Bran leaned on his elbows and peered over the edge of his parchment-strewn desk. Zin was there, lying on his stomach, bare feet kicking up in the air. He was surrounded by a rainbow of worn wax crayons and was busy doodling something on a bit of scrap.

The Healer eyed the boy thoughtfully, picked up his quill pen, dipped ink and wrote out a few more lines. Then he frowned down at the pen. Bran wiped off the excess ink, laid down the quill and began searching through the mess for the little folding razor-edged knife he kept around solely to trim nibs.
Zin turned his head slightly to watch the search, an amused grin on his dark scarred face.
“Zin?” Bran called finally. “Can you sharpen my pen? I’ve lost my knife again….” He picked up a stack of rolled scrolls, looked under them hopefully and sighed. “I’m sure it’s here- somewhere.”

“Sure!” The young dark elf chirped and hopped to his feet, careful not to step on his crayons. He’d ground one into an imported Persian rug once and gotten a terrible scolding when Olumsiz had noticed. Not only that but the albino sorcerer had made him scrub out Thaddeus the Newt’s tank. Thaddeus was cute but made an awful mess in his tank, leaving half eaten crickets everywhere.
Zin didn’t want to clean it ever again.

The dark elf took the quill and looked at it critically then carefully scraped one of his overly long fingernails diagonally across the calamus. Thin sheets flaked off as he cut, holding his other hand below to catch the fall.
“Here go.” Zin smiled and held out the quill tip neatly sharpened. “Any more?”

“No,” Bran smiled and took the quill back, brushing the soft tip under his chin. “Just this one, thank you.”

Zin moved over to the waste paper basket and brushed the flakes into it. Then he stopped and scrabbled around under the desk. “I find!” He proclaimed and presented the healer with the lost knife. Then, almost an afterthought, he added “But I do better job.”

        “What you doing?” Zin asked curiously, looking at everything on the desk- upside down for him.

“Paperwork. It’s the downside of this job. Not only do I have to check over all the injury reports and supply requests generated here in the Palace but I have to look over everything that’s sent in from the countryside, sort them, approve what needs to be approved and so forth.” He dipped the now-sharp pen and wrote out another few lines then signed the sheet absently. “Every month. I’ve tried hiring secretaries for it but they tended to waste my time with the unimportant and neglect to give me what I need to see in a timely manner. I mean- do I really need to be pestered with a half-dozen requests for gauze bandages that ought to be simply looked over and stamped… instead of being informed that some small village somewhere was raided by Unseelie, say, and the one Healer for the area is swamped, please send aid.  But!” He smiled brightly. “I think I’m almost done!”

Zin nodded and sat tailor-fashion on the floor, toying with the crayons. “You always want be Healer, Bran? Not say, sailor or explorer or something?”

Bran put his pen down and sat thinking about the question for a moment. “I never really had a choice.  I had three older brothers and two sisters. One of my sisters became a poet and my brothers became warriors in their own right. My Father was a Healer and taught my other sister the herb lore. He trained me as well, from the day he recognized the Gift in me.” Bran stopped, a hint of sadness in his face. He toyed with the quill for a moment, long fingers straightening the barbs. “That’s not to say I haven’t been in my share of battles over the centuries, or wandered the worlds.” He continued with a bit of forced cheerfulness. “I’ve seen many amazing sights- don’t get me wrong son.”

“You always want be King’s Physician?” Zin interrupted, adding a scribble of pink in the foreground of his picture. He sat back, looked at it and switched to bright purple.

“That… just sort of happened.” Bran laughed. “For some strange reason nobody else wanted the job! So I inquired and was accepted, quite gladly. That was, oh gracious- almost a millennia go now.” He reached out and unrolled a scroll then signed his name to the bottom. “I don’t get out nearly as much as I used to- but I meet a great many interesting people.” The ink dry, he let the scroll snap closed. He looked at the other scrolls waiting on his desk. “You know- if I wouldn’t be called ‘Daringly Radical’ I’d go and get one of those Earthen pens that come pre-filled with ink. None of this dipping every four lines or splattering across the page nonsense- you’d think the scholars and scribes would welcome an ever-flowing pen... but no. No. It’s too modern for them so we all have to suffer.” The Healer took a stub of sea-green sealing wax out of a drawer.

Zin looked at it, smiled eagerly and snapped his fingers to produce a tiny flame. Bran held the wax close so a few drops melted off and fell on the closed scroll.  That done Bran tugged the cord that held his signet from around his neck and pressed it into the wax.

The slight dark elf looked at his fire-y finger and gleefully waved it around, making a bright trail in the air beside him, white hair a swirling mirror.

“Zin?” Bran cleared his throat. “You’re going to catch your hair on fire if you keep doing that.” The blond elf smirked, leaned across his desk and blew the tiny flame out.

“Aww. Fuu.” Zin glared at the healer from lowered brows. “That fun though.”

Bran tidied his desk then looked at the dark elf sternly. “No need to be crude Zin. I just don’t want you getting hurt when a bit of common sense could have stopped it afore it happened.” He admonished gently. Then he laughed. “Besides-it’ll save me extra work!”

        “Are you finished now?” Zin straightened and peered up over the desk, long swag of gleaming hair tumbling behind him. “Can you fix Scibbles?”

“Yes, I’m finished. Pass me your dragon, I’ll see what I can do.”  The pen was dried and dropped into its stand, whispering as it brushed against the other cropped feathers.

Zin tenderly scooped up a much-abused plush dragon from where he had been sitting. It had been repeatedly mended, the tips of its ears and wings gnawed upon and, as the slight dark elf set it on the center of the desk, gave the impression it had been eviscerated, little clumps of yellow stuffing falling out to scatter like guts across the pale blotter.

“Poor old Scibbles.” Bran murmured, picking it up. The dragon’s bright plastic eyes twinkled, fanged smiling mouth ironically hanging open, scarlet tongue lolling. He examined it slowly, as though it were one of his patients then carefully tucked the stuffing back inside. “I see the problem: a seam gave way. She might be a little skinnier then before but I think I can fix her up for you. Did you bring me the pin cushion like I asked?”

The boy nodded and plunked down a wooden spool of copper-green thread and a small globular vermilion pillow, veined in green yarn. “I like you pin cushion. Looks like tomato- makes me want to eat it.”

“You’d have a nasty surprise if you tried- sawdust and needles. Not what I’d consider tasty.” Bran chuckled, and peeled back a length of thread. “Cut here, please.”
Zin sliced through the thread. “I am useful to keep around.”  He muttered. “So are you. Just more useful.”

Bran licked thumb and forefinger and deftly threaded the needle. He began sewing: neat and even stitches. They were so tiny Zin could barely see them against the soft material of the dragon’s side.

“You would have made good tailor.” The boy nodded and sat, organizing the crayons absentmindedly forming a narrow arch of the various shades:  purple, blue, green yellow then red.

“What happened to your orange one?” Bran asked him curiously.

“…I ate it last week.” Zin scratched at his lower lip. “Didn’t taste good.”

The blond healer stifled a laugh. “Learned your lesson about them, did you?”

“Yeah.” Zin wrinkled his nose; the pale scars on his cheeks bunching like tiger stripes. “Oranges much better. You know? Tree in gardens is blooming. Smells good.” He looked at his little picture and added a triangular green tree in one corner.

        The healer leaned back in his chair, the springs creaking softly under his weight. He held up the dragon, frowned at it and adjusted a bit of fabric. He sewed in silence a while.
“Tell me, Zin.” He began. “If you could have anything in all the worlds- anything at all. What would it be?” He raised a warning finger. “However… if you say ‘World Peace’ I’ll box your ears.”

“Who would want that? Make everything boring.” Zin glanced up briefly from his drawing. “I don’t know.” He replied glibly. “My father- he leave my sister and me much money- and she make even more these days. Enough to maybe make dragon happy. This is good. I not hold job well I think.” He chuckled to himself.

“Zavita had baby- this is good too. Line continues. Know I would not make good Father. But,” He smiled up at the Healer, fangs visible. “I spoil rotten. Am Uncle, am supposed to.” He thought about his friend’s question for a moment. “Have pretty clothes, have good food- much as can eat, have nice room and comfy bed. Have Scibbles. Have you and Harliich and Olumsiz and Jera’lil- many friends. What more do I need?” He asked wonderingly.

        Bran stopped sewing and stared hard at his charge. “Do you… ever imagine what your life would be like if you never had been cursed?”

Zin grimaced. “Be… normal you mean? Like long ago?” He let out a long agitated breath, hissing through his teeth. “Everything be different. Father maybe alive, me normal, grow up, maybe take over for him. Maybe Zavita not marry C’liss- marry someone else. Maybe no baby, maybe more. Everything different.” He said sadly. “Wouldn’t know you or anyone but Olumsiz. Everything did not be done. Things shouldn’t have done, did, things needed done didn’t, things forgot. I…” He hesitated and scribbled wildly, an angry black smear. “I not sure how to explain. You know what I mean?”

“I do.” Bran said quietly. “I think everyone wonders, at least once in their lifetime, what would change if one detail was different. Just one thing… one life-changing thing.” The strange sad note was in the Healer’s voice again.

Zin looked up and wondered what his friend was thinking about. “I think I am… What is word? Means happy… satis- no… Am content. Yes. Content. Good word.” The frail dark elf nodded, his white mane bobbing. “Cannot complain. More, I think, then most do.”

“You are wise beyond your years my boy.” Bran knotted the thread and secured it well. “That is something a good many people will never realize in their lifetimes- no matter how long that may be.” The needle was jabbed into the cushion, trailing a wisp of leftover thread. He held the dragon out. “There you are- Scibbles- good as new. Though you might want to ask Jera’lil about washing her. She smells a bit off.”

Zin scooped his crayons into their fabric storage pouch, cinched the top and claimed the dragon. He clutched her tight. “Scibbles! Thank you Bran!” He exclaimed gleefully. He ran one claw-tipped finger over the careful stitches. “Much better then I could do- but you have more practice.”  The boy swung the dragon around in a tight gleeful little circle and scampered out of the room.  The bit of paper fluttered in his wake, quite forgotten.

Bran watched the slight dark elf run off and shook his head, a few stray blond hairs coming loose from his braid. He stooped and picked up the now-abandoned picture and glanced at it. On the slightly crumpled scrap of paper were three almost stick figures standing together in front of a golden yellow sun, a few rough green trees and a brown pile of rocks that bore a very slight resemblance to the Imperial Palace. One figure was outlined in pale blue; the second pink with a shank of blond hair and the third, smaller then the others, was brown and white. They were all smiling.
Bran chuckled. The boy would be hard pressed to pass as an artist but… he got the point across. “What more, indeed.”

Fin.

“Dragons and Fables”
Jan. 14 ‘08