Image: Crow How Country House

Soundtrack: Midnight Ambience

***

5 years after the Spirits' War

(a great conflict between shapeshifters and humanity)

Nwyfre

They say dragons live forever. They're not entirely wrong.

I take my lives in stride. Living each day to the fullest. The breeze buffeting against my scales, the smoke of civilization snaking into the distant sky.

Why Mac Tíre decided upon settling in the heart of it all I'll never understand. That's where he desires to be. Always has been. London was a mere infant back then. Dirt and straw. Poverty running rampant. And there the two of us were, sitting pretty in our new inn, playing reluctant host to the multitudes of entrepreneurial lords and ladies who deigned to visit that ruddy town. Now, centuries later, he's a family man, living in a quaint little cottage in the country.

It's been a couple years since I'd last visited, but sure enough, I catch a glimpse of the Bed and Breakfast bedecked in thick ivy and framed by pastel-hued fruit trees. Their petals, caught by the brisk breeze, scatter, swirling in mesmerizing patterns as I wander over the little bridge and wade through the lush garden.

I raise my hand to knock. Squeals from inside make me wince. The twins.

The door creaks like a panicked dolphin and a colossal man fills my sight. His arms are nearly twice the girth of my body and his full beard conceals his expression. I lower my stance to brace against the onslaught.

"And who might you be?" he rumbles with an Irish accent, voice so deep it rattles the stones like an earthquake.

The bear of a man—no, he'd kill me if I called him anything but wolf of a man—steps aside. Light filters past his immense frame, revealing a small foyer with a low-hanging chandelier. Paintings and photographs hang haphazardly, covering every inch of wall so the gilded paint beneath can scarcely be seen.

"New-fire! New-fire!" the children shriek, slamming into me and wrapping their spindly arms around my waist.

I grunt, nearly cursing but redirecting at the last second to a safe "Oof!". I meet their father's gaze, giving him a good-natured eye roll as I tousle the twins' hair. They squeal in unison, squeezing me tighter. Finally, they release me, peering up with big brown eyes.

Mac Tíre beams through his thick reddish-brown beard. "Leave yer shoes on—oh, o'course ye aren't wearing any—an' come make yerself useful. The kids've been jumpin' up an' down all mornin', but they'll undoubtedly sit down fer a story."

"When?" Pat demands, cocking his head.

I stick my tongue out at him. "When what?"

Sej laughs. "The story, silly!"

"By the First Guardian, kids," their father scolds. "Let yer uncle Nwyfre in afore ye torment him. Here, lemme get those for ye." He takes my saddlebags. I've got to get bigger ones; my dragon form has almost doubled in size in the last couple years, and it'll keep on growing.

I blink as I step over the threshold. The delightful scent of baking hits me and my brows rise, smile growing wider. "Hot cross buns?"

"O'course." He winks, hanging my cloak on one of the pegs by the door. The other pegs are stacked high with cloaks and coats of all sizes and colours.

"Booked up, I see?"

Mac Tíre pulls the door closed and I wince at the croak, now more like a disgruntled toad. He grimaces. At least, I think he does—it's hard to tell what's going on beneath that wooly mammoth on his face—and admits, "I've been meaning ta fix that. Don't remind Quinn or she'll get on me case about it again."

He raises a finger to his beard and I raise fingers to my clean-shaven face, miming zipping my lips shut.

"An' aye, we're booked up. First time this season. I think this is the most amount of spirits we've had at the ol' B&B as of yet. An' I'm not talkin' about booze this time." He outstretches an enormous arm, directing me into the sitting room.

My gaze lands first on his wife, Quinn, leader of the Welsh dragons. Despite her reputation of being the toughest of her kind, maybe more so than its founder—myself—she has tucked her mass of shoulder-length dark hair behind her ears and donned a soft beige sweater rather than her usual punk leather jacket. The sweater conceals part of the jagged scar that runs down the left side of her neck, ear to shoulder blade. She regards me warmly with nut-brown eyes and a half-smile, sitting primly on the couch. The twins scramble towards her, pulling a growl out of Quinn's cherry-red lips. My eyes widen at the sound, remembering her ferocity in battle. You can take the dragon out of the wilds, but you can't ever take the wild out of the dragon.

Light filters in from the skylight, illuminating the cozy den with afternoon sun. Ferns flourish in urns and devil's ivy creeps across the tops of the many bookshelves. There are so many plants in here, even one as old as I can't remember all their names. Mac Tíre's ancient sword, Adhair, rests regally on the mantelpiece, polished to a perfect shine. Photos and paintings adorn every inch of the walls, depicting the lives of the Mac Tíres and their many friends and family members. My disgruntled face—much too young for my liking, with short brown hair and dark hazel eyes—stares back at me from numerous photographs, usually with one of the twins hanging off my arm or neck. I smile at the memories.

Tearing my gaze from the wall, I scan the room, noting the familiar faces. Some I recall fighting alongside at the final battle between shapeshifters and humankind. They return my smile, apart from one elderly woman poised in the crimson armchair in the corner—

"Hello? Anybody home?"

The boy's tiny arms are crossed over his chest and his lip juts out. His sister mirrors his pose. The two are already seated on the threadbare rug facing the couch. The spitting images of Mac Tíre. But with Quinn's fire.

"Sorry, kiddos," I say with a sigh. "I've begun to daydream again. Happens when you get old."

"You're not old!" Pat protests, just a hint of his father's Irish accent lacing his words.

Much older than you think, kid.

Quinn raises her sleeve to conceal a snicker. "Please have a seat, Nwyfre. We're gonna have dinner at six. Sit here and watch my offspring, will ya?"

"Need any help?" Other than watching your spawn?

"Nah! I appreciate the offer, but we've got it all covered. I'm using the stove. Bakes things more evenly than dragonfire does." She beams as she bustles off into the kitchen. "And keep this family-friendly, please," she calls over her shoulder.

She knows me so well.

Flames splutter to life and jars clang as the scents of various spices fill the air. I shut my eyes and take it all in as I take a seat on the couch. The twins sit on my bare feet, smiles infectious as they continue to stare wide-eyed up at me. They're shapeshifters with half-wolf, half-dragon blood. Named after two spirits. Sejka after the old raven spirit who's now back in Canada, tending to her people. And Patrick after the spirit of the sun who, despite his divine origins, is a real troublemaker. Fitting choice.

Spirits like myself are immortal, but in order to walk around and fit in with mortals, we have to be born into human bodies. This body of mine has yet to reach adulthood; they see me as a big brother. I'll never admit it, especially not to Mac Tíre, but I don't mind. Much better than being treated like a god. Well, sometimes.

Mac Tíre clears his throat noisily. "Ye remember Xunnu, Palden, an' Utu. Oh, an' our permanent guests Elspeth and Ramsey, o'course."

I give the spirits and shapeshifters a casual salute, the last two of which are reclined in the armchairs at the far end of the room, snoring like freight trains. "Sure do. It's been a while, yeah?"

Xunnu, Chieftain of the five tribes of shapeshifters residing in Western Canada, offers a greeting in his native tongue and then adds, "I had to coordinate a few things with the tribes, but here I am traveling once again. I understand you're here to tell a story. I warn you: my expectations are high." The hint of a smile tugs at the edge of his lip. His ebony hair is pulled into a low ponytail and his dark eyes sparkle with mirth.

"Why do you talk funny?" Patrick asks bluntly, head cocked at Xunnu.

This is the first time the shapeshifter has been to the B&B since the twins were too young to remember him. Duties as Chieftain always had to come first—duties I know all too well.

Mac Tíre plops down beside me with a grunt, making the couch sink low. "Patty, that was rude. Apologize to Uncle Xunnu."

The boy opens his mouth, but Xunnu speaks first. "Mi morzu Yeva'si."

"What?" Sejka shrieks and then ducks her head at her father's pained expression. "Sorry."

"I speak Yeva'si, the language of my people. It's my first language and English is my second. When I speak English, my voice sounds a bit different. And when you learn my language someday, your voices will sound funny to me too."

"My second language is Cymraeg," the girl declares, puffing out her small chest, "an' I bet I sound funny!"

"Me too!" Patrick chimes in. "Sorry, uncle."

Xunnu dips his head. "Apology accepted."

Mac Tíre nods pridefully at his children. "The world is big," he explains, arms outstretched, "with many sorts o' people. We'll explore it all one day an' learn as many languages as ye can fit into those tiny brains o' yers."

"And go forest growin'," Sejka declares proudly.

He winks at his twins. "An' go forest growin'."

It's a spirit's favourite pastime. Coaxing the trees and other plantlife to grow a little quicker to keep up with the humans' destructive behaviours.

"Is it storytime yet?" the boy asks.

"Don't ask dumb questions," the girl scolds, sounding so much like Quinn I have to stifle a laugh. "Of course it's storytime!"

I purse my lips, pretending to think. "Oh, I don't know, Sej. We've talked so long it's getting late. I think storytime will have to wait until tomorrow."

She gasps. "No!"

I sneak a glance at the old red armchair in the corner of the den. It's Elspeth's prized possession. Well, it doesn't actually belong to her. She'd claimed it when the Mac Tíres took her in. To my relief, the elderly dragon and her husband—both in human form as their reptilian bodies would scarcely fit indoors—are still fast asleep, she in her favourite chair and he in the faded floral one beside it. Their hands are clasped together. A chorus of snores emanates from that side of the room. I resolve to remain quiet so as not to awaken the sleeping dragons.

"Alright. Keep quiet. No interruptions. That means you, Patty," I order, making eye contact with the little boy. The twins blink—one eye and then the other. Little owls they are. "Here we go."

Chapter dedicated to @AuthorJMColes because, if I remember correctly, they came up with the nickname "New-fire" due to Nwyfre's impossible-to-pronounce name 😋