Chapter 1 - Storms Dancing Against the Mountains

The dragons were always there.

For those who built their homes in the shadows of the northern mountains, the dragons were always there. Just beyond the peaks, just out of sight, in their wasted valleys just beyond—the dragons were always there.

In the great cities to the south, at the center of the Great Wood, where the giant Lorelai trees grew in groves of forty and fifty—the People there could forget. They built their towers and gardens; they flew in safe, open skies. And the dragons were little more than proverb—the stuff of history lessons and bedtime stories. 

But to the People who built their villages in the distant, smaller groves at the edges of the Wood, the dragons were always there.

Paladin understood. Living alone, his farm atop a Lorelai tree in the shadows of the mountains, he heard the dragons’ cries . He saw their fiery shadows dance against the nighttime sky. And he walked through empty hallways, past darkened rooms, and amid the silent whispers of those whose lives had been lost to those dragons that were always there.

He was in the sky. Wings extended, the winds pushing against his feathers, he soared like a hawk. The branches of the Lorelai tree were long out of reach. And the canopy of the lesser trees, thousands upon thousands feet below, remained unseen—hidden by the evening mists.

A storm approached, and the dragons raged as they always did with thunderheads came near. Paladin could almost see the beasts, mad silhouettes dancing like bits of lightning themselves. 

The clouds came in from the south. Surging across the sky until they settled against the mountains like a weary bearcat. The lightning came at once. Cracking. Snapping. Filling the air with anxious bits of energy flitting about here and there.

And then she came. 

As if leading the storm and calling forth the rains, she seemed to dance in the sky. Closer she came, and with her the darkened clouds closed in. In moments she was there, nearly crashing into Paladin.

“Is there shelter?” she asked, pointing to the Lorelai. Her voice was raspy, and her shoulders heaved.

“My home,” Paladin said.

“That will do,” she commanded. “Take me there before this blasted lightning catches me.”

Paladin obeyed without hesitation.

He took her arm to lead her. She pulled it away with a jerk.

“You do not lead me like a frightened child,” she said harshly. “You will escort me and show me the way.” Lightning snapped, too closely. “Quickly!”

Paladin nodded. Wings narrowed, he turned into a brisk dive toward the tree. She was right with him. As they passed through the upper branches, he slowed, careful to keep his wings free from the thorns and leaves. She did not slow. She darted through, twisting, turning, almost dancing through openings that seemed impassable.

In a moment they were through the upper branches of the canopy. The thicket gave way to open space, and the Great Branches of the tree lay below. Twenty paces across, and a thousand paces long, these giant branches always held in them the homes of the People of the Wood. Those of the greatest Lorelais to the south held entire cities. But these, seven branches of a single tree, held nothing more than a cottage and a farm. 

Paladin slowed his fall and touched down like a drifting autumn leaf. She, of course, was already there. Her descent had been faster and made with greater skill. He had almost expected her to be inside his cottage already. But she stood apart, keeping distant, gazing at the doorway as if unsure whether she should enter.

Paladin walked to her. Her attention jolted from the cottage to him, and she peered at him, watching his feet carefully, studying each step.

“You step with greater skill than you fly,” she said. It was almost a question.

“My life is spent in the branches,” he said. “Not in the open skies.”

He held out his hand. Her eyes narrowed. He took her hand anyway.

“You wanted shelter … there it is” Paladin said, pointing to his cottage. “Or shall we wait until the rains come?”

She let him guide her inside.

The cottage was built into the knot, where the Great Branch joined with the trunk. It was a simple home—nothing more than wood. No gold, no silver, not even silks. Yet it was also ornate. The entryway was intricately designed, with figures and images carved into every curve of wood.

Inside, Paladin led her to a stool at a table. He lit a lamp and set himself near the fireplace. Looking up at her now, seeing her in more than twilight for the first time, his eyes widened. 

Her feathers were white—almost as white as a Northern Owl—but speckled with flecks of dark green. Her skin was fair, and had a glow like sunlight through a leaf. And her eyes—her dazzling, cold, piercing, relentless, alien green eyes sparkled in the lamplight.

He did not even need to see the insignia on her tunic, the Royal Crest of Valora, to know who she was: Princess Fauna, Ruler of the People of the Wood.

“So you recognize me,” she said, seeing herself in his expression. Her voice was soft, accusatory.

“Yours is a unique countenance,” Paladin said. “Ah … Your Highness,” he added uncomfortably. 

She sighed and closed her eyes. “I came to take leave of titles and honorifics and such,” she almost spat the words.

“Then what do I call you?” Paladin asked.

“Fauna,” she said. “My name is Fauna and I wish to be known as nothing more than my name.”

“Fauna.”

Silence.

The rains began to fall outside, pattering on the branch. Thunder rumbled in the distance. The scent of mist filled the air.

“And do you intend to share your name?” Fauna asked.

Paladin smiled, his eyes amused. “I was wondering if you intended to ask,” he said. “If you are nothing more than a girl named Fauna, then it seems polite to ask. You are, after all, my guest and at mercy to my hospitality.”

Fauna laughed. Her entire body seemed to relax, suddenly free from formality and pomp. And her voice was golden, a flash of sunlight in the lamplit air.

“May I ask, good sir, what is your name?”

“You may call me Paladin.”

“Paladin.”

Silence again.

The rains increased. The darkness outside deepened. Fauna leaned her head to the side and closed her eyes again.

“I am very tired, Paladin,” she said. “I have flown three days from Valora, and the storm outside chased me for most of today. Do you have a spot I could rest?”

“I have nestings you may use,” Paladin said.

He led her back into the cottage—back into the dark, warm corridors deeper into the knot of the tree. They came to an empty room, dark and unused for years, and went inside. An alcove was hollowed out of the far corner, and a wicker nesting hung inside. Without a moment’s hesitation Fauna went to it, curled inside, wrapping her white wings around herself. Her eyes closed, and she said nothing more.

Paladin left her there and closed the door behind him.

He sat on a bench just outside his home, sheltered by a weaving of leaves overhead. The storm had quieted now—its winds, its fury moving on northward. Only its dark grey chill and soft rains remained. From the distance the dragons still cried out from time to time, just loud enough to be heard—but soft enough to ensure they were staying behind their mountains for one more day.

It was lonelier sitting by himself that evening—knowing Fauna was inside resting. Paladin had grown used to silence, to solitude, to dark rooms and quiet nights. The ghosts of his sister and parents had long-since passed away, and he had learned to feel comfortable by himself. To have another in his home, sleeping, just out of sight—it made him anxious, uncomfortably made aware of just how alone he really was.

Why was she there? It was absurd. He had seen her once before … a memory he did not want to relive. Aside from that, she was nothing. In the furthest colonies along the mountains, the High Alluvian Houses and Royal Family of Valora were more myth than real. They were there, of course, far off in their civilized Groves and pretty towers—making decisions, rendering judgements, keeping the Shanra society alive and functional—but it meant so little to the clusters of People and villages in the frontier. It meant so little to Paladin.

Why was she there? Alone? Trying to outfly a thunderstorm?

He shook his head.

The light dimmed. The sun, hidden behind the stormclouds, must be setting. Night approached. As he did every night, he closed his eyes and leaned back on the bench, his wings curving into a kind of cradle against his back.

A crash, like a thunderclap, erupted from the forest bed below. Music—wild music—feral, without melody—burst in his ears. Drums sounded, and manic voices shrieking their wordless chants echoed in his mind.

The Dryads were dancing on the forest bed.

Paladin fell to his hands and knees. Shaking, eyes wide, he tore his fingers into the bark of the branch. The music seemed to call to him—pleading with him, demanding he abandon all to join them in their dance a thousand feet below. His wings spread, ready to glide down. Desperate to keep himself sane against such an onslaught, he reached to his cheek and dug into his skin. He could feel a streak of blood run down his cheek.

But it was not enough. The music seeped into his body, into his mind. His thoughts became scattered, wordless, then nothing more than bursts of color—until even the colors faded and there was nothing but darkness. Darkness in his mind, darkness in his eyes.

He rose. His wings spread. He made a step to leap down.

A hand took his shoulder. 

In a fury he raised his own and took hold. Sight returned. Thought returned. He remembered himself again. His chest heaved in panicked, deep breaths. Shaking again, he held the hand at his shoulder tightly.

The music was no more. The Dryads’ call was gone.

“Have you never heard their songs?” Fauna asked, pulling her hand away from his shoulder.

Paladin stood quietly, shaking—barely able to understand her words.

“I know …” he stammered. “I know their songs. I have heard them my entire life. But never like tonight. He knelt to the edge of the branch, looking down, searching for some glimpse of the song. “Their music has always been distant, quiet. More rumor than sound. Tonight was unlike anything I have ever felt. It was as if it thundered through my entire body. 

"I know their music," he said again. "But I have never felt their call.” He looked up, directly at Fauna, staring into her green eyes. “I have never felt it before tonight.”

She held his gaze, challenging him to say more.

But there were no more words said that night.

* * *

When Paladin awoke the next morning she was gone. The nesting she had used was empty again, the room dark. Another storm approached from the south—they came almost daily that time of year—and the dragons cries arose again from behind their mountains. 

And several times, as he went about his work, tending for the crops of his little farm, he wondered if the previous day had happened at all.