by G. Wulfing
told you so,” he said in a voice low with happiness. “Do you see? You do not need to hide from them, Huldre.”
For days, the Chlyh spent much of each day seeking out other creatures, talking with them, letting them see her, even eating with them. The Wyvern lingered in the area, enjoying the Chlyh’s success, and eating with her outside her cave every evening. Each morning they walked together. One morning, as they passed by a pool in the forest – the same pool before which the Chlyh had often wept – the Wyvern said, “Stop, Huldre.” He led her to the pool’s edge. “Look.”
The Chlyh crouched, and gazed at her reflection.
“Do you still think that you are ugly?” asked the green-scaled Wyvern.
The Chlyh shook her head, and looked up at him with shining eyes. “No.”
The Wyvern stroked her hair with his wing claws. “That is good,” he said; “for you are beautiful.”
One morning soon after, the Chlyh sniffed the air outside her cave, and knew that Winter had arrived.
“Huldre!” called the Wyvern joyfully, as the Chlyh stood there in front of her cave. He came bounding up to her. “I have found you a present.” On his wing claw, he held out a necklace made of green gems and coppery-gold wire.
The Chlyh beamed, and took it, examining it. No one had ever given her a present before. She could not stop smiling. She embraced the Wyvern in thanks.
“Will you not put it on?” asked the Wyvern, his eyes twinkling. Oh, of course, thought the Chlyh; necklaces are meant to be worn. Carefully she fastened it around her neck.
“Gorgeous,” pronounced the Wyvern confidently. “Completely gorgeous.
“Come and see yourself in the pool.”
The necklace suited the Chlyh perfectly. Looking in the pool and seeing a creature that seemed more beautiful, confident, lovely and worthy than ever before – like a butterfly that had hatched fully and was now perfectly formed and glorious – the Chlyh wept once more … this time, for happiness.
The Chlyh wore the necklace for the rest of the day, feeling not just confident but magnificent for the first time ever. But she noticed a strange reaction from the other creatures. They did not greet her in quite the same way. They did not converse with her for so long, but excused themselves; and they kept giving her strange glances. The Chlyh could not understand it. The next day it was even worse, and by the third day, the creatures were hurrying away from her before she could speak to them. When it happened, the Chlyh stood there in dismay and bewilderment. How could this be? They knew her. She had talked with them. Why were they running away? It was exactly the way it had been before – when she had worn a covering and tried to hide herself. And at this thought, the Chlyh burst into tears. She turned and ran through the forest, blindly, as though trying to flee from the misery and pain that engulfed her. She found herself beside the pool, and flung herself over a mossy boulder, and sobbed and sobbed for a long time, until she felt that her heart was numb. At length she fell into a daze, and knew nothing for many hours.
The butterfly’s wings had been broken.
At about midnight, she woke and saw the stars. In the Winter air they glittered coldly. The Chlyh was too unhappy even to shiver.
She stared up at them for a long time. She did not think much; it hurt to think of anything except the stars. The stars never changed.
She did not even register the flapping noise; saw vaguely the shape that blotted out a handful of the stars; and scarcely noticed that it dove toward her, calling, “Huldre!” When the Wyvern landed beside her, she was as dead.
In a sort of stupor, the Chlyh thought she heard a dream saying, “It does not matter what they think. You can still be beautiful.”
The Chlyh woke to the feel of warm scales laid against her skin, and something soft and living covering her. All was dark.
“Are you all right?” asked a soft, very kind and affectionate voice in her ear.
“Wyvern?” wavered the Chlyh. She could barely speak.
“I’m here. All is well.”
“It’s so dark,” whispered the Chlyh, her voice failing. She could not see the Wyvern; where was he? At that moment all she wanted was to be able to see and to know where she was.
“You are at home, in your cave. I am right here beside you. My wings are surrounding you.” The Wyvern paused and then asked again, “Are you all right?”
The Chlyh could not answer. Against her will, she was drifting off again into unconsciousness.
The next time the Chlyh opened her eyes, there was dim light entering the cave. The Chlyh lay still, half dozing. Gradually, she recognised the light as the early sun filtering through the ferns at the entrance, which she had seen hundreds of times. She blinked, and opened her eyes fully.
Her mouth was dry, she realised. She tried to swallow and could not. Something warm covered her. She stirred faintly. Her entire body felt so, so heavy. She felt movement beside her; the Wyvern was there and seemed to be waking.
“Huldre? Are you awake?”
“Mmph,” murmured the Chlyh. Her throat was so dry that she could manage no more than that. It felt as though it were stuffed with thistledown.
At her back, the Wyvern reared up to a sitting position, still keeping his wing draped over the Chlyh, and bent his long neck to peer down into her face. “Do you want water?”
The Chlyh managed the tiniest nod. The Wyvern fetched her water in a cup, carrying it in his jaws, and helped her to drink. Then he told her that she had been unconscious for two days. The Chlyh lay there in silence, and the Wyvern stroked her hair.
“Why did they … run away?” the Chlyh whispered at last. “Why?”
The Wyvern gave a sad sigh, something that the Chlyh had not heard him do before.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I don’t know.”
The Chlyh closed her eyes, and though she had run out of tears, she was crying inside.
The Wyvern kept stroking her hair. After a moment he bent his neck and whispered in her ear, “But I still love you. I still think you are beautiful.”
The Chlyh gulped, and kept on crying inside.
For the rest of the day, the Chlyh dozed and slept and drank water, never moving from the broad pile of heather that was her bed. In the evening she ate some dried berries that the Wyvern brought to her.
When she woke in the morning, she sat up. Her movement woke the Wyvern.
“Do you feel better?” he asked.
“Yes,” murmured the Chlyh. Thoughtfully, without saying much, she nibbled at some dried berries and drank some water. Then she walked out of the cave and across the clearing, looking for the rabbit with whom she had conversed when she had first dared to go without her garment. The Wyvern followed at a distance, wondering what the Chlyh was going to do.
The Chlyh saw the rabbit grazing. She ran up to it before it could scamper away.
“Why will you not talk to me?” the Chlyh demanded.
The rabbit stared at her.
“Because … because you’re different,” it stammered.
“How am I different?”
“You just are. You are not like us.”
“But why can you not talk to me?” begged the Chlyh.
“Because you’re too different! The necklace proved it. You are not like us.”
And before the Chlyh could say anything more, the rabbit bounded away.
Slowly, the Chlyh walked back to the Wyvern. He was sitting on his haunches, waiting, out of earshot of the conversation. The Chlyh embraced him sorrowfully, and the Wyvern wrapped her in his wings and draped his neck over her shoulder and aslant her back, laying his head on his wings.
“They will not accept me,” said the Chlyh. “I am too different.”
After a long moment the Wyvern replied, “It is their loss.”
And a long moment later he asked, “Will you go back to wearing your covering?”
“I don’t know,” answered the Chlyh at length.
“What point is there, when they will
not accept you with or without it?” asked the Wyvern gently.
The Chlyh sighed. “You are wise,” she said.
The Wyvern smiled with some sadness, his head still resting on the Chlyh’s back which was covered by his crimson wings. “We should all be wise,” he said.
He pulled back his head and looked at the Chlyh. “I will not leave you, Huldre. I will be your friend.”
The Chlyh’s eyes filled with tears. She nodded her head, and the Wyvern laid his head on her back once more. And for the Chlyh, the words ‘thank you’ were far, far too small.
The End.
G. Wulfing, March 2006.
About G. Wulfing
G. Wulfing, author of kidult fantasy and other bits of magic, is a freak. They have been obsessed with reading since they learned how to do it, and obsessed with writing since they discovered the fantasy genre a few years later. G. Wulfing has no gender, and varies between twelve and one hundred years of age on the inside, and somewhere in between that on the outside. G. Wulfing lives amidst the beautiful scenery of New Zealand, prefers animals to people, and is in a dedicated relationship with theirself and hot chocolate.
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