Perfect Storm

Disclaimer/Claimer: These are* not* my characters, they belong to JK Rowling. The lyrics belong to Brad Paisley. However, the scenario and storyline is 100% *mine*, and this writing belongs to me.

[This is a perfect instance of me hearing a song and instantly creating a scenario in my mind for a character of mine – technically JKR’s character, but you get it. Obviously, what I hear in this song is Harry talking about Draco. I did change the lyrics from feminine to masculine.]

“If he was a drink, he'd be single barrel bourbon on ice
Smooth with a kick, a chill and a burn all at the same time
He's Sunday drive meets high-speed chase
He ain't just a song, he's the whole mixtape
He's so complicated that's the way God made him
Sunshine mixed with a little hurricane
…
And he destroys me in that t-shirt
And I love him so much it hurts
I never meant to fall like this
But he don't just rain, he pours
That boy right there's the perfect storm
…
I know how to make him laugh or blush or mad at me
But that's OK, there ain't no one more beautiful angry
And he loves just as deep as he goes when he's down
The highs match the lows, can't have one without the other
And I love him just the way God made him
Sunshine mixed with a little hurricane”

- Perfect Storm (By: Brad Paisley)

Draco whirled around and glared at Harry, his eyes like smoke and slate. Energy crackled off him, and the brunet couldn’t help but rise to him, not letting him lash out in his fury. So he didn’t want sympathy – too bad. Harry couldn’t stop the fierce protectiveness that made his chest hurt and the respect that made his fingers tremble.

“It’s not pity, you stupid berk,” he whispered harshly, his voice hoarse. Lunging towards the blonde, he sunk his hands into that dandelion fluff hair and pulled him forward, kissing him. Straining against him, almost violent, Draco bit and pushed at him, trying to break free but giving as good as he got at the same time. His lips were chapped from the cold, but they were warm and familiar, and Harry laughed, deep in his chest where the heavy feeling of joy and sadness churned. He focused on turning every bite and nip into a nibble, softening the growling creature in his arms until he stroked Draco’s neck and hummed.

The proud man struggled, still not surrendering, but he slowed, listening when Harry whispered, “It’s not pity, Draco. How could I? I’ve never met someone as strong as you.”

He stood against the brunet’s hold another moment before gradually loosening his hold on his anger, gripping Harry’s shirt with one hand. His own button down shirt was rumpled, the collar sticking up on one side, hair still staticy with magic. He had dark smudges under his eyes, but now they were a soft pewter, looking at Harry from under thick, pale lashes.

“I’m not strong, Potter. I’m terrified,” he murmured, lips barely stumbling over the words. The whisky and tears hadn’t brought down his mask, so Harry would have to do it himself.

Thumbing Draco’s bottom lip, Harry smiled and rested his forehead on his lover’s, saying, “But you’re still here, Draco. Despite everything – all the bastards who tried to make you run, and even the fights we still have to win, you’re still here. You’ve been through hell, literally,” here he stopped and ran his other hand over the blonde’s side, feeling the raised skin of a crisscrossing scar on his ribs, “but you haven’t run away. That is strength.”

For a long time there was only the sounds of the rain as the drizzle started up again and their breathing in the room. Harry could hear a thundering pulse, but wasn’t sure whom it belonged to, so close were they to each other. He knew that Draco might not let him win so easily the next time he was feeling vulnerable, so he intended to enjoy the moment of minor success. Asking the Room for a bed, he edged them both over to it, pressing his partner down into the softness.

Instead of fighting, Draco relaxed like a cat afraid of getting wet – which is to say, not that much. Instead, his eyes darted away from Harry’s face, down to the – silk? – sheets, eyeing them like he thought they might grab hold of him.

So he doesn’t believe me, Harry mused, moving so they were lying next to each other in lieu of hovering over Draco like some kind of predator. The dark fabric looked like water across the blonde man’s skin, making his flesh look glass-like and blown like so much sugar into graceful shape. There were tiny white lines on his hands, and the young lord took one up, touching a deep mark that looked like a bit of coral. It was on the web of fat between thumb and forefinger, tendrils of scar reaching under the thumb. The shadowy Mark wavered under his fingertips when he let them drift down, and he glanced up at the ash eyes watching him.

Draco looked ready to bolt, but held himself still, his face frozen stiff and leaving only his eyes moving. They were so expressive. Though, to be honest, that was probably the alcohol instead of any degree of trust between them. It stung a little, but Harry could understand the need to protect oneself from being hurt. 

His hands got even gentler, bringing up the arm to kiss the Mark. This time the skin flinched under his lips, and Draco tried to jerk away. Holding him still, the brunet kissed it again, meeting his lover’s eyes and moving up his arm. He felt the bumps of other scars and kept going until Draco was shivering. Then he smirked where the blonde couldn’t see him and attacked.

Skittering his fingers across Draco’s ribs, he grinned in delight when the blonde arched off the bed, shrieking in indignation. Limbs flailing, he shouted, “Potter! No, stop! Harry-” choking, unwilling laughter was dragged from him, and he spasmed.

A foot hit Harry’s chin and he was knocked off the bed, laughing through his grimace as he sat up. Draco panted, scowling over the side of the bed at him, his face flushed and beautiful, dark eyes exasperated.

“That was rude,” he scowled, reclining back into the pillows and refusing to let Harry back up until he apologised.

Taking a pale foot in hand, he looked up to see a wand pointed at him, amused grey eyes watching carefully.

“Have a care, Potter,” Draco murmured, two spots of color still in his cheeks. His hair was mussed, and he seemed brighter, even if just a little. Of course he knew what Harry was trying to do, but he had apparently decided to allow it. Rather, he was leaving himself open to being persuaded.

Baby steps, Harry allowed, starting to rub the arch of the foot. One massage later the two of them were facing each other, lying on their sides on the bed. Harry bent at the waist, snuffling into the blonde’s abdomen and letting the air rush from him. Thin fingers carded through his hair, and he took in a warm breath, hissing in pleasure subconsciously. The scent of Draco filled him, and his arms tightened.

“Easy there, lover boy. Unless ya want an asphyxiated boyfriend over here,” the teen grunted, but didn’t move to unwind them. His leg moved until his calf was between Harry’s legs, and he loved the warmth. The bespectacled brunet had heat like a furnace pouring out of him, and the Head Boy just wanted to soak it in like a snake in the sun.

It had taken him a long time to admit, even to himself, that he fancied the Boy Who Lived, Wonder Boy, Harry bloody Potter. He was still more comfortable calling him Potter, but when it was just the two of them he often slipped up and called him by his Christian name, which he knew gave the stupid berk a bloated, fat head. He was always asking Draco to use it all the time, and refused to call him ‘Malfoy’ in public.

Don’t get him wrong, Draco resented being pushed into something he wasn’t totally comfortable with, but at the same time, he couldn’t really dislike the way Potter doted on him. He also might have loved the way it felt to hear him say his first name, though that would never cross his lips upon pain of death. Truthfully he knew it was a weakness of his that he couldn’t trust himself enough for the kind of closeness Harry was asking for, but he was trying.

The whisky was making his head thick and hot, but he’d been sloshed worse than this every day at the Manor over break, so he had some experience with seeing a slight blur around things. Rather, he didn’t enjoy the wandering thoughts. After a dry spell it was always worse, and it was just reiterated by the nausea and rubber taste to his tongue. 

Still, the collection of hard liquor he had in his room would have put a pub to shame, and the Jack Daniels in his sock drawer probably spoke of an unhealthy need, but he hadn’t dipped into drink for weeks. It had just been a bad day, and he appreciated more than words - specifically words from his proud mouth - could say that Harry didn’t call him out on getting pissed.

It actually made a very silly part of him warm when the Boy Who Never Drank took a glass to make him less like a lush and more human. Sure Potter had had one or two benders, but he wasn’t like the rest of their age group, all of whom all took any opportunity to get legless drunk. Mind drifting from serious topics, he luxuriated in the smell of cinnamon and coffee that Potter gave off along with his marvelous heat. In contrast, Wonder Boy’s hair was soft and cold, and he pressed his heated face into it, digging his chin in when Harry laughed against his stomach.

“Tha’ tickles, ya twat.”

Smiling, Harry nosed into the button down shirt and blew on his lover’s midriff, accepting the knee to the hip as payment when the skin wriggled and jumped against him.

“I’m warnin’ ya’, Potter.”

“Alright, alright, yeh delicate flower,” Harry chuckled, enjoying the hard pulls that Draco made with his hair. He loved provoking the blonde, but he loved the silly feeling of a snitch in his chest even more, as a wiry arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him close.

“Sleep already.”

Giving in, Harry tucked an elbow under his head and wrapped his other arm around the Slytherin’s hips. It felt like a vaguely familiar position, but he didn’t remember ever sleeping like this before.  

Strange.

Raining

I leaned back in my chair, waiting for the page to load, when I heard it.

It was raining outside, drops clinking against my window in a dull rhythm that I could barely make out over the fan. Quickly getting up, I search for my boy, grabbing him up as he stared at me sleepily. Purring, he settled in my arms but tensed when I unlocked the door, shifting when I stepped onto the patio.

The overhang from the apartment above gave me a wide swath of sidewalk to stand on, and the air was warm, heat rising from the concrete. I knew it wouldn't last long, but I had missed all of the rain recently, so it felt good just to stand there and listen to it.

My boy wailed unhappily and I couldn't help but laugh, "So you don't like the rain, huh Mon? You're the one who's always running for the door. I keep telling you you're not missing much." He hopped from my shoulder to the couch, then back to his spot on the carpet.

"It's hot and wet, hon. It's Texas rain - what did you expect?" I shut the door behind me as I went back out. Now I stuck a hand out into the drops, sighing at the nice chill. My feet were pleasantly warm, the feeling coming up to spread across my legs too.

Now I was completely out from the awning, enjoying the rain as it speckled my face. People were still in the pool, probably expecting the shower to stop soon - it most likely would. Well at least I caught one summer shower before autumn begins.

Sunrise

I sat on the grey stone, my keys in my lap, cell phone beside me. It was quiet in a noisy way, the birds waking up as the sky lightened. I could hear them rustling around in the bushes behind me - I preferred to imagine it was birds instead of some kind of rodent - and the cranes were down by the water calling to each other. Fish splashed every so often, snatching water-skating bugs, and the odd duck honked at its brethren.

I had left my car by the gate, but I could still see it, and there were faint sounds of car doors shutting and dogs barking. The sounds of traffic were absent though, as was the noise of the city. There were no lawnmowers or children, and the only wires were the telephone poles instead of lights.

The sky was a faint pink, bleeding into blue, and the edges were still a deep blue from the night. It was pleasantly warm, the summer heat finally cooling down as we approached September. I had come to see the sun rise and relax a bit, even if I was technically trespassing. I had lived here before, though, and knew that nobody really enforced that rule unless you made trouble. Just sitting on the ground staring across the lake at the horizon wouldn’t get me in trouble.

I hoped.

Half of me was a bit disappointed that I had lost my friend’s number, so I was alone, but most of me was fine just sitting there, playing with the pebbles as I watched the sky. Clouds were lying in thin strips overhead, and I could hear the sounds of a boat starting up, far across the water on the other shore.

Time passed, and finally I saw it. A thin red line had just appeared over the tree line, and as I watched, my mouth falling open a little, it rose a bit and the very top turned a deep dark orange. Blinking, I realised that I must have never watched a sunrise. I mean really watch it. I would have remembered.

Slowly the red-orange ball rose and turned orange-red, and I thought dimly of the scene from the Lion King, how there was no brightness to it yet. Any brightness came not from the sun, but from the sky around it, a light blue now. The circle itself was only that, a clear line of definition shaping it as it got higher. Before long the top seemed to reach a line of something invisible, and was dyed orange-red-yellow, still not glowing but definitely brighter now, less clear to the eye.

I watched until it was all one again, and a brilliant stripe of red-gold was painted across the lake in a solid color, wavering with the water. I imagined swimming in it, my own skin the color I was seeing, and wished I had the time to go down to the shore before the sun rose completely. I would just have to savor it instead. Maybe next time.

The sun had started shining in its usual yellow-white by the time I stood up, and a small group of does had wandered around on the shore for a while. When I moved, they left, heading back into the fields. It wasn’t some big, life-changing event, that shifted my view of the world forever, but it was very nice, and I can’t believe I’d never seen a sunrise before. Maybe I would make a habit of this in the morning.

A Simple Dress

Disclaimer/Claimer: These are not my characters, they belong to JK Rowling. However, the scenario and storyline is 100% mine, and this writing belongs to me.

Ginny ran a hand down the front of her outfit, appreciating the way the fabric slipped through her fingers. The first layer, a plain silk dress under everything else, was a solid dark blue, and very loose from the bodice down. It had a modest neckline, the top centered between her shoulders, and comfortable sleeves that ended at her elbows. Over that was a white cover of lace, trailing over the skirt. It was worn from the waistline to the bottom of the dress, and had designs of starbursts and moons with tiny silver beads arranged artfully throughout.

The final layer was another blue, this one a soft periwinkle, and it was a matching silk. It was shaped somewhat like a very long vest, and clipped in the middle at the base of the bodice with a simple silver clasp. Instead of ending at her hips like a normal vest though, it separated into two wide halves that hung over the sides of the dress like petals.

Her red hair was pinned up with a long mother-of-pearl clip that separated her locks into front and back. The front was left bare, but the back was done up with so many tiny pins that she had lost count, each ending in a small, rounded bit of mother-of-pearl. The light shone off her, and bits of hair had escaped to trail down her face at the cheeks, framing her freckles.

Looking in the mirror, she felt like a fairy princess, only missing the wings. Of course she knew that the dress hadn’t cost much, but it was gorgeous, and she felt very lucky to be wearing it. Her shoes were a dark blue to match the base dress, with little triangles of lace over the tips to match the second. Her face wasn’t overdone, but a line of glitter at her hairline and a trace of silver eye paint made her look ethereal. A faintly silver lipstick and dark blue eyeliner completed the look, and she felt the need to twirl at herself in the mirror.

Lavender had left her to dress, going down to the Main Commons with Parvati. She’d have to thank them again for helping her with her make up. Her mother was a firm believer in natural beauty, and had only taught her daughter the basics, saying that any more than that was excess.

Hermione was in the bathroom putting lotion on her arms before getting her own dress on, so Ginny picked up the necklace she’d had to take off earlier and clipped it on, struggling with the clasp for a moment before cool fingers came up behind her and latched it easily.

“There,” Hermione said, smoothing it down the front of her girl’s neck and smiling at her in the mirror. She had come up silently from behind, seeing her friend fighting the small chain. Feeling a sudden swell of sisterly affection for the older girl, the redhead leaned back against her, the smell of vanilla making her head warm.

After a moment, Hermione pulled back and turned Ginny around, gasping when she saw the full image of how pretty she looked.

“Oh, Gin! You love wonderful!” She murmured, tucking a loose bit of hair behind the girl’s ear fondly. With everything that had happened this year, it was good to get a bit of happiness with everyone. 

The Fairness of Things

Disclaimer/Claimer: These are not my characters, they belong to JK Rowling. However, the scenario and storyline is 100% mine, and this writing belongs to me.

 

"It's not - " Harry stopped, glaring at a spot on the wall behind them, and the girls glanced to each other. It was only the three of them in the room, and Hermione and Ginny both decided it was Hermione who should go first.
 

Having a very good idea about what her best friend was thinking, the brunette came forward and put a hand on his arm.
 

"Go ahead and say it, Harry. It's not fair. Of course it isn't. It hasn't been fair for years - not even once. That doesn't mean you can't complain about it. You are allowed to do that, you know," she said quietly, trying to keep the worry out of her voice as much as she could.
 

Taking a breath, Harry spoke again, calmer than before, "It's not fair for them to all expect me to save them; like it's so bloody easy! I'm trying, but even that's not good enough! They have to know every detail, approve it piece by piece, and if they don't like it they call me mad and crazed, and they get away with it!"
 

Now Ginny came up and sat in front of them both on the bed, patting the place beside her. Slowly the other two sat down, and the redhead smiled wanly.
 

"Harry, can I tell you what I think?"
 

"Of course, Gin," the boy said, glancing to her.
 

She took a moment, ordering her thoughts, and finally said, "You know that I grew up hearing bedtime stories of the Great Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, the one who saved everyone by giving up everything. I had a huge crush on you and figurines and drawing of you, and everything. Most children did."
 

When he shifted uncomfortably, she nodded, "I know its creepy now, but back then, it wasn't. I was only believing in a hero, and what could be wrong with that?"
 

She took a breath, "Now from there, imagine that we had never met. Imagine that I never got to know you, and then all of this started; the war and people dying, homes being attacked and left in shambles in the night."
 

So far she could see they were following her, and she thought Hermione might see what she was saying.
 

"Then last year happened, and the world was told that there was a prophecy. One that told them you would save them, even after losing so much before. The admiration and gratitude is already there, and now you save them without even having to be asked. In their minds, you've been raised to do it, so every misstep is jarring to their image of you.

"I know that it's not fair, Harry, but to them, the prophecy isn't you being trapped in a fate you would do anything to reverse. It's a promise you're making to them; a promise that if they only hold on, it will all be okay in the end. That someone who's already proven himself is going to take the fear away.
 

“It’s not that they think you’re crazy, not really. I think they just want so badly to believe that they’re ignoring anything that doesn’t fit their hopes.”
 

Hermione watched them both, adding, "It doesn't have to stay that way, but you have to be careful. Breaking someone's image of you could be bad, but if you do it right, we might be able to get them on your side, for the most part."
 

Harry had been quiet, but he looked up at both of them and frowned, “Okay, so maybe that’s some of them, but not all of them. People like Umbridge and Fudge and Zacharias Smith don’t want to believe that I’ll save them.”
 

At this Ginny nodded, “No, they don’t. Fudge is scared of you, of your political power, and everything that you’ve done this year, even if he doesn’t know about it, proves that he should be.”
 

“Umbridge doesn’t like you because you don’t conform to her ideas, and anyone who defies her is a ‘troublemaker’ and trying to create havoc, in her eyes. Not to mention you’re a half-blood with a muggle-born best friend,” Hermione said wryly, pursing her lips.
 

Harry would never tell her how much like McGonagall she looked just then, instead asking, “And Smith?”
 

“He’s a stuck up prat with delusions of grandeur, and he's convinced that you hold your fame - the fame he wants - over everyone when of course you don't,” Ginny said firmly, studiously looking away from Hermione’s face so she could stay serious.
 

A knock at the door came just before Neville opened it, poking his head in sheepishly.
 

“Sorry guys, but Angelina said if Harry isn’t down at the pitch in ten minutes he’ll be running laps during the first half of practice.”
 

The girls laughed as their friend made a startled sound and rushed out the door with his Firebolt. At least not all of his time was taken up by things like bad newspaper articles.
 

“Hermione?” Neville said, as he walked behind them down the stairs, all heading for the lower commons. 
 

“Hmm?”
 

“Can I get you to look over my Potions essay? I’ve gotten better now that I’m reading ahead, but I didn’t spend much time on this one last week, so I want to make sure I’ve got everything.”
 

“Sure,” she answered, sitting in front of his open books and taking the papers.



Into the Woods

The sky seemed to shudder, and lightning dripped from the clouds as the boy ran from the house, his hands holding the baby close to his chest. His face was soaked in blood and tears, but he kept running, jumping clumsily over the gate to the yard and hurrying down the road.

Screams filled his head as he ducked under the awning of the neighbour's farmhouse, and he tried to ignore the tortured wails coming from inside. The sound of hooves beating on the hard packed soil of the road was coming fast from the left, so he hid behind the stack of firewood, not daring to raise his face in case someone saw him.

Instead heat licked at his back as the building began to burn, and he carefully crept away when the sound had faded into the background again, slipping beneath a fir tree's curtain and putting a hand to the trunk. It came away sticky from sap, but he just brushed it on his shirt and moved quietly to the other edge of branches, peeking out into the darkness of the forest.

His parents had always warned him not to wander alone, of course, but there had never been much to do in his little village, and the forest represented adventure. There was a river along the border that was just deep enough for the older children to swim in, and slow enough that the adults allowed it.

As usual, and despite the chaos at it's branches, the trees were quiet and the shadows were still. The only way that tonight was different for the forest was the silence of the night even though it was summer.

A mad, tormented howl pierced the sky, and without taking time to doubt himself, Evan darted away, making sure to keep the swaddled babe close as he tried to stay quiet.

Without warning, the fire roared higher behind him, stopping only thirty feet from the forest bounds and swooping back down onto the town. They must have a witch, the boy gasped to the dark, running faster.

He'd heard horrible stories about the witches who chose to throw away a life of healing to gain power and evil. The weaker ones were 'claimed' by bandit gangs, while others made their living among the upper class, feeding the highborn women their fortunes and pretty lies. Twisted words described fates that tricked those who requested their telling, many times leading them into the arms of death.

Thankfully witches were rare enough as it was, and fewer still had the envy and aspirations to delve into the darker side of their gifts. Many dabbled, but as long as they didn't sink into it, they remained clear-minded and fair.

The boy was wishing, thought the babe, feeling the bigger person shifting around her. She was tiny and fragile, even if she wasn't a newborn anymore. Her face was still slightly scrunched, but her eyes were wide, watching the world around her. Dark brown eyes, to be exact, and they held a spark that jumped into her big brother's chest when she gave a delighted burble.

Evan never noticed the tiny flash of white that sunk quickly into his chest, just above his heart. In fact, he didn't seem to see much else besides the invisible track he followed, his vision narrowing until he felt like he was flying.

His bare feet were torn and bruised, but he kept running. The screams finally faded when he reached the river, and he turned, running on it's bank until the glow of the fire left the sky and only the moon was left, fat and full against a tapestry of stars.

When he did stop, it was quiet. So quiet that he could hear his blood thumping in his head and his pulse in his fingertips. They were alone in the darkness.

 

The Queen

The mage forced the dragon down, sweat running down his face as he pressed as hard as he could on his magic. He pictured the huge crimson wings being strapped to the beast's side, and they grudgingly folded, fighting with twitches and dangerous flaps that threatened to sweep him from the ground.

Then the whispering voice came back, to the displeasure of all in the clearing.

What does defeat mean to you? One large white eye slammed open, and a sudden jerk on the mage's mind made him cry out. The dragon shrieked, claws raking at the ground from where they were trapped under its body. A savage intelligence was in its tone as it answered the question, and strangely - or perhaps not - the voice was distinctly female. 

‘Nothing. It will never come’

"What?" The mage gasped, hoping that he hadn’t broken the beast’s mind. Just because he had to stop her rampage didn’t mean he wanted to hurt her. The queen dragon didn’t acknowledge him, continuing to answer like he hadn’t spoken.

‘Death before defeat. You can kill me, but there is no defeat.’ The voice was laden with contempt, a snarl shuddering through her body as the mage wailed, gripping his head. Her wings seemed to clench, and in the next moment the sun was eclipsed by them, giant red sails that filled the sky.

One of the big ways a queen is different from a tom is the way they fight. Wanton destruction aside, the fighting style of the queens is nothing less than an art form. Now that Matthias knew the dragon was a female, he wasn’t sure how he had ever missed it before.

The way her scales bent with her, lithe and twisting instead of a tom’s graceful bulk was poetry. He could see why the dragons of old had been revered, if they had all moved like this. The females at least would have easily been treated as their gender namesake. Not a thousand precious gems would have been a contest for her, for all her scales shone like red and silver starlight.

Her eyes were the color of a pair of the finest opals, and just before she spoke, her neck and head shook lightly, breaking the last of his hold over her. She was a treasure in and of herself, now that she stood for them to see instead of raining death down on them from above.

Even the ones who had cried for her death were still and quiet, taking in her form.

Meanwhile, she spoke a final time to the whispering voice, ‘If I meet a force greater than myself, I end. Defeat is in surrender, and I do not. My defeat will never come...perhaps my death shall, and that will be glorious, but do not insult me with the word ‘defeat’’.

Very well then.

Suddenly it was quiet again, the buzzing in the background gone, only a small group of people, a mage with a headache, and a dragon who slowly turned to look at them.

Manhattan

"Come on Nicky!” the woman yelled through the door. I rolled over on my stomach and growled, glaring at the stuffed bear that stared at me from its position in the corner. Its small black eyes didn’t waver.

Ted muttered something, and Rachel furiously said something back. Sighing, I stood up and looked around again, wondering if there was anything I could use to remove the bars on the window. Shifting, I ran my hands over the stainless grey steel and sighed again. It was going to take a miracle, and I, unfortunately, was fresh out.

The Service had caught me again, and taken precautions against anymore ‘escapades’, as they called it. My ‘freedom’, as I called it, would not be handed over so easily. Not that there was anyone beside me who probably even cared, but even an orphaned freak doesn’t like cages.

I fingered the material of my jacket, glaring once more at the door, where the now faintly whispered conference of foster guardians was taking place. Stupid. Apparently they hadn’t been completely briefed on the strangeness that was Nicky Dell. The odd, blonde girl that had no history. Lucky for them. At least they didn’t have to be me, stuck in one room forever, or at least until the Service was tired of giggling themselves silly over me.

Taking off the jacket finally and revealing the thin undershirt I wore, I stretched, wingtips brushing the walls. Smiling, I smoothed one of them.

The soft down feathers, black and white speckled, grew from between my shoulder blades, and the tiny fluff continued down to the small dip in my lower back, black threads of some kind of vein circling and stopping suddenly right above my waist line. They ached from confinement, and I didn’t want the new ‘parents’ seeing them.

No matter how high up in the Service you were, only the scientists and my personal watcher were ever told about the wings, for some reason. But as I was about to relax, a key scratched at the door handle, and I quickly fumbled with the jacket, enclosing them in the bulkiness and zipping it up tight.

The door swung open, and I glared at the tall black-haired woman who stood there.

“Barbara.” I growled the word.

She smiled sweetly and walked over, taking my hand and dragging me from the room, dumping me in the hallway.

“Now Nicole, don’t you think it was rude of you to ignore the Michaels’ request to come out of your room for lunch and supper? They are your new parents, after all,” her grip was like iron, but it didn’t hurt.

I extracted my fingers from hers and stood, shorter by a good three inches, and spit savagely, “They are not my parents! They aren’t even briefed on any of this.”

“Actually, Nicky, we are,” Rachel spoke, voice soft.

“Really? What do you know, then?”

Ted stepped up now and said, “We were told that you have some unique issues and needed special attention. Also, you needed a strong family since you also have abandonment issues.”

I couldn’t help it. I was speechless. But just when Ted smiled, I busted out laughing. Where did the placement department come up with this stuff?

“Nicole,” Barbara’s voice was low, warning me. A threat. I smirked.

“Yeah, I’ve got some ‘issues’. You might say that."

Rachel smiled understandingly, and nodded, “The agent also told us you have a strong imagination and should be indulged. But Nicky, we’d rather work with you to keep your feet on the ground, instead of in the clouds, daydreaming.”

“You don’t believe me,” I muttered, “I don’t blame you.”

I touched the jacket’s zipper, contemplating.

“Nicole.” Barbara hissed, glaring at me.

That made the decision for me. I unzipped the jacket, and as Ted and Rachel walked forward with kind, confused smiles, I spread my wings.

They froze. Barbs cursed and got out her shiny black cell phone, calling the Service.

I stood silent for a moment, before realizing something, the breeze from the ceiling fan blowing through my feathers and down my exposed back.

The windows out here didn’t have any bars.

Mesa

The Roost was quiet and peaceful, the morning dew still dripping off the dewberry bushes that were scattered around the base of the large, imposing hills. Aine watched as the night patrol glided into the barracks, the dawn guard sweeping out from around the bend of stone.

Huge rock formations that piled and stacked together made up the Roost. The spiraling, branching stones sat like one large, proud tomcat in the hollow created from the surrounding hill country. Vast plains sprawled on all sides, curling un into jungle  Blue skies reached as far as his whirling eyes could see, and in the distance, the sea glittered quietly.

He turned his head slowly to regard the younglings that tumbled about on the nesting flats. The newest mothers crouched in the sun, their scales glowing in good health even though they were lean from birth.

Even over the sand slopes and the rocky cliffs, the raucous cries of sea birds could be heard as the sun rose.

It was early in the spring yet, and there were several queens that still had litters due in the coming weeks. There was plenty of time though, and there was plenty of food to go around. They lost an egg or two every season; not every egg in a clutch of five would have a hatchling, and sometimes a runt was born and they were sent quickly to the smaller prides that lived in the mountain range.

Of course the hatchling wasn’t killed, but they had long since learned that only the strongest could survive outside the protection of the mountains, with their solid walls and steep cliffs. An open mesa like the one Aine ruled was much more dangerous, what with the rocs on the southern coast and the griffins in the eastern jungles that raided when autumn came.

Even worse were the wyverns that had their own nests in the crags to the far north. They almost never came out, but when they did there were always deaths, and they hated drakes with a passion. Their wicked fangs dripped acid, and their sickly yellow scales were hard enough to armor them against flame.

A contest of claw and tooth was the only thing that would stop them, and only after most of the attackers were dead would they retreat, leaving the pride to lick their wounds. This year had been quiet so far, as had the winter leading up to it. The rocs were only trouble in summer, when their chicks were learning how to hunt, but the griffins had a different hatching season, and their young learned in the fall.

Every year it was the same; a few skirmishes here and there, one or two deaths if the pride was having a bad year. Usually the wounded were sent to stay in the mountains until they were well again, but sometimes there was no time and it was too late. It had been several years since the last death, and numbers were beginning to swell into the thirties. It wasn’t as if they were pressed for space, as the mesa they lived in and around had so many holes and caves it was a wonder it stood as firm as it did.

There were tunnels that ran from the lower caves into the ground, even, vast openings into open space and cracks that seemed to run down forever. Here was where they lived in the winter, sleeping away many days until the sun came back from the long darkness. The cold came with snapping fangs and reaching talons, scraping away the warmth

The pride’s roost wasn’t quite in the center of the valley, but it was close to it, clawing high into the skies and housing the largest number of drakes for days of travel. They had come here seeking food for the expanding numbers of the mountain prides, but had realised that expanding and separating would be better to support everyone. So the strongest young drakes came to live in the few mesas scattered around, and the elderly and smallest survived happily on the herd of mountain goats and deer that roamed the valleys.

Her Chance

The darkness clung to my fur as I padded over the loamy ground, paws damp. Leaves stuck to me too, a coat of tiny twigs and slimy leaves covering my belly from where I’d had to wade through the shallow pools of water. Thankfully the mud was behind me, but the gross, thick feeling was still matted between my toes and on the undersides of my knees.

My body was a deep grey, ebony spots gleaming in non-light, seeming to absorb the moon. The trees offered me an escape from the slick ground, but I was almost there and I was already dirty. Besides, it would be difficult to climb the steep, smooth-barked trunks while plastered in so much muck.

I could tell I was close because the ground was getting warmer and harder to walk on. The hairs on my neck stiffened until I had a mane down my back and a tail that tried to be bushy even though it was sticky and disgusting. Claws sinking into the earth, I had to pull myself forward until all I could do was stand, unable to move.

Before I could think to fight the sudden need to lie down and give up, a pressure heaved my mind open, and something that felt like warm water washed through my head. It bubbled and frothed until I felt like I would lose consciousness, eyes heavy and blank.

Then a voice spoke, and a great gasp was pulled from me as the water drained away.

"She has come, Naullo. Your kitten has arrived," a mocking female voice said, setting my teeth on edge. It wasn't friendly, and I felt distinctly like I was being laughed at. My ears flicked back, and I smothered a growl in my chest.

Still, my body felt pressed to the ground, but I fought the force, legs locked against folding. My paws began to ache and burn as what felt like hundred of pounds weighed on them, the soil folding up around the edges of my feet.

"Awfully bold, this little kitten. It is good she is well, little brother," a different voice murmured, this one a deep male tone. It felt like cool rain on my face and crumbling mountains down in my bones, but a stern weight was shed when it laughed, a contented chuckle that seemed to move away. The burden wasn't gone, but it was lessened without the mind of the God of Dwarves adding to it.

"So you have arrived, Nichole-Anne," a light male voice called to me, and I struggled to turn my head. A shadow detached from the tree line, vague and watery until he got closer and I could see his face. This was the one who had done this to me, and I wanted to savage him for it.

My lips needed to pull back over my fangs, needed to teach this one respect. Thankfully, my human side realized this idea might not be a good one, so deep in the Mother Wood.

Yes, I have, I thought curtly, knowing he would pull it from my mind. He did, smiling in pleasure.

"I trust you like my gift?" he asked innocently, gesturing to my body. This was too much, and I did finally did growl, my chest heaving in a rattling snarl when he only smiled harder.

Somehow I will make you pay for this humiliation, I swore, scraping at the ground, tail thrashing. He was so close, and my jaguar mind said to strike now - he was in range! I knew I couldn't though. Even if he looked to be standing before me, only ten feet away, I knew it was only my eyes fooling me.

"It gave you what you needed, Anna. Didn’t it?” his innocent face made me hesitate, kneading the ground with my claws. The already ripped up soil shifted like worms and I thought hard. Had the jaguar’s form given me anything?

Then I remembered the men who had waited in the shadows of my corridor, and a chill ran through my fur. Had they been there for me? Had I narrowly escaped death, not even realizing it? Seeing it in my mind, I could remember thinking they were a group of palace guards sent to watch over me. What if the opposite was true?

I couldn’t recall their faces; I’d been in too much of a hurry to get out of the palace at the time. I knew how it would look come daylight – my room was a disaster, the sitting room not any better.

The panic had driven me mad, and the single maid in the room had almost lost her life coming to see what the commotion was. As it was, the only thing she would remember is a huge black cat jumping at her. She had fainted directly after, and the loud crash of the silverware she’d landed on had shocked me out of my attack.

My bed was in shambles, the fine lace canopy shredded beyond repair, my nightgown torn into pieces. Everything I could reach had been mangled, including my wardrobe and the lovely carpets padding the floor. The wonderful tapestry that had floated on its invisible attachments had been ripped into with long, savage slashes, bright threads stuck in my claws.

Standing there a moment had given me time to look around, and realize that people would assume me dead, even without a corpse. I was a duchess from an important family, and the country was on the brink of war. With my room destroyed and my clothes torn apart, it heavily implied that I had been either kidnapped or killed. The maid’s story would tell them it was the latter, and my parents and brother would be heartbroken.

So I had marched down the mountain side, sure of where to go but not what to do. With that mischievous message in my dream, I knew the only way I could reach the god was in the holy forest. Thankfully it wasn’t too far a journey, the palace having been built as close to the Mother Wood as possible while still respecting the boundaries.

After a night’s walk and very sore feet, I stood here, filthy, bristling from indignity, and feeling much like a scolded kitten.

You couldn’t have sent guards instead? I demanded.

His face changed, growing into a black mask of anger, and the words he spoke were deadly quiet, “Do you think to rebuke a gift from a god? Do not overstep your bounds, girl!”

As I took in his temper, I let go of mine. Finally giving in to the bone-deep need, I laid down on the ground. The torn earth was uncomfortable, but I knew it was better than provoking an irate deity. As human as he looked, as playful as he could be, Naullo was still a god, and he had a god’s capacity for rage. One I didn’t desire to test.

No matter how close it felt like we’d grown in the past months, I had to remember that this was not someone I could yell at. But, perhaps predictably, when I met his dark eyes, I saw a glimmer of amusement.

Before I could explode again, I clenched the words between my teeth and tried to relax. Now that I wasn’t fighting to stand I could think clearer, and I realized that the sudden transformation had done more for me that what I saw before. Besides saving me a great deal of pain (and probable death), it had given me what I had wanted for weeks now. The freedom to move through the country unmolested. A wild jaguar was a kind of sacred animal that was only supposed to live in the Mother Wood.

Nobody would dare harm one, and so my invisible chains had been cut. Not that I minded, being a duchess; it is what I was raised to be. However, with everything happening so quickly it was impossible to make it to the enemy on time, or know where they would strike. Now I was free to spy on the troops that had crossed the nation’s borders last winter.

My brother was fully capable of running the estate in my ‘absence’, after all. Indeed, he would probably handle the incessant clerks and assistants better than I had been.

“Now you see, little one,” Naullo said, his voice kinder than before. I started, having drifted away with my thoughts. My mind came back to me slowly, and I realized – not for the first time nor the last – how very old Naullo really was. To my eyes, he looked to be in his late forties, or an early fifty. In reality, the mentions of him were colorful and lasting in our history from beyond the knowledge of written word. The ancient tombs portrayed him as half man, half jaguar, the god of the hunt. He was a guide to lost souls, a quiet voice of comfort in the dark, and the last thing you ever hear at the same time.

His name is sometimes whispered when a mother is pregnant, to ask a blessing of His own wit and cunning upon the child. Or perhaps a prayer from a desperate man trying to feed his family, to ask for luck with his bow.

I myself had never put too much thought into the gods before last Midwinter, accepting them as a natural part of life the same as everyone else. Now here I was, sitting in the dirt, talking to one. 

A Sound Like Falling Coins

The restaurant was pleasantly warm as they came in from the stormy afternoon outside, the hooks at the doors catching their coats for them as they took them off. The maître d' showed them to a table to the back of the room, where the lighting was low and soft. The table itself was a dark wood grain, carved with tiny swirls and loops in the legs. The chairs were comfortable and felt almost heated against the woman's chilled skin.

Her dress was long and flowing, falling like water to the floor and brushing against her ankles. Before she could complement her partner's choice of dinner, a whisper from him snatched her air.

"Lumiere."

A sound like falling coins came from above, and she looked up in time to see a vine of light unfurl from where it had been dimmed on the ceiling. It looked alive, and tiny flowers bloomed along it's length until a large bud formed at the tip and it stopped several feet above their heads. Then it slowly opened, and a glow of light blue and yellow was set on the table.

She gasped and beamed at her husband, putting a hand on his.

It was a lily, and he had remembered after all.

"Happy anniversary, love," he smiled, taking the hand on his and holding it tight.

Green Light

Every shade under the forest.

The green you see when the sun shines through new leaves, and the green of the moss that grows under the logs. The green-brown of the rot setting into the tree stump hit by lightning, and the tiny sparks of green that are shown by new grass shoots. The green of fish scales as they dart through the stream, and the glinting green of the pebbles at the bottom of the water.

Green from a bird's wing singing in the branches, and green in the autumn season, turning slowly to gold. The flower stems are different from the leaves, and the grass is changed from the unripe berries in the brush.

Wild apples that grow on the short trees are glistening green in the morning's crisp light, and the flesh of the snapped sapling branch is a deep dark green. Mushrooms dotting the roots of the sycamore have thimble-sized green splotches, and the briar rose's prickles are green-black in the darkness.