Arren

Born in the Sunbeam Ruins, Arren grew used to seeing the sun. Began to take the feel of it on his dark scales for granted. His parents, and the rest of the clan, taught him to respect it.

Moving to the Viridian Labyrinth was a steep learning curve for him. While the sun still shone, the shadows beneath the trees unnerved him. Of course he’d seen shadows before back home - had danced in and out of them while playing with other youngsters - but the shadows here seemed much darker, and hid things he had no name for.

He became snappish, and grumpy. This was not what he longed for. Withdrawing from others, he took to scaling trees in an effort to feel the full force of the sun without it being filtered by the branches that blocked out the sky. Once at the top, he’d perch on a branch, staring up into the sky. Often his efforts went unrewarded, for the sky was cloudy, or heavy fog would obscure his vision.

Arren stamped his feet and muttered on these occasions. He just wanted to see the sun, was that too much to ask?

One day, after another thwarted attempt, Arren noticed something strange. The tree he’d climbed had been unoccupied at first, but now…now there were crows lining the branches around him. Both above and below they sat, and all were staring at him. They were silent too - an odd thing for crows to be.

Eventually, one dropped down onto the branch beside him. And spoke.

“Why do you grumble?” It croaked.

“I grumble because I miss the sun,” Arren said. “It never seems to shine here.”

“Is that all? Then you must fly up above the clouds. You’re nimble. You’d be able to, you know.”

Arren considered the idea, then shook his head.

“No, that wouldn’t work. I’m too small. If any breezes catch me, then I’d be blown off course.”

“If that should happen,” the crow replied, “then call out. We’ll hear you.”

It sounded so ridiculous that Arren almost dismissed it as a fevered hallucination - or a dream. But he was neither dreaming or ill. Day after day he found himself replaying the conversation in his head, dwelling on it constantly. Was it possible? Could he actually do it?

“No one’s ever flown above the clouds,” Kissen said, after he’d told her the basic outline. “Even the Imperials don’t, though they do fly higher than the rest of us.”

“What if someone did? What if it’s actually possible to reach the sun?”

“It isn’t,” Kissen replied, shaking her head. “Anyone who tried would…well they’d most likely die.”

Arren didn’t say anything, but it was plain from his expression that he disagreed. The idea had taken hold, rooted itself in his head and he began to think up ways of pulling it off. There had to be a way, there just had to!

The more he thought, the more determined he became. Mentioning his plan to anyone would be useless - he saw that now. They’d only try to stop him anyway. No, he’d do it.

He put his plan (such as it was) into action one bright morning. Birds sang cheerfully as he began his ascent, and a light breeze buffeted him slightly. Arren didn’t really pay much attention though. Slowly, inch by inch, he climbed. His wings started to ache a bit, but he ignored it. His eyes were fixed on the sun. The ultimate prize. If he could just get closer than anyone ever had…

Higher. Higher. Higher. The air grew thinner as he rose, and he began to feel light-headed. But he would not stop. He could feel the warmth of the sun now - it coiled itself round him, welcoming him. Just a bit further, Arren thought. Don’t stop. I’ve come this far…I can’t stop now!

Onwards. Upwards. His mane was beginning to singe and the heat on his scales was almost unbearable. Endure it! Nearly there! Just a bit further!

But his wings failed him. The delicate membranes couldn’t take anymore, and as his wings burnt, so Arren came back down - much faster than he had gone up. His mind went blank. All he could focus on was his ruined wings and mane - which seemed to be trailing black gloopy stuff as he fell. That wasn’t right, but he had no time to dwell on it.

From the corner of his eye he saw dark shapes spiral up from the trees below him. Crows. A whole murder of them. Sunlight played oddly off their feathers, and for a moment Arren imagined that he saw a huge, long dark shape in their midst, then the murder was below him, around him, above him.

He lay on the back of one, stunned and panting. Even in the depths of his shock, he realised something about him had changed. His scales were no longer purely obsidian - now waves of gold covered his hide. Some formed the shape of the sun, dripping down his sides. His mane, which should have been burnt away, seemed to have melted, turning to sludge instead.

It was then that he heard a voice. But it wasn’t from any of the crows. It seemed to come from all around him, booming through the air like thunder.

“Well met, Sunbringer.”