Alabaster's first thought was a quiet, gnawing fear that passed as soon as they remembered their name. A name, thought Alabaster, implied a history. It implied that Alabaster had existed in the past; perhaps there were friends or family, or celebrations where they would all gleefully crack granite stones together, to- well, to something. It didn't matter that Alabaster couldn't remember what, because the ideas were there. Friends, family, celebration. They did not seem like terrible things to remember.
Another thought occurred; there must have bean a means by which Alabaster had perceived these things. Otherwise they could not have existed save in Alabaster's mind, and that was a slope of thought that fell away to madness. Alabaster cracked open two eyes, and saw the world, and it was bright. The brightness concealed all at first, searing white over the back of Alabaster's vision, and Alabaster squinted to arrow-slits in an attempt to focus. There was a line- a horizon is what it’s named, Alabaster recalled, and the stones we cracked together were special, they were great granite eggs worn round and smooth by the ocean. Alabaster relaxed eyelids, to see the world, and was disappointed.
Alabaster sat on great salt plains, stretching white and cracked in all directions. Alabaster looked at their self- at herself, she was not surprised to discover- and found that she was human, pale-skinned and plump, in that un-named stretch between childhood and the surly surety of real adolescence. She was twelve, she believed. There was a great, hot sun in the sky, hotter than Alabaster could remember feeling in her life, and nothing moving as far as she could see. Alabaster stood up, and looked for a place to walk. She was strong, she realised, youthful muscles bunching under her softness, and she could run all day if the sun were not thrumming with heat. It felt close enough to touch. The granite eggs had to be warmed, too, until they'd burn you if you held them too long. Half the game was marvelling at how hot they were, how lucky you were not to have burned your fingers when you touched them, knowing you could not hold them close without hurting yourself. They were important, she knew.
Alabaster became aware that there was a sound, so pervasive that she'd not really heard it until she'd started moving her head. It was a quiet keening, low and steady, like an injured cat with endless breath. It came from a particular direction, and Alabaster started to walk towards it simply because it was the only sound there was. This heat would kill her, a dispassionate part of her brain warned her, in a few hours. She needed shelter and water. But there was nothing but the salt flats, the sun and the noise, so she kept walking towards the quiet wail. Her death did not frighten her, Alabaster was pleased to discover. Like many who have never faced true hardship, she had doubted that she was ever brave, and now there was something to fear she was pleased that she did not falter or panic. She was brave and strong, more white marble than her namesake, and her stride was long and unhurried. As the sound grew louder, a shadow passed over the sun, but when Alabaster squinted into the sky she could not see what had caused it. She did not doubt that it had occurred, though.
Her mother's words echoed at her- today is your twelfth midsummer, and magic now sees you as a woman, not a child. Trust your senses and your instincts; do not trust anyone with bright blue eyes who blinks too little and makes your heart flutter. Dragons and fairies will no longer treat you with kindness; you must treat them with respect. Do not pity the unbroken egg; it is midsummer’s price and you cannot deny it.
Alabaster remembered grief, then. One of the midsummer stones, the granite eggs, had been her favourite; red-black and glittering. She had kept it in her room, and when they had played the game of cracking them together it was not her egg that had broken. Instead, the large pale pink one her brother was fond of had cracked, had released the skittering whelp inside it to the skies. Her egg was the unbroken egg. Her egg was the one that should have been rolled back into the sea, so the ocean could wash away granite eggshell and obsidian bone, sandstone flesh and limestone sinew.
Instead, Alabaster had taken her egg and run, clutched the rock to her as her skin reddened and blistered, hidden in her mother’s forge and tried to smash the egg with everything she could find. The pick broke and the hammer handle snapped, and she beat her fists bloody and red on the stone and cried, and curled up around the egg- the egg that was only warm now, not burning- and fell into sleep.
In her dreams, on her salt plains, Alabaster found the keening thing. It was the dragon from her egg, curled and unborn. A statue of shale and slate that wailed and did not thrash. She knelt behind it, and pressed one pale hand to its forehead, and a dragon spoke behind her.
The dragon said You Have Come Here To Make A Choice, Pale Woman. His voice sounded like grit.
“What choice have I been brought here to make, my lord?” said Alabaster, and her voice was very small indeed.
Another thought occurred; there must have bean a means by which Alabaster had perceived these things. Otherwise they could not have existed save in Alabaster's mind, and that was a slope of thought that fell away to madness. Alabaster cracked open two eyes, and saw the world, and it was bright. The brightness concealed all at first, searing white over the back of Alabaster's vision, and Alabaster squinted to arrow-slits in an attempt to focus. There was a line- a horizon is what it’s named, Alabaster recalled, and the stones we cracked together were special, they were great granite eggs worn round and smooth by the ocean. Alabaster relaxed eyelids, to see the world, and was disappointed.
Alabaster sat on great salt plains, stretching white and cracked in all directions. Alabaster looked at their self- at herself, she was not surprised to discover- and found that she was human, pale-skinned and plump, in that un-named stretch between childhood and the surly surety of real adolescence. She was twelve, she believed. There was a great, hot sun in the sky, hotter than Alabaster could remember feeling in her life, and nothing moving as far as she could see. Alabaster stood up, and looked for a place to walk. She was strong, she realised, youthful muscles bunching under her softness, and she could run all day if the sun were not thrumming with heat. It felt close enough to touch. The granite eggs had to be warmed, too, until they'd burn you if you held them too long. Half the game was marvelling at how hot they were, how lucky you were not to have burned your fingers when you touched them, knowing you could not hold them close without hurting yourself. They were important, she knew.
Alabaster became aware that there was a sound, so pervasive that she'd not really heard it until she'd started moving her head. It was a quiet keening, low and steady, like an injured cat with endless breath. It came from a particular direction, and Alabaster started to walk towards it simply because it was the only sound there was. This heat would kill her, a dispassionate part of her brain warned her, in a few hours. She needed shelter and water. But there was nothing but the salt flats, the sun and the noise, so she kept walking towards the quiet wail. Her death did not frighten her, Alabaster was pleased to discover. Like many who have never faced true hardship, she had doubted that she was ever brave, and now there was something to fear she was pleased that she did not falter or panic. She was brave and strong, more white marble than her namesake, and her stride was long and unhurried. As the sound grew louder, a shadow passed over the sun, but when Alabaster squinted into the sky she could not see what had caused it. She did not doubt that it had occurred, though.
Her mother's words echoed at her- today is your twelfth midsummer, and magic now sees you as a woman, not a child. Trust your senses and your instincts; do not trust anyone with bright blue eyes who blinks too little and makes your heart flutter. Dragons and fairies will no longer treat you with kindness; you must treat them with respect. Do not pity the unbroken egg; it is midsummer’s price and you cannot deny it.
Alabaster remembered grief, then. One of the midsummer stones, the granite eggs, had been her favourite; red-black and glittering. She had kept it in her room, and when they had played the game of cracking them together it was not her egg that had broken. Instead, the large pale pink one her brother was fond of had cracked, had released the skittering whelp inside it to the skies. Her egg was the unbroken egg. Her egg was the one that should have been rolled back into the sea, so the ocean could wash away granite eggshell and obsidian bone, sandstone flesh and limestone sinew.
Instead, Alabaster had taken her egg and run, clutched the rock to her as her skin reddened and blistered, hidden in her mother’s forge and tried to smash the egg with everything she could find. The pick broke and the hammer handle snapped, and she beat her fists bloody and red on the stone and cried, and curled up around the egg- the egg that was only warm now, not burning- and fell into sleep.
In her dreams, on her salt plains, Alabaster found the keening thing. It was the dragon from her egg, curled and unborn. A statue of shale and slate that wailed and did not thrash. She knelt behind it, and pressed one pale hand to its forehead, and a dragon spoke behind her.
The dragon said You Have Come Here To Make A Choice, Pale Woman. His voice sounded like grit.
“What choice have I been brought here to make, my lord?” said Alabaster, and her voice was very small indeed.
You Were Not Brought Here. You Came Here By Your Own Desire. By Blood And By Blisters. You Wished For Me To Live.
“I understand. And my choice?”
Decide Whether You Are To Abandon Me Or I Am To Devour You. We Are Two Half Lives, Pale Woman. Only One Of Us Can Leave. You Have Earned The Choice And Nothing More.
Alabaster thought long and hard and whispered her decision.
“We could share.”
She heard a grinding noise behind her, the sound of stone bouncing off metal, and she understood it was laughter. Without blinking, without turning round, she stepped backwards until the unyielding snout of the dragon pressed against her shoulders. With a deep breath, she crawled backwards, moved inside the dragon, squeezing past stalactite teeth and a quicksilver tongue, until she found the place the dragon had made for her. A place inside the dragon where she would fit. In her dreams, she knew, she would always come back here, to ride the dragon from the inside across the endless salt flats, to feel the strength of rock soaring against the sun. What cost was it to let the dragon ride her?
In the forge, something the same shape and size as Alabaster woke to see a broken, empty egg. It had contained not a dragon, but the dream of one.
Ten years have passed since then, and if you meet Lady Alabaster, be respectful. She is kind to children, and her eyes are sapphires; your eyes will water if you hold her gaze. Her hands are still blistered under her satin gloves, and her skin is still as pale as it ever was. She does not permit us to play the hatching-game at midsummer, but the dragons do not bother us any more. The midsummer celebrations still include the eggs, but they are placed underneath the pyre, so that they will all hatch after the fire has burned itself out and the pyre itself has collapsed into ash and long bones. And if your oldest brother gazes too long into the fire, if his eyes sparkle when he sees our lady, then make your peace with him before next summer comes.
Midsummer still hungers. We dare not feed it dragons.
Decide Whether You Are To Abandon Me Or I Am To Devour You. We Are Two Half Lives, Pale Woman. Only One Of Us Can Leave. You Have Earned The Choice And Nothing More.
Alabaster thought long and hard and whispered her decision.
“We could share.”
She heard a grinding noise behind her, the sound of stone bouncing off metal, and she understood it was laughter. Without blinking, without turning round, she stepped backwards until the unyielding snout of the dragon pressed against her shoulders. With a deep breath, she crawled backwards, moved inside the dragon, squeezing past stalactite teeth and a quicksilver tongue, until she found the place the dragon had made for her. A place inside the dragon where she would fit. In her dreams, she knew, she would always come back here, to ride the dragon from the inside across the endless salt flats, to feel the strength of rock soaring against the sun. What cost was it to let the dragon ride her?
In the forge, something the same shape and size as Alabaster woke to see a broken, empty egg. It had contained not a dragon, but the dream of one.
Ten years have passed since then, and if you meet Lady Alabaster, be respectful. She is kind to children, and her eyes are sapphires; your eyes will water if you hold her gaze. Her hands are still blistered under her satin gloves, and her skin is still as pale as it ever was. She does not permit us to play the hatching-game at midsummer, but the dragons do not bother us any more. The midsummer celebrations still include the eggs, but they are placed underneath the pyre, so that they will all hatch after the fire has burned itself out and the pyre itself has collapsed into ash and long bones. And if your oldest brother gazes too long into the fire, if his eyes sparkle when he sees our lady, then make your peace with him before next summer comes.
Midsummer still hungers. We dare not feed it dragons.
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