuck in normal classes. With normal children. All in Draconian form, except me. Teachers thought I was a troublemaker. Kids thought I was a rebel. They stuck by me like limpets, only boys at first, but in time I grew into my ears, knees, and elbows and girls started crowding around as well. Giggling, smiling, switching their tails about in ways they thought were cute, and all to catch my attention. They thought I was mysterious. I just found them annoying.
I'm sure they were pretty enough, but my father's words still rang in my head. None of them intrigued me. They were normal girls from the tribe; nothing special, nothing worth noticing.
All the while, my classes grew harder and harder, becoming a literal fight to keep up. We held mock-fights, training us to use every part of our body in battle. People in Draconian form were strong, but usually not fast. I would dodge under their claws and trip them up before they could even scratch me. You see, this entire time I had been training with my father; sprinting up mountains to watch the sunrise, throwing boulders that would escape the strength of a fully-grown Draconian, and free-climbing waterfalls. I was learning to use my human body in ways that it was probably never intended to be used is. I was barely twelve, and my muscles were well on their way to becoming as rock-hard as my father's. I quickly became the only person in the class to remain undefeated, and I quickly gained the nickname "Lightning" as compliment to my speed.
On my thirteenth birthday, we received word of a new enemy to the east. They seemed to be human, but possessed angelic white wings and devastating weaponry. They had been swallowing villages on that side of Fiaru for some time now, and now they were intruding on our territory. It wasn't long before our emperor sent troops to fight back. My father wanted to go with them, but his duties as a judge prevented him.
"I'll go." I said, my young chin held high.
"Absolutely not." He was bent over the desk in his study, small spectacles perched on his nose. Papers from his last case covered the desk as he examined them for any mistakes. My father did not tolerate mistakes in his work.
"I can fight. I proved that in school." I was absolutely stubborn, just like the mountains that ringed our town.
"Being able to fight has nothing to do with it, Thierry." He replied, switching papers.
I smoldered, hoping that if I did long enough, I could catch the piece of paper he held on fire so he would look at me. "It's because I can't change, isn't it?" the question hung in the air.
My father paused in his work and sighed. Taking off his spectacles, he wiped the gleam of sweat off his forehead. "Those new warriors are dangerous people. They swallow up the countryside like rats. I don't want you getting hurt."
"I won't be! I know how to handle myself, and I've trained enough that I can throw the same size boulder as you!" Desperate to convince him, I started pulling out cards to prove my worth.
"Muscle and skin don't block sword and steel. You would be vulnerable on the battlefield." His voice was calm, rationalizing his decision with cool logic.
"I would dodge before they hit me. I didn't get the nickname 'Lightning' by sitting on my ass. I would make a good soldier, and you know it." My words bit into the air, knives aimed at the one person standing between me and my goal..
He sighed again, putting his spectacles back on. "I have no doubt that you would be. Just not now."
I stared at him, trembling. My fingernails dug into my callused palms, barely leaving an indent in the tough skin. Fury rose in me, fury that he wouldn't let me go fight with the rest of our people.
Suddenly, a hot rush spread through my body, knocking me to my knees. I coughed and choked, unable to breathe. My father was by my side in less than a heartbeat, rubbing and pounding on my back. I coughed once, twice, and ice blue flames came pouring out of my mouth. My father barely shifted to his Draconian form in time, but still singed his goatee.
The carpet we were on had caught fire, and it quickly spread about the room. Papa calmed it with a brief gout of Ice from his own maw, then shifted back to his human form to comfort me. Shaking, I couldn't find the energy in me to keep my suddenly-leaden eyelids from drooping. I blacked out.
Later, when I awoke, I was in my own bed with an imperial commission on my bedside table. It said I would be serving under Captain Richelieu of the Ice Star. A naval position, but I didn't care. I was going to war.
I left within the week, heading for the desert port town of Vias. We would patrol the river, fitting as a Winged One stronghold lay across the desert directly to the east of it. We were also to maintain contact with the world on the other side of the Veil, the human world. As it turned out, Captain Richelieu was a close friend of many ruling bodies on Earth, the human world, and was critical in maintaining their good relationships with the Draconian people. I was absolutely thrilled to be serving in such an important position.
The moment I stepped onto the Ice Star, the captain called me to his cabin. Shaking, wondering what I could have done when I had only been there a few seconds, I followed the large Bo'sun down to the captain's cabin and was ushered in alone.
The captain himself was a man that looked very much like my father, but with straight, salt-and-pepper hair and eyes that trapped the sea in their depths. "So, you are the new midshipman." He said, his voice holding the quiet tone of authority. I swallowed, only being able to nod. His eyes narrowed, seeming to study me. "I am a close friend of your father. He tells me that you are unable to change forms. Is that correct?" I nodded. He got up from behind his desk. "I see. And he also tells me that, though you are a Blue Draconian, you can breathe Fire. Is that true as well?" My head bobbed so much that one would think it would pop off. His face broke into an unexpected smile. "Then you and I are brethren. I, too, can breathe blue Fire instead of Ice." He walked around his desk to rest his hands on my shoulders. "I shall welcome you here as if you were my own son. You shall work hard, and be a valuable asset to us."
Relief flooded me in waves, and even though I wasn't scared anymore, I could still only nod. I was okay! I wasn't the only one of my kind, after all. It was a huge relief to just here those words, but to be welcomed as well? It was amazing. The Ice Star was my new home, now.
In time, I proved myself in duty and was elevated to the rank of Lieutenant at the age of sixteen. I had learned to fight, not only with my fists, but with a sword and knife as well. I could load and fire a cannon, on my own, in under a minute. I could hit a target with a bow from four hundred meters. It was hard work, but I kept up and passed every new test that came my way. It was then that I was given a very strange assignment.
Now, let it be noted that, as everyone on the ship was a Blue Draconian, stationing us by a desert wasn't a very smart move. Blue Draconians require humid air, like Red Draconians need the dry heat of volcanoes and deserts. The river made up for the lack of water in the air, but it was still very nearly too dry.
I, however, was absolutely fine. The portion of Red Draconian blood in my veins made it so I could survive both humid and dry climates. So it was no wonder when rumors of a rebellion in the Winged Ones stronghold reached us, I was the one to go into the desert to find out what I could. I took a strong horse and several waterskins and headed for the nearest oasis, about three leagues inland.
I traveled at night to avoid the harsh desert sun, watching the stars perform their slow dance above me. One in particular stood out, the Eye of the Dragon. It was a sacred star among our people, watching over all of us and keeping us safe. The legend shrouding it said the star "blinked" once every five hundred years, and when it did, it would change the destinies of whoever was watching the star forever. As my gaze followed it, it flickered, then blinked out for half a second. I started, pulling sharply up on my horse's reins. It snorted indignantly and stomped in irritation. I bent over its neck, patting it, comforting it. Comforting me.
I had just seen the star "blink".