CHAPTER 78

 

BRAX

 

I’ve seen fledgling princesses before.  They are often delicate in appearance and even as youths, they are elegant.

This tiny female, with her mane stuck up in different directions like quills, looks more like a Rakhii pup.  At her approach, I sink to my hocks, and when she puts her hand on my knee, I slowly reach for her face.  Keeping my claw aimed back, I wipe the crusts of sleep and the tracks of the anxious tears she shed a moment ago from her eyes.  She mirrors me, putting both of her tiny hands on my face, testing the feel of my scales against her palms a moment before jerking her limbs back, and giggling.

My hearts dance with the sound.

She splutters something at me, more wet than word, and my ears extend so far forward that she reaches out and taps one.  At her next spray of speech, I ask, “What?”

“She said ‘puppy’.  She thinks you’re a… puppy,” the colorless sibling explains.

I raise my brow ridges at the tiny female before me.  “That’s ironic.”

I remain still when she circles around me, her warm eyes, little copies of Tara’s, so full of curiosity as she examines my features.  She grasps one of my lower dorsal spines and proceeds to climb up my back as if they are ladder rungs.  I can feel they won’t release toxin now, not with her near.  But then I feel her tap the end of one of my quills.  No toxin, but they are sharp.

I hear a little hiss.

I reach over my shoulder and attempt to grab her by the scruff.  Lacking one of these, I settle for bunching the back of her small shirt in my fist and she gaily laughs as I drag her down.  I curl my tongue around her finger and she devolves into sounds at such a painful pitch that I pin my ears, hoping to muffle against the shrillness.

I keep an eye on Tara as she goes into the younglings’ room and begins collecting belongings.  The match for this female is clinging to Tara’s leg.

Humans are quite a lot like Rakhii as offspring.  Fascinating.

I keep this pup occupied, patiently pulling my face up and away from her poking fingers and over-petting, exuberantly affectionate hands.  My translator is useless in deciphering her words, which leads me to believe she is exhibiting a middle-language, of some sort.  It seems to be eloquent and make perfect sense to her.

“I don’t know what you’re commanding,” I finally tell her when she repeats a phrase for the third time.

Voice strained, the colorless sibling supplies, “P-puppy, down.”

I look over at her incredulously.  Beside her, bags stuffed full at her feet, stands Tara, who covers her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.  I slowly turn narrowed eyes on the pup, and not feeling cowed at all, she giggles.  “Guppie dahn!”

She snaps her fingers.  And I give a loud bark of laughter.

Behind me, Tara whoops with great peals of it also.  Simone is both pleased with herself for bringing about this mirthful reaction, while simultaneously being startled at the outbursts.  She dances backward and ducks a little then turns into a timorously bashful little being.

Her increase in color saturation shows off her facial spots in high definition, and when she ducks her head, I am reminded of a young Tac’Mot—my hearts warm and experience a sensation akin to a candle that collapses from the wax having a soft spot.  I rub at my chest, but I’m growing used to this sensation, thanks to this one’s dam.

When Tara described the first time she looked upon her matching set of pups, she used the words ‘I was a goner’.  Goner: is the etymology of this word ‘gone for her?’  I will have to ask. If so, I find I can relate.  “Come here, tiny princess,” I croon affectionately.

Ah, she likes this.  Slowly, she creeps towards me, and, face averted, hugs my hand to her own chest.  I tug her nearer and give in to my curiosity and lick the purple patch in her mane.  She tastes like pup: dirt, sticky sweetness and… “This is not a natural spot,” I remark.

The colorless sibling gasps “It’s GUM!  Mona!  Shame on y—”

“You will not scold the princess,” I explain firmly, but politely, in deference to her relation.

The sibling’s brow fur cocks, and she makes a sound of disbelief.  “Oh, I can see we’re going to butt heads.”

I examine her forehead.  “I imagine you’re employing a local idiom, but if not, I’ll save you the lesson and just tell you: you’ll lose.”

“So you think.  This is my niece,” she enunciates, eyes, tone, and expression challenging.

“This may be your niece, but you are not my princess.”

Her face contorts.  “Heck no, I’m not your damn—er, darn princess!”  She starts to throw a look of confusion to Tara, but Grake grasps her arm, making her choke on her tirade.

The smile he gives her is pained.  “He’s a work in progress.”

“Does this mean you’re coming?”  Tara asks hopefully.

The colorless sibling looks around, waving her hand at the unaesthetically pockmarked walls with tiny insects skittering behind them.  My ears have been flicking like mad listening to the number of feet scurrying just out of view.  “And stay here, just me and the roaches?”  She laughs without humor.  “When you disappeared, if I hadn’t had Simone and Megan…”  Her eyes start to shine and my spines clack, not wanting to see this one’s tears.  Neither does Grake, apparently, though his approach to handling this is affectionate.  He tugs her to his chest, making her eyes go wide—her inner pain diverting to alarm at an unfamiliar male taking a liberty.

I snort at him then turn back to Simone.  I find her looking up at me, smiling slightly.  I smile back.

She beckons me closer with a tiny hand motion.  I lower my head, and she throws her arms as far around my neck as she can reach.

Instantly, I’m overtaken with a feeling of contentment so profound: I sag.  I’ve enough faculties not to collapse and crush her but… the instant feeling of relaxation is unexpected.

I’ve no grasp of how she can affect me this way, but I am grateful.  This close, I sniff her and her base scent is not unlike Tara’s.  It’s soothing, bringing about a sense of tranquility, just before a wave of fierce protectiveness wells up in me.

The other dappled offshoot of Tara is still clinging to her dam’s leg, but she silently observes, eyes taking in everything.  I wave my tail at her slowly, and she too smiles.

The colorless sibling, Amy—who, without the benefit of attractive patches of skin pigmentation really does appear washed out—collects a modest amount of belongings for herself.  That done, I move to carry Tara’s small satchel, and as we exit the ‘dwelling,’ I mention that I can hear Amy’s brought along at least one scurrying hitchhiker.  “Lem is sensitive about what is introduced to the ship,” I explain.  “Could you shake it out?”

“Shake it out!” she cries, crouching to rip open her bag on the tarmac surface that holds odd, ground-level transporters.

She shakes not one, but three of the insects from her things, making noises of disgust.  My arm is jammed up high on my chest, my forearm supporting the rump of Simone as she continues to hug my neck.  When she reacts to her aunt’s distress by moaning a fearful sound, I send three flame bursts at the creatures racing around in circles attempting to find cover.

“Whoaaa,” Simone breathes, awe in her tone.

Instantaneously, I feel leagues stronger.  I pat her tiny back.  Tara sends me a soft grin that nearly has me wishing we were alone.  Later, I promise with my eyes.  You can bestow that same look upon me later, please.