The Collection

Outside of the Transitories, there is a whistling sound beneath the yellowness. Joyful abandonment, under the interlocked branches of dead trees, reaches out to guide Jotunn down for her landing. The sound is intrusive and its grip on her stronger than the average dragon of her rank; Jotunn’s auditory recognition became so much sharper since a scepter was lodged into her left eye as a youngling, leaving her partially blind and forever alert. Sounds within yellowness call to her like a siren song would through sonar.

Branches snap and dust shifts as Jotunn’s talons meet solid ground. Her wings tuck in, neck jaunts out, and she charges toward the yellow twittering.

The Transitories push up against one of the last forests to not be resurrected in The Collection. Its bleak and tangled marriage of blackness and stagnancy make it an easy environment for Jotunn to detect any yellowness, any life.

As she moves, dried wood cracking under her steps, she feels the yellowness expand and envelop her, electric and warm. The air is the color of the suns in the Conquests and the ale the royals drank in the beginning of The Collection’s merge of worlds. This yellowness screams to Jotunn echoes of daybreak, an aftershock of frantic heartbeats, and it glows against her face even when she is alone and dreaming.

When the whistling stops, Jotunn ceases movement as well. She is three logs away from a fresh and pink human youngling. This human is small in stature, topped with curly blonde fur, and covered in dirt and debris. It projects yellow in an exuberant fashion – a healthy life force buzzing with opinion and feeling.

When it speaks, Jotunn hears it through her filter, registering each word in the universal tongue.

“I can whistle,” it says, Jotunn decoding its expression as pride.

More than five hundred journeys through the timeline of The Collection have occurred since Jotunn last witnessed a human. The defeat of their species led to their extinction, to The Collection building and moving forward, away from their kind. Dragons developed their own hierarchy that did not mimic their predecessors, and they rose to protect and police without the emotional disruption of two-legged politics. Jotunn can see a type of stone and steel foundational progress when she looks into a dragon’s hooded eyes. Now, taking in this human, she is reminded of the fear that lives behind the eyes of its species. The Collection has never forgotten that the royals would excrete a trail of their own sentiments, one that they would follow again and again to their own demise.

This bare and jittery human in front of Jotunn does not look to be a threat, has not confronted Jotunn’s eyes with aggressive ownership. This human is lean and quizzical. It smells of scratched skin and new blood. It smells of curiosity. Jotunn scans the small being for any weapons or armor. It appears naked, unhurt, soil-covered, and smiling.

“You have big teeth. Big, sharp.” The pink one extends its upper limbs outward. “Mines are small.” The limbs retract.

Jotunn does not often encounter surprises. She lives the protocol and finds solace in the system that her kind has implemented. Patrolling involves detection and interrogation, apprising and reflection as warranted, and then either an opportunity for continuity or swift termination. Jotunn does not get pleasure in enforcing this system because pleasure would poison the process. Now, this intruding life force is causing pause to the procedure. Anything that deviates from the momentum of The Collection is ultimately a violation of the one principle upon which The Collection has been built: in order to advance and survive, there is only one direction. Within the yellow illumination, is this human a sign of The Collection’s deterioration, or of something else?

“How did you get here?” Jotunn asks first, using a soft and maternal filter to promote amenability.

“Here. Mommy and Daddy said to wait here,” it says, all limbs and core body parts seeming abuzz and moving in a carefree and disorganized manner. It points to the ground.

“They are not here,” Jotunn says, her emotive filter telling of sincerity.

“Are too,” it says, and it appears to be redirecting its focus to its feet.

Jotunn registers a light beige scar on one of the human’s bottom limbs. It is half of a hexagon, shaped like a peperomia leaf. The sight of it settles into Jotunn’s thoughts as a fond memory would, somehow comfortable and at home within her. The scar is also a reminder of this being’s vulnerability, while the irony does not escape Jotunn that the simple existence of this human could lead to The Collection’s end.

“Did you know that the forest is not for waiting?” Jotunn asks. Without receiving an answer, she continues. “If, in leaving the Transitories, there is confusion, then-”

“You sound like Mommy,” it says, stepping toward Jotunn without reservation.

Jotunn rejects the comparison, silently refusing to bypass the protocol and engage in any conversation that does not concern the human’s trajectory. Despite the circumstances, her process must and will remain. Her detachment from communion contributed to her success and current standing. Civility is required when moving forward, yes, but gargoyles are not her brethren nor are the awakened spirits of the Conquests. Her fellow dragons are allies, but she serves The Collection because it aligns with her direction, and when she follows that direction, her path consists of a single lane. No one joins beside her.

“I can clear up any confusion,” Jotunn continues, but is that true?

“I can whistle!” The human uses its small facial features to muster out a melody.

Jotunn has a pace to which she must adhere, so she collects herself and decides her approach must factor in the intricacies of humans. At The Collection’s inception, the royals worked in packs, forming communities and using their influence to either strengthen their own bonds or destroy the attachments of their enemies. Connection was their lifeblood and their doom.

“I will show you that your mommy and daddy are not here, and you must then understand the next stage.” Jotunn modifies her filter to tonally exude sympathy for her following statement: “You may not be ready, but you are to progress to the Conquests.”

The human, no taller than a freshly-planted dogwood from the Dawnings, says nothing, but it nods its head. Jotunn is unsure of its comprehension level and of its readiness for the Conquests, of course. It cannot be terminated for being a youngling, nor a representative of a species once extinct, so Jotunn determines that it must face further scrutiny under the Conquests’ suns. This ruling may ultimately lead to harsh outcomes, but the forest outside of the Transitories is no place for a lost source of meandering yellowness and whistling.

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After some very slow movement through the tangled brush, Jotunn informs the shuffling pink one that it can mount her so they may cover more ground. As it grunts and squeals during its ascension, clinging to Jotunn’s scales and hoisting itself further along her spine, Jotunn finds herself accepting this position warmly. She has never been ridden or climbed in her adult life, yet the human’s awkward exploration drapes Jotunn in yellow comfort as if she were designed to hold this weight. When the little one settles on her head, she hears a satisfied sigh.

“What’s your name?” it asks softly.

Jotunn doesn’t answer, contemplative. She sees soft digits wiggling and bumping against her snout from the corner of her functioning right eye.

“I’m Me,” the human tells her.

Jotunn begins walking again, understanding that taking flight might stoke the fire of fear in this Me, so she stays grounded.

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The yellowness is usually – always – fleeting, serving as a reminder that Jotunn is successful in her continued allegiance to The Collection. Carrying this Me has now created an almost permeation of its own flowing bloodstream. The hardened and distinguished dragon wonders if her own skillset is now being weaponized against her, as she can no longer distinguish between her wings and the yellowness. The soothing electricity is upon her, in her, and claiming her as its territory.

The consideration of this is moot, and Jotunn focuses instead on fulfilling her job and transitioning the human as promptly and efficiently as possible.

“What’s that?” Me asks, knocking against Jotunn’s horn.

Jotunn scans her peripheral, the quietness of the forest dull and still. She separates the lack of sound from the ever-fluctuating static of the yellowness.

“What do you see?” she asks, the words slipping from her without a filter and tasting of burning virtue. Her fire is always ready.

Me is quiet, and slowly it lowers its fleshy face down in front of Jotunn’s view.

“You have pretty eyes,” it says.

“I only have one,” Jotunn responds, still fiery and not diplomatically. She tips her head so Me leans back and out of her vision. “Stay in place,” she says, this time with a protective filter.

A crackling sound erupts, then a whoosh. Jotunn watches as Uggr descends, dropping something from his jaw before his wings skid to a halt behind him. Uggr is silver-skinned and long-necked. He has no yellowness surrounding him.

“Daddy!” Me shouts.

Jotunn greets Uggr with a nod, understanding immediately that The Collection is over. A human body lay between them, in the forest of momentum. Pain and suffering and bloodshed should not stir in the territories. The overthrowing of humans meant comfort upon the conveyor belt; it meant dragons rule with order and obedience to the forward motion. And this foundation has led to peace, hunger being eradicated, death only coming when one reaches the end of one’s timeline, and the continued freedom to operate without the weakness that is reflection.

“Humans in the Transitories’ forest,” Uggr says to Jotunn, in their dragon tongue. “Oh, formidable one, I terminated this threat, but I felt there were others.”

Me has crawled down Jotunn’s back. It is sniffling and crying. Brimming with yellow, overwhelmingly so, it creeps in front of Jotunn and toward the limp human body. Without considering the circumstances or the algorithm, Jotunn intercepts Me with the web of her wing. The little being crumples against the stretchy patagium and sobs into the dragon’s barrier.

“What of this one?” Uggr demands.

The yellowness creeps into Jotunn’s nostrils. It is a cloud of aromatic experiences, telling of misgivings, impure thoughts, excitement, love, and terror. It smells of loss and panic, of adrenalin in a crowded space where there is a frenzy of opportunities. Jotunn can envision Me walking through doors, exploring spaces, but deciding to pause in a corridor to take in the sensation of living.

“Formidable one?”

Jotunn does not think. She roars out the fire, heat and fury exploding from her cranium and her core. It is primal, the meeting of her blow and Uggr’s left side, tarnishing his shoulder and disintegrating the bony tree next to him. Uggr leaps into the air, bellowing. Jotunn’s stream of destruction follows Uggr’s flight, so he takes a sudden turn to dodge her again. While he is disoriented above them, Jotunn peers down at Me.

“We must go,” Jotunn says, realizing suddenly that her filter is not in place, and Me cannot understand.

“Daddy,” Me cries up at her. “Daddy!”

The smoke of Jotunn’s innards blurs the yellow atmosphere, smudging her view of the little one. Yet, she sees that the peperomia leaf scar on its lower limb is darkening and turning a metallic color. The shock of this fades as Jotunn takes in the human’s face. Complete despair wrinkles its features. Its eyes are encircled in crimson neediness, pleading up at Jotunn for hope. The need is forceful and hearty and driven. Jotunn is afraid of this need, and she knows this to be true.

The branch comes too quickly from above them, penetrating Jotunn’s skull through her left eye socket. The pain is immediate and has no direction, tearing through her haphazardly. Her ability to see has diminished considerably, which causes some confusion as she lost this eye many timelines ago. The throbbing shriek within her increases as she attempts to shake the stick free, to no avail.

“You attacked me!” Uggr calls, darting about in the air.

Through the searing agony, Jotunn can still recognize Uggr’s pattern of movement in his alarmed state. He is predictable and wounded – down, down, up, and down, down, up. She interrupts his dance with one blast, scorching his body and sending him crashing into the dried woods, screaming. His scales have always been penetrable, and she has always known this.

This time, Jotunn does not look down at Me. She expands her wings and stumbles away from the young human, wishing to never hear its cries or gaze upon its face again. Staggering past blackened logs and away from the bright yellowness, Jotunn quickly uses the thumb of her wing to rip the log from her eye socket. The blood trickles down her face and forges a trail to her foot. Then, a droplet touches light pink flesh, where scales once were. This blood is warm and cool, and it is everything.

Jotunn takes flight, crashing through outreaching branches as she gains speed. She soars higher and higher until the trees are specks and the fire in her throat has quieted. She can only hear wind passing, can only see the white of the merging skies. Yellowness has faded. She flies on.

Jotunn focuses entirely on her direction and objective, of serving The Collection. She is forward motion, she is unbiased leadership.

She is alone.

Past the Transitories, above the last forest to not be resurrected, Jotunn hears whistling call out to her through yellow consciousness. This life calls to her to investigate.

It has been more than five hundred timelines through The Collection since Jotunn has last witnessed a human.