What Meets the Eye

Intro
''"And stay away," you snarl at the tiny SeaWing. He squeals in fear and scuttles away.'' ''You smile in satisfaction. That little weirdo had bumped into you. He should look where he is going, like everyone else!''

You start walking toward home, but an elderly hybrid materializes in front of you, blocking your path.

''You move to the right. She moves to the right.''

''You step to the left. She steps to the left.''

''You give up, growling. "What do you want?"''

''She avoids your question, instead shoving a scroll into your talons. "Read this, and meet me here tomorrow to bring it back to me."''

She starts walking away, but you call after her. ''"Why? Why do you..." You trail off, but she doesn't seem to need to hear the rest of your question.''

''"Because there's more to a dragon than what meets the eye," she says. You blink -'' and she's gone.

''As you walk home, you contemplate this, crinkling and uncrinkling the scroll in your talons. You resolve not to read it, and that's what you do, tossing it onto the table carelessly and basically forgetting about it.''

But hours later, after finishing all your homework, you are bored to death...

So you think, why the heck not?

Part 1: Boreal
Some days are perfect for flying. The sun is shining, a breeze is blowing, and the temperature is right at that perfect spot. When hopes are high, the future is bright, and anything feels possible.

This was one of those days.

Boreal flew high above the forestial landscape with his little sister, Alpine, clinging onto her back.

"I wanna fly too!" Alpine yelled gleefully, flaring her crimson-patterned wings in the air.

"Not yet..." Boreal replied patiently. "You need to practice before you fly at such a high altitude."

Alpine sulked, lashing her tail, but she didn't argue.

As Boreal flew higher into the sky, he remembered to make sure that Alpine wouldn’t fall off. A twinge of regret shot through his mind. The orphanage manager rarely let the dragonets out, and even when he could go outside, he had to take care of his sister.

Let go for a minute, his thoughts whispered. ''It’s all right; you don’t have to keep babying her. Alpine can take care of herself.''

With a little bit of misgivings, but choosing to ignore them, Boreal called back: “Hold on!” Alpine whooped with delight.

And Boreal dipped and twisted; glided and dove, feeling as free as the wind itself.

"Isn't this fun, Alpine?" he yelped happily. When no answer came, she twisted around to look at her empty back. "Alpine?" he repeated, unwilling to accept what had happened.

And that was when she noticed his sister

falling down

down

down.

"Boreal!" she yelled with a terrified expression on her face, as she made futile attempts to grab the air and fly upwards.

Boreal dove after her, driven with panic.

But he wasn't fast enough.

Alpine landed on the ground in a small ring of trees, hitting her head on a rock with a quiet thud.

Boreal descended rapidly and landed next to the still body of his sister with a thump. "Wake up, Alpine," he said urgently. When there was no response, he repeated it. "Wake up, Alpine!" He did it again, and again, with more intensity each time, until he was practically screaming and weeping each time. "Alpine! WAKE UP!"

Seeing that his efforts were futile, he became quieter. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, feeling his heart break and seeing his tears falling like rain onto Alpine’s snout. “This is my fault.” He swallowed hard. “I’ll never fly again.”

He sat there for what must have been hours, until dusk fell and brought him out of his haze. He lifted her gently onto his back and painstakingly walked her home.

Day after day, Alpine sat in her cot at the Possibility Orphanage, glazed eyes staring straight ahead. She only moved if someone pushed her, and she only ate if someone fed her. There was no trace of the bubbly, joyful dragonet that had once been there.

Night after night, Boreal slept next to his broken little sister, dreaming of what once could have been.

Part 2: Andromeda
Andromeda breathed in the fresh air of the morning as she stepped out of her house. Golden sunlight filtered through the interwoven tree branches high above her head. Birds sang, her father hummed, her mother and older brother bickered good-naturedly over getting a scavenger pet.

Today was perfect.

She bounded toward the woods, planning to explore, but-

"Wait! Andromeda!" a squeaky voice whined after her. "Wait for me!"

With a sigh, Andromeda whirled around to see her chubby younger brother, Cepheus, dashing after her. "Mommy told you to take me with you!" he shrieked, stumbling to a halt next to her legs. He barely came up to her knees.

Andromeda groaned under her breath. “Really?” Sure, she loved her little brother, but he was… quite a talonful. Always running off and making a commotion, Cepheus wasn’t exactly the easiest dragonet to handle.

A beat of silence.

Andromeda considered for a long moment. Finally, she grudgingly mumbled: “Fine.”

“Yaaaaaaaaaaaaay!” Cepheus squealed, hugging her leg. Andromeda couldn’t help but smile down at him. “Race you to the pond!” he yelped. He tore off into the bushes, Andromeda darting after him.

As she continued running after Cepheus, but still not seeing him, she wondered when her little brother had become so fast. She still hadn’t caught up with him, and she was one of the fastest runners in her class! A burst of pride flared in her chest; she had taught Cepheus well.

Andromeda pushed through a final bush and emerged in a clearing dappled with sunlight. A crystal-clear pond sat in the center, small ripples undulating here and there from splashing fish. A peaceful mood surrounded the glen.

Except for the fact that all the birds had gone silent.

Despite the serene beauty before her, Andromeda felt a chill run down her spine. The woods around her family’s hut in the boreal forests of the Ice Kingdom were never, ever completely still. There were always songbirds chirping, or woodland creatures scampering about, or at least the volatile breeze swooping through the trees.

Never had she heard such a profound quiet like this.

“Cepheus?” she called, trying and failing to keep her voice calm. “Cepheus?”

A snap of a twig sounded nearby. Andromeda tried to calm her bristling IceWing spikes. It could be Cepheus, dashing back to her and promising never to prank her again.

It could be a squirrel, scuffling about for food.

Or it could be the infamous brown bear, the scourge of the forest, dragging the limp body of her tiny brother away…

Andromeda moved slowly over to where the crack had sounded. She felt as if she was unattached from her body; floating away. Deep inside her, her heart was sinking like a lead weight. She wasn’t powered, but she had a terrible feeling that something horrifying had happened…

Andromeda peered over the bush apprehensively.

To find a huge brown bear rearing up over Cepheus’s tiny paralyzed figure.

A burst of uncharacteristic anger coursed through Andromeda. Her vision tunneled. And all she saw through a red haze was the evil animal that had injured Cepheus.

She lunged at the bear, talons outstretched, but she was too late.

The bear brought its paws down onto Cepheus’s head. He collapsed to the ground like a rag doll, jaws agape, a thin line of blood trickling out of his mouth. (ack, sorry - gore!)

Andromeda roared, pure fury clouding her good judgement. She launched herself at the bear and slashed at it wildly, feeling her talons tear its flesh open like paper. (I’ll spare you the details.)

But for each blow she landed, the bear landed one as well. Andromeda was bruised and battered within a few seconds; she realized that she was fighting one of the strongest animals in the forest.

Andromeda lost track of time. They could have been fighting for five seconds or five hours. All she cared about was avenging Cepheus’s… no, she couldn’t think that.

Andromeda wasn’t sure how she did it, but the bear’s body eventually thudded to the ground. She stood over it for half a second; stiff-legged, mind blank, jaw set in a hard line.

Then she remembered Cepheus.

Her sudden rage vanished, only to be replaced by… what was this feeling? Anger? Guilt? Shame?

Perhaps all three.

Andromeda rushed over Cepheus. She had to admit, he didn’t look good. He was curled into the fetal position. His eyes were glazed over, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth limply. His wings were bent awkwardly, and his chest rose and fell shallowly in irregular intervals.

“Ceph,” she whispered in a strangled tone, tenting her wings over him. Her feet were firmly planted on the ground, but she felt as if she was spiraling into a void of pain and tears and grief and darkness. “Can you hear me?”

Cepheus lay stone-still on the ground. He looked pitiful, curled up in the long grass, as unmoving and limp as a scrap of paper. Yet his eyes were peaceful and clearly focused on Andromeda. He wore an expression of utter calm, far beyond his years.

“Andi,” he whispered, staring at something past her.

Andromeda wiped her eyes furiously, gently placing Cepheus onto a nearby strip of bark. She had to stay strong for him. “We’ll get you back to Mom,” she said in a choked voice. “She knows herbs; she can heal you.”

“No,” Cepheus said in a slightly stronger voice. He reached up and rested his talons on Andromeda’s chest. “I’m going to die, and you know it.” His breath fluttered like a trapped bird.

“Thank you for saving me,” he murmured, sounding more mature than he had ever before. “I love you, Andi.”

He took a shallow, shuddering breath. His pulse jumped irregularly. He shifted into a tiny ball of wings and scales, and he opened his mouth one last time to speak in a fragile, choked voice:

“And tell Mommy and Daddy and Orion that I love them too.”

And with a shudder, he took his last breath

and went very, very still.

The colors of the world and the returning birdsong seemed to blur and dull around Andromeda, and all she could see was the motionless body of Cepheus in front of her, because her little brother could not be dead, or else the world would have stopped and held vigil, any moment he would jump up now and let out his high-pitched giggle.

But nothing happened.

Andromeda sank to her knees, hugging Cepheus close to her chest as if the power of her embrace would rouse him. Tears fell like rain. She knew she should take him back to the house, but in that moment, all she could do was say “No. No. No,” and rock Cepheus in her arms.

Out of the corner of her eye, Andromeda spotted her older brother, Orion, crashing through the bushes. “Andr--” he called, breaking off. As he surveyed the scene, he froze. Only his eyes moved, darting back and forth like a pair of panicked mice.

Orion stumbled over to Andromeda and hauled her to her feet. His eyes were grief-stricken, but deep inside was a bit of determination.

“Come on,” he murmured, picking up Cepheus gently. “Let’s go back to the house.”

Together, the two siblings trudged through the woods, neither speaking. Scratch that - Andromeda couldn’t bring herself to speak. All she could see was Cepheus’s body, because right now, the rest of the world didn’t matter, because Cepheus had died because of her.

Because. Of. Her.

A life for a life.

As Orion and Andromeda emerged into the glen where their family’s house was located, everything seemed to blur together. All sounds were muffled as if Andromeda was underwater; all colors were dulled as if some supernatural force had taken a wet rag and smeared it around the world. She was filled with a devastating empty numbness, and the emptiness clawed inside her like an animal. The world was tilting again, and she sank to her knees.

She could distantly see her mother wailing, tipping her head toward the cloudless sky. Hear her father roaring into the forest as if the sound would rouse Cepheus.

Except it wouldn’t.

The next few weeks blurred into a muted haze. Weeks? Days? Months? Andromeda didn’t know. She didn’t even know if she cared anymore.

Andromeda refused the food her mother handed her with a worried look in her eyes. She pushed away the glasses of water her father brought her. She kept the lights in her room on all day and night, turning down sleep.

A life for a life.

Sickness overtook her. She was forced into bed and to stay there 24/7. Fever numbed her senses even further; headache prevented her from getting any good rest.

But the worst part was the cough. The cough that made Andromeda twist and turn under her covers. The cough that made her shudder from head to tail-tip. The cough that ravaged her throat and vocal cords with a fiery anger.

And still, Andromeda refused food and water. Even medication.

A life for a life.

Cepheus’s death had been her fault.

Andromeda spiraled into a restless sleep that lasted for… a while. She drifted in and out of consciousness, but most of the time, hovered in the no-man’s-land between.

After a few days (hours? weeks? months?), Andromeda drifted into wakefulness. Her mind felt relatively clear. At least, the clearest it had been since…

She spotted her mother with her back to her, washing her talons. She opened her mouth to call her over, but nothing came out. She jumped in surprise, and watched her mother hurry over.

Andromeda gestured to her snout frantically, and her mother shook her head sadly. “The sickness damaged your vocal cords. So you won’t… be able to speak anymore.”

And Andromeda was falling into a void again, but this time out of pure selfishness. She wanted to howl her grief for Cepheus to the world, and so she opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

A shudder ran down her spine. Then another. And soon she was shaking with huge sobs, sobs that didn’t make any noise. Sobs that were driven by sheer frustration. A wave of anguish crashed over her mind; she felt like she was drowning in emotions.

Her mother spread her wings around Andromeda and rolled onto the bed with her. As much as Andromeda hated it, she felt comforted by her presence. The sobs slowed to soundless hiccups.

“It’ll be okay,” her mother whispered into Andromeda’s ear. “It’ll be okay,” she repeated, rocking back and forth.

In that moment, Andromeda resolved to pick up the shattered pieces of her life and fit them back together. Perhaps it would soothe the hollowness inside her.

But deep down, she knew two things could never be completely fixed:

Her now-soundless voice.

And her broken heart.