26: The Little Dragon, Growing Strange

Nidhogg sensed Lilith slipping away like a fish darting into reeds.

After that baptism, the Little White Dragon took to the Mali Dance like a fledgling chasing wind. Each dawn she shot for the Mali Church like an arrow.

The hotel sat near the church like a lantern by the road. After a few test runs with Nidhogg, she traced the route like lines on her palm.

Lilith was still in her feather-dragon phase, a small girl with bright claws. She was naive like morning mist, yet not a leaf that strangers could pluck.

So she no longer needed Nidhogg as a ferry across the streets. She went and returned like the tide under the moon.

She burned with the Mali Dance like kindling under a spark. Nidhogg woke her, fed her breakfast, and she flew off until sunset colored the windows.

Mio went nearly a week without a private word with her, like a caller left at a closed gate.

Back at the hotel, Lilith ate, bathed, and sank into bed like a pebble into a pond. She drew a book from Nidhogg’s traveling shelf and let the pages rustle like leaves.

She read until the tiny tagalong hugging her finger dozed off like a chick under a wing. Then she shut the book and drifted into deep sleep.

That left Nidhogg only a sliver of morning, when the Little White Dragon was drowsy like dew. That was their lone island of time.

Lilith couldn’t sleep at night and couldn’t rise at dawn, like a moon that resists the sun. More than once, Nidhogg found her sitting at the bed’s edge, gazing at the starry sky like a pilgrim before a sea.

Each morning was a small battle, like pushing a boat against current. Lilith had low blood pressure and low sugar, so her spirit lagged like a wilting flower.

She clung to Nidhogg like sticky plaster. The Black Dragon carried her to wash like lifting a sleepy cat, then dressed her in easy clothes like wind-fit leaves.

Downstairs, she set Lilith in a chair like planting a sapling. A soft piece of bread in the mouth, and her stalled mind clicked back like a clock finding its tick.

After breakfast, clarity returned like sun through fog. Lilith checked her things like a sparrow counting twigs, and zipped out the door with bright impatience.

She ran for the Mali Church like a river seeking its bend, as if one extra breath with Nidhogg might slow her stream.

Still, Nidhogg was sure she wasn’t hated, like a hearth sure of its ember. She had two reasons, each like a pebble with weight.

First, Lilith sometimes talked in her sleep like a brook whispering. When dreams made her small, she mumbled “Nidhogg” in a honey-soft voice like cotton candy on the tongue.

Second, Lilith had picked up a bad habit of sleepwalking, like a moth wandering to lamplight. Back in the Dragon Territory, Lady Tartarus and Typhon had mentioned her restless nights.

Sometimes there were clanks from her room like wind tapping chimes. A Silver Dragon, up for water, once saw her drift out in a nightgown with eyes closed like a moonflower.

Nidhogg had never witnessed it herself, not until the dance lessons began. Then she discovered it like finding snow inside a sleeve.

In the deep of night, a wriggling white fluff-ball appeared in her quilt like a rabbit in hay. That’s how she knew.

Sleepwalking, Lilith slid into Nidhogg’s bedding with uncanny aim, like rain finding eaves. She looped her arms around Nidhogg’s waist like a sloth on a branch.

She rubbed her head like a kitten seeking a hand, and purred from her throat like a kettle barely singing.

The first night, Nidhogg held still like a stone under moss. After that, her guilty claws betrayed her, and she messed with Lilith’s hair like a breeze tumbling clouds.

In the feather-dragon phase, the ring of hair on Lilith’s head had grown long and plush, like down spun into a crown. Patterns curved there like etched frost.

Two locks hung by her cheeks and reached her chest like twin streams. She looked less like a fluffy bird and more like a floating jellyfish of silk.

She’d always been a comforting armful, but now the white fluff felt sweeter and softer, like an expensive pillow warm from sun. Nidhogg remembered her mother holding her that way, back in her own feathered days.

Little ones in the feather-dragon phase are a perfect hug, like warm bread in winter. That truth stayed like a charm under the tongue.

Beyond hair, her body was changing like spring pushing sap through twigs. Childhood lines blurred into new curves like ice melting into river.

She had outgrown the kid’s undershirt like a cicada shedding skin. Sizes shifted, cupboards rearranged, and the world made room like cloth stretched on a loom.

Nidhogg, feeling her doze against an arm at night, sensed the quiet promise there like seeds set deep. One day, that warmth would be a mother’s kind of light.

Nidhogg had prepared an easy outfit for dance, shorts and a short top like sails cut for wind. On Lilith now, it clung too close, like bark to a trunk.

After weighing reason and restraint like scales with sand, Nidhogg sealed the outfit away like a letter never sent.

Lilith’s waist had become a bright line, like moonlight across water. Nidhogg remembered watching from their window as Lilith headed for the Mali Church.

That day, her short shirt rode high in the breeze like a kite. She’d grown so fast the hem lost the race, and a ribbon of waist flashed like pale jade.

The street turned its gaze toward her like sunflowers tracking the sun. Only Lilith, smiling at some secret, walked on unaware like a lark in its song.

Her tail had lengthened like a drawn brushstroke. It stayed slim and neat, easy to catch at the root like a reed in hand.

Lilith’s growth in this feathered phase ran faster than Nidhogg had guessed, like fire eating dry grass. She’d thought it would take months.

Now it looked like two weeks would finish the arc, like a crescent becoming full. Just in time for the Coining Festival.

One thing nagged at the heart like a pebble in a shoe: Lilith had hardly grown taller. Petite once, she was now a petite beauty.

She’d barely stepped past 1.5 meters, like a sapling that chose grace over height. At this pace, she might end around 1.55, small among dragons who often reached 1.8 like pines.

Nidhogg pictured her hugging Litt like ivy around a stone. In that image, being small felt right, like a cup that fits the palm.

Greed stirred in her chest like a tide tugging shore. She wanted to be greedy too, just a little.