"…Alfred?"

"Yes, Haplo?" His friend didn't say the words. He whispered them.

"Are you all right? You look ready to cry."

Which prompted a dialogue of despair on how, in the name of the Sundering, were his people unable to tell the difference between a flight-rune and a food-rune; and he didn't have time to answer fifty thousand questions per session, that was why there would be other lessons; and he flatly refused to talk about what he'd done to Hugh; and how many demonstrations of his dragon form did they really need to see—couldn't they see how uncomfortable he was when they kept bullying him into shape-shifting again and again and again?

"The lesson was a disaster, I take it," Haplo observed. And not just the lesson. Alfred had taught bad lessons before, but they'd never affected him like this.

Alfred moaned, flung himself into a chair. "Why did I agree to this, Haplo? And why in all the worlds did I decide to hold a question-and-answer session today?"

"I think you just like to martyr yourself." Haplo leaned against the wall, head cocked to the side.

"That must be it," Alfred grumbled.

Haplo raised an eyebrow, opened his mouth. Alfred cut him off by exclaiming, "Did I mention that one of them tried to steal some of my scales?"

"No."

"They tried to steal my scales!" he cried, flinging his arms up into the air. "How in all the worlds would ripping off part of my body help them learn magic?"

Haplo shrugged.

"I hate this," Alfred continued. "Perhaps I should just quit-"

Haplo's eyebrow climbed farther into his hairline. "Really?"

The Sartan flushed. "Perhaps it would be better. You and Marit are much better suited for this," he said softly, no longer pretending that the lesson was the source of his unhappiness. He didn't name the real source out loud, though. Haplo knew.

"Give them time, Coren." Haplo wished he could say something else, something less like a platitude, but advice became platitudes when it worked.

Alfred allowed himself to sulk for a minute more before forcing his sorrow aside. "Yes, I suppose I've learned my lesson. No more question-and-answer lessons." He nodded firmly.

Haplo laughed, a rich, warm sound that made Alfred smile despite his lingering unhappiness. "So what will you teach them next time? Your students, obviously, not the children."

"Flight, I think," the Sartan replied. "There are a couple of theoretical concepts that flying could help me explain, and it's quite practical." He had learned the hard way not to give purely theoretical lessons. He had tried to do so once and had been rewarded by a series of blank stares.

"You ever going to teach them battle magic?"

Alfred winced as spells flooded his mind. He'd invented several of those incantations himself during their Run into the Labyrinth. "Perhaps," he sighed. "It is something that we have to learn now. But not for a while. I don't have any memories of my own lessons to draw on with regards to battle magic."

"Wait." Haplo frowned at him. "You never had any lessons about battle?"

"Of course not." Alfred seemed surprised by the very thought. "Why would I have needed to learn anything like that?"

Haplo stared at him, wondered if he should point out the obvious fact that Alfred was pretty dang good for someone who'd never had any formal training in that particular branch of magic. He decided not to mention anything—this really wasn't that much of a surprise. Or at least it shouldn't be. Alfred had never had necromancy lessons either.

"But these ones do," the Sartan considered, voice saturated with sorrow. "We are in danger here—not imminent, but still present. If the dragon-snakes attack, or if the rebels among your people or mine invade, they will need to know how to defend themselves." He sighed, the air rattling in his chest, in his throat.

Haplo chuckled softly. "Or they could just let you at them."

Alfred turned a truly remarkable shade of red.

The only child in the room, a ten-year-old boy named Tset, snorted. He had been passing through on his way to the outside world, pointedly ignoring Alfred until Haplo had made such an absurd comment.

"He's driven off an army before," Haplo pointed out. His words conjured up fantastic pictures of a beach, of a fallen mountain, of red eyes staring balefully at the green and golden dragon hovering before them.

Tset hesitated. On the one hand, he'd always loved stories, and this sounded like a good one. On the other, it was a story about a Sartan. Stories he loved, but not Sartan.

"And that was after-"

Alfred erupted into a suspiciously convenient coughing fit that cut off Haplo's next words. The Patryn rolled his eyes. "All right," he drawled, "I won't tell the story of how you singlehandedly drove off Samah himself."

"What?" squawked the boy.

"Saved my life, too," Haplo added blandly, ignoring Alfred's warning glare.

"Haplo-"

Tset took a step towards them, stopped, took another step. Not looking at Alfred, he mumbled, "How did that happen?"

"Alfred could tell it better than I could," Haplo said. Alfred shook his crimson head. No, he could not tell stories better than Haplo. Especially not this story.

"No he couldn't. And I want you to tell me, Haplo. Not him."

…Patryn children were a brutally honest lot.

"And I want him to tell you, Tset. Not me." Haplo had been a Patryn child at one point. He still remembered how to play their games.

"Haplo, that's really not-" The Patryn laid a hand on the Sartan's shoulder.

Tset bit his lip. He looked from Alfred to Haplo and back again. Finally, grudgingly, he ordered, "Tell me."

"Tell you?"

"Yeah." He nodded, a sharp, jerky motion. "How in the worlds did you end up fighting Samah?"

"Well…." Alfred tilted his head aside. He looked back at Haplo, who was smiling quietly. Gaining confidence, the Sartan continued, "It was when we were on the World of Water, Chelestra…."

Haplo slipped away halfway through the story, once Tset's guard fell and he half-forgot that the man telling him this tale was a Sartan. The Patryn man walked out the door, into the yard, which Marit and most of the other children were turning into a garden. His wife saw his good mood, raised an eyebrow in question. Haplo just smiled, shook his head. I'll tell you later, he mouthed. Then, aloud, "Need help?"

"Where should we put the cherry tree?"

They were planting their garden the old-fashioned way, without magic. It was good, hard, honest work. Haplo enjoyed it: the camaraderie, the dirt staining his hands, the children's smiles, the scent of rich warm earth. The soil of the Nexus was dark and moist, almost black, perfect for the mass production of food. His people didn't need to grow crops in large quantities—they had replication spells for things like that—but it wasn't right to rely on magic for everything. Besides, the children seemed to enjoy marking this land as their own. And, if he was completely honest, so did he.

Alfred and Tset trotted out of the house. Together. The Patryn boy stiffened a bit at the sight of his fellow children, hesitated. Alfred paused. He didn't want to get in the way of previously formed bonds. Then, with a tiny half-shrug, Tset continued into the garden. Alfred remained behind, but not for long. "Aren't you coming?" Tset called irritably.

"Okay." Conscious of the other children's eyes on him, the Sartan stepped outside. He took in the layout of the garden, saw no empty spaces here. "Does anyone mind if I plant some fruit trees native to Arianus in the backyard?"

"Yes," snapped Lotto, the most hostile of all the boys. "They're probably poisonous." A couple other children (though not, the adults were pleased to see, Tset) nodded vigorously.

"Oh. All right then." Alfred struggled to hold back his crestfallen expression.

Haplo's heart went out to him. His poor friend was trying so hard, but…. He remembered his own reaction to learning that the weirdo called Alfred was a Sartan, remembered his hatred and disgust. It had taken them (well, okay, mostly him. Alfred had trouble hating anybody and had come around almost immediately after their first shared trip through Death's Gate) a long, long time and many near-death experiences to start liking each other. It was different for the children. Alfred had helped save their lives, yes, but he'd had help of his own, and he was a Sartan. He was probably just luring them into a false sense of security. Then he'd throw them back into the Labyrinth or do something equally horrible. And even if he didn't do anything in the future, his people's past crimes were more than enough to condemn him.

"Alfred. Plant the trees."

"Are you certain, Haplo?"

"Plant them. Want help?"

"No thank you." A soft, sad smile. "Stay with the children."

"They seem fine to me," Marit observed. There was a tiny frown on her face, a hint of shame in her bearing. She remembered her own initial reaction to the powerful Sartan who had saved her life by putting his foot in Death's Gate. "Think you can handle yourselves in the front yard when we're in the back, kids?"

Nods all around. Only Lotto had something to say. "But will you two be all right out back with the Sartan?"

Haplo shot a glare at the boy. Lotto fell sullenly silent—but he came with them into the backyard, hand twitching towards his dagger.

The Sartan straightened out, his gangly body becoming graceful and elegant. For a moment, he stood there with his arms upraised. Then softly, sadly, he began to sing.

A chill broke out over Haplo's skin. His runes flickered in response to the magic. The song—the dirge, a lament mourning the hatred of those who should have loved—seeped inside him, into his heart, made his eyes water. Something inside him twisted into a knot.

Alfred's hands traced the runes in the air, made glowing blue lines that shaped into pure magic. His song rose, touched the possibilities, shaped them into realities. The possibilities shivered into being.

Plants that had never before lived in the Nexus's soil sprouted, grew, flourished. Mostly trees, but with vegetable crops hidden in their roots, with vines creeping along the ground. Haplo recognized a few of the plants, but most were unfamiliar to him. It rained fairly often in the Labyrinth, creating mud and misery, but Arianus was an enormous desert. Of course they ate different things there, grew different crops.

The Sartan relaxed. Some of the sorrow had lifted from his face. Magic always did that to him. He'd tried to explain it to Haplo and Marit, tried to make them understand the bliss of song in his blood, but though they too tried, neither really could understand. It was the kind of thing one had to experience to comprehend, and they had never experienced the connection between a serpent mage and his magic.

Haplo thought of another garden the Sartan had created, a secret hargast grove that only he and Alfred himself knew about. He wouldn't be surprised if Alfred went there today, went to confide in the trees. He didn't like to 'bother' his friends with his problems, but had no qualms about talking to plants.

Sure enough, Alfred slipped away while the children were going through his part of the garden, seeing how many of the plants were native to the Labyrinth as well (not many) and how many were unfamiliar and therefore potentially dangerous. Haplo sighed. Really, when would they learn that Alfred had no intention of poisoning them? Though if the Sartan had served him food back on Abarrach, he probably would have done the same. The thought depressed him.

They went inside after that, spent the rest of the afternoon telling stories and describing what the rest of the Nexus was like. Alfred slipped in just before supper, entering a room full of staring eyes. He settled himself in the corner, let the children grow accustomed to his quiet presence. Eventually they stopped glancing at him, though, Haplo reflected miserably, probably because they had remembered their warning runes.

Later that night, once the children were ready to go to sleep, Alfred finally managed to approach Haplo. "Would you mind attending my lesson tomorrow?"

"What for?" Marit asked from the other side of the room.

"The drakes requested his presence at tomorrow's class," he explained.

"Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, actually. They disappeared before I could ask."

Haplo shrugged back. It wasn't like the drakes would have Alfred hurt him—nor would Alfred hurt him even if asked. Had he been in a more contemplative mood, he might have thought about how strange it was that he trusted the older man so much, how strange it was that he didn't even think about his assumption of safety. He might have imagined his younger self's reaction to the trust between them, a Patryn and a Sartan man, and smiled in quiet amusement. But he was focused on other things, like why the drakes wanted him to attend Alfred's lesson. He could think of many reasons they would want him there but didn't know which one was accurate.

"Well, I suppose we'll find out tomorrow."

"I suppose we will."

Haplo yawned after that, his jaw cracking. "Off to bed with you," Alfred ordered, as fussy as a mother hen. Haplo rolled his eyes, much to Marit's amusement, made a few good-natured protests as he, his soul mate, and the Sartan went into their respective rooms.

Alfred watched his friends close the door before slipping into his own chamber. He had been tired earlier, but no longer. His heart thudded with anticipation, sending adrenaline and excitement through his veins.

He really shouldn't do this. He should sleep. The books would be there tomorrow—but they were there right now, and they were the original copies!

No, no. He had a busy day coming up tomorrow. He needed to sleep. So what if Constin's journals—the original copies!—were lying just a few feet away from him, tempting him with their very presence? The original—come to think of it, why had Headman Vasu sent him the original copies instead of a set of duplicates? But, he admitted to himself, he didn't particularly care why, just that the original copies of the journals of the only other serpent mage in recorded history were right there, just an arm's length away from him, filled with amazing magical theory and—

Oh, hell with it. Surely it wouldn't take that long to read just the first book, right? He'd always been a fast reader.

Alfred deposited himself into his desk chair, reverently opened the first of the books. It was old, obviously—nine hundred years old—but in pristine condition. He didn't know if that was because of Constin's magic, someone else's magic, or an excellent preserver, but that didn't matter. The book might as well be just a few days old, the ink still wet.

This being the record of Constin Mezzai of Abri, Serpent Mage, book the first….

What followed was an absolutely fascinating discourse on the spells he'd used to ward Abri's walls and the incantations he had utilized to make the Labyrinth supply power for those wards. Alfred, reading through it, was shocked at how similar the theoretical concepts behind Sartan and Patryn magic were. The similarities were just as intriguing as the spells themselves—and yet he couldn't help but be a little disappointed. The theory, the magic, was incredible, and if anyone else had written it, he would have entered paroxysms of joy, but…. He could learn about theory anytime, from anyone. He wanted to learn not just about Constin's magic, but about the man himself. What was he like? Vasu had called him arrogant, but Alfred knew nothing else about his personality. How did he handle the demands of his station? How would he have handled the problems facing the Nexus today? What other lessons did he have to teach that weren't explicitly written down?

Fortunately, the exposition on Abri's walls didn't take up the entirety of the book. In the last few pages, Alfred found the following passage:

Headwoman Isin believes that I am a fool for not cutting a path of blood through the Labyrinth, for not bringing all our people to the safety of the Nexus. Perhaps she's right. Perhaps I am a fool—or perhaps she is wrong, and I am not a fool, and the Labyrinth would kill every other Patryn within its power if I led an exodus from Abri. Well, not every other Patryn. It is a cunning enemy, a good planner. It would know better than to kill off all its playthings, for what would it torment then? But if it massacred a thousand of my people, two thousand, three, then that is too great a cost. No. Better to protect those I can as best I can, and to silence the niggling doubts that assail me.

Alfred's gut twisted. A massacre… had that happened? Had the Labyrinth really killed dozens, hundreds, thousands of Patryns in retaliation for the Battle of Abri? Alfred had the nasty feeling that it had.

But what could he have done? Sit aside, let the dragon-snakes and their brethren conquer the fortress of rock, let these people die to save others? No, he could not have done that—and he was right to not do such a thing, right to protect those he could.

Ah, those doubts…. I would speak more of them, but I have no desire to infect others with my inner weakness. Just know this, my readers, my people: I have no intention of letting those doubts unman me. I will not be paralyzed by fear. Inner weakness will not become outer. Serpents are tenacious, versatile creatures—can they not climb trees, renew themselves time and time again, slither through the earth, even bite and poison their foes after dying? No wonder, then, that their name is given to one with the power—and, I swear to you all!—the intention to protect the Patryn race.

Alfred swallowed hard, touched the words of his predecessor. I have no intention of letting those doubts unman me. I will not be paralyzed by fear….

The Sartan shivered. It was as though Constin were speaking directly to him, his words echoing through the centuries. You're the Serpent Mage, aren't you? Then start acting like one!

A tiny smile graced the Sartan's face. "I wish I'd met you," he sighed.

Perhaps, if he was lucky, he would see the other mage in his dreams that night. It wouldn't be Constin Mezzai of Abri, not truly, but the dream-man would nonetheless be a comfort to him.

But Constin did not appear to him when he finally fell asleep. He didn't dream at all; he was too exhausted after staying up too long reading Constin's first journal. But that wasn't a bad thing. Dreamless sleep was the deepest, and he awoke fully refreshed for the day's lesson.

The children were a bit politer to him, especially Tset, though Lotto still barely deigned to remain in the same room as an ancestral enemy. Alfred tried to ignore his melancholy over the latter's snub, to focus on Tset's relative friendliness, but failed miserably. By the time he and Haplo went off for his lesson, he had more than half-convinced himself that the children would always hate him. And no wonder! He was a Sartan, an enemy, and a powerful one, too.

"They'll come around," Haplo tried to assure him, patting his friend's shoulder. "They didn't check for poison in their food this morning."

"Because they saw me eating it."

Haplo hadn't realized that. He winced, remembered what they'd done to Alfred's plants yesterday. He probably didn't need to know about that. "Ah. But the point remains, my friend. They'll come around."

"I hope so." A pause. "Ah. Here we are."

Sure enough, a single drake was waiting for them at the gate of the city. It wore its natural form, a behemoth of shining teal scales, the color broken only by black pupils and ivory teeth that flashed as it smiled. "Hello Haplo, Master Montbank."

They exchanged pleasantries as the drake, now in the form of a human man, led them out into the forest. "We'll need some space for this," it announced.

Alfred looked very suspicious.

"What're we doing?" Haplo asked. He wasn't half as suspicious as his friend, but it would be pretty nice to know.

"I'll tell you once we're there."

Alfred frowned. "Why not now?" he asked, a hint of warning in his tone.

"It's rather like what you did two days ago, but with Haplo as well."

Alfred's eyes went wide. "Isn't that a bit dangerous?" He'd nearly been struck with lightning once. Haplo might be protected by his runes, but there was no way he would let his dearest friend risk hurting himself.

"We won't risk your friend, Master Montbank," the drake vowed. "You're lucky—this is a much simpler exercise than the one you started out with. All you will have to do is to transform yourself and Haplo into whatever animal I become."

The Sartan stopped dead in his tracks. "You want me to use magic on Haplo?" His tone implied that this was just as heinous as eating babies or throwing puppies off of cliffs.

"It's not anything dangerous," the dragon assured him.

"But still." Alfred's eyes narrowed. For a moment, it didn't seem at all that unlikely that this mild, gentle man could transform himself into the most magnificent and deadly dragon in the seven worlds. "Is there some reason that you didn't tell me that I was expected to perform spells on my friend?" His hackles raised, eyes narrowed. There was a hint of draconic growl in his voice, in his warning. The dragons of Arianus were famously protective, and the man who could take their shape shared that particular characteristic.

The drake had not expected such a reaction from Alfred of all people. "I'm not asking you to transform him into a slug, Master Montbank. I promise to stick with dignified animals."

Alfred considered, glanced over at Haplo. The Patryn shrugged. He was a bit curious about what it felt like to be a dragon, a leopard, or any of the other beasts his friend had been enthusing about for the past two days. "I assume that the point of this exercise is to make him more comfortable with casting spells on others?"

"I am," the Sartan huffed. "You saw me in the Labyrinth, Haplo." His words conjured images of chaodyns, snogs, even a Labyrinth dragon. "I cast spells on them."

"Yes," the drake acknowledged, "you cast spells on other living creatures, on your enemies. But there is more to magic than death."

"I know this." Alfred didn't understand.

"Is there any reason that you should not cast spells on a friend?"

"Remember what you said about breaking down barriers?" Haplo murmured.

Alfred chewed his lip, still hesitant.

"We're here," the drake-turned-human announced. "Let the lesson begin." Its form rippled, shrank. Feathers sprouted from its form. The nose and mouth pushed together, pushed out, became a beak. Moments after the transformation began, a hawk stood in its place.

Alfred put his foot down. "I'd rather not do this to Haplo."

"Perhaps one of the children instead, then?" the hawk suggested. Its beak didn't move; it projected its sarcastic words directly into their minds.

"No!"

"Then why not Haplo?"

"I don't mind," the Patryn assured him.

Alfred was still torn. "You're absolutely…."

Haplo nodded. "Positive."

"All right." The Sartan still seemed doubtful, but he was at least willing to play along. "But you'll let me know if you change your mind, right?"

"Of course." He smiled slightly, nodded.

"If you insist." He backed up, face still filled with concern, and began to sing. His song was just as hesitant as his earlier worlds, his dance less enthusiastic than usual.

The experience of becoming a hawk was strange. One second he was himself, a tall, strong man all covered in blue runes. Then he was a hawk. The world became big and bright. His senses expanded, his sight and hearing sharper than ever before, his sense of smell a bit less powerful. It was harder to balance—his feet had become talons, which were not as easy to stand on as what he was used to. His arms snapped out in an attempt to regain his balance, but they weren't arms—they were wings. He fluttered, hopping back and forth. Then hands grabbed him round the chest, steadied him. "Are you all right?" asked Alfred, alarmed.

Haplo extended his talons, his wings. Alfred's warm hands kept him from falling. "You're all right?"

The Patryn-turned-hawk jerked his head in a single nod. It was strange to see his friend like this. Alfred had always been taller than him (though the Sartan's slouched posture minimized the height difference between them), but now Haplo was just a foot or so high. Alfred was easily six times his height, his hands big enough to crush the bird.

"Can I let you go now?"

Haplo nodded again. Alfred scooted back a few feet, watched nervously in case his friend fell. The hawk remained on his feet. He cawed impatiently.

Alfred smiled. "Of course. I'm coming." His song this time was rather more enthusiastic, though still not as much as he usually was. Moments later, another hawk (a different, slightly larger breed than Haplo had become) stood in his place. Miraculously, the second bird didn't fall; his balance was impeccable. "You're certain you still want to do this?"

Haplo didn't bother asking how they could understand each other. They might not be the same species, but they were close enough to communicate. "Of course. But how did you manage not to fall over?"

The hawk's eyes glittered with laughter. "I don't know. It just happens."

"Incredible," Haplo muttered. "You can't walk straight in your birth form, but you can hop around on these feet just fine." He tried to lift one of his own scrawny bird legs, nearly fell over, therefore proving how unusual Alfred's feat was. "And how the devil did you learn how to fly in your dragon form so quickly?"

"Necessity," the larger bird replied, ducking his head. Had he been in his Sartan body, his cheeks would have been burning. "I've always been best at learning under pressure."

The original hawk, the one with unnatural blue-green eyes instead of the more normal gold, cleared its throat. The other shape-shifters started (Haplo was pleased to note that his feet didn't fail him again), embarrassed.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?" teased the drake.

"I suppose not," Alfred admitted grudgingly. "But I maintain that you could have given me a warning—not to mention a warning for Haplo."

"A warning for me?" the Patryn asked.

"So you could choose beforehand," Alfred explained.

Haplo rolled his eyes.

The creature shape-shifted again, feathers melting into scales. Now a lizard stood in its place. "I won't ask you to take Haplo for flying lessons," it teased. "At least not yet."

The older hawk looked long and hard at his friend. Haplo stood there, feathers involuntarily fluffing in and out. "Did you want to become a lizard too, Haplo?"

"Are you going to ask me every time you're supposed to change my shape?" the Patryn-turned-bird asked. Alfred opened his beak, but Haplo cut him off. "Don't say anything. Alfred, you don't have to do that."

"But you will let me know if you change your mind?"

Haplo rolled his eyes again. "Yes, my friend. I'll let you know. Now turn me into a lizard already."

Moments later, he had shrunk down even further. His senses had diminished, but his vision had widened. It was easy to make out things on the periphery, harder to perceive depth. His balance was better, though, as long as he remained on four feet. He doubted that he could stay upright if he tried to stand on two legs.

"This like your dragon form?" he asked the other reptile.

"Not particularly," Alfred admitted. "My dragon form is a bit more… um…." His tail twitched.

"Impressive?"

"That too. I was thinking more like enjoyable. It is my favorite so far."

"We'll save that for last, then, shan't we?" suggested the drake, morphing into a cougar.

This lesson was more relaxed than his last one. He and Haplo had enough time for a minute or so of conversation between each shift. They became tigers, gazelles, hounds, everything but pigs and aquatic animals (or so it seemed).

Finally, when Alfred (now a quetzal) had begun to pant a bit with exertion, the drake shifted into its natural form. It towered over the Sartan- and Patryn-turned-birds, scales glittering, eyes just as bright. "Time for your favorite, Master Montbank," it said.

The slightly larger quetzal turned to the slightly smaller. "Which breed?" he asked.

"Breed?" asked the other bird, amused.

"Of course." The older quetzal bobbed his head. "There's quicksilver, warmonger, p-"

"Alfred."

The quetzal tried to grin sheepishly. Not having lips, he failed in that particular endeavor, but something in his eyes implied embarrassment. "Shall I just make it up, then?"

"Please."

"All right."

Haplo grew, his body and limbs straightening out. His senses sharpened again: wolf's nose, hawk's eyes, bat's ears. Fire burned in his belly, flame and power and magic. He was big and powerful, sleek and strong, and he could see why this was Alfred's favorite form.

An elegant green head snaked toward him. "What do you think, Haplo?"

Haplo's tail flicked. His wings opened, he turned his head toward them. They were a deep ochre color with hints of bronze and amber. His body was covered in scales of the same general hues. They glinted in the sunlight, made him a living statue of copper and brass and gold. "I like it," he said, thrilling at the strength in his new body. He smiled, feeling his lips glide over fangs.

"Good." The green and golden dragon nodded firmly. His wings were folded close to his sides, but his crests relaxed at Haplo's answer. He'd been worried about that, it seemed. "Would you like to learn how to fly?"

Haplo experimentally extended his wings. He could feel their power, their flexibility. "All right. Teach me, Coren."

The green dragon beamed at him, shining more brightly than before. "Of course, my friend." His crests flicked back against his skull. His wings spread, bright sheets of gold. "But first we need to find a plain. It will be easier for you to get into the air if you can get a running start."

And so Haplo found himself following his closest friend and a drake through the forest until they found a clearing that Alfred deemed large enough. As he walked, he reflected on how anyone in the Labyrinth (or even many people who had escaped it) would react to the thought of following a dragon anywhere. In Abri, he decided, they would have thrown him into a time well until his sickness was gone. In the rest of the Labyrinth, they would have gotten as far away from him as possible, preferably before his insanity infected them. But here in the Nexus, it was perfectly fine for him to follow the green and teal dragons. He could trust them. All in all, it was quite an improvement.

Much to his surprise, flying was fairly easy. His new body came complete with instincts and reflexes, and Alfred was a good teacher when he felt like it (and when he didn't invite a large group of diverse students to engage him in a question-and-answer free-for-all). Soon he was swooping up and down in the air, carried by invisible currents of heat and cold, his blood filled with heady joy. No wonder Alfred liked this form so much—it was wonderful.

"Enjoying yourself?" the green dragon teased before dropping into a steep dive. Haplo folded his wings, followed. Wind whistled in his ears, across his scales. It drew back the corners of his mouth, made him grin. Though of course the wind wasn't the only reason for his smile. Oh, he did enjoy this. It even made up for being turned into a goldfinch.

The other dragon tilted slightly before flaring his wings out with a sharp snapping noise. Haplo dove a few more feet before opening his own wings. Pain spiked in his shoulders. His muscles faltered, strained. He managed to pull himself up, to keep himself off the ground, but only barely.

"Haplo?" Alfred circled above him. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," his friend shot back, ignoring the ache in his wings. "But I need to get down now." He seemed to have torn something and didn't want to keep flying on injured wings. No need to risk falling to his death if his wings gave out.

"All right. Go into a very, very gentle dive. You can turn at a slight angle to maneuver into a better landing place and to minimize your momentum, but don't overdo it."

Haplo deferred to his friend's expertise, dropping slowly to the plain from which they'd taken off. The green dragon hovered above him, wings thudding like drumbeats, watched as his friend stopped. Haplo caught a brief whiff of magic before his form altered and he found himself a Patryn man once again.

Alfred folded his wings, landed on the ground. The earth shuddered slightly beneath his weight. Haplo shifted, one eyebrow raised. No gentle dives and minimizing momentum for this dragon.

Now a Sartan once again, Alfred trotted towards his friend. "Are you all right?" he fussed. "It looked like you hurt yourself."

Haplo rubbed his injured shoulder. The ache had diminished some, but it was still present. "I'll be fine. Healing sleep, remember?" He grinned. "Not that I mind. You're right, Coren. Flying is…."

Alfred grinned back. The expression made him look younger, softened the lines of his face. "I know," he laughed.

"I just don't understand how you managed to lift the Royal One your first time in dragon form." Haplo shook his head, quietly amazed.

"Magic," he answered promptly. "I used magic to reinforce my wings. Also, you and I are different breeds. Mine was built for battle, for lifting heavy things and turning aside at the last second. Yours was simply for the joy of being a dragon."

"The joy of being a dragon?" Haplo echoed, lips twitching.

Alfred flushed. "Yes. I think you know what I mean."

"I do."

They discussed shapes and flying on their trek back to the city. Alfred enthused about the different flight techniques he was trying out (some of them sounded rather dangerous to Haplo, and he had difficulty believing that his friend would actually go through with them. When he mentioned that, though, the Sartan pointed out that he could use magic as a safety net if something went wrong, and he wouldn't do all the craziest moves right away. He'd work up to them, so he'd be safe. Really.), Haplo related a few memories of the dog's. When they got back, they were debating the merits of letting the children shape-shift. Alfred thought it was a horrible idea—they don't trust me enough yet, they'll think I'm trying to leave them in beast form forever. Haplo thought that it had potential—or it would once they stopped checking the Sartan's culinary offerings for poison.

"He's not dead!"

Alfred jumped at the sudden voice. He landed wrong, collapsing face-first. Haplo dropped into an instinctive crouch, one hand grabbing at his sword.

"Haplo's back!" Rue called again. "And he's not dead!" The girl had been standing on a street corner peering out into the city in search of the older Patryn. When she called out the good news, she turned back toward the house, started jogging in that direction. "The Sartan didn't kill him!"

Alfred, who had been picking himself up from the ground, froze. He stared at the dirt beneath his hands, face full of pain.

Haplo squatted down next to him, heart twisting with pity. "Coren-"

"I know, Haplo." A strained, unhappy smile. "But you see why I don't want to change their forms, don't you? Who knows what the children would think of it?" He pushed himself to his feet, wiped the dirt from his hands and knees, but didn't meet the Patryn's concerned gaze.

"I wish I could help, my friend."

"I know." If there was a bit of a waver in Alfred's voice, Haplo pretended not to notice. "Are you hungry?"

Haplo knew better than to try and get anything out of the Sartan now. "A bit," he admitted, going along with the farce. "You think Marit's made anything, or are we just having leftovers?"

Their conversation remained trivial, inane, on the way back to the home. Opening the door, they were greeted by a small swarm of children. Well, Haplo was greeted by a small swarm of children. They didn't really do much about Alfred except acknowledge his existence, though Tset did give him a little nod before turning his attention to the Patryn man.

"As you can see," Haplo announced dryly, spreading his arms, "I'm not dead."

Lotto folded his arms. "How do we know for sure?"

"He did bring back that human," Britta pointed out.

"I'm not dead," Haplo repeated, lifting his shirt. Alfred, who had been raised in a culture with much stronger nudity taboos (meaning a culture that actually had nudity taboos), averted his gaze, stared intently at the wall. "See? No Sartan runes."

Lotto made a great show of inspecting the man's tattoos, of squinting at the scar over Haplo's heart-rune and mumbling about 'just how small can the Sartan make it, anyways?' but was eventually forced to admit that no, Alfred had not murdered Haplo and resurrected him as a mindless slave.

"This is getting ridiculous," Marit growled, fire burning in her eyes.

"Marit-"

"No, Alfred, it is."

"No it's not," Lotto piped up. "He's a Sartan."

"And we're Patryns," Marit snapped. "I know. But this one didn't send our ancestors to the Labyrinth. This one didn't create its monsters. This one saved your lives-"

"With help," Alfred interjected. "It was mostly you and Hap-"

"If Alfred wanted us dead, he could turn himself into the dragon and sit on us," she continued, steamrollering the embarrassed Sartan. "And there wouldn't be a thing we could do about it. Since we're still alive, we can safely assume that he wants us that way."

Alfred winced, not certain how much he liked Marit's logic.

But fortunately (or perhaps unfortunately), it made perfect sense to the children. They relaxed a bit. "So why don't you want us dead?" Britta asked, genuinely curious.

Alfred's answering expression was part hurt, part annoyance, part frustration, part exasperation, part disbelief, with just a dash of grudging amusement. "Why would I want you dead?" he demanded.

"You're a Sartan."

"An accident of birth," Marit sniffed.

Alfred sighed, the sound rattling in his throat. "Children. I'm not going to hurt you. You have already been hurt so badly…. It's wrong. What my ancestors did all those centuries ago, it was very, very wrong. I wish I could go back, keep them from Sundering the ancient world and imprisoning your ancestors, but I cannot, and their bones were dust before I was born. All I can do is try to fix their—and my own—mistakes." His voice was earnest, passionate; this was the man who had stood before the Council of Seven and told them what's for.

"You know what?" said Tset, voice filled with wonder. "I think he might be telling the truth."

...I haven't touched this fandom for months... *is shot*

But I will finish my stuff! Promise! It'll just take a while, because I'm super-busy and the muses died an abrupt death (but on the plus side, I'm getting pretty good at muse-based necromancy) and have I mentioned being super-busy? I will do better next time. I will.

-Antares