There was once a prophecy

about the arrival of an immortal

on an island in the sky.

Though they knew not to whom who such blessed fate belonged to, they believed that he would one day come to hallow the land with his presence and bring—along with him—the hope of life after death.

*

It was Falrir's first appearance on the coldest winter night—arriving on the front steps of the main building in robes that were rags having braved through the night—when they believed him to be the one who had come to save. It was the feat he had accomplished, per se, the feat known impossible to all of their kind, having arrived on the island without invitation or the help of an airship; for such an impossible feat was not meant to be achieved by a boy of his age.

He was a miracle; the magic they had so desired for such a long time and now, he was here.

There was a celebration—an immediate rejoicing of his awakening and then, his coming. The lights on the island did not dull throughout the night. It burned like an immortal flame, one that reminded the dragon of something he thought he had seen a long time ago but slipped his mind.

Soon however, came morning that washed away the darkness. It was then that the dragon's curse laid itself bare for the world to see:

At first light, he would return to his original form of a dragon and leave the island in search for the impurities of the world.

There, he was punished to destroy what he found—destroy them with a single breath of his flames. Seeking and removing sin; this was what they thought to be his curse till nightfall,

Where he would once again, return to the island

Ruined.

________________________

The dragon often spent his nights—his only time as a human—reading in a quaint corner of the library, unbeknownst to the fact that closing hours were long over. He felt a certain draw to human minds and their curious antics and their words therefore, intriguing to read.

There was hardly any obligation for him to delve into the books he read—their topics seemingly unrelated to his academics and were not the kind that would interest ordinary students; such were those who surrounded him with praise and glory. He read about the times that existed before his awakening, the times that were feared but now that he was here, were over.

It placed a heavy burden upon his shoulders. There were people around, but he was quite alone.

Falrir had become a King to them at fourteen years old and there was no doubt about it. He was loved, honoured; worshipped, even. But he was quite alone.

It was yet another night of rustling leaves and whispering winds. Yet another night of reading alone in a place of words and the smell of paper. Aged.

The dragon had come to listen to the chaos in his cage; the fire that he breathed from within. Even a single step sparked flames in another part of his human frame that he found so fragile—so easily destroyed.

For what could possibly be more fragile than skin and bones? No scales, no claws; nothing. Laid bare, it was easily destroyed.

He drew a chair from the table he would frequent on ordinary occasions, lowering the foreign parts of him onto it for some form of comfort or rest. But the creature within refused to oblige, spitting flames over the bars of his cage that contained precious things that had, by now, been reduced to ash. All that was left were the ruins of his heart, replaced by a monster he thought mad.

An unrestrained shout left his lips; pained and destroyed.

It bounced against empty walls and stared plainly at his soul. In flames.

*

That was the beginning of a series of strange occurrences—odd coincidences, for the matter, and Falrir was quick to raise his guard.

Several days after the pain in his chest was at its peak, Falrir spotted an old tin candy box in the middle of the table he usually occupied after closing hours. He vaguely recalled that students were not allowed to eat in the library and was, for a moment, fairly disappointed that the librarian was not doing her job properly until an accidental shift of the candy box revealed a slip of parchment paper underneath.

Good for cough.

Mildly confused, Falrir flipped open the candy box to see that it was filled with homemade cough drops of odd shapes and sizes. Pleasantly surprised but quietly amused, he closed the box and returned it to its original state (with the paper underneath), pretending not to have noticed it in the first place.

It was not until the following night that the dragon could finally confirm that there was, indeed, someone else in the library paying special attention to him. He had arrived at his usual spot to see several stacks of library books arranged side-by-side across the desk for his convenience, per se.

He picked up the top-most book from a random stack.

Human Anatomy

He snorted, musing to himself as he picked up another.

An Introduction to the Human Body

After sifting through a couple of books in the stack, Falrir noticed a fair resemblance in the convenient selection across his desk: they were all related to the human body. His first thought was to assume a doubtful stand. After all, whoever placed these books on his table must have had some sort of access to his reading records. Having spent twelve whole years as a dragon, Falrir had close to no clue as to how human bodies worked, and so reading about them was the least he could do.

He glanced up, pretending to survey the library that appeared empty except for his own presence.

But then he gave his doubts a second thought. A pause was necessary—a pause to entertain the prospect of an overly-concerned, kind soul. Perhaps the homemade cough drops had something to do with this. Had they been meant for him? And...were these the doings of the same person?

"I know you're there," he tested, taking a seat. "You don't have to hide from me."

Nothing.

The dragon leaned against the backrest of his chair, composure collected in patient waiting but still—no one appeared. "Hiding's not going to make things any better, you know."

He waited longer.

"And I don't see why you should be afraid of me," the dragon went on musingly, "I'm as harmless as a fly." For all he knew, Falrir was speaking to himself—the air, at most. He heaved a sigh, deciding to start on the first book of his new collection. There was absolutely no way he could finish this by dawn and perhaps that could mean the person who placed them here was going to help him put them back.

All he could do was wait for them to arrive.

*

Falrir was pushing the limits. The early hours of morning were, thankfully, cloaked in darkness still but it was merely a matter of time before daylight would wash the night away leaving the dragon no choice but to return to his original state.

Nevertheless, he waited in tired anticipation, counting every second that passed whilst waiting for a sign; knowing that the librarian would be, soon enough, walking through those doors any second now. He would be caught in the act.

And so what if he was? The dragon was no criminal, no—but he would have had no excuse for being here at all since he did have his own room in the predator's dormitories after all. Still, the human-like quality of curiosity rooted his cage to an unlikely resolve he had never before experienced.

It was a feeling so terrible to contain; too much for this cage, this human body, to hold.

The dragon pretended to leave his seat, ghosting behind a shelf to give his observer the impression that he was about to leave. He moved towards the double doors of the library and gave it a gentle tug before letting it close by itself—creating the illusion of having left.

He then proceeded to duck behind a shelf, positioning himself between the gaps of the books to keep an eye on the desk he had occupied moments before. There, the dragon lay in wait for his prey.

It didn't take long for him to appear. A slim, wiry frame of skin and bones that looked quite afraid as he glanced around nervously, gathering a stack of books in his arms before rushing off to return them to their rightful shelves.

The dragon looked on, amazed by the scene and better still—astonished by the raw strength of those arms that had appeared to him so fragile. Everything about him was so easy to break; but what was it that kept him here? What was such a frail thing doing in a place so large, a world so dark?

He had better not scare the poor thing. Speaking to it would be a disaster, a calamity. For he, so large, would do nothing but destroy a thing so small. For an end to become a tragedy—one that he could have very well avoided—was a loss greater than living itself.

_________________________

The thing was looking at him.

Falrir had noticed all along but like a man who did not want to scare a dove, he had pretended not to notice. This had been the result of a month's time and practice; weeks of speaking to himself and nights spent in the warm lights of a musty place.

Lights were everywhere in this place. The dragon had heard that this was no usual occurrence—it had only been like this since his arrival; a floating island of lights.

He didn't mind at all for it was a convenience. The explanation was vague and sometimes unnecessary. All he wanted was a place to be. A place to breathe.

Falrir read on, intrigued by the wonders of a human mind and the discoveries that they could make, amazed by their sheer conjectures, their bold inferences and fleeting beliefs but distracted, really, by the gaze that hid timidly behind a shelf, assessing him through the gaps between books.

It was the first time the dragon could see his eyes proper. The light was dull but he was, after all, the dragon and vision was not a problem no matter the distance or time of the day. He could see them; and he could see them well. Azure.

Again, he pretended not to have noticed, sweeping his gaze across the shelves before returning to his book.

The thing appeared mildly surprised, scrambling out of his hiding spot to stand, more noticeably, near the side of a shelf he was hiding behind. Falrir did not flinch.

As though confused as to why the dragon had not reacted to his presence, the thing approached tentatively, darting from shelf to shelf. Falrir was terribly amused but was quick to draw his lips together in effort to prevent his laughter from escaping. Surely, it would scare the thing.

Soon, the thing was pacing nervously behind the front-most shelf that was directly in the dragon's line of sight, wondering if he had—after his years of being isolated from the world—somehow turned invisible. Falrir however, was occupied with crafting an image of the thing at the back of his mind.

A glimpse of silver. What was that he had on his head? A silken scarf, perhaps. Silver silk. Plain robes that only brushed his elbows and knees; he must be freezing in those garments.

The thing came out of hiding, shuffling over to the side of the shelf that was directly in front of Falrir's table. He waved timidly.

At receiving absolutely no response, he began to panic, hurriedly approaching the dragon from his side before stopping by his table and waving frantically.

"Can you see me? Please say you can. Oh, this is absolutely frightening." He wrung his hands anxiously and it was at this point that the dragon could not hold in a smile any longer.

Falrir looked directly at him, a smile due as he soon realized that the silken scarf was really just his hair that draped across his shoulder. "Good evening."

The thing jumped backwards, startled by his sudden response. "H-h-hello."

Falrir proceeded to hold his gaze. "Shall we now introduce ourselves? I believe that is what humans usually do on first meetings. Am I wrong?"

His companion paused, swallowing carefully.

"Um, no. No, you're not. But even if you were, I would be in no place to correct you, sir. I've not spoken to anyone in a long time."

Falrir laughed this time round.

"Is that so? Well then, we might just be in the same boat," he looked at the other with a quaint smile on his face. "My name is Falrir. Fall-rear; yes, I suppose that would be the correct pronunciation."

"And you?" He went on, prompting his companion who seemed to be on the verge of a nervous-breakdown at the thought of performing a casual self-introduction.

"Sylvain. Just...just Sylvain."

"Well then, Sylvain, would you care for a cough drop?" the dragon this with a smile, producing the candy box from a couple of nights before. "I believe you find this familiar?"

"Yes, I...well, I made that," Sylvain confirmed quietly. "I mean the cough drops. Not the box."

This called for more questions.

"And I thank you kindly. But what might be the reason for this, uh...gift?" Falrir held up the small box of candies. "As far as I know, I am perfectly healthy and even so, that should not be a reason for you to look into my reading records."

His newfound companion appeared slightly startled at the accusation. "Reading records? But I haven't!"

"You haven't been keeping track of the books I read?"

"No, not at all sir," he bowed generously. "I apologize for the mistake—I had assumed you were feeling unwell. Some sort of throat irritation, perhaps, I mean, you were clearing your throat very loudly it must have been very uncomfortable and I was concerned so I went to pick some herbs and honey that would ease your ailment, or at least from what I have read."

Falrir didn't quite understand what amused him further; the fact that Sylvain had interpreted his groan of frustration as a mild clearing of his throat, that he would go as far to care for a stranger he had absolutely no relations to.

"And the books, well," the latter continued to struggle with his search for an explanation. "They helped me very much when I had my first ailment. I was in a similar predicament, you see—I had no understanding of the human body."

At this, the dragon did not hesitate.

"Why that is very curious. May I ask...?"

Embarrassed, Sylvain could only lower his head.

"A butterfly."

Dull regret filtered into his cage that was a jar, fitting for a butterfly that was, in itself, equally fragile. He braced himself for verbal abuse; perhaps even a look of disgust at having spoken to an insect.

"Well then sit down Sylvain," the dragon mused, pulling up a chair from the neighbouring table. "We don't want such a frail thing to be standing throughout our conversation."

Sylvain appeared mildly surprised by Falrir's behavior, unable to process the events that were unfolding before his eyes. "We, um. We're not going to have a conversation, are we?"

"Why of course we are," he chuckled, "conversations are terribly pleasing. Shall we start?"

"I um," began the startled little thing, still unable to catch up with such evening passion. "A-alright. But can I go first? I would like to—"

"Go ahead, Sylvain."

"Uh, well," He paused. "You can see me?"

"Why, of course. I would be speaking to the air if I couldn't," Falrir chuckled once more, placing his books aside.

"But you couldn't see me—just, just moments before, you couldn't. I waved and you didn't see," the butterfly protested lightly. "It must be a spell. I must have been invisible moments before and by speaking, I would reveal myself!"

His companion burst into mirth. "Indeed! Indeed, it must be. Oh you are absolutely right, Sylvain. You are magic."

And magic he was, for Sylvain—just like the dragon himself—was a butterfly by sunlight and human by nightfall.

There was no explaining these kindred souls; the parts of two that were, in the end, connected by one thing and that was themselves. Their existence, and that was all.

They met as soon as the cloak of night could conceal them both, hiding in the midst of words and lights; smiles and whispers of the night.

Every day was something beautiful. There was little they could find in a place full of words but that mattered not for there was a space between the dragon and the butterfly that they could fill—a gap they could close for god knows why.

Gaps were meant to be maintained; spaces, kept wide between predator and prey for fear that either would harm another. Distance was meant to be but perhaps there was something in the two that could move. Moving mountains, it was magic.

They were magic.

__________________________

It was the first time—in a very long time—that it rained on the island. The rain drummed against the windows of the library at night, skeletal fingers seeking entrance into the warmth of the light; and like many things in the world, it wished to escape from the dark. The darkness of the world.

Sylvain was waiting at their table with a new book in his arms. One he had promised Falrir on the night before to add to their collection. It was a reader's collection, the records of the books they have read together; shared the words that weaved through each and every one of their memories—both the past and the present, perhaps even the future. It was a beautiful collection, something they shared.

Just them. Just them both.

The moon was concealed by clouds that were dark; shadows that threatened to kill its light and steal the attention it sought from the humans below.

It was during such a night that an intrusion was due.

Somewhere outside, it thundered loud. The butterfly shivered lone, wondering just when his friend would arrive for he was cold and afraid. It was terrible, really. Terrible that he had to rely so much on his friend for warmth. For would his friend always be there for him?

Would they not be—one day—apart?

How long was their eternity?

Sylvain realized that he wouldn't know, exactly, where he would be without the dragon. Where was he now? Where could he go?

It was this—the fear of attachment, of reliance that plagued the fragile creature in his cage. Sylvain had known all along that if he had come to love the dragon so, there was no point of return. How had he been alive for the time he had spent alone, not counting his days and not knowing how old he really was?

Perhaps this was it. The moment they had met was the moment he began to count his days; the moment he began to understand that he was, indeed, a living being.

The moment he was alive.

It was thundering outside, and Sylvain barely heard the doors of the library being opened.

Voices.

"—should let us know the secrets of manipulating someone else's heat."

"Which is the entire reason why we're here, Jessi. I've got the key, where is it?"

"Near the back."

"There's a lock, isn't there? How are we going to get...who's...who's that?" The voices startled him to a stand, stunning both parties into an unexpected freeze as his chair fell to the floor at the sudden movement. "You—what are you doing here at such a time?"

He could have said the same. He would have, really. He would have said the same but he, so frail, was far too frightened to say a single word in self-defence.

The pair of intruders exchanged a look, assessing the potential of their current obstacle; the one who stood in the way of their petty desires.

"Answer me," one of them—the girl—closed the distance and snapped fiercely. "You're a Mark, aren't you? Don't they teach you how to respect us?"

"Jessi, leave it...he's already seen us," her companion looked over his shoulder with a difficult expression. "Let's leave before someone else comes. We can't proceed anyway—he's going to turn us in."

"Shut up Ryan," the girl hissed lowly. "No one's going to turn us in." At this, she turned on Sylvain with eyes that spoke of bitter vengeance. "Isn't that right, Mark?"

Sylvain was afraid.

So afraid, he couldn't speak at all.

He could look neither in the eye and he was dying—slowly—inside. He wondered where the dragon could be at such a time; why he had chosen such an unfortunate night to be late.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you," The girl seethed as she grabbed a fistful of his robes and jerked him aright. "You Marks are—"

His wings.

They tended to appear when he was most afraid. Most small and frail; fragile and weak.

The girl dropped him at once and doubled back. "An insect."

His poor eyes widened. "No...no, I—"

"What are you doing here?" Her lips drew into a line and her gaze hardened in disgust. "You're an insect. A...a pest."

"I promise, I have never," the butterfly trembled like a blossom in the wind, "a-and will never, cause any trouble—"

She raised a hand and dealt a blow across his cheek to shut him up. "Best not tell anyone we were here. I can't believe the librarian hasn't removed you; either that or she hasn't even seen your stupid face."

"An insect," her friend breathed in complete disbelief. "I've never seen one before—he's...it's disgusting."

It was raining.

A storm raged outside.

"Let's go Ryan. God, I touched an insect," she wriggled her nose in disgust. "I need a bath." Her friend agreed and together, they left the place of words that were once sacred to the dragon and the butterfly. It was empty now. Not a single soul was left.

A storm raged inside.

Falrir arrived a moment too late. He hadn't noticed that the lights in the library were darker than ever. The first thing he saw was a butterfly on the ground.

"Syl?"

He dropped his books and they scattered on their spines; pages flaring.

"Syl, are you alright? Are you hurt?" The dragon had never seen such beauty—such raw, unrefined beauty crafted on any wing. It was beyond any creation in a world so dark.

The butterfly shook his head, unable to muster the strength to pull himself to his feet. "No...no, yes," he raised his gaze that were filled with grief and pearls that fell in streams. "Yes, it hurts sir."

He shook his head. "It hurts so much."

The dragon reached forth to bring the other into his arms but the latter drew away.

"I am afraid, sir," he cried as the creature in his jar found the lid that was sealed shut. "I am afraid that I do not belong."

"You do, Sylvain," Falrir knelt beside his friend. "You do."

"I do not sir," he drowned in himself. "I am afraid of being seen, and I have been, sir."

"They might tell them. And they might come to bring me away; I am afraid sir, afraid of being removed, I—" he swallowed his pain

"—I am afraid of going outside where it rains."

He cried.

So many fears.

So many tears.

"I have nowhere to go when it rains."

said the butterfly,

but the dragon smiled and reached for his hand

"Come with me

and I will give you a place to return to."

___________________________

A/N: So I have been working on Falrir's and Sylvain's backstory—when they first met. It feels like a fairytale, and it's meant to be hehe ^^ I'm sorry its not the chapter of their field trip ;-; that one will be up by the coming weekend. Somewhere along those lines, if I can somehow manage :')

[the following is an example of a possible interpretation of the chapter :)]

This story sheds light on the relationship between predators and prey in the early age of Flight School, a hundred years before Io's time.

It has been shown that Sylvain is on a completely different level from any typical prey: he is an insect, or a pest, if one would like to use a raw term to describe their kind. He is unlike the usual sparrow or common mynah who do, at least, have a stand on their social order and are able to have 'predators' to own them. Insects are drifters. They do not have any relation to the Winged and are considered to be isolated from their world.

An overarching theme of this short story is the relationship between God and humans—about religious beliefs in general. If you hadn't noticed, Falrir is the representation of God. In the previous book, he is worshipped and treated like a god-like being of their world (the world in the skies). He is Lord Falrir, the only Lord and the Father of all Avians but is, coincidentally, a magical creature. He is the dragon, a mythical thing that dominates the skies that some of us humans believe in—just like in religion where we believe in different Gods depending on which religion we subscribe to.

The last line "come with me, and I will give you a place to return to" mimics how religion can potentially save us from our 'rainy days'. In this short story, butterflies (or the butterfly, for the matter) represents human beings—fragile, easily destroyed, easily crushed by the darkness of the world and easily tempted by the sins we find so desirable at times. And we, as butterflies, have our own 'rainy days'. We become so fragile when things turn bad. We fall to many sins and commit so many mistakes when we are forced to do so. There are times when we feel when we cannot return to where we were, before—innocent. Beautiful. Like the wings of a butterfly.

These times are our rainy days.

So where do we go when it rains?

We could be like Sylvain, who chooses to have a personal relationship with God and search for a 'place to return' such as religion. A place we can call home and feel safe, feel pure. It may be an answer.

But from the various characters we have seen in Flight School, many of them worship Lord Falrir not for the personal relationship they have with him (they have barely even spoken to him at all) but for the possible benefits that they might receive in their worship. They do not follow the dragon because they love him, they love him because they were supposed to follow him.

Here, I am addressing the problem of blind Faith—believing in a God that will resolve everything just because he IS God. There are many people in this world who believe that sitting at home will somehow get them a job because they have prayed for it. There are many people in this world who think that world poverty can be solved while they sit at home and watch TV because God exists. No.

No, problems are not solved like that. Yes, you can pray to God but there should be a need for individual agency—the ability to get up and do something about ourselves, to do something about the people you think need help.

There is another reason why I chose Sylvain to be a butterfly, or choose a butterfly to be the friend of a dragon. The short story begins with a prophecy that an immortal being will bless the land with the hope of life after death (again, a reference to the bible) and the people of the island immediately assume that Falrir, being the dragon (the most powerful Avian], is the immortal being in the prophecy.

But having read the chapter 'Dragonfly' in the previous book, you as a reader are aware who the real immortal being is, and that is Sylvain. Sylvain is the real immortal being to have blessed the island. Remember that Falrir is old (and coughs a lot hahaha) when Io meets him, but Sylvain is still youthful for he has stopped aging.

The reason behind this is because we, as humans, think that greatness is in the size of things—its grandeur and magnificence ("it's gonna be big, it's gonna be good" as Donald Trump would probably have said XD) determines its worth, but that's not really the entire truth.

The thing is, we can see greatness in the smallest things. The tiniest act of kindness, the smallest of smiles and the smallest favours. There is greatness in many things small—some things we cannot even see with the naked eye.

If you believe in a creator (whether or not it would be God), then perhaps the smallest things might lead you to see, in them, God. How can it be that such a beautiful, intricate, delicate thing like a butterfly exist alongside the size and the magnificence of a blue whale? From the patterns on its wings—symmetrical!!—to the colour, the shade, the shape, everything! Everything about a butterfly is so terribly beautiful, and terribly fragile that it scares me so.

I am so very afraid of butterflies. In my nightmares, I tear them apart. I always fear that I hurt humans in some way or another, whether it be intentional or not. I always fear that I am destroying things I don't mean to destroy.

Everything is just so frail. Every relationship, every love, every emotion.

So fragile.

Human beings, like butterflies, seem so fragile at times. Their wings are so thin, almost translucent. A single raindrop would sometime seem like enough to create a dent in that frail little wing. So beautiful, but so fleeting.

We are all very fleeting. Very fragile and very vulnerable. We die so easily, so quickly. We give up so easily so quickly—we fall to sin, we fall to so many things.

The title of this chapter is a question I have pondered over ever since I was in elementary school. Where butterflies go when it rains.

So where do we go when it rains?

Where do you go?

-Cuppie.