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"Hyromaq, would you please play for me?"

"Of course I would, my little princess. Would you like something special?"

"Would you play the windsong again?"

She could hear the smile in his voice. "With pleasure."

The strings came alive before her, and she relaxed herself, feeling the grin on her muzzle go almost from ear to ear. Hyromaq never disappointed her; the only times he declined to play was when he felt bad, or if it were time for her to be asleep. Just now, feeling the occasional touch of the sun to her face, feeling the wind in her short headfur, she reveled in the sounds that always made her feel as if she were flying, with nothing between her and the sun's radiant touch save for the "blue sky." That's what he had called it, although he explained that the air, the wind itself, wasn't "blue"; it's just the way that the sky looked when the sun was out. When the sun went to sleep, and it was colder outside of the dens, the sky looked like the black she was so familiar with, except for little "white dots" called stars, and something called the "moon," that came and went, changing shape over many nights running.

Around her, just slightly past her focus upon the music, she heard the sounds of her small tribe doing familiar things. The smell of the cooking fires told her that they would be eating soon, and she could tell that it must have been Kyliah's turn at the meats - she had coyly refused to tell anyone else where to find the particular herbs that she used, but all the tribe thought it merely a cute game, by this time. She heard the words of conversation from adults, a lilting cry of childish laughter from cubs playing a game somewhere, felt the shifting of the breeze slightly, telling her that rain would come by tomorrow, unless it passed slyly to one side of their home, teasing but not touching. She leaned against the tree, feeling its strength at her back, sensed how very tall it must be to be so wide at the bottom as it was. She almost knew the tree's name, although the other young lions and lionesses would tease her when she said such things.

Well, most of them did. Raqmon didn't. He was always kind to her, listened to her, helped when needed, let her do things when she could. Some of her young contemporaries teased her that he was trying to gain her favor in hope of being a mate one day. She was too young to take things like that too seriously - almost of age, later this season - but she thought she wouldn't have minded much. His voice was low and pleasant, and his muzzle felt strong when she touched his face with her forepaws, and he smelled good. The two of them had talked a lot, over time, and she felt safe with him around. That counted for a lot, she thought. Still...

The music wrapped around her as Hyromaq brought the strings softly to their resting place again. He finished with a sweet melancholy, and she could feel him smiling gently at her. "Thank you," she said softly.

"You never tire of that song."

"Never," she agreed.

"Will you tell me?"

She considered. Hyromaq was kind also, a music and story-maker to the tribe for most of his life. He told stories that she could understand, explained things, showed her things patiently, gave her confidence in what she could do. She could tell him a story, perhaps. He would listen. She needed someone to listen, not just to hear, but to listen.

"I want to, Hyromaq. Of everyone in our tribe, I think you would know what I mean." She turned her head toward him as she heard him come sit closer to her. "I think I need one more dream."

"You're that close?"

It didn't surprise her that his response was so simply practical. He never doubted her, and he never questioned her. He was the only lion in the tribe who accepted what she said at its own value, although Raqmon tried his best; he was still subject to the teasing of the other kits. She considered a moment more before replying, "I think so."

She felt his forepaw cup her cheek softly. "I will want to hear all," he whispered to her. His smile appeared in her ears again. "Once more?"

"Please, Hyromaq?"

"Of course, my princess. To dream with."

The strings sang again.

* * * * * * * * * * *

She shifted from beneath the blanket that covered her in sleep. This was not a night for sleep, she knew; it was a night for dreaming. This paradox never disturbed her, because the dreams that she spoke of to Hyromaq were different from those she had known from her kittenhood. Those, she had experienced while asleep.

Rising from her slumber place, she moved silently through the den. The night was no stranger to her, no matter the time of day, and from her earliest years, she had known how to navigate the area of their close tribal space. The night breeze carried a scent to her that she knew best on nights like this one, the nights when the air was slightly damp (the rain was not far away, she thought), when something itched in her fur, what she called the touch of that "moon" that she'd been told of. She clicked her tongue against her teeth, soft sharp sounds, and she could hear how sound moved differently as she neared the wooded area, how the calls of night birds and ferals came only so close and no closer. From that instinctive boundary, her forepaws touched trees that made her hindpaws step with confidence. She would not have to travel far. He never made it difficult for her, but she did have to move through the first part of the journey on her own.

He was always silent until she spoke first. She had to know that he was there, not by any physical sense, but simply _knowing._It was this ability that first drew him to her, and it was this same ability - this dreaming - that she knew he was drawing out from within her. Terrifying at first, it was now becoming something more like responsibility. There was something that she had to do, something for her tribe.

She wasn't really a princess; that was just Hyromaq's jest with her, his way of honoring her when she was still a kit, trying to understand her world through sound, scent, and touch. Their tribe was led by the strong and the experienced, with council elders who were still consulted for their wisdom, and action was taken by the few who had proven themselves worthy through such action, through hunt, through combat when necessary. She was not the child of one of these males, whether warrior or elder; there was no royalty in their tribe, no hierarchy of mere status. Even so, she, like the rest of her tribe, felt keenly the need to contribute whatever was possible to the good of all. This, perhaps, would become her contribution.

She stopped. The sound of the flowing water, a small creek, confirmed her arrival. It masked other sounds, making her vulnerable, but the area itself was familiar to her from the thousand times she had come here, alone or with others, to fill pots with water from upstream, to bathe downstream, even to catch fish when the season was right. She felt the ground below her hindpaws change from the loam and soil of the forest to the small stones and sandy edges of the creek bed. She knew that he had always preferred an area that wasn't under the sheltering arms of trees, although she had never asked why. He was near, yet not near enough. She did not like calling out to him loudly. That felt too much like a disturbance. Instead, she breathed softly, letting her heart reach out to him, letting her nose bring her to him (he was upwind tonight; how strange...). A double pawful of steps, and she stopped, turning slightly to her left.

"Hello, Cirocco."

"Welcome, Zita."

She had always loved his voice - deep, smooth, round tones, almost like singing. She smiled, the scent of him claiming him as kin and yet different. Even from their first meeting, she had not been afraid. In her way, she had sought him, and she had found him. "It is tonight, isn't it?"

"If you wish it so."

"I trust you."

"And yourself?"

Zita paused to ask her heart; Cirocco would not have accepted a rash answer. "I trust what I need to be. I'm not sure that those are the right words. I feel... this is myself."

"You are ready, young lioness."

She raised up her arms, and in moments, she felt the large familiar face of what must be the largest lion of all. His mane was thick, full, smelling of the wind and the day's sun and the tall, whispering trees. He put his forehead to hers, a familiar gesture of love and affection that only made her more sure of her decision. This was the last dream.

"It is time. Close your eyes, for the last time."

The lioness felt no fear; darkness was darkness to her. She let her eyelids close. She felt Cirocco move his head upward slightly, and his lips kissed her forehead.

Allow me to pick you up, she heard him say, but somehow her ears were not involved. I will place you upon my back.

She felt his huge forepaws turn her gently, then grasp her about her middle and raise her up. In but a moment, she felt his powerful shoulders underneath her, her legs about his neck, like the pickaback rides that she enjoyed as a kit. Without thinking, she gripped his mane tightly, felt herself about to apologize.

No, that is right - hold me. Feel your balance on me, know that I will not let you fall.

After just a few moments, she felt more secure, sighing softly, a smile on her muzzle. She brushed her forepaws through his mane, felt a rumbling that might be the beginnings of a purr. Her tail moved lazily, brushed against something different, something unexpected along his back, before settling down, tucking slightly around her. Cirocco put tender forepaws to her calves and held them firmly.

Now. She felt more than heard the words.We are ready.

She felt him rise beneath her, as if stretching on his hindpaws to his full height. The muscles of his back moved powerfully behind her, and her nostrils caught the scent of something like birds, and with a sound of wind rushing by, she sensed him leap high into the air.

He did not come back down.

The air around her felt cool, rushing through her headfur, through the thick mane of the lion underneath her. Rhythmic pounding sounded all around her, and the sensation of rising, of climbing, of going only upward confused her. She squeezed her knees together slightly, leaned against the back of Cirocco's head, partly to warm herself, partly for balance, partly... Zita breathed in the great lion's scent, calming herself. He would not harm her. She had dreamed him. He was part of her life...

Open your eyes now, kitling.

Timidly, she began to raise her lids, worried that the cold air might sting them, and she felt tears forming to protect them, which was good, but it made the light seem...

...the light...

Through my own eyes, Zita. Look you, lioness; your tribe needs you to see.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Tell us, young lioness."

Zita felt Hyromaq near, his forepaw on hers. "Just as you told me, Zita. Have no fear. I have told them a few things already, but they need to hear it from you."

Swallowing once, she began. "I have dreamed of Cirocco often over the years. Not like sleep-dreaming. I met him when awake, and he took me dreaming." She paused, felt the eyes of the council upon her, the eyes of all the tribe. She felt them, almost as if she could look back at them, and she knew that she was not understood. "I am not good with words. They feel different to me, I think."

"We are listening," said an old, wise voice, the elder known as B'layah. "Hyromaq tells us that you have an important story to tell."

"It happened," she said, a little defensively, then knew she'd made a mistake. "I experienced it." That felt right. "I have met Cirocco many times."

"Another lion, one we know nothing about?" A younger voice, La'anto, some impatience creeping into his voice.

"More than a lion," Zita said softly. "He... took me on a journey."

"Through the air." A voice like her father's, but not him (Tyr'yan, she thought). "A lion took you through the air."

"Yes." She let the word hang in the quiet for a moment. She felt Hyromaq squeeze her forepaw gently, and she understood that he had told them at least this part of the tale already. "He took me upon his back and leapt high in the air, and we did not come back down for a long time. And as we flew, he... he let me see."

A susurration surrounded her, and she gathered herself, waiting for accusations. Something must have been done, some gesture made, as the sounds quieted, and B'layah the elder spoke again. "Can you tell us what you saw?"

"Yes. This is what I need to explain. I have words for things that I have never known, because my eyes have always been dark. Cirocco let me see, and he told me what things were as I saw them. I saw the moon, so bright, and I saw a face in it, smiling down upon our world. I saw the mountains, not that far away, not from the air. I know now what 'mountain' means, what it feels like, looks like - hard, rugged, tall, solid. I know what tree tops look like. I know what a night sky looks like, with stars, some that seem to... Cirocco said that they 'twinkle,' and I think I understand what that means now. He showed me the place upriver, where there is a small 'lake,' he called it. I have heard the males here use that word. I have touched a canoe, I know it is to travel on water, so that proves nothing... but I know how it would be used now, on a wide space of water."

She paused for breath, and the young voice said, "What color are trees?"

"Which trees, La'anto?" Zita asked gently. "Near our camp, by the light of the moon, they are dark, with brushy points, what Cirocco called 'needles,' pine needles. But closer to the lake, the leaves changed. They are many colors, shades of gray and white in the moonlight - all words that he taught me as I saw - but the leaves are flat, spread out. He told me that the leaves change colors when the cold season comes, and then they fall, and they burst out newborn when the growing season begins."

Another voice - Raqmon. "Zita, I believe you. And I think we all want to believe you." A soft snort from some direction voiced a minority opinion. "You've told of things that you could not have known if you hadn't seen. You are again in darkness, is that true?"

"Yes," she whispered softly.

"Perhaps we don't understand how that could be. Can you tell us?"

"I have told you of a lion taking me flying through the air. Do you doubt that something else wondrous could happen?"

"No. Perhaps that is why I wonder why your eyes are once again dark." The voice, tender with caring, was closer. Zita sensed movement, and she caught the faintest bit of Raqmon's scent. The voice was more even with her head now, and she sensed that he must be kneeling just in front of her. "I'm hoping that there is something you can tell us that will remove all doubt."

She thought for a moment. "I saw one last thing before I went back to sleep. Raqmon, I've known for a long time of the scar that Hyromaq carries on his forearm. Please, touch his arm and tell me if you can feel the difference where his fur grows."

A pause. "The fur feels the same, but--"

"--but it is a different color. Fur growing from a scar is a different color; I have been told this, even without really knowing what 'color' is. I could not know exactly where the scar is by touch, is that true?"

"It is true."

"Hyromaq..." She could sense him shifting. She reached out to find his arm, and taking it in one forepaw, she rubbed the other along his forearm, from wrist to elbow. "What I saw started about... here..." She touched a single fingertip pad to a point a little less than halfway down from the bend at his elbow, on the inside of his arm. "It curves a little," she said, moving the pad of one finger toward the wrist, moving, changing direction, "and ends about... here."

For a long moment, nothing was said. She returned Hyromaq's arm to him, and he placed it around her shoulder. In front of her, she sensed Raqmon had turned his head toward the council. "Do we require further proof?"

"There is the possibility that this was arranged between you," the young voice said slowly, "but I cannot see why you would do so. Forgive me, Zita, if I hold doubt; I do not mean to hold evil against you. What you say is so very new. Perhaps..."

"I understand, La'anto. You want what is best for the tribe. You guard. Thank you." She waited a moment in silence before adding quietly, "There is a message."

"From Cirocco?"

"Yes. There is another tribe. Cirocco does not take them flying, because they already can fly. The message is that we need to find each other. We can grow together. These flying people are not strangers, not enemies. We need each other."

"We need no one," La'anto said, forceful but not spitting. He knew that the elders would criticize him if he showed poor manners. "We are strong. We are secure. We are--".

"--dying," she finished for him. "We are not as strong as we think."

"Why do you say this, lioness?" B'layah asked softly.

"You try to protect me. You may think me weak, but I know more, can bear more, than you think. Our numbers are smaller. Some few have left, but I do not think that they simply have gone to a new hunting place. We are not starving, but we are vulnerable." She paused, listening. More susurrations, louder, before she cut across the noise. "I do not speak to hurt us, to break faith. I love our tribe, and that is why I dreamed. It is why I sought out the otherness of Cirocco. Because it is my way to give, not to take. Because we need others."

After a long silence, the eldest voice spoke again. "You have described things that you could not otherwise have known. I believe that you have seen. I will even believe that you have been flying. I do not understand how, or even why. But I believe your tale."

"There is one more thing, B'layah," Hyromaq spoke softly, squeezing her forepaw. "Zita, my princess... tell them _how_Cirocco took you flying. Tell what you told me."

The lioness paused, tried to control her nervous tail. "Cirocco is more than just a lion. He has wings. That is how he took me flying."

"That's..." spluttered La'anto, then he righted himself. "A lion with wings?"

"A huge lion with wings," Zita said, "larger than any here. If he were an enemy, he would not hesitate to destroy us. But he is one of us. He is different, but he is one of us. He wants to help us."

"That cannot be! It just cannot--"

"He is near..."

Zita heard the voice as if from a distance, unclear at first that it was she who spoke. She raised up her muzzle, looking upward even though her eyes were still dark. She was as certain of what she had said as she was the night before, when she flew, when she saw, when she understood.

"Look for him," she said. "Look to the skies, look--"

She heard an uncharacteristic scream, a commotion, a tumult of voices and movement. Raqmon jumped up, tried to grab her forepaws.

"NO!" she screamed. "Don't hurt him!"

"We have to get you to safety--"

"I'm safe with him. We all are!" Her cries we nearly drowned in other voices, many fleeing to the trees. She gripped Raqmon's forepaws. "Raqmon! Hyromaq! You have to stop them!"

The sounds of strung bows and flying arrows sizzling through the air.

"Zita, calm, stay calm." Hyromaq's muzzle was turned upward, his voice filled with awe. "The arrows aren't touching him. He's... he's huge, but they can't touch him. He's dodging every one. Nothing's even coming near."

Slowly, the sounds of bows firing came to a stop, and some curses could be heard, grunted under spits of anger. B'layah could be heard finally, and he admonished his archers to cease. Their efforts were wasted, he said, and not needed.

"The shadow against the sky is that of a lion, but with huge wings," he said. "He is like nothing even the legends speak of. Zita, can you tell us... I know that your eyes have again gone dark, but do you sense him?"

"Yes." The lioness rose to stand where she was, her muzzle still turned upward. "Cirocco," she whispered, "can you hear me?"

The long silence was broken by Raqmon. "The creature is hovering above us, his wings flapping like a great bird, but he stays where he is, painted against the sky."

"Cirocco, will you come down to me?"

Another silence, broken finally by her own voice.

"There is another."

A screeing cry came from high above. Hyromaq, standing next to her, was the first to call out. He turned then and spoke softly to her. "A smaller figure, like a bird, gliding on widespread wings."

Before the lioness could speak, she heard the tribal elder issue the command. "Place your bows and quivers upon the ground. There will be no violence here. This is an emissary, is he not, young Zita?"

"Yes, B'layah." Her eyes were still dark, but she felt the second presence as much as she felt Cirocco. Around her, she felt and heard the warriors disarming themselves. Pushing gently past Raqmon, she stepped sure-pawed into the center of the clearing that was her tribal ground. Her muzzle turned upward, her tail still, her arms spread slightly away from her body, she stood and waited, hearing the sounds of wings, smaller than Cirocco's, and in moments, wind moved around her and something - some_one_ - landed on the ground before her.

"Name me."

The voice was higher than she expected, male, but more like a cub's voice. Zita looked briefly into her heart, and Cirocco gave the name to her.

"You are Zefirino."

"You are Zita." He moved closer. She smelled his wings, like the bird-scents from Cirocco, from the birds she had known around her since she was a kit. "Cirocco told me that you would want to touch my face, to know me."

"If you will allow it."

"You will keep soft your paws?"

She heard the smile in his voice, and she smiled back. "I have not travelled so far in my life, to meet you, and then unsheathe my claws." She held out her forepaws. "You have... wings?"

"I do. And I have forepaws, like Cirocco. I stand on claws, like birds, but my forepaws have no claws. Let me touch your paws and bring them to my face."

Zita nodded slowly. She felt forepaws very similar to her own, and they moved her arms gently, almost with reverence, until she was able to touch his cheeks. She felt the hardness of... a beak, is that what beak feels like? The birds that she had heard, had even fed from her paw sometimes, would not stay still long enough for her really to know. Zefirino did not move, let her explore his face for some little time. She felt feathers, short soft feathers, there on his face. He did not have headfur, but feathers still, going back over his head and behind. So smooth, unless she tried to move her paw the wrong way. He started slightly, managed a small laugh.

"Yes, like your fur, they do lie a certain way."

"Feathers."

"Yes."

She paused, reached one forepaw for one of his own. "I cannot see faces for you, but I know that our tribal council is here. B'layah?"

"I am here, Zita."

"Are you the Chieftan?" Zefirino asked softly.

"We are a small tribe," the elder's voice smiled. "The council is just that; we have no formal rulers here."

"How unusual," the avian murmured. "Perhaps you could teach us something; sometimes, I think, we get in our own way, trying to act."

"Tell us of your tribe."

"We roost in the mountain, not far from here." Zefirino's voice rose to address the lions and lionesses that Zita could hear coming closer. "We are not many in number - perhaps as many as yourselves. We fly above the trees, but we do not venture into the thick of the forest; we have strength in flight, but are more vulnerable when we are on the ground. My tribe mistrusted my dreams of Cirocco at first. But you too have seen him today - he is of your tribe and mine, together. He is, I think, a symbol of our unity. You can venture where we cannot; we can see where you cannot. We could learn how to help each other."

"Why should we?" La'anto spoke firmly, but Zita could hear no anger in his voice.

"Because any of us is stronger with an ally than alone. Because we have been brought together by a shared dream. Because... Cirocco."

Zita felt the young lion move closer, knew his scent. "I am La'anto. I speak here only for myself. In my life, I have not known any such as you, nor he who brought you here. I am not prepared simply to accept you and your tribe into our own."

"Nor should you." Like the lion, the avian spoke without rancor. "You show great strength, approaching me. You show wisdom, to speak plainly. I would not wish to be opposite you in battle, La'anto; I would much rather have you beside me. I come only with the message that my tribe hopes that yours will go forward with us. That message may not have an answer for a time."

Zita felt Zefirino shift slightly. "I extend a forepaw to you, in respect... in friendship, if you can accept it."

A long moment passed.

"In respect," La'anto said softly. "And I hope for more."

The lioness let loose a breath that she didn't know she was holding. She cast her heart upward, thanking Cirocco with every fiber of her being.

We will meet again, young lioness.

And there in the crowd of her tribe, as they came to speak and press paws with Zefirino, she felt that the last dream had been fulfilled, just as Hyromaq said it would be...

* * * * * * * * * *

The moon shone in the small glade, its light caressing all within its benevolent sight. The water in the brook babbled softly, as if in accompaniment to the sounds of the strings being played. The lion brought the song to its soft end and smiled at his listener. "She has done well."

"Did you doubt?"

"No, in truth, I didn't. She will be part of the council one day."

"I believe so, yes. As will Zefirino, and the young warrior too, perhaps."

"Shall she see again?"

"I promised her that her eyes would be closed for the last time. The eyes of her spirit are open now; she will see again, and soon."

The lion bard shifted, relaxing himself in the grass. "Will you help our tribes to unite?"

"The dream is known now. I have helped already."

"You made it possible. I was but your emissary."

The great winged lion made a shrug, rearranging his wings slightly. "You made her dreaming possible. Your music - what you just played for me, what she called the 'windsong' - that was what sent her to me. You opened her heart to dream me."

Hyromaq smiled softly, his voice even. "I dreamed you first. But I could not be your emissary."

"No. You are a bard, a natural dreamer. Your stories are imagined as fictions. Those who are not touched as you are can never let themselves believe what you show them. They do not know how much your heart has seen."

"So you needed an innocent."

Tufted tail tapping slowly in the grass, the winged lion considered his answer. "You make it sound as if I led her to slaughter."

"Not at all," the bard chuckled. "The council would not be swayed by a teller of tales. Zita was the best choice. Even as a cubling, her heart was so very large. She was different, but never diminished by it. Teaching her was as natural, as easy, as my singing and playing for her. And you gave me the song to lead her to you."

"No, music-maker. You heard the song in your heart. Even though you have not ridden upon my back, you knew the feeling of gliding. Your heart and your music, as much as my dreaming, brought her here. You will meet and understand, and the tribes will go on, together."

"Be it so." Hyromaq smiled. "Again?"

"If you please, gentle bard."

"Just as you wish," the lion smiled. His fingers touched the strings, and the great gryphon before him purred softly as he, the dream, dreamed of gliding...