Short Story: More Than Figments

by Michael Meyerhofer

Never answer the door when it’s raining.

In fact, if your goal is to get away from the noisy bustle of Lyos (not to mention the reek of the Dark Quarter) by moving to a little cabin on the plains, miles from anything that won’t kill you, it’s best to never answer the door, period.

Especially at night.

But the storm had been raging across the Simurgh Plains since sundown, rattling the shelves and disrupting my writing, and I was seriously due for a break. So without thinking, I got up and crossed the one sparse room that was my home. The burning lamp on my desk cast my shadow across the door as I undid the latch and pushed it open. I only meant to open it a little ways but the wind caught it and yanked it right out of my grasp. It banged against the side of the cottage. I winced as cold rain pelted my face.

“Who’s there?”

A cloaked woman stood in my doorway, platinum tresses tumbling out of her bone-white hood. Blinking away the rain, I saw startling eyes—purple eyes—staring back at me. It wasn’t the color that made my heart jump in my throat, though. It was the pupils: not black, but white as the hood around them.

“I suppose you know why I’m here.” She scowled as she lowered her hood, revealing long, tapered ears that framed the cold beauty of her angular features. Wisps of purple flame flitted about her fingertips.

As though in answer, the sky rumbled.

I eyed the curved sword leaning against the far wall, hopelessly out of reach, and tried to smile. “Well, that’s quite a thunderstorm. Maybe—” I trailed off, realizing for the first time that despite standing in the rain, her cloak and face looked as dry as the sun-bleached bones of the deer I’d spotted a couple days before, laying mournful on the plains. I swallowed hard. “Want to come in?”

“I’d rather burn this house down with you in it—but yes, I suppose we can talk first.” She pushed past me, surprisingly strong. I resisted the impulse to sprint out into the night and closed the door instead. I turned, shivering. “Listen, Silwren, I—”

“You forgot to light your hearth.”

I blinked. “What?”

Silwren answered by pointing to the cold hearth at the far end of the room. I’d run out of wood and hadn’t had the will to chop more before the rains started. Without a word, Silwren sent violet flames roiling off her fingertips. They splashed in the hearth, twisting and writhing. Despite the lack of fuel, the hearth roared to life. Already, I could feel sweat beading on my forehead, though I wasn’t sure how much of it was caused by the heat.

“Thanks,” I managed.

“Don’t mention it.” She faced me with folded arms. “Now, I’m not usually one to repeat myself but—”

“I know why you’re here.” I don’t know where I got the guts to interrupt a Dragonkin (maybe stupidity would be a better word) but I figured that in a case like this, boldness was as good a strategy as any. “You want to know why I keep having so many awful things happen to you.”

Silwren’s violet eyes narrowed. Another crack of thunder preceded her answer. “Not just me. My people. And my friends—especially Rowen. He deserves better. You of all people know that.”

I nodded. “I know he does. But that’s the point. If nothing bad ever happened, there wouldn’t be a story. You need conflict because conflict allows for resolution. And resolution allows for growth…” I trailed off. Silwren glared at me, tapping her foot. I could tell she wasn’t buying it.

“Spare me the lofty incantations of the Isle Knights,” she answered derisively. “You’re no better than they are, you know!”

Despite my terror, I felt a smile tug at my lips. “Honestly, I’m probably not even that good.”

Silwren blinked. Then she started to smile, too, before smothering it with a fresh scowl. “I’m just saying, it wouldn’t hurt to have something nice happen in this world. A battle avoided, an illness cured, a kid with decent parents. That kind of thing. Maybe somebody could even fall in love!”

“Jalist fell in love,” I reminded her. “So did Rowen.”

Silwren rolled her eyes. “And how well did that turn out?”

She had a point. I shrugged. Thunder cracked again, rumbling through the cottage, jarring me through and through. Silwren regarded me coolly, unblinking.

“Just don’t forget, we’re more than figments of your imagination.” Silwren gave me so fierce a look that I felt my knees go weak.

“No danger of that,” I managed.

She stared at me a moment longer, then shook her head. “Enough. I have work to do.” She started for the door. As she went, she called over her shoulder, “As do you.” Rather than touch the door, she waved her hand and it swung open. She stared, unflinching, into endless miles of darkness and the rain. She sighed. Then, grasping her bone-white hood, she pulled it back up over her platinum tresses and vanished into the night.

I just stood there for a moment, as though spellbound, thinking about what she’d said. Cold rain swept into my cottage, though the droplets hissed and evaporated in the heat wafting off the magical flames still raging in my hearth. Suddenly, I had an idea—a good one, though I wasn’t sure Silwren would approve. I tossed the idea around in my mind, over and over. Finally, I smiled. Shielding my face from the wind, I headed for the doorway, caught hold of the door, and pulled it shut. I locked it. Then I went back to my desk, picked up the quill, and started to write.