The Rejected

By Jen Booth

Every spring, the past called Cheroth back to a land that did not want her, compelling her against reason or need. She swept low over the tree line and into full view of the village, beating her wings in the slow rhythm of one trying to suppress hope. A woman caught her shadow and looked up.

Cheroth grinned. The woman screamed and dropped her basket as humans scurried in all directions. Predictable.

She could hear Hanovir laugh at her, somewhere in the shredded fabric of her memories.

“Your teeth are daggers, Cheroth,” he’d said. “Folk may mistake your joy for hunger.”

For a moment, Hanovir rode atop her golden back again, their combined wielding scorching the air, power flowing through them as one. They’d saved this land, but human recollection, like their lifetimes, lasted just a breath.

She banked and made another circle above the town. Maybe some fun would ease the centuries-old ache. Several men, armed with pitchforks, ran toward the village square, mimicking a courage their kind no longer possessed.

With an even wider grin, Cheroth tucked her wings and dove, much to the town elder’s loud protests. She pulled up just before crashing into the watchtower.

Oops!

Cheroth sailed over a sprawling meadow, freshly clothed in green blades.

Frail, humorless humans. Don’t you know the blood of both our kin feeds your fields? Is there anyone who can still hear my voice, or have your gifts disappeared with your fortitude?

Not even the wind answered her soul’s cries. Alone. Still alone. Cheroth roared into the void as she hunted for a place to land. To mourn.

I’m here.

Cheroth hesitated in flight as her spirit lifted. She knew that mind-voice. She searched the flowering land below, where new sprouts peeked their heads from sun-warmed mud. A small, round woman sat in the middle of the blooms.

Hello, Cherry.

Cheroth circled in a slow arc before landing, delighting in the way the spring grasses bowed beneath her power.

Hello, Lia.

Lia bent over a pile of purple in her lap, weaving clover into a necklace. No, it was too big to be a necklace. Cheroth watched her clumsy fingers thread the stems in and out. What was she making?

Lia glanced at her. It’s a crown.

She squeezed her too-close eyes shut for what seemed a long time, then opened them and beamed. “Appleberry Cherry.” Her physical speech slurred, as if something held back her tongue.

Cheroth felt a stab of pity. Poor girl, born with madness no healer could cure, cursed to remain a child forever. She must be in her third decade now.

You know you’re the only human not terrified of me?

Lia giggled. That’s because you’re not scary, Appleberry Cherry.

Where have you been staying? I’ve not seen you in a year.

In the dew bat caves.

Cheroth stared. No human could long survive what lurked in those caves.

Why don’t you stay in the village? Work for someone, rent a room?

“Can’t.” Lia brought a clover to her nose and inhaled with all her might before doubling over in a fit of sneezing. They’re scared of me, too.

Of course, they were. Cheroth’s huge throat tightened with indignant heat, making her cough—a sound most humans would flee from.

What do you eat?

Berries, Appleberry Cherry!

You do know my full name is Cherothbercondrial, right?

Lia shrugged. What was it like when people rode dragons?

Cheroth did not want to answer. Time had not softened the memories.

It was long ago.

You were long ago. Lia laughed outright.

Cheroth chuckled, a rumble in her chest. I carried many Gifted humans through the skies. We were friends with men. But one day, Darkmen came on corrupted dragons, to this very place, where a vast city once stood. They sought to capture what we most wanted to protect.

What?

Cheroth swallowed another wave of grief.

The Gifted. Their power flowed from creation itself, a source the Darkmen could not access.

Lia’s mouth gaped. What happened?

Nightmares happened. A roar echoed through her memory, their battle cry as they faced the armies of the air in a clash so great, it leveled the city to dust.

Cheroth sighed. We won.

But not before the Darkmen recognized Hanovir’s immense power and brought them down. She’d searched for Hanovir for months, until she felt his death in her spirit.

You’re a good dragon. Lia smiled.

Cheroth lowered her jaw to the ground, heart filling with unabated affection.

Perfect. Now I can crown you.

With unsteady steps, Lia dragged the massive clover chain across the grass. Before Cheroth could react, the woman’s bare feet slid across the scales of her neck. Lia pulled and tugged, muttering to herself as she arranged the flower crown across Cheroth’s forehead and horns.

Thank you. It’s beautiful.

I know.

Cheroth laughed, vibrating the wet earth, then drew a breath with a different kind of ache. How could a Gifted possess any degree of madness? Lia’s gifting only encompassed mind-speech, yet gifting all the same. Perhaps she wasn’t truly mad. Even if she was, human madness meant little to a dragon.

Now she neared mid-age, and Cheroth would live five more of her lifetimes. She felt Lia plop down on her shoulders, her spindly legs stretching across either side of her neck. Maybe she could tend to Lia since no one else would. What a pair they’d be—an unwanted dragon and mad Gifted woman.

Lia, would you like to fly?

The squeal and little bounce against her scales was all the answer she needed. Mindful of her new passenger, Cheroth beat her wings and soared over the trees again, straight toward the village. Her clover crown bobbed in the wind, and the springtime tug on her soul released its grip.

As the brave men cowered, Cheroth swooped low and roared, and Lia waved.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Jen Booth is an author, wife and mother who lives among the rolling hills and lazy bayous of north Louisiana. She believes that through stories, we find hope and courage—and maybe a glimpse of who we are meant to be. When not writing or homeschooling her children, Jen can be found outdoors, usually with her family, and often dreaming of dragons.

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