With Winter in the Dragonlands came a heavy rainfall.
Subject to the wild weather known to all of the lands beyond the heart of the Great Continent, the deep cooling of the climes still arrived at this time of year, much as it would anywhere else. Snowfall was the stuff of tales from dragons who’d ventured outside their native homeland, perhaps on a visit to their distant cousins, the ice-dragons. Yet if rain was an uncommon sight in these parts, never was there a downpour such as in Winter, when frozen water within the clouds brushed against the heat perpetually emanating from the rock below.
Big fat drops fell upon the craggy black ground, each and every one hissing upon impact as the water converted back into steam. In other places, the rain happened to hit molten magma, and though too insignificant to mean much, this did produce chunks of ossification here and there, creating further smokey plumes.
As creatures of fire, it went without saying that dragons were antipathic to rain. They were not reptiles who appreciated moisture. Still, as befit the toughness their people were known for, many a dragon would seek to carry on their business as if nothing had changed – although in practice, this was easier said than done. Mudslides made digging for gems a whole lot more unpleasant an experience, while the adverse effects of rain on magma took the fun out of communal bathing entirely.
So, given the natural tendency of dragons to huddle in their caves all the year round, few would have sincerely thought less of their fellow drake for sheltering from the rain.
But for Garbuncle Ironscale, known to his pals as Garble, this made Winter an especially miserable time. For one thing, Garble could scarcely deny that he hated water.
And thus here Garble was, like on most days in this accursed rainy season, taking refuge within the small cave he’d claimed as his own a few years ago, following his customary banishment from his parents’ dwelling upon reaching the age of molt.
He’d amassed a meagre hoard in that time, a result of coming out on top of several games of ‘King of the Hoard’ with pals, but the little pile of gold, jewels and gems he was currently sitting on did little to lift his sombre mood.
Sighing, Garble tried blowing a puff of flame onto some dried kindling at the foot of his hoard, in the hopes he could at least brighten the place a little, bring in some light and warmth to dispel the gloom which threatened to invade, just like the never-ceasing patter of rain from outside. It took three or four tries before he could manage more than a weak sputter.
“Lame…” the young red drake muttered, dejectedly resting his cheek upon a closed fist.
He let his tail curl around his legs, as if that’d give him comfort. Within his lap, Garble was presently holding one of the three prize possessions he truly treasured, his claws tapping away on it distractedly. Even his rock bongos were failing to bring him much joy today. Sometimes, feeling glum was a source of inspiration. A lot of the time, honestly, it was just a pain in the tail.
“C’mon,” Garble muttered sourly, “raindrops, downpour, there’s gotta be something, anything, I can use to spin poetry outta this… No. No, nope, uh-uh. Water. So wet and icky. Ugh.”
As his mind wandered, Garble glanced towards the far end of the cave, a corner still kept dark even in the light of the burning kindling. Above the noisy rainfall, he could barely make out a faint sound from his cave’s recesses – soap bubbles, popping every two or three seconds, the listless tone a perfect echo to his mood.
For perhaps the hundredth time that evening, Garble found himself wishing he could grab the courage to finish attending to his other two prize possessions. If bongos weren’t doing the trick, the washboard was an agreeable back-up instrument, and regardless, slipping on the beret-and-striped-shirt of his beatnik attire tended to boost his groove. Alas, somewhere down the line, a chore had been left hanging.
It was difficult for Garble not to curse himself at the sight of his clothes, floating aimlessly in the water of the wash-tub, hidden in a row of stalagmites. Against the tub leaned the washboard, bereft of either practical or musical purpose.
Throughout the painstaking, trial-and-error process of learning how to wash his laundry without other dragons finding out, nothing could change the need to await a rainy day for it, in this water-poor country. Yet on a rainy day, without his attire, he found it hard to drum up zest for anything. Similarly, he’d long discovered his beat suffered without anydrake to share it with. Too bad dragons weren’t big on inviting others into their homes.
A steadily rising discontent at being left alone with his thoughts was pressing down on him, making itself felt through a growing throb of his temples. Releasing a groan, Garble gave his forehead a rub, willing that the gesture might bring inspiration spilling out.
No such luck. As he gave the bongos a couple of feeble, arrhythmic taps, Garble was set to keep wallowing what remained of the evening in self-pity, hadn’t chance chosen that moment to send him the most welcome of visitors.
“Hey, bro,” said a voice, small and feminine, “don’t go knocking your head like that. You use those fists of yours to break rocks apart– I’d hate to see what they’d do to your eggshell. Not like you got a whole lot going on inside, mind.”
The ribbing might have flared him up, had any other creature spoken to him that way. Instead, when Garble looked, his eyes confirmed what his ears conveyed.
“Sis,” Garble answered, feeling his chest well up with delight.
Beating his wings, he rose to greet Smolder, who waited at the entrance, leaning against a wall with folded arms and a confident smirk on her face. She didn’t look phased that she was currently dripping with rainwater, a tiny puddle pooling at her feet.
Garble tackled his little sister into a warm hug, not even minding the feel of dampness seeping off her scales and onto his own, before he realised what he was doing. He broke the hug quickly, but the damage was done – had been done a long time ago, even prior to that embarassing hugging spree he was ordered to do upon the losing the Gauntlet of Fire.
Reacting this self-consciously around Smolder only came to Garble out of habit. His little sister had always been aware he knew about hugs, heck, she may even have returned this one, hadn’t he broken away so fast.
“Whatcha doing here, Smol?” Garble coughed, trying to redirect her attention. By the teasing glint of her eye, he could tell this wasn’t working, yet he pressed on. “I thought you were off excavating a new cave?”
“Hey, hey, do I need a reason to pay my favourite bro’ a visit?” Smolder said, giving his ribs a playful nudge.
She was going for her usual cocky grin, but neither that nor her eyes carried quite the spark she had displayed greeting him. Seeing Garble wrinkle his brow, his sister didn’t try keeping up the pretense for long.
Her little wings flapped once, and he spotted her shoulders sag, just a bit.
“Alright, you got me.” Smolder gave him a look. “Truth is, Garble, I… I could do with the shelter.”
At that statement, Garble felt his body stiffen, even as his mind got caught in a whirlwind of conflicting urges.
“You came looking for shelter?” Garble said gruffly, crossing his arms. “Why, what’s the matter? Ain’t there enough cliffsides in the Dragonlands for you to burrow under?”
“Garble, it’s me,” Smolder hissed. “You can stuff the whole tough-guy act when I’m around.”
But Garble wasn’t budging so easily, despite the truth of her words. Even if she was his sister and he thought the world of her, more was at stake here than merely his image.
“Don’t talk daft, sis,” Garble admonished her. “You think I’m acting? I thought you of all people could tell when I’m not fooling about.”
Steam blew through Smolder’s nostrils. “The heck? Have you seen what it’s like out there?”
She gestured angrily towards the rain that still poured in droves, a gesture that flicked water off her scales.
Garble had to keep himself from flinching, and not simply because he’d narrowly avoided getting spattered by flying droplets. For such a small dragon, Smolder bore her name well. Within that petite frame, there resided the sharpest mind he knew, which perhaps also was all that kept the lid on a mountain’s worth of fire.
And in spite of himself, Garble felt a pang of guilt. Horrible rain… He wouldn’t have thought twice about kicking any intruder out into the rain. That was just the proper dragon thing to do. Yet this wasn’t an intruder, this was his sister… Which shouldn’t have counted for a whole lot, if he cared about the proper dragon thing.
“Smol, it ain’t me talking,” Garble said, one fist pressed against his chest, an old warding gesture. He hoped she couldn’t hear his voice waver. “You know the saying. Give a dragon a gem, you feed them for a day. Raid a dragon’s hoard, you feed yourself for life, with plenty left over.”
“Oh, now don’t you go spouting aphorisms,” Smolder growled, the water on her back starting to fizzle slightly. “I heard them all from Mum and Dad… The flame that burns twice as bright burns twice as hot. Greed is the mother of necessity. There are solely two tragedies in life, one is not getting what you want, the other is someone else getting it.”
She glared at him, eyes blazing from a gaze hooded by her drenched dorsal-fin, and he had to take a step back.
“That’s all fine and dandy, but it don’t do much to tell ya how to cope with a flash-flood!”
Her words cut deep into Garble, amplified by the sorry sight of her. Considering how stubborn he knew Smolder to be, the weather must have utterly swept her, for her to capitulate and come begging his help. If the rain had got to her this badly, he didn’t dare imagine how a lot of dragons must be faring at this moment.
Not that Garble cared about those dragons in trouble. He did experience a short-lived twinge of worry at the image of Clump or Fizzle, or Vex, or Fume or Spear, getting washed away in a torrential river of mud. Yet he told himself that wasn’t going happen. Like he, they were all years past the molt and would have secured caves of their own.
Again, however, Smolder wasn’t just some dragon.
“Sorry,” Garble nonetheless heard himself saying. Which wasn’t a word he pronounced often. “Really, I’m sorry, but no can do. How’d you think you’re ever gonna strike out for yourself, if I’m there to pick you up every time? You ain’t yet been doing this for a year.”
Behind the anger, he saw desperation appear in her eyes.
“I’m not asking you for anything to eat,” Smolder said, her voice croaking. “Or to let me to stay longer than one night, or anything. All I need is a fire and some shelter. No other dragon’s gonna give it to me, but you’re my bro, and you’re the softest drake I know. I figured you could at least gimme that, if it was an emergency.”
Oddly, Garble’s first thought was that if Smolder considered him the softest of drakes, what would she have made of Spike, the runt raised by ponies. At least he still had his pride, despite coming up short on each and every occasion he’d run into Spike. But thinking this led his mind in an unexpected direction. He caught his breath.
Was he trying too hard? Had the sting of repeatedly losing out to a pony-loving fool got him to double down on proving he was a proper dragon, to the point he’d jeopardise his relationship with his own sister, whom he cared for so?
Garble held his breath, yet already he foresaw the outcome. A dragon’s lungs were powerful, yet they required pure air like any creature of the land and sky, perhaps moreso, to sustain their inner fire. Once the need for air got him to open his mouth, he’d be forced to say something. And when he did, he would relent. She had him right where she wanted.
“Gar-Gar?”
Hearing Smolder use her pet name for him clinched it. She sounded genuinely concerned, likely because she wondered why he’d gone so tongue-tied, yet if her intent was to shoot a flame right through his heart, damn her, the little minx had great aim. As it was, Garble’s lungs were starting to burn, and not in the good way. And while it was probably his imagination at work, he could have sworn the lack of oxygenation also affected his brain, as his grey cells were sent frying, in a rush to think up something, anything so he might save face.
It is familiar to poets, though, that inspiration can arise under pressure, divorced from the conscious process. The correct answer occurred to Garble just as he parted his lips.
“It’s not that I don’t think you can’t handle yourself, sis…” Garble said slowly, carefully avoiding making eye contact. “You said I was soft. Well, I think you’re the toughest little dragon there is. That’s a skill you should hone, now you’re out there. Don’t need your brother’s softness rubbing off on you, if you want to make it. Sometimes, I ain’t sure how I get by.”
Those words did the trick. It did help that he was being sincere. Any lasting indignation on Smolder’s face receded.
“Ah…” Smolder began, before faltering. “Oh.”
What could she say to that? If anything, Garble’s admission of vulnerability only served to underscore his point. And yet in conjunction, there had been the acknowledgment she was capable of braving whatever the world had to throw at her. Another, different sign of his trust.
Garble witnessed his sister’s turn to struggle for words. Smolder was wrestling with herself, fairly literally, as she silently jesticulated to and fro, searching for a repartee that wouldn’t come.
Finally, Smolder turned back to him, resignation written in her features.
“Well. I… I guess I’ll be going, then. You’re right, I just gotta keep trying…”
However, right as Smolder was about to walk out, into the curtain of water that separated the cave from the flood outside, not even taking flight, Garble placed a claw upon one of her wings. Her head jolted his way, surprised.
Garble was surprised at himself, too. Until he’d seen her actually slink off, he hadn’t realised he wasn’t actually making his sister leave. But here it became clear to him. He’d relented, alright. He’d simply come up with a way to cover it.
“Wait, Smolder. I got an idea.”
Smolder blinked, yet there was hope in her eyes. “You do? What is it?”
“We’re dragons, right?” Garble said, smiling slightly. “I can’t just give ya anything, and ya oughtn’t be relying on charity. Then what say you we settle this as dragons?”
She pondered this. The hopeful spark dimmed, and she shook her head. “Nope, wouldn’t work,” Smolder sighed. “It’d… It’d feel wrong. If we gotta fight over this, it’s gotta be done properly. I won’t have you go easy on me, Garble. ‘Specially after what you said.”
“Me, go easy on you?” Garble said, a picture of innocence. “And who said nuthin’ about fighting? We’re in Winter-time, ain’t we? Fighting’s not the only way to win a pile of gems.”
That was when she understood. “Of course! The Feast of Fire,” Smolder said brightly, excitement creeping into her voice. “That’s always fun. But… I’d need to come up with a story…”
The response this elicited from Garble was a hearty chuckle.
“I wouldn’t worry there.” Gingerly, Garble took his sister by the claw. Smolder briefly raised an eyebrow at so affectionate a gesture, but she didn’t resist as he led her back inside the cave. “You’ve got me for a brother. Thinking up stuff’s what we’re good at. You used to tell some of the best stories at our folks’, even Mum and Dad said so.”
“Maybe,” Smolder said, sounding uncertain. “I… I can’t play around with words like you do.”
Garble had a reply at the ready for that. “Then don’t try,” he said, bringing Smolder to sit next to him by the flickering fire, and his modest hoard. “Do what you did when we were smaller. Storytelling ain’t done only with words, you liked to show us you got that.”
Smolder, who was still a little wet from the rain, had been busy trying to dry her fins, but she paused once she heard what he’d said. Whereupon what he’d hoped for happened.
Since confessing her hardships, Smolder had cut a different figure from what she presented upon entering his cave. Diminished, having lost some of her fire other than helpless anger. Now her face split into a grin, her characteristic grin.
Only, with a wicked edge to it, which Garble always found his sister’s most endearing feature.
“Ahh… Yes. I get it.”
He waited patiently while she pieced together what story she’d like to tell.
“Come over here, Gar-Gar,” Smolder said, after a while, patting the ground by her side. “Here’s a really good one I’ve come up with. I’m just gonna need you to play along. It’s interactive.”
“As you wish,” Garble said meekly. “It’s your turn.”
Like she’d asked, Garble went to stand closer to her. Deep in thought, Smolder peered at him, a claw stroking her chin. Apparently, she reached a conclusion, as she stood up again, just the time to head over to one of the stalagmite rows. With no effort, she broke off one of the smaller tapers, which she brought back to the waiting Garble.
“Take this,” Smolder said, pressing the taper into his claw. “You’re gonna need it.”
“Is that a prop?” Garble said curiously. “Whatcha got in mind?”
“You’ll find out,” smirked Smolder. “Let’s begin this. Once upon a time…”
* * *
“... There was this sad little dragon. Her name was Scales. She lived alone in the wilderness with nothing to eat.”
Smolder, the storyteller, sat herself down as before. Garble noticed her make an effort affecting a cowed and beaten posture, to mixed results. This was not her natural state, and although he’d spotted a glimpse of it in her earlier, now she was getting into full swing, she wasn’t going to contain her enthusiasm so easily.
He wanted to ask what he should do, but held his tongue. For the time being, he was a listener, not an active participant. He stood in wait, idly tapping the broken-off taper in one palm. Meanwhile, Smolder breathed in, and continued her story.
“But one night, as she sat alone in a storm, she heard somethin’.”
She made a show of glancing dramatically upwards, eyes gleaming in the firelight, accompanied by a huge gasp.
“It was the Dragon Lord!”
A tremor of unsimulated shock ran through Garble. He glanced down at the taper, slowly beginning to suspect what it stood for, yet before he could pursue the thought any further, Smolder had leapt and gestured for his attention.
“Scales was scared, but the Dragon Lord told her not to be afraid, that he was takin’ her to the Dragonlands for a great feast.”
Her giving him a sharp nod told Garble this was his cue. Although increasingly perplexed, he did not miss a beat, stepping towards her, standing as tall and straight as he could manage. He’d recently had plenty of opportunity to imagine how he’d bear himself as a Dragon Lord, and while this had ultimately counted as one more disappointment, he drew upon it all he could.
With the taper held aloft in one claw, Garble proferred his other claw in invitation. The parallels Smolder was drawing with their situation weren’t lost on him. Yet this was a peculiar spin she was putting on it all.
“Scales sat with the Dragon Lord's family and friends and had the biggest, best dinner of gemstones she'd ever eaten!”
Garble frowned at those last few words. He was mollified, however, when Smolder merely mimed picking gems from his hoard, along with a mimickry of stuffing the food into her mouth. Then, having finished her imaginary meal, Smolder gestured once again, motioning he should release the taper from his grasp.
Suspicion invaded Garble, yet he followed her lead.
“Then, while the dragons were tellin’ stories…”
She mimed anew, this time a little more artistically, claws raised above her head as she stepped closer to the fire and to him. Her motioning claws created a shadow-show upon the cave wall. This was something else Smolder was pretty good at, and Garble enjoyed seeing. It was one of the most creative uses the average dragon found for their spare time.
“... Scales thought it would be so easy to seize power from this feeble and sensitive Dragon Lord.”
Garble, who’d got distracted by the shadow-show, felt his ears twitch as the latest part of the narrative registered with him. His gaze darted back towards Smolder, to find her wearing her most evil smirk.
“She saw her chance… and took it!”
Instinct was what took over Garble at that instant.
Except Smolder’s reflexes proved to be ahead of his. She jumped for the taper, maybe a fraction of a second before he did. And her smaller size worked to her advantage as, nimbler than he, she easily swiped the taper from under him, moving out in time to avoid him falling upon her. Instead, Garble crashed and sprawled to the ground, empty-handed.
“She claimed the Bloodstone Sceptre and took over the Dragonlands!”
Groggily, Garble raised his head, to see Smolder waving the taper in triumph. She noticed him. Her reaction was to bring her foot down upon his snout, forcefully.
In spite of her small size, Smolder had a lot of strength. Almost casually, she rested her spare claw on her knee, applying further pressure. The effect was to grind Garble’s snout harder into the rocky floor of the cave. His eyes scrunched up, unable to even wince as her sole kept his jaws forcefully shut.
Game or no, there was no question here of the dominant dragon. Smolder leant forward, reaching out to playfully twist his ear.
“And forced the Dragon Lord to live out in the cold,” she whispered, “just as she used to.”
* * *
Her narrative concluded, Smolder lifted her foot off his snout.
“So? How’d you like it?”
She had pressed down hard. Not so hard as to cause Garble any damage, dragon scales were far too thick and resilient for that, but enough to leave him smarting. Once he was sure she wasn’t toying with him, that the story really was done, he dared lift himself up. He had to rub his snout before he could answer.
“It’s a good story, Smolder,” Garble mused, “but aren’t you being a bit fanciful? Ain’t no way a Dragon Lord gets to be Dragon Lord by being this soft-hearted.”
“Well, that’s why it’s a tall tale,” Smolder admitted. “Even so, I figured you’d enjoy it.”
“Heh. Yeah…” said Garble. “Kinda wish I could do that to our new Dragon Lord, to tell ya true…”
His sister gave him a look.
“Still sulky over losing the Gauntlet, are we?” Smolder quipped, albeit not without sympathy. “I wouldn’t count on it, Gar-Gar. Princess Ember may’ve gone soft on the ponies, and she may be real small, yet she’s no fool.”
“A lot like you, actually,” Garble said, his mouth running ahead of him. “Being no fool, I mean,” he hastily amended, when Smolder stared at him blankly. “And… small. Makes me think, you coulda been Dragon Lord… If, if it weren’t gonna be me. I wouldn’t have minded too much.”
“Aw.” Plainly, Smolder hadn’t expected him saying this. “You’re sweet, you know that?”
Nature was owed a debt of gratitude it had made Garble’s scales crimson, since he felt glad she couldn’t see him blush.
“Just telling it like it is,” Garble mumbled, rubbing his snout one more time. “You got the gumption for the job, that’s for sure.”
“Don’t flatter me,” said Smolder, but she was beaming. “Right, so, that was my story. Now you tell us yours.”
He was ready to go for the challenge. Garble cracked his knuckles, to show he meant business.
Yet then, as his mind started to formulate a tale which could match or tops hers, Garble’s gaze fell upon the darkened corner at the end of his cave. And again on that evening, an unexpected inspiration guided his next course of action.
By sheer effort of will, Garble suppressed the smirk that threatened to show.
“Know what…” Garble said, letting his fists fall to his sides. “I’m not even gonna try. You can stay the night, and have some gems to eat. You beat me, fair and square.”
Initially looking taken aback, Smolder rolled her eyes.
“Seriously? You’re not botherin’ to pretend any more? My gosh, Garble, you are soft.”
She truly had no clue what lay in store for her. “Guilty as charged, lil’ sis,” Garble said blithely. “You’re so good at seein’ right through me.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Smolder stretched her shoulders out in a yawn. A few of the last remaining droplets trickled off her scales. “Smoked rock,” she said, shaking herself, “it’s gonna feel so nice, getting to be warm and dry…”
But she’d unwittingly provided Garble the very opportunity he needed.
While stronger than her minimal stature might indicate, Smolder was still small, and Garble still her brother, aware of her weak spots. By stretching herself out, she’d left her claws unavailable for defense, opening herself up to a sneak attack. This was almost too easy, after how she’d got the best of him during their storytelling contest.
All he did was creep up from behind and seize her below the shoulders, with one swift motion of both his arms that clipped her wings to her back.
“What– hey!” yelped the little dragon. “What are you playing at, huh?”
Garble spoke slyly. “I said you could stay the night. And eat a few gems. You won the right to ‘em. ‘Cept this is still my cave, Smolder. If you wanna stay and eat, there’s gonna be a few house rules. And first of all is…”
He didn’t bother to finish the sentence, hauling Smolder off to the end of the cave.
“What house rules!?” Smolder repeated in a screeching voice. “You just made that up! You never made me follow no house rules–”
“I do now,” Garble told her. “Those wings officially make you a grownup.”
His specific mention of her wings, it seemed, twigged her to what his game was. As did the fact they were reaching the row of stalagmites, and the soap-filled wash-tub was coming into view.
Smolder’s eyes widened in horror. She struggled and kicked in his grasp, yet Garble held firm, pragmatically using his teeth to remove the beatnik attire currently soaking in the wash-tub.
“No, not that, not that! How can you do this to me!”
“Hey, you had your molt not so long ago…” Garble said with a devious sneer, after he’d spat out the damp garments. “I’m just taking the necessary precautions here, is all.”
Ignoring his dear sister’s shrieks, Garble gleefully dunked her into the watery tub, creating a mighty splash. He cared not at all that the wave caught him as well, or that he would need to keep his arms underwater to see this through.
His only regret was he didn’t have a brush, but he’d make do, mussing up her fins himself.
* * *
A little while later, Garble and Smolder, both of whom had one way or the other got drenched over the course of his prank, were once more sitting at the campfire in the middle of the cave, now letting themselves get warm and dry in earnest.
Silence had prevailed during that time, punctuated by a couple of coughs. Draconic pride being what it was, each couldn’t help waiting until the other blinked first.
“You didn’t have to do that,” Smolder said at last, glaring a little bit. “That was mean.”
“Pish, look who’s talking,” Garble scoffed. “Besides, I ain’t the only dragon here hiding a secret.”
“What’s that?” Smolder muttered, almost to herself. She knew well what he meant.
“That princess stuff you like,” Garble said calmly. “Can’t say I get it, but who am I to talk? One thing I can tell you, though. If you wanna be like those princesses, you gotta do certain things their way. Even if it gets a bit namby-pamby.”
“Point.”
Garble’s bongos lay in the corner, untouched. He doubted he was getting anything done with them the rest of the evening. That didn’t matter, either. The company he was keeping tonight was more than enough. Come tomorrow, he should be brimming with new ideas.
Nevertheless, so that he still could claim he’d done something creative for the day, Garble gently blew a trail of fire into the burning kindling. With the jet blown to careful precision, flames rose in a number of shapes. A kite, a club, a swirl. His sister gazed at the display with admiration.
Thoughtful, Smolder stroked her cheek. “Gar-Gar? D’you ever wonder if… Well, if ponies know how to have fun like we dragons do?”
The only decent response, Garble decided, was a shrug.
“Don’t know. Haven’t really thought about it. Don’t really care, either.”
“Yeah, guess that figures,” said Smolder. “Just, like, I ask myself, sometimes, if it’d be… If it wouldn’t be nice, being able to do this all the time.”
“What, this?” Garble gazed at her and around, at the cave dimly lit by the low-burning fire, at the entrance beyond which rain continued to fall. “You’re kidding me, right? I was bored to death, before you arrived.”
“I know,” Smolder nodded. “But I’m here now, aren’t I? And we ain’t playing rough, either. Just… taking time, in the moment, together. Maybe that’s what makes the difference.”
“Gee, Smolder,” Garble told her. “When I said get namby-pamby, I didn’t mean so hard.”
“Never mind,” Smolder said, taking her turn to shrug. “It was just a thought.”
They didn’t understand it then, but this thought would come again, on rainy days, on sunny days.
Author's Note
With thanks to Hope Caster for letting me borrow the name "Garbuncle Ironscale" from Our Little Brother, Spike.
