Faithful Pebble

Part One Hundred

He looked at her, attempted as if to speak, but then, he stopped. But then, he placed the jeweled necklace back into the hands of its owner. He shrugged, the wanderer. He told her flatly, honestly, cautiously. "In general?" he asked. "Because technically, they don't. Dragons are an illusion, an image conjured up as a result of a spell or curse. The animal itself has never existed, although there are many, many similar creatures that could be mistaken as them. These? They don't breed. These creatures can't even exist apart from their human hosts. Because of this, I say they don't exist."

"So," Pebble pushed, "So at least, you believe that they are real, or at least, that they appear. You believe, then, that the dragon in my story is real, right?" She smiled, Pebble. Her voice grinned filling the brim of her hood with pride and warmth and hope and...

And that feeling didn't last. Her hood deflated as the wanderer shook his head. He rubbed the back of his neck then scrambled to his feet. For a moment, he looked out over the rumpled meadow. For a moment, it danced quietly before him. Its tall grass barely hinted at its fabled beauty, at its ancient magnificence held fantastically once upon a time. But now, as the sun's radiant gleam twirled, as it's luminous fingers played through its flowered skirts, the wanderer found himself appreciating the age and wear. The meadow was its own, like the trees and the leaves and the sky and the sun, like the hut and the girl kneeling quietly upon its rotted porch. This was no longer Snow White's story. Her time came and her time passed. This was no longer her meadow. Now, it was someone else's. He looked at the girl. He answered her softly. "No," he admitted.

"Why?" She looked up at him. Her head tilted. Her chin peeked shyly from beneath her brown and coarse and rugged, ragtag hood.

The wanderer held his breath. The meadow's breeze faded into silence.

Darkness stirred. The last rays of the sun settled sluggishly behind the trees like a soft feather, like ink dropped into a still, silent pool. As clear as glass, as still as ice, its absence coldly stalked the forest. The wanderer knotted his brows. He rubbed his arms. "We should get you ready for bed," he said.

He moved to step by her. Walking across the porch, he attentively tested the door. He smiled, the wanderer. It was firm and sturdy. She had done well.

Pebble grumbled. She marched – no, stomped – no, stormed into the house behind him. She plopped her fists on her hips and glared. She watched him while he stooped to light the hearth. They had cleaned it out first. He demanded it! It was the most important thing, he said. He said it quite frequently, demanded it all the time: "You should," "You ought," "you-You-YOU!" Pebble growled. "You are not my father."

"I am aware of that."

"And I am not a child."

The wanderer bit back his smile and hasty frown. But then, he failed.

But then, Pebble saw it. Her frown deepened. "Then why wouldn't you – I've seen it!" She blurted. "It's red and gold with eyes the color of soil and stone. I thought it was odd. The boy was turned because of the diamonds, so I'd always figure it to be a white dragon like on my necklace." She lifted it up and moved to show him, when suddenly she stopped.

The wanderer was staring at her. His gaze was once more closed. It was cautious and quiet and…

And they made her heart race, her breath to shutter and freeze. She stepped back, Pebble. They reminded her of theirs, the knight's and her father's. His eyes; there was something there, an edge, a tension she had seen before. She didn't like it.

Pebble turned away.

The wanderer got to his feet.

100 Chapters! Yay! - Calla