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Liquid silver, the essence of peace, gently rested upon the wooded hills, pouring down like silent rain from its source in the heavens. Beneath the trees, only narrow slits and small patches of moonlight reached the forest floor. Little sound save the night song of the crickets and the wind through the leaves hung upon the air. A low rustling of the brush added briefly to the noise, and bright scales slid in and out of a patch of light. The scales were broad and silver-grey, but the slightest hintings of green played beneath the moonlight's silver. Scars crisscrossed the scales, paler than pale in the instant they were lit. Unlit, scar and scale alike were dark, hard to see, merely a deeper shadow in the darkness. They paused. Legs tensed, talons silently gripping nervously at the soft earth. Nearby, a frog croaked out a harsh, throaty shout, and the talons, startled, dug into the soil. A sigh blew tensely over fanged teeth and the talons relaxed. A long tail curled and uncurled, flicking in a feline manner while a horned head twisted and tilted, ears raised, listening once more. Looser now, less tense.

The head turned, giving a low whisper. "Do you hear them?"

Another rustling, and a second mass of scales passed through the patch of light. Moonsilver played in bright blue eyes for half an instant, then upon smaller, younger scales, unmarred and smooth and full of emerald luster that not even the paleness of the moonlight could dim. A small voice rose from the younger.

"I think... Kind of."

"Come, we're nearly there. We must be swift and stealthy."

And the pair was off again through the shadows. When they next passed into the moonlight, the dragoness sighed with relief.

"We may speak more freely here," she said to the youngling at her side, "There is an enchantment over this place. They will not hear."

"The humans?"

"Right, the humans. Their village is at the bottom of this slope. Come and see."

She beckoned to the youngling and walked across the clearing, settling low in the tall grass, hidden from all but the keen eyes of her child. Here, the silence of the night was broken somewhat, the gentle moonlight tainted with warmth. Songs rose softly from the bottom of the slope, touching the child's ears gently as he approached, uncertain of what he would see. Anxious and curious. Reluctant and eager. Conflicted. Eagerness and curiosity won out.

The songs were strange, exotic to his ears. They were bigger and braver than any songs the crickets or frogs sang, big and brave and ponderous like the songs of his own home, like those the dragons sang. Yet they were different, so very different...

He reached the edge and was immediately cast over by warmer light than what the moon could ever bestow. Sparks rose like fairies, up, up from the fires around which the singers were gathered. Humans. Vicious, cruel humans who hunted dragons for their scales and claws and horns and teeth.

...Yet, there were children among them. Younglings... Human younglings, but younglings nonetheless. They sang, and smiled--not the smiles of sadistic killers, but the smiles of those surrounded by their loved ones, singing their strange human songs that soared into the night sky in strength and wonder, riding on the wings of the bright children of the dancing embers.

The question had weighted his mind before. It welled up again now and slipped almost listlessly through his maw.

"Why do we fear them, mother?"

"Because we must,"

"But why, Mother?" the child asked, his voice soft, imploring, and earnestly curious. "Why must we fear them?"

She was both sad and strangely touched when she answered him.

"Because they hunt us."

She knew what he would ask next. She had shown the same sight to six of his siblings and they had all asked it. Long ago, she had asked it of her own father when he had taken her to the same spot on a night much like this one. But for a moment, he said nothing. He only stared down at the human village, head cocked to the side and ears raised, watching, listening. Enthralled.

When he did at last speak, what he said surprised her greatly.

"But... Why? Why do they hunt us? Perhaps they fear us as well, Mother? I mean... look, listen. There they are, talking, eating, singing, teaching... living their lives the best they can, same as us."

He turned his head sharply around and stared at his mother for a moment. His eyes... so bright, so innocent, so very innocent... yet the darkness of hurt laid beneath, the passion and angst of burning loss. Yet, the passion--his passion--was not fueling anger or resentment. Instead, it was feeding... something else. Something different. Something--she felt--that was wonderful, or that had the potential to be, if only it was nurtured and protected. She hadn't even the time to think of hiding her surprise before he asked, "Have I said something wrong?"

"No, Andil! Not wrong at all. Just... unusual."

He stared at her for a moment, thoughtful. "I was supposed to ask why we're afraid of them... Right? We're bigger and stronger, so why hide from them... But I've already wondered that, Mother. I already answered. It's because there's more of them. So very many more that to try to go to war would only end in our own extinction. I think I understand that, Mother. I understood some time ago... but to think about it made me feel... angry, bitter. It hurt to feel that way. It ached. I didn't like how that felt, so I started wondering other things."

He turned back to gaze again at the humans. The wind rose briefly and rustled the trees and the grass atop the hill, sending the sparks swirling in fantastic patterns. Moonlight caught a shimmering glimpse of a tear as it fell to the ground.

"...Like, how many human children would lose their daddies in such a war. And then I wondered how many had already. There was a war... you said so. Maybe they're just afraid. Maybe they can't help it. Maybe they're taught about us the same way we're taught about them."

Andil's voice was low and somber. His mother sat on her haunches, stunned... stunned but thoughtful, marveling. Pondering. Wondering. What if... what if... What if?

The wind lowered again and left a strange restlessness in its place.

"Maybe... maybe, Mother, there's a few... a few of them who look at us. And maybe when they look at us, and listen, they see and hear us talking, eating, singing, and living our lives, same as them. And maybe they ask the same questions that I do..."

His voice became lower still, trembling, wandering, wondering, grasping at tendrils of light from a brighter world that might have been, and yet having no true concept of what he was trying to grasp.

"Maybe they wonder why. Maybe they realize that we're only afraid. Maybe..." Andil choked briefly, trying bravely to swallow his sobs as the moon bore witness to the fall of another tear. His next words came in a whisper. "Maybe they wonder how many of us have lost our daddies."

She stood again, moving forward toward her youngest child, the smallest of all his siblings--a runt. Smallest, but perhaps the wisest of them... the most tender, most insightful. His was a more sensitive heart, but that very thing was breaking it--had already broken it. His spirit was not meant for such dark, fearful times... no, it seemed to be from another time, but whether past or future, she couldn't tell. Instinct drove her to draw closer, to wrap herself about him, to hold him, keep him safe, prevent him from unraveling, from breaking. Before she reached him though, he spoke again, voice stronger this time. Fuller. Brighter. Hopeful.

"Maybe they hope it could stop. Maybe they think things could get better, if only we'd stop fearing each other. I think some of them do... They aren't so different, there's just more of them... surely some wonder the same things. Surely..."

He fell silent again, listening to the humans sing. It was an old language, strange to him, but it felt somehow warm and familiar, friendly. It seemed to reach down into his soul and take ahold of him there, pulling, tugging... no... more gently than that. Nudging, encouraging. Loving. Andil didn't need to understand the words to understand the song. It was a song of family, of loved ones. Of those who had already passed. A song of remembrance. He sniffed and bit back another sob.

"So much like us..." he whispered, so quietly that only the moon heard him, big and full in the sky, seeing and hearing all. Once again, it saw Andil's tears as they fell. His mother moved forward and laid a wing over his back. The warmth it gave him made the night air seem very starkly cold, and he pressed himself against her flank, eyes closed and head bowed, silent, letting the tears come. His mother held him tenderly. She too understood the song, and she too sat with lowered head and closed eyes, remembering, mourning.

The wind soughed across the treetops, whispering spells of comfort in the ancient tongue of the leaves.

"Daddy... was a good person..."

"Yes. He was."

Andil waited a moment.

"The humans... the men... they thought he was bad, even though he was really just protecting us. They were just trying to protect their own families."

A statement, not a question. His mother thought about his words for what might have been many eternities. She had thought the same many times. It never healed the pain. Yet, the only alternatives were bitterness or breaking. Break she would not. Bitterness only added to that pain, so it was a useless burden to hold. She took a deep breath.

"Perhaps... Perhaps they were. Yes."

"So is it everyone's fault, or nobody's?"

She opened her eyes and met those of her son, staring up at her, thoughtful and sad, but so very bright and innocent too--against all odds, so innocent... Slowly, she nodded.

"I don't know, Andil, but I think that is a wise question. I think it is a wise question indeed."

He closed his eyes again and tilted his head back, relishing either the humans' song or the sensation of the cool night breeze on his scales. Perhaps both. She watched him, pondering his spoken thoughts... marking their depth and importance. Locking them away in her heart.

"Mother?"

He opened his eyes again, but averted them. "I'd like to go home now."

She nodded. Words were such useless things. They always failed her when she needed them most. Still, perhaps a nod was all the response he truly needed, and he seemed satisfied enough with it. The corners of her mouth turned upwards in a thin, worn smile, and she led him out of the clearing and away.

In their village at the foot of the slope, the humans continued singing long into the night, as was their custom--to sing to the full moon. The moon, however, only half-listened this time. Rather, it pondered what it had heard. Impacted by the small dragonling's words, it began to tell the stars of what it had seen, what the runt Andil had said, what he had asked. There was destiny about the child, they all agreed.

And all the stars and the moon looked down again on the earth with a glimmer of hope and a shimmer of dread, for destiny is treacherous. Yet hope burns strongly once lit, and so the stars shone more brilliantly that night than they had for millennia.

The sparks of the singing-fires rose up to touch them in the skies, and all of wide creation pondered what things might be.