"Ylvir, where are ya?" he heard his father call.

"'M in the kitchen," he called back whilst standing as tall as his small stature allowed, balancing on the tips of his clawed toes atop a stepping stool as he tried to peer out the window that was so starkly dusty in the nearly pristine kitchen. Through the grime, he could vaguely see children around his own age kicking a leather ball between themselves outside. He had been in this position for some time now, watching the game, longing to join them.

His ears twitched when the familiar thudding his father's heavy work boots sounded towards him, approaching with an urgent cadence, yet he couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the game.

"Get down from there," his father's voice was as rough as the arm that ripped him away from his view. He wriggled in his faith grip for only a moment before he was set down again much more gently, looking up to meet stern eyes.

"Why can't I go out an' play wif t'other chil'ren, Da'?" he asked sullenly.

"Yer not like other children Ylvir," his father replied, a weathered finger pointing past Ylvir, out the window. "Them kids would eat ya alive."

"Ma says ya can't judge someone before ya know 'em," Ylvir retorted.

The ragged farmer's tanned face frowned deeply before crouching down to his son's level. "Ye shouldn't judge someone before ya know 'em, but that don' mean ya can't."

Ylvir averted his gaze, murmuring, "They wouldn't eat me alive."

The older man harrumphed. "Lookatcha. Y'got feathers an' fur an' scales an' spines. Y'got claws an' sharp teeth an' bloody red eyes. Ya don't look like those children out there. No, y'look like a nightmare come to life."

Ylvir pulled at said feathers self-consciously. "Mum says I'm soft."

His father shook his head, standing and muttering, "Yer mum's the soft one."

Ylvir bristled at the words. "Ya wrong about mum, and ya wrong about those chil'ren!"

Ylvir darted out of the room and through the cottage door faster than his father could react. He could barely hear his father's shouting as he focused on the children. He slowed as he got closer, doubts taking over. What if his father was right? What if they hated him and made fun of him? And then he remembered his mother's kind words, the same ones he recited to his father. These children deserved as much of a chance as he did.

He approached them with new confidence, announcing his presence when he was close enough. "Hi! Can I join ya?"

The flurry of activity came to a sudden stop, the ball rolling slowly as the dusty and sweaty young girls and boys faced him and froze, their eyes widening in terror as they took in his horrific appearance. The reaction confused Ylvir more than he ever had been in his life.

A small, slight girl's shriek broke the stillness, which quickly became a chorus as she was joined by other girls and boys.

"Monster, monster! It's goin' ta eat us!"

Ylvir winced, sensitive ears pulling back as much from the piercing shrieks as the sharpness of their accusation.

"No! I won't eat ya. I would never!"

A rather large boy picked up a stone and threw it at Ylvir, who was too stunned to dodge it. He let out a yelp as the stone thwacked against his skull. He vaguely felt a warm trickle slither down his face from the point of the wound, and when he tentatively put a small, clawed, paw-like hand to it, he was horrified to see dark red liquid. Blood.

The distraction was all the vulnerability the children needed, seeing him no longer as a terrifying monster, but as a weakened animal. Some picked up stones like the first and other reached out for broken branches, yelling as they charged at him. Ylvir scrambled to get away, but the reaction was too late, as they fell upon him with weapons in hand.

He felt each of their blows, crying out at every pelt, every kick, every slight to his body as he was slowly, brutally battered. Their initial war-cries devolved to jests and mockery of his pathetic state, sprawled in the dust curling in on himself in the best defense he had, whimpering as he continued to bleed.

"Stop, stop! Please! STOP," he screamed and he cried and he pleaded until he was hoarse. His wept as freely as his wounds did, choking on his sobs.

He didn't know if it would end. He didn't know if they would ever stop. For the first time, Ylvir feared for his life.

And then, he heard her.

"Wretched children! Begone filthy urchins! Out of my way! May the gods have mercy on you for what you have done, because I certainly won't!"

Ylvir could faintly make out the sounds of scuffling feet getting more distant as the cruel children ran away from his mother's voice. He whimpered as he felt gentle hands on his tender body, hands far kinder than the ones that accosted him moments before. He knew these hands. He loved these hands, and he knew they loved him, too.

"Oh, my sweet boy. What did they do to you?" his mother asked in barely disguised horror.

He sniffled. "I, hic, just wanted to play," he sobbed quietly.

She held him closer to her, cradling him, stroking him, rocking him, comforting him. "There, there Ylvir. Just let it all out. I'm here now. You're safe."

And he did. He sobbed and cried like a lost wolf pup's howl. His mother cooed to him the whole time, until eventually he was drained of tears and left only with exhaustion and pain.

"It hurts mama," he croaked.

Her eyes shone with bushes tears of her own as she sniffed and attempted a smile. "Let's get you taken care of, then."

She picked Ylvir up with motherly strength and carried him tenderly into the cottage as he snuggled closer to her, soaking up what warmth and love he could from her.

When they reached the cottage, Ylvir's father was standing at the door, sinewy arms folded over a broad chest, face scowling. "I hope ya learned yer lesson, boy."

"Not now, Reul," Ylvir's mother snapped at him.

"I warned 'im. I tol' him not to go, but did 'e listen? No. 'Cos y'keep fillin' 'is 'ead wit' all these fairytales."

"If I didn't, then how could he ever believe there was any good in this world," she challenged her husband. "You see how cruel it is—what it did to him without a second thought? If there's no hope for anything better, then why even try? I want my boy to grow up strong and courageous and hopeful. I don't want him to become a cruel and bitter monster. I don't want him to be like those awful children. What better way to do this than to tell him tales of those who have done it before him."

"Wot the world did to 'im was real. Ya tales ain't," Reul bit back.

"We both know that anything is possible," Ylvir's mother said stonily.

Reul glanced at Ylvir, who still held fast to his mother. Reul muttered under his breath before saying, "Let's get 'im stitched up."

As they all entered the humble cottage, with its tidy and clean interior, Ylvir would eventually realize that the kitchen window was left dusty for a reason.

~*~

Ylvir hissed in pain as his mother applied a salve to a wound on his stomach underneath a patch of scales as he sat on the edge of the dining table. "That stings."

"I know it does, darling, but I promise you'll be all the better for it," she said to him from her kneeling position, giving him a reassuring smile, which slowly turned mischievous. "Just think how much your father is going to put up a fight when I get to him."

Ylvir turned sullen, hanging his head and avoiding his mother's eyes. "I didn't mean to bite him."

His mother's face fell. "Oh, dearie, I know that. He knows that, too. Neither of us is upset. Besides, he should have known better than to give stitches without giving you something to bite on. That wasn't his arm."

Ylvir looked up at his mother shyly. "Ya promise he's not mad."

She smiled. "Of course, not. He's cranky 'cause he's in pain, but he's not cross with you."

Ylvir, nodded in understanding. His mother continued to apply salves to his wounds as he contemplated silently in his youthful mind.

"Why did they attack me, mum?" he eventually asked in a quiet voice.

His mother's hands stilled. After a moment, she set the salve down and took her son gently by the shoulders, looking in his red eyes with sad blue ones. "You know how my stories always tell of kind and brave men."

He nodded. "An' drag'ns an' beautiful princesses."

"Yes, and dragons and princesses. And villains, too."

"Yeah. The bad guys. Are the other kids bad guys, then?"

"No, not quite. Let me explain it like this," his mother paused to think, then continued, "My stories are not all that they seem to be."

Ylvir perked up. "Are they magic?"

His mother smiled. "Not the kind of magic you're thinking of. No, my stories are only a... metaphor."

Ylvir's wet nose scrunched in confusion. "Wossat mean?"

"It means that when I say one thing, I really mean another."

"How does that work?"

"Well, when I say you're a headache," she said beginning to gently poke his uninjured vulnerable spots and he gave the closest thing to a giggle his voice allowed. "I don't actually mean that you are a headache, or that I necessarily have one. It just means that what you're doing at the time has the potential to give me one or is causing me enough stress to feel like I have one."

Ylvir recovered from his almost-giggles once his mother stopped. "Kinda like when da' says I'm a pain in the—"

His mother put a hand over his muzzle-like mouth. "I can only guess the things your father says when I'm not in the room. Goodness knows it's bad enough when I am there. But you are not to go repeating whatever word it was you were about to say, alright?"

Ylvir nodded, and his mother removed her hand.

"But yes, it's sort of like that. When I tell my stories, I'm not always just talking about the individual characters, I'm also talking about us—ourselves. Everyone has a potential to be any one of the characters, or even a mix of them in their own stories. One day we may be the hero, and the next we may be the damsel in distress."

"What character am I?" Ylvir asked eagerly.

"Oh, Ylvir," his mother said tenderly, stroking the fur around his face. "You can be whatever character you want to be. We all have that choice."

Ylvir cocked his head in thought. "So wot y'sayin' is that I could be a drag'n?"

"Yes. Or a pretty princess," his mother teased him, and he pulled a face made stranger by his features.

"No way," he said, hopping of the table and posing. "I'm gonna be a knight. A brave knight with shiny armor an' a horse an' a sword, an' value."

His mother gave him a look only mothers are capable of. "Valor, dear. And of course you can be the knight. Just promise me one thing."

"Alright," he readily agreed, his sharp teeth shining brilliantly in a giant grin.

"Promise me that you won't let anyone turn you into a bad guy."

He nodded vigorously. "Promise."