Serpentine Tongue

Fallon pumped his legs, racing across the meadow under a halo of arrows poised for his back. The Seelie Queen’s archers claimed to be the strongest, fastest, the best.

He was stronger, faster.

The Queen had no one to blame but herself. She cursed him for his “serpentine tongue,” or so she’d once referred to the organ dominating his mouth. Once, she’d used the term as an endearment. Now, she cursed him. Once upon a time, when they’d met in what he’d mistaken for love, turned out to be lust. Lust for power, greed and good, hard sex. No more.

Her loss, his gain. The truth had come out. For the better, anyway. Next time they’d meet, he’d kill her. He possessed no other choice. His serpentine tongue had spoken the words proclaiming her impending death. Failure to keep his promise was to be foresworn from court, if not killed for being an oathbreaker by powers much greater than he.

The first mattered little to him. The second, well, he wasn’t so sure.

The Queen’s Knights, his brothers in arms, wove through the archers on their winged steeds, some of them attempting to ensure the latter option.

“Fallon, halt!” Garbhan, Captain of the Queen’s Knights, barreled ahead of the others. He cried his plea over the thunderous legion of hooves. “If you stop this flight, I could speak to Druantia about a pardon.”

Fallon tossed his blue-black hair over one bare shoulder. He sneered. “Do not make promises you cannot keep. You might be fucking her royal highness, but she will not forgive this.”

Garbhan growled something lost to the wind. No matter. Fallon was disinterested in empty promises.

His lungs burned, his thighs screamed, tossing the shredded material of his breeches that hung precariously over his hips. He’d never cross the meadow, into the lush undergrowth of the forest. They’d catch him on their magickal steeds long before.

One way out for the likes of him.

He swallowed the bile that rose in his throat. He hated his enforced ability, but he’d have to use his other form. He jackknifed in mid-leap, snarling at the horses. Garbhan’s reared, kicking out his front legs. Fallon dodged the sharp slashes aimed for his chest.

“Where is Dearg?” Garbhan spat on the ground, as if to rid himself of the distaste of Fallon’s best friend. Nervously, he glanced at archers, who fell back while their Captain conversed. “At least let us bring him back, and I will allow you a full day’s head start.”

Fallon struggled to calm himself. The shift tearing through his body took far longer than it had last time, wasting precious seconds. “I do not know where he went after we left the castle. We went our separate ways.” Too close to a lie. The truth, they’d been forced apart.

Maghnus, always an overzealous guard, dropped from his Pegasus. “Silver tongued beast, tell the Captain of the Queen’s Knights where your friend ran with his tail between his legs.”

“I cannot tell you what I do not know,” Fallon wheezed through the burning fury inside his belly that knew no end. Oh, for Goddess’ sake! Why would the change not come upon him?

Maghnus swung his sword, slicing through Fallon’s ribs. His flesh split, a ripe melon under the blistering sun. He threw his head back and roared, the noise gaining volume and momentum, bleeding into a bellow that shook the trees ringing the meadow.

His eyes burned as his face elongated. His back arched, cracked. Size tripled, then that quadrupled.
He towered above them, half man, half beast as the minute changes reformed his body. At last, it was done.

His snout billowed steam. The Knights fell back, not knowing the secret of his form. Let them think he could blow fire.

“A dragon!” an archer squealed.

The Queen’s secret, for good or bad, had come to light. Fallon startled that the rumors had not yet filled every ear at the Seelie court. For he had been cursed in front of all the nobility. Gossipers and liars, the lot of them.

Garbhan cut the air with his sword, toward Maghnus. He showed not a care. Unlike the others, the Captain knew Fallon kept his wits, even as a dragon. “Have not a fear! This cretin had angered him.”

Fallon hesitated to kill his fellow Knights. They’d grown and trained together, fought for one another. The archers mattered not to him.

“That is a Sidhe no longer!” Maghnus stumbled back, as Fallon rose on his muscled hind legs. “This is what the Queen has done to him?”

“You were there, Maghnus.”

“He did not do this at court!”

Fallon spread his wings across the meadow. His long, thick neck curled over Maghnus, cutting him off from his peers. One crystalline triple iris complete with slit pupil caught the Knight’s.

He didn’t bother to perform a communication charm. His face said it all.

Cut me again, dullard. I shall bite your head clean from your shoulders.

The Knight shuddered, his sword falling to the ground. He’d wet himself, the reek pungent to his oversensitive sense of smell. Inside, Fallon wondered how he’d ever stomached the wretch. His death would be a mercy to his brothers. A true Knight hath no fear of any man or beast.

Blood gushed between them, running down Fallon’s metallic green chest. The shift had ripped open the wound, enlarged the serrated edges. Not the first time he’d been wounded in battle. Not the last either. He’d see this to be true.

Fallon whipped his barbed tail, colliding with Maghnus’ side, tearing through his armor. Maghnus tumbled through the air into three horses, including his own. Fallon uttered a shattering roar, a gust of steam. The warriors scrambled, screaming “fire.”

How little they knew. Not even the Captain understood. Fallon was a water dragon. Ice, to the fire that was Dearg.

He leapt, and damned near fell back to the ground. Perhaps, his wounds surpassed his previous assessment. His limbs deadened, the bone structure of his wings threatened not to keep him airborne for longer than a minute or two. That’s all he needed.

The knights made no move to follow him, as they calmed their steeds.

Arrows flew, tiny sticks to a beast such as him. The beast barely felt them enter his hide.

The man was altogether a different story.

Siobhan left her stone cottage, and walked into her garden. The fragile blooms ran in riots of rainbow hues. The soft, sweet scent of her roses floated on the gentle breeze.

Patches of cornflower sky broke through the heavy canopy of brilliant green trees, whose branches twisted in intricate patterns over her home. A purple and yellow winged Pixie flung her insect sized body from daffodil to tulip, rolling in pollen, singing in high-pitched joy.

“Why, hello, Luna. I left a bowl of fresh milk for you on the sill. Do be sure to share this time, won’t you?”

A puff of yellow dust escaped the golden tulip as she sat up and grinned that innocent smile that Siobhan adored.

She collected her basket she’d woven from fallen sprigs last fall. The woven bits had become greatly worn, but parting with the object pained her heart. The basket was one of the first items she’d created by hand for her new life, a symbol of independence unlike any other.

Strolling through the opening of the ivy covered stone wall surrounding her cottage, she headed north to find the wild berries that clung close to the ground. Her full skirts swished over the tall grasses.

The forest darkened. She craned her neck in time to see a monstrous figure careening through the morning horizon. His wings fluttered uselessly at his sides, his nose pointed to the ground. The closer he came, the more the arrows protruding from his side were visible. A nasty gash ran from under his left front leg, to the center of his stomach. Blood dripped upon the tree tops. She cringed. Such a waste of a beautiful creature. No doubt, the Seelie had hunted the animal for coming too close to their precious homes. Goddess forbid, the wildlife mar their perfection.

He disappeared. Not soon after, a
horrendous crash shook the world beneath her feet. She ached for the creature, stupid as it were to care at all for him. The circle of life and death wasn’t her concern anymore. Yet, she wondered. Did he still breathe? Could he be saved?

She dropped her basket, picked up her skirts and thrashed through the undergrowth. She found him a mile off, lying on his side, eyes closed. His chest heaved a shallow, desperate rhythm.

She inched closer, understanding well what an injured beast might do in desperation. When the brilliant blue and green dragon watched her, she barely noticed the triple iris no animal possessed. Intelligent curiosity burned underneath the agony. She closed the distance. Siobhan was by no means a helpless whelp without magick. She was a highborn Sidhe noble. Granted, in hiding, but all the same.

Bending over the first arrow, she readied a defensive spell, leaving off the last word. She’d be able to cast in less than a second, if the need arose. He lifted his head, huffed, and thumped back to the grass.

“You poor darling,” she cooed.

Her hand trailed to the next arrow, twice as deep. She winced. Only part of his chest wound was exposed. “I wish you had landed on your other side. I need to see all of this, before I can assess how best to help you.”

He grunted, and pushed himself onto his back. The pointed scales along his spine curved against the weight.

Her hand went to her throat. Had he understood her? How extraordinary! “Do not fret, dragon. I shall be quick. Then we can attend your smaller wounds.”

She realized her mistake in her promise. If she cast a healing incantation, she must rid herself of the defensive spell. The grand lizard shifted, growling under its breath.

“Do not be so forceful,” she muttered. Alas, this wasn’t the first time she’d placed herself in harm’s way. She rushed through an invocation first forward, then backward, as the spell called for. Not many practitioners used natural magick to heal anymore, but easier potions that required less skill, than ability to follow the written directions. Green specks littered the air.

She collected them one by one, molding the magick into a malleable ball. She smoothed the balm over the gash. The area glowed iridescent, the old magick stitching the edges together. Satisfied that over the next dozen or so minutes he’d mend well enough to move. The worst was over. She tended the arrows as gently as she could.

He hissed and writhed as she pulled out the first, growled at the second. On the fifth, his reserve of precious energy depleted. His throat vibrated, a painful purr as she removed them from his slick scales. She counted thirty-two arrows on the ground, and shuddered. How awful.

One more to go. On his neck, so close to the major artery. She crept forward, determined he slept. Yet as she loomed over him, his eye slid open again. Such pain and quiet fear. He was so brave, kind even. His muscles quivered under his scales, as if they fought to get away from one another. Was he smaller than he’d been a moment ago?

She touched the arrow and pulled. The scales violently rippled. She glanced at his face, startled to find his nose shorter, the color of his skin lightening by shade, to a bright, luminescent white. A horrifying crunching sound roared in her ears. The body of the dragon compacted, by threes, shrinking, leaving a naked, breathless male with pointed ears. Dumbstruck, she stood over him, bloodied arrow in hand.

She had aided a
Sidhe
? A shape shifter at that. Unheard of in many a year. Her mind reeled, terror shattering her. They’d found her.

Reeling back, she collapsed on her backside. Weakly, his arm rose, reaching for her, beckoning for her.

“Please, I give my most solemn oath that I mean you no harm. Help me.”

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