The Gift of Sapphire

Elder Spiny the Dragon awoke one morning in his den near the summit of Cloud Mountain with a sharp twinge in his tail and a profound sense of foreboding.

It was not the first time this had happened. Elder Spiny could recollect, with painful precision, three identical rousings over the course of his 833 years. The first, when he was but a young hatchling, took place on the morning of his mother’s abrupt passing (she flew into a lightning storm and fell to her demise). Some four-hundred years later, Elder Spiny jolted out of sleep on what turned out to be the eve of the Great Ash Wars, which took the lives of almost half of the Flame Dragon Clan of Cloud Mountain. The last occurrence, still fresh in his mind after a mere four decades, heralded the passing of his oldest friend, Elder Forktongue, rendering Elder Spiny the sole remaining dragon of his generation.

“It’s too soon,” the old dragon muttered, “I haven’t the fire in me for another calamity.” He uncurled himself and went to stand at the opening of the cave that was his den. “Do you hear me?” he roared out into the morning air, “Now is NOT THE TIME!”

Unsurprisingly, there was no response aside from the habitual twitterings of the jaja birds. Elder Spiny turned and slunk back inside, feeling foolish. One did not shout at the tides of fate and expect them to turn back—one swam fiercely and bravely, or else one drowned.

The trouble was, he hadn’t felt quite himself over the past few seasons. Each day was the same: he went about his duties—tending to the forest, speaking during Council gatherings when called upon (a mercifully rare occurrence in recent years), patrolling Cloud Mountain’s summit—all with the same gray pit in his stomach, the feeling that his wings could barely support his weight.

“Come now, Spiny,” he chided himself, “gather yourself. You’re acting like a tukket cub with an empty belly.”

He set about his daily routine, plucking a fresh lyncat carcass from a pile in the corner and tearing into its entrails, eventually hurling the ravaged hide outside for the jaja birds to collect to line their nests.

Next, he eased himself into the bubbling sulfur spring at the back of his cave, staring at the gold scars criss-crossing his black belly as the scalding water sloughed off his dead scales.

Finally, as he had every day for the past 817 years, Elder Spiny took up his gleaming-white lyre and composed a song. As his claws plucked the strings, a mournful melody filled the cave, blending with the curls of smoke that perpetually wound their way out of his nostrils.

“I do believe that is the saddest song I’ve ever played,” he said once it was over.

His heart seized painfully, but tears refused to form in his enormous gray eyes. With a great sigh, he heaved himself up. It was time for his daily forest walk.

He emerged from his den, blinking into the bright sun, and stared out at the tree-lined path, and beyond that the vast expanse of sky. Cloud Mountain was renowned throughout the lands: a world atop a world, leagues above the sea, with its own unique, temperate climate. As a patroller, Elder Spiny had always cherished his remote spot near the summit and the view that accompanied it.

He began making his way through the trees. It was the turning of the seasons, once his favorite time of year, and the leaves were brilliant gold and flame red. The fallen ones crunched beneath his feet and rustled under his long, spined tail as it dragged behind him.

The regrowth from the small burns he’d orchestrated several seasons ago seemed to be flourishing, and the creatures of the forest were busy harvesting for the cold season: lolimas hopped through the undergrowth, stuffing their front pouches with seeds and nuts, while wood sprites swirled leaves into the air and over to their tree stump homes, where the foliage would become insulation. Still, Elder Spiny found his attention drawn to areas of disharmony, sourly noting several new patches of the bright orange fungus that had claimed a number of the oldest wahmuk trees, not to mention the creeping vine slowly throttling a tall, pale-leaved sallaw. The battle against erosion and rot was unceasing.

Suddenly, the air was filled with a high-pitched screech. Elder Spiny whipped around to pinpoint the location of the noise—it was coming from behind a tree further down the path. As he approached, the screech grew to a feverish wail; it sounded like a creature in distress, although what manner of creature remained a mystery.

He paused, warily, a few feet from the tree, remembering his premonition. Could this be an ambush? A thorough scan of his surroundings revealed nothing of suspicion. For a moment, Elder Spiny considered turning away, then he shook himself vigorously. He had not fought for 567 consecutive days and nights in the Great Ash Wars to seek a coward’s path now. This portion of the forest was under his protection, and he would uphold his duty as he had always done.

With some apprehension, Elder Spiny peered behind the tree. On the ground, nestled inside a basket lined with animal skins, was a very small creature with brown, scaleless skin, curly black hair atop its head, and a face scrunched into an expression of pure agony.

The old dragon caught his breath in astonishment. He had never encountered a human before, but he had studied their likenesses enough to know that this was a youngling roughly three years of age. But how in the Great Elder’s name could a human youngling be here, a mere dragon’s leap from the summit? Humans had been trying to breach Cloud Mountain for centuries—they were a rash and immature species, it was one of the reasons dragons had always given them a wide berth—but none had ever succeeded in getting past the ice trails at the midway point, much less the ring of fire that guarded the base of Flame Dragon Clan territory.

“Oh dear,” Elder Spiny muttered, “The Council will want to know about this.”

Much to his surprise, the tiny human seemed to grow calmer at the sound of his voice. Its shrieks quieted, and it peered up curiously at the eighteen-foot-tall flame dragon staring down at it. Now that its eyes were open, Elder Spiny could see that they were a deep, piercing blue.

“Goodness, they’re like jewels,” he murmured, bringing his face down to get a closer look.

The youngling smiled, reaching a plump arm out towards the dragon and he turned his head abruptly to avoid singeing it with his startled snort, whereupon the little one let out a delighted laugh.

“Well, you don’t seem to be injured, at least,” Elder Spiny said. “Hungry’s more like it, at your age.” He scooped up the basket. “Let’s get you to the Council—they’ll know what to do.”

But instead of continuing down the trail, Elder Spiny found himself—for reasons he could not begin to explain—walking briskly back towards his den. Along the way, he gathered some figgen-bush berries and a sturdy knoot-nut shell.

“It’s no use bringing them a creature that’s starved half to death,” he told himself.

He heard a faint noise from the basket and looked down to see that the youngling was babbling in its own tongue and pointing excitedly at a cluster of digwood blossoms.

“Exceptional, aren’t they?” Elder Spiny said. “I’ve always had a fondness for digwood.”

Come to think of it, he’d never seen the blossoms in such a vivid shade of purple, and he was quite certain that when he’d passed them earlier they’d been a dusty pink. He shook his head uneasily—was he beginning to lose his faculties?

They reached the yawning, dark mouth of his cave and were about to enter when there was a squeal of terror from the basket.

“There, there,” Elder Spiny tutted, “you’ll see many a sight more fearsome than this warm and cozy den.”

He blew smoke swirls out of his snout until the youngling laughed and allowed him to bring it inside. The elderly dragon immediately busied himself creating a soft, padded nest of hides for the little human to crawl on and gave it some berries, which it greedily stuffed in its mouth, smearing juice all over its face.

“Bother,” Elder Spiny muttered. “I should have thought to take some water from the brook.”

But as soon as he made to leave the cave, the youngling resumed its earlier screeching and he hastened back to its side.

“Alright, alright, don’t fuss. I won’t leave you. The question is, what can you drink? I doubt you have a taste for lyncat blood.”

He looked around, frazzled, and then an idea struck him and he went to the darkest corner of the cave, where he kept his store of goldengrass elixir.

Each year, at the beginning of the warm season, there was a brief period when the goldengrass was ripe for harvesting. The entire Clan would come out to gather as much of the grass as possible, from which the sweet elixir was then extracted, stored in belse-seed pods, and evenly meted out amongst the Clan.

Elder Spiny took stock of his pods. He knew exactly how many there were, for he drank precisely one pod every fortnight.

“Hmmph,” he said, opening the pod and holding it to the youngling’s mouth. “We’ll see if your human palate is refined enough to appre—”

He cut short in amazement. The youngling had grabbed the pod from him and was guzzling it at an incredible speed, its blue eyes bright with glee. Within moments, the husk was drained.

“My word,” Elder Spiny said. “That was enough to fortify a hatchling for three lunar cycles.”

He was met with contented gurgles in response. Taking a piece of hide, he wiped some of the berry juice from the youngling’s face and neck, and as he did so he noticed a long gold scar behind its left ear that seemed to travel all the way down its back. He felt a pang of unexpected sadness, but there was something else, something about the scar that didn’t add up.

In all his studies, he’d never learned anything about human scars turning gold. In fact, of all the creatures on Cloud Mountain, only dragons were known to exhibit this trait—they were quite proud of it.

“What will the Council make of this, I wonder,” he asked himself uneasily.

In truth, he had little faith in the other members of the Council; most of them were barely half his age, and lacked the ripeness and wisdom required to pass sound judgment. But he would have to face them soon enough.

The youngling, fully sated, had fallen soundly asleep on the pile of hides. Staring down at it, Elder Spiny felt a powerful, not-unpleasant lassitude come over him.

“I suppose a late morning nap couldn’t hurt,” he murmured, squeezing his body onto the hides and curling himself around his tiny ward.

It was dark when Elder Spiny awoke. He squinted into the darkness, confused—it was practically unheard of for him to sleep through the day.

A Council visit at this hour was out of the question, so Elder Spiny fed some more berries to the youngling, who was not only awake but highly alert and energized, likely from the elixir coursing through its veins.

He then attempted to bathe it in the sulfur spring, discovering in the process that it was female. The youngling yowled and twisted violently in his paws as he dangled her gingerly over the bubbling waters, and he was forced to conclude that her tender, thin skin was not suited for such temperatures.

“There, there, you didn’t even get a drop on you,” he said, frantically puffing out smoke swirls to stop her wailing. “Now, how in the Great Elder’s name do I get you to sleep again? It won’t do for you to become nocturnal.”

The den offered limited options for exhausting an overfortified youngling, so Elder Spiny fashioned a small hammock out of a hide, slung it around his neck and shoulder and placed the little one inside, ensuring she was safely swaddled against his chest.

“Hear me,” he told her sternly, “we are going to make a quick—quick, mind you—foray outdoors to allow you expel some of this energy.”

Together, they ventured out into the brisk night air. It had been some time since Elder Spiny had found himself in the forest at night, and he was struck by how different everything appeared—surely the lantern moths had only ever had green spots, not pink, orange and yellow ones. But perhaps his memory was playing tricks—one could never be too steady in one’s recollections past the age of 700.

Checking once more that the hide-hammock was securely fastened, he lifted off the trail and began a slow ascent into the air. The youngling cooed in wonder as they rose higher and higher, and the elderly dragon found himself pleasurably transported back to his first flights as a hatchling, recalling how powerful and free he had felt.

He circled the summit, marveling at the stars, then swooped below the clouds so the youngling could see the glowing-red ring of fire that surrounded the perimeter of Clan territory. The youngling took it all in, merrily chirping and squealing at every twist and turn.

When he was too tired to continue flying, they returned to the forest outside Elder Spiny’s den and he watched, eyelids drooping, as the youngling ran through the leaves chasing lantern moths.

“Come now, little one,” he yawned after some time. “Let’s go inside.”

But to his dismay, once they were settled back on the hides the youngling refused to lie down and instead toddled around Elder Spiny’s head, poking his snout and staring at him with wide eyes.

“Blasted potent elixir,” he growled.

He cast back to his earliest youth, when the flames in his hatchling belly had burned so brightly that all he wanted to do was fly, and his mother had been forced to find ways to tether him to the earth. She would often curl herself around him and tell long, wandering tales of her travels as an explorer for the Clan until he finally drowsed off.

“What story shall I tell you, little one?” he asked softly.

He began to reminisce about that early era of his life, when his only duties were to frolic, play and learn with his fellow hatchlings. He had fond memories of exploring Cloud Mountain and the surrounding peaks and valleys with his closest friends: mischievous Forktongue, hot-tempered Goldenbelly, lazy Longears. He chuckled, recalling the time he’d hurt his wing during a particularly long excursion with Goldenbelly and she’d had to carry him home on her back, grumbling and spitting fire the entire way.

Gradually, he realized the youngling had stopped shifting and wiggling and had settled into a deep sleep curled against his neck. Feeling lighter of heart than he had in a very long time, Elder Spiny drifted into slumber.

The following morning, he knew without a sliver of doubt that he would not be taking the youngling to the Council. Some inexplicable act of destiny and grace had brought her to him, and in so doing had reignited a flame in his soul. The human needed a protector and a guide, and he would burn to a crisp any who sought to prevent him from fulfilling these duties.

He wondered how soon it would be before he was called to defend this unheard-of position. Since the dawn of human existence, dragons had kept their distance from the younger species, never interfering in human affairs and maintaining strict territorial boundaries. The sacred prophecies spoke unequivocally about the need to prevent association between the two species. They warned that humans risked worshiping dragons as gods or attacking them from fear. Dragons, for their part, could be tempted to misuse their power, and any retaliation against human attack had the potential to annihilate humanity.

But Elder Spiny’s feelings of protectiveness toward the youngling overrode his fealty to the prophecies. If need be, he was prepared to abandon Cloud Mountain altogether and find an even more remote den for the two of them to live in, where neither humans nor dragons would venture. But he needed time to find such a location.

The next Council gathering wasn’t for another fortnight—in the meantime, if he kept close to the cave during the day and only conducted his search for a new home at night, he might be able to avoid drawing attention. This risked, of course, the possibility of a Clan member paying him a visit, but Elder Spiny could not recall the last time a fellow dragon had ventured up to the summit to see him.

“Worry not, little one,” he told the youngling as she ate her morning berries, “I’ll make sure our future home is safe and secure.”

She smiled up at him, and he felt a stirring in his heart at the trust and serenity in her expression.

“I shall call you Sapphire, for your eyes,” he said, gently poking her belly with one of his claws.

She made an odd growling sound, and Elder Spiny realized she was trying to approximate the guttural syllables of her name in his tongue.

“Yes, that’s right—Sapphire. Sapphire Berrytongue.”

They both laughed.

And so, Sapphire and Elder Spiny settled into their new routine: at night, they went on long, moonlit flights, followed by a story before sleep; during the day they played, tended to the forest and made music. For, as the elderly dragon quickly discovered, the youngling shared his ease with melodies—whenever he plucked at his lyre she would sing along, her voice strong and sure. With her accompaniment his compositions began to evolve, growing richer and more complex in their harmonies.

All in all, it was a lovely, peaceful existence. Yet on the morning of the Council gathering, Elder Spiny had still not found a location that satisfied him.

“We need more time,” he said, as he paced around the cave. “I must attend the gathering, or someone from the Clan will be dispatched to find me.” He looked down at Sapphire, who was sitting contentedly on the pile of hides. “You must be very brave and very quiet, little one, and stay exactly in this spot until I return. If you do, you shall get a full pod of elixir. Do you understand?”

She nodded, her eyes wide in anticipation of the treat. She had adapted surprisingly quickly to dragon tongue, and understood a good deal of his speech. Still, the thought of leaving her alone for any length of time filled him with unease.

He left his den and flew slowly down to the gathering cave, practicing what he would say should anyone ask why he hadn’t been seen since the last assembly. He had never been a good liar.

As he entered the enormous cave, with its pale, silvery stalactites, Elder Spiny prayed for the courage to make his words ring true. He was surprised to find he was the last to arrive—all the other Council members were in their places, forming a circle around the perimeter of the cave.

Elder Spiny made his way to his spot, glancing around nervously to check for suspicious glares. But instead, he was met with a bewildering sea of gently compassionate expressions that only amplified his nerves.

As soon as he was settled, the three Head Councils stepped into the center of the circle: Elder Bloodfang, with her red-tipped black scales; Elder Ravenseye, the Clan Oracle, whose eyes were milky white; and Elder Copperclaw, who was the eldest dragon in the Clan after Spiny (though still younger by a good two centuries).

“Blessed be the four elements, Cloud Mountain, and the Flame Dragon Clan,” the three intoned.

The cave echoed as all the other dragons repeated the ritual overture.

Elder Bloodfang stepped forward.

“Our first point of discussion today concerns Elder Spiny,” she said gravely. “Elder Spiny, would you please step forward?”

Elder Spiny’s heart began to race. He stepped into the circle.

“What business concerns me?” he asked, sounding more defensive than he wished. “I’ve been feeling poorly for the past fortnight, if you're wondering why I haven’t ventured down since the last gathering.”

Elder Bloodfang smiled at him—a kind, sad smile.

“Elder Spiny, we know of the human youngling you found outside your den.”

His blood went cold. He braced his body, preparing to fight his way free if the Council descended upon him. But there was only stillness.

“A human youngling?” he blustered. “At the summit of Cloud Mountain? What a preposterous notion!”

“We know because we put her there for you to find,” she continued.

“You… put her there?” He was stunned. “But why?”

“Because it was foretold by Elder Ravenseye,” Elder Bloodfang said, gesturing to her fellow Head Council.

Elder Ravenseye stepped forward and intoned: “At the turning of the seasons, in the Year of the Clear River, a human youngling shall be brought to Cloud Mountain. She shall bear the marking of a dragon, and she shall herald a new era of coexistence between dragons and humans.”

Elder Spiny felt a spark of hope.

“The golden scar,” he whispered.

“Yes,” Elder Copperclaw replied. He had sharp ears, despite his age. “The youngling got the scar during a swamphound attack on her village. Unfortunately, she was the only human to survive.”

The thought made Elder Spiny sick with sadness. His little Sapphire, losing her entire family—her entire clan.

“How was she brought to Cloud Mountain?” he asked.

“One of our explorers found her during an excursion,” Elder Copperclaw explained, his tone flat and military. “He was flying over a human village and heard the cries of a youngling, then noticed human corpses strewn across the fields. He was unsure how to proceed, heedful of our rule of noninterference in human matters but loath to let an orphaned youngling of any species starve to death. Upon locating the human he noted her unique scar, whereupon he immediately brought her to the Head Council. This occurred precisely two days after Elder Ravenseye’s prophetic vision.”

“And the prophecies foretold that I was to raise her,” Elder Spiny concluded joyfully. “That’s why you left her outside my den. This is wondrous news! I shall fulfill my duty with honor—I’ve already named her Sapphire and she’s a quick study of dragon tongue.”

The cave grew silent as the three Head Councils looked at the ground. None of the dragons in the great cave would meet Elder Spiny's gaze. He held his breath, thinking of his own premonition, too afraid to ask what the prophecies had foretold.

Finally, Elder Bloodfang looked up again and spoke.

“This is indeed a wondrous occurrence, as you say—miraculous, even. You and Sapphire, as you call her, are connected in a way that defies explanation.”

“What way is that?”

Elder Bloodfang took a deep breath: “She is you.”

“She is me?” He did not understand.

“Yes.”

“The human youngling?”

Elder Ravenseye intoned once more: “And the human youngling shall be one with the spirit of the eldest Flame Dragon of Cloud Mountain, and he with hers, and she shall fully embody his spirit upon his passing, and carry his blood within her. And she shall be a guide to humankind, so that they may learn the wisdom of the dragons.”

Elder Spiny took a deep, shuddering breath. His mind was spinning and he could hardly think.

“It appears my time has come,” he stammered after a long moment. “Was the date of my passing foretold?”

“No dragon shall know the precise time of their passing,” Elder Ravenseye said. “This is the gift of the Great Elder.”

“It could be a fortnight, or more,” Elder Bloodfang said gently. “We expect it shall occur before the cold season arrives.”

“Wh-what am I to do while I wait?”

“Do as you normally would. Be with Sapphire, impart as much as you can to her, savor your time together. And do not fear—when your time comes, we will be there to raise her with love.” Breaking precedent, Elder Bloodfang came over to him and took his paw in hers, her eyes shining with tears. “Go home, Spiny. You will be greatly missed.”

Elder Spiny staggered out of the cave. He felt too wobbly to fly so he trudged up the mountain, lava-hot tears streaming down his face. He could not comprehend what he had been told beyond the prediction of his passing—the crushing sadness and fear eclipsed everything else.

He was not ready to die. He was an old dragon, yes, but he’d known dragons to live well over nine hundred years. And he’d only just begun to live again, to enjoy waking up in the morning. He’d only just begun to connect to Sapphire. He had a whole future planned out for the two of them—a glorious, shimmering future. At the thought of their future, he let out a roar of grief so powerful it sent several boulders tumbling down the mountain.

When he returned to his den, Sapphire was sitting exactly where he’d left her, playing with the flowers he’d gathered to entertain her while he was gone. She looked up at him with an enormous smile and his heart tightened.

“Well, little one,” he said, attempting a light tone so as not to scare her. “I have good news and bad news.”

He picked her up and stared into her eyes, and the full meaning of the prophecies crashed over him, filling him with a dreadful awe. How in the Great Elder’s name could his spirit occupy two bodies at once, much less a human one? This exotic creature, whose temperament was so newly formed, so wholly her own—how could she possibly contain the depths of his soul? It was unthinkable, impossible—and yet he knew it in his bones to be true. He was holding himself.

He wondered if Sapphire would retain any of his—or their, he supposed—memories after his passing. He was ashamed to note a flicker of jealousy at the thought.

Sapphire reached towards his face to touch a tear running down his snout and he gently moved her away.

“Never touch a Flame Dragon’s tears unless you seek to get burned, little one,” he whispered. “You will need to know these things if you are to live among us. Great Elder help me, there’s so much you’ll need to know.”

Exhaustion overcame him, and he lay down with Sapphire and slept straight through the day and night.

The following seven days passed bleakly. Elder Spiny took care of Sapphire’s needs but beyond that had little will to leave his den. Visitors came, seeking to share memories and say their farewells, but he turned them away. They left gifts for Sapphire—fruits, elixir pods, rare stones—which he tossed carelessly into the corner. The youngling, for her part, entertained herself quietly, seeming to sense the old dragon’s need for rest. And each night, he fell asleep with a cold spike of fear in his heart, wondering if he would wake again.

On the eighth morning, he noted with disgust that dead scales were beginning to fall off him in clumps, so he eased himself into the sulfur spring, keeping an eye on Sapphire. She was playing with some stones, holding them up in a sunbeam that shone into the cave, and the light illuminated her golden scar.

“I’m behaving like an old fool, I know it,” he said, speaking more to himself than to her. “If you’d asked me when I was two hundred if I feared my passing—or even in my middle years, during the Great Ash Wars—I would have laughed the whole mountain down. But there’s something about growing old—the longer you live, the more precious life shows itself to be.” He sighed. “Be that as it may, I’ve squandered enough of our remaining time together. Duty comes first.”

And with that he rose from the spring, shook himself off, and set about passing his knowledge along to Sapphire.

They took long walks, and even longer flights; they played and frolicked in meadows, streams, valleys and mountaintops; he told her stories from his life with the help of the other dragons in the Clan, who filled in the gaps in his memories. And every evening they composed a song together on the lyre, which he had begun teaching Sapphire to play after crafting one in her size out of wahmuk wood.

Each day, Elder Spiny’s heart grew lighter, and the miracle of watching his own soul in another body began to fill him with joy, until one evening he set down his lyre and remarked: “I believe that's the happiest song I’ve ever played.”

He gazed at Sapphire—so new, so full of wonder and curiosity—and for the briefest of moments, he felt himself to be totally at peace.

They curled up together on the hides, and he drifted into a blissful sleep holding her hand in his enormous paw. When he did not wake the following morning, the Head Councils quietly came to collect the youngling and took her down to live among the rest of the Clan.

Her name was Sapphire Dragonsblood, and she was the first of her kind.