Wingswept: The Dragon and the Dove (I)

Borne on the Wind

Photo by Akshay Madan on Unsplash

They’d told her if she lost it, she’d be broken forever. The warning ran on, humming in the background of Alandis’ mind, echoing until she no longer took notice of it.

“It” was the implant. It had barely saved Alandis’ life when she was only five, and her heart had nearly died. It had been a miracle at the time, the utilization of dragon’s-fyre, the amber resin from the bones of dragons.

They had said that it captured the energy of the sun, which used to heal the dragons and give them strength, lasting even through the night. For Alandis, it kept her heart beating.

They had also warned her that as an experiment, the resin may flow into her veins and form a symbiotic relationship with her heart. Alandis figured that didn’t really matter; she was alive, and she never felt anything change. The only item of note had been the streaks of amber-fire which had appeared in her hair, but that could have been genetics.

The maiden lightly touched the glossy gemlike resin at the pit of her throat. It glimmered and winked faintly, like the reverberation of the ancient dragon-call – dragons had been extinct for a long time, or flown farther north to the regions of ice. So they said.

The implant’s weight still felt alien and there were times when, unfocused, she could barely keep from tearing it out.

She would have died, so she desisted.

Her fingers trembled with the effort to leave it alone as she dropped her hand, but a timely interruption came in the form of Enara Saulės: of equal age, she was the closest Alandis came to calling sister.

“Alandis? We’re all waiting for you,” Enara offered, advancing. Her thick, loosely braided tresses swung over her shoulders, set like woven gold against the high-necked azure gown, of the untroubled style common in Lharmeval. Enara was gladdened by the quick smile of welcome. “You know you shouldn’t vanish from gatherings like this.”

The words were a chilling stab of pain which made the gem’s dim glow flicker despite Alandis’ unchanging smile.

“I. . . know. I thought I could get something done.”

She gently straightened the beads of the chaplet she was weaving. They were a shapeshifting golden-blue, just like-

“-His eyes. Mm, it’s for Trys again, isn’t it?” Enara noted, leaning over Alandis’ shoulder. The latter instinctively half-covered it and sighed, for Enara already knew. She was Trys’ sister, after all.

Alandis smiled at the thought. Like Trys, Enara possessed the grace of the Ahren, the almost-elven; not in life-span, but in grace and gift. They might as well have been angels, so far did they seem to transcend all others, yet they loved so deeply that they forever stooped to the human race, as though there was no distance between them.

She thought of Trys, with his golden hair and radiant eyes, and there always seemed to be light pouring out of him. When he smiled, his eyes might have been the sun. He towered over her, yet as though he was stooping to be with her; he made her feel precious, despite his breezy distance. He listened the way no one else did, and made her concerns his own.

This had made her fall, and despite all the times others encouraged her not to love him, and the lack of any sign from Trys, every time she tried to let go and prayed to be able to let go, the answer came that her heart was called to his. And so, despite her fears and misgivings, she trusted that she had been made to love him and persisted. She suffered much because of it, learning not to speak of him and to hide her feelings from everyone, even Enara when she could.

“Mm-hm,” Enara murmured, amusing herself by reading the dream written on Alandis’ face.

Alandis shook herself, and looked to the chaplet in her hand.

“I fear to gift it. He always smiles, yet somehow, I think I discomfort him. He seems to be avoiding me after Masses, and this last time he ignored me. . . I assumed he was only anxious about his trials this week.”

“He knows.”

Alandis froze.

“He knows you care,” Enara said apologetically. “That’s why.”

The gem sputtered with the skipped beat of panic.

“Don’t fear, he’s still your friend. He just. . . doesn’t know what to do about it.”

Alandis’ lip nearly bled from the force with which she bit it. For a moment, she’d thought that was a good thing, that he knew – but now she realized that she’d gone from wanting to see him to wanting to hide. Instead she stowed the beads and arose, counting the seconds well, for Enara had been right about her isolation.

In Lharmeval, if one wandered from a gathering, it might as well have been a cold shoulder. It was one of the foundations of society, meant to foster gentleness, peace, virtue, and companionship, by always doing one’s work or play with at least one other. The convents and monasteries were thus disposed, therefore the realm saw it wise for all.

It was, and yet Alandis seemed an outsider, for she could never make her thoughts known; no one took her seriously, and no one shared her hobbies or dreams, so what was she to do? Every time she mingled with others she’d burn herself.

Alandis knew she had become a puzzle for others. They called her the Dove, as was her namesake, for she was content and quiet; she loved all, and yet, as the doves after their release, was rarely seen; rarely heard. She kept to herself when she could, fearing the inevitable failures she’d make, the thousands of torments and scars she’d give herself in the following years for a misstep in word or action.

But Trys. . . Trys was the love of her heart. While he never came to find her, he was the only one who never offered her any accidental harm.

Against all these, Alandis saw herself with pain, knowing that each time she strayed away, she was further from belonging. She feared that the love of others was only a veil of pity and confusion, even if she knew it wasn’t true.

“Never mind,” Enara drew Alandis out of her thoughts. “Give it to him anyway, and he’ll love it.”

Alandis hesitated for a breath, ready to run away from Trys once more.

Love him as I love you, the whisper came, and with an aching heart, Alandis took up the cross again.

“I will return with you,” she said aloud, placing the beads in the embroidered pouch at her waist.

She took up her seica, one of the few weapons or tools all women were accustomed to. It served as scythe and staff, practical for life in the hilly woodlands where foliage might get in the way. The blade was sheathed in a thin coating of lightweight birchwood wood in tinted colors, intricately carven as the women loved beautiful things, and was bound to three sturdy brooches of decorative design which could be clasped at shoulder and waist to secure the seica when not in use.

“Good girl,” Enara smiled, “they’ll be wanting to release the doves, so let’s hasten.”

She led the way out of the studio and under the swaying trees of Erevale.

Erevale was a village south of the slopes of Erenni, mount of the citadel and royal city. Unlike the splendor of her neighbor, Erevale laced the rambling, sporadic woodland like the many streams which ran through it, silver light glowing off every bark and branch. Here, the wind blew in song amid a chorus of chaffinches, blackbirds, goldfinches, and robins, whose songs mixed like a basket of sparkling stones that tumbled down a hillside. The weather was forever mild and cool, and homes and churches lived among the dappling trees as though this were all a great garden.

Paths of lemon amber wreathed their way through groves of birch and aspen and wild gardens of crocus, lily-of-the-valley, and violets, perched among moss and fern. All paths meandered to the village square, in a glade where the sun fell brightly, leaving rainbows in the fountain’s spray, a fitting greeting from the church steps.

Homes were crafted of the timber of birch and the traditional rose-violet tinted wood of the aschura, unique to Lharmeval. There was a difference in the houses today; streamers of multi-colored, woven ribbons and lace garlanded every door, braided with rue and anemone.

It was the Day of the Doves, and, as Enara had said, the village was impatient to release the doves which had been raised in simulated habitats. These birds were precious in memory to the kingdom, for the first sighting of the land had been the cloud of doves in the trees, with plumage of white, rosy lavender, and ghostly blue. It was the song of these birds which had drawn the shipwrecked colonizers out of a storm to the mount of Erenni, which became the natural fortress and glorious capital, unparalleled in beauty and creative wealth.

The tale had been immortalized in the kingdom’s standard, upon which a dove winged low over mounting waves, on a breeze bound with loosened blossoms. They were celebrated, too, in festivals such as this day’s: once a merely dove-themed celebration of God’s mercy and blessing, over in the past few centuries predators to the doves’ young had arisen, leading to their breeding in simulated habitats. Today the past season’s young would be released into the wild.

Even now, Alandis and Enara could hear the familiar canticle ringing faintly through the trees.

In misty morning

Before all awake

I rise to sing a song of hope

Heart so chained, missing the key,

Arise and sing, mourning with me,

The day All-Love died on history’s tree.

This love I sing

It bore all pain

So that all might be healed again

Drawn out of fury, out of flood,

No bark, no thorn, nor shedding rose-bud

Will hide from us the price of His Blood.

It was part of the song of the mourning dove, one of comfort, hope and memory; a song which all knew by heart, but a gust of wind carried the words back whence they’d come as Enara hummed. The snowflake-blooms of the lily bounced and swayed in the breeze, sending its sweet perfume like an echo of the bells which were ringing.

Alandis shook her hair out of her eyes and fitted the traditional headband, with its winging earplates and swinging beads, to her brow. It held her hair out of her face well while letting it blow freely behind her. Enara never needed one. Her gilded mane seemed to barely bounce in the building breeze.

“This wind is a traitor,” Enara said aloud, watching as it ripped blossoms from the tallest flowers. “For three days, it’s been taking flowers from us.”

“I still love it,” Alandis answered softly, watching the flowers billow as colored snow. “Just as long as it does no harm.”

“You are a dear,” Enara murmured affectionately.

“Enara!”

A welcome voice floated to them from behind, and footsteps among the dripping grass warned them of a follower.

“Trys Saulės, are you really this late?” Enara asked without turning her head.

“Verily,” and Trys dropped a kiss on his sister’s hair before half-hesitantly turning his eyes to the other maiden.

Alandis’ deepening twilight eyes showed her trepidation before Trys could have missed it. His quick smile erased Alandis’ fears.

“It seems I’m in good company,” he noted with a teasing bow.

“Blame Alandis, she isolates far too much. Now, it’s not like you to be late, brother.”

Trys shot the aforementioned a scolding look before answering, “It’s this wind-”

He stooped over them shieldingly as another gust shocked the trees, rattling the branches and sending squirrels scurrying for shelter.

“I had word that it’s hastening erosion on the island coasts. I need to get someone out there to help reinforce the villages before they crumble off the face of Lharmeval.”

Alandis ducked her head as the wind lashed the beads of her headband against her face. Even Enara was catching up her hair in both hands to keep it from blowing in her eyes.

“It seems like a storm!” Enara called.

“We haven’t had a bad one since before I was born,” Alandis protested.

The wind died as abruptly as it had begun, leaving her raised voice ringing among the chilled trees.

Indeed, Lharmeval enjoyed such mild weather that storms were merely rain, and never in force. The wind, however, was ominously promising a change.

“I haven’t seen any storm clouds building, but I’m sure something is coming,” Trys said grimly, but his mood lifted as swiftly as the wind as they entered the glade where the village had gathered.

Lights had been strung among the blossoming trees bordering the river, and among the gaily colored tents with pennants and booths of hidden treasures and Lharmeval’s favored delicacies, children ran, dragging feather doves through the air on beaded strings. Silver cages filled with singing, waiting doves were held in the center of the glade, awaiting the moment of freedom; but the wind was ripping at the waving ribbons, dragging men and women this way and that, and threatening to cast over any of the tents at random will. Yet through this came the silver sound of lute, lyre, and flute, somehow at home among the wind.

At once, Enara departed to rejoin the volunteers, with a look and a nod for Alandis: a reminder of the chaplet half-forgotten.

Trys stopped to assist in right an overturned table. Alandis scooped up the fallen armful of red roses, replacing them in their amber vase, thankfully unbroken.

Plucking the broken petals, the girl waited nervously, never certain if Enara was right. What if he truly did ache every time she hung around him?

But he had turned and was facing her before she could realize, and she hastily held out the chaplet to him, flustered.

“I only just finished it, so it isn’t blessed.”

“Aw, thank you, Alandis. I can always have it blessed.”

The wind was picking up once more, and as Trys held out his hand, a whistle came, the silver peal of a bell, and the air was filled with a thousand fluttering feathers of cream and mist and rose.

The pair’s eyes were drawn upwards as the young doves struggled against the winding gale, catching in the trees and laced boughs. They shivered there, waiting for the next moment of stillness, confused, and leaving Alandis aching for them.

“Poor Mielė! You always were such a dove,” Trys read her eyes. “They’ll be well once the wind is down.”

He took the beads from her hand and held them before his laughing eyes, noting the coloring.

“Did you gather these stones yourself?”

Such stones could only be found in the alpine streams and on the shore, and Alandis had spent many hours in searching.

“I had been hunting since last spring. The jeweler was kind enough to tumble them for me.”

Trys smiled at the work she had done, but with a shiver of something else that made her ask shyly whether he liked it at all.

“How would you think it necessary to ask? It was sweet of you. You have always been the Dove, Mielė,” Trys said quietly with a half smile, though he was turning away, distractedly looking to the others who milled under the blossoming trees.

“Don’t let me detain you,” Alandis said, with all the sweetness of before, but only the gem reminded that she feared how he felt.

No one ever seemed to notice how the gem repeated what was inside, and for that Alandis was grateful. Maybe no one made the connection, and thought it dappled with the sunlight blowing through the trees.

He glanced at her, almost sharply as though he suspected, but pocketed the chaplet as they were interrupted by Änjorën, one of Trys’ favored companions in recreation.

“The doves are unusually spooked,” Änjorën murmured, greetings aside.

“It’s merely the wind. They wouldn’t have it so often in their habitats,” Trys replied.

“I think not – they were uneasy even in habitat, and I hear there were repeated attempts to escape. Some injured themselves on the glass walls.”

“I said they shouldn’t have used glass walls,” Trys shook his head. “Perhaps they sense the storm.”

“If there is one,” Änjorën said darkly. He scanned the clear sky. “At three days of this, we should be seeing something by now. I hear tell of isolated thunderstorms in the northeast, in the very least, of a violence unmatched in our history. Thunderstorms. The smoke in the air – can you smell it? It’s being brought on the wind from the provinces of Lieuvieta and Tryshek. I’ve never known even our occasional thunderstorms to light fires. It’s enough that some are asking Father Arman to hold a vigil tonight. Mark my words, Trys, someone has to batten down each province before whatever it is comes down to us.”

“Pray tell, I’m not elected.”

Trys was looking at the river. It pounded and twisted in a way unaccustomed, as disturbed as the birds in the trees. Parents were forever pulling children away from the banks, and someone at last had the thought to bar the children within the gathering by the collapsable fences used to safely graze sheep and cattle within the woods.

The doves, finally finding a breath of still air, arose with a cry and departed south, leaving the woodland empty of their mournful calls.

“South? Since when do they not stay?”

It was said under his breath, and neither Änjorën nor the silent Alandis offered an answer.

“Well, that’s that,” Änjorën declared, once the surprise of the flock’s departure had subsided. “I’d best return to the fields, and since you’re so late, Trys, I won’t ask for your company.”

He wandered off, leaving Trys gazing at the shuddering clouds overhead.

A touch on his arm reminded him that Alandis was there. He looked round with a laugh.

“Still here, are you?”

Alandis drew back in apology, realizing he must not have meant, nor wanted her to stay.

“Forgive me, I wasn’t sure if I’d taken my leave, and - it’s only I hardly see you ever since you started in the shoring guild – I miss you.”

She halted, having little idea where or how that had been said.

Trys shook his head sharply, looking to the rest of the gathering. “I know, Alandis. I have to go.”

A feeling of ice seemed to strike the air and freeze Alandis where she stood as Trys left her without another word.

It was the first time he’d ever left her in pain.

“I did. . . hurt you,” she whispered dazedly, and only the wind heard her.

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