The night shivered with a release, breathing a sigh of the winter's breeze that swept the grounds. A quiet air hummed; it's lulling factor putting the music to sleep as predators began to retreat to their quarters after the evening ball.

This silence settled comfortably round the dragon and his student companion as they continued on their journey towards the palatial library in the East wing of the campus.

Io wasn't particularly curious about the library—not now perhaps, since there was something else in his cage that allowed little room for books and dragons. There was a spring of excitement, however, that laid in the prospect of the library and that was the simple beauty of its scene at night.

Io had never been to the library after curfew. As a matter of fact, he hadn't been anywhere at all in the late hours of the night. It was simply unthinkable; unfathomable, then. Now he wondered how things had come to change all of a sudden. Now.

Now—

He was no longer afraid.

"What strange little thoughts you have, bird-like youth!" Falrir mused with a smooth of his greyed beard, hobbling alongside the student. "Splendidly entertaining."

Taken aback, Io apologized for his folly. He hadn't realized that he had let his thoughts escape through his lips in the form of verbal words.

"Ah! Do away with apologies, young thing. Do away. Opinions are fascinating—they speak of the same things and yet sound so different on the tongue."

"You don't mind, sir?" Io asked incredulously, glad that they had finally arrived at the grand double doors that marked the entrance to the library.

The dragon laughed heartily; then began to cough after two seconds of joy. "Of," cough, "course not little light," wheeze, "I am rather accepting of all ideas and conventions. As long as they aren't too radical, or too destabilizing. Forgiveness and acceptance; yes, that is all we need."

"All?" Io questioned, looking up at the Lord. "Really sir?"

"Oh yes," He smiled as the boy held open the doors for him. "Forgiveness and acceptance; perhaps a little forgetfulness too. One can never remember too many things. Not at my age, I suppose—you do, I hope. Youth is perfectly troublesome."

Io laughed, following Falrir into the quiet air of the library. Their voices touched the stillness of it all, almost as if they were a drop of rainwater upon the still surface of a pond.

The ripples faded, and soon they were one with the silence—though strangely content.

"Where is your friend, sir?" The boy felt compelled to whisper. There was no one in the library; not the librarian; not a student; and perhaps not even a single soul.

He was wrong however, for there was a tiny existence that came to light.

Lord Falrir smiled, making his way deeper into the quiet place. Slowly.

The anticipation of a new companion shook the bars of Io's cage, rattling his senses.

His heart was loud in the hush of night.

They came upon a flight of wooden stairs—hidden behind a dark shelf by the corner of a section. It was winding; supported by the trunk of a tree that rose from floors beneath. Io marveled at the effort they had made to preserve the tree despite the architecture. It pleased him very much.

Lord Falrir beckoned the small frame to follow as he climbed the stairs at his own pace, faster than before however, as Io noted with surprise.

The pair arrived at a humble door that looked very much like the entrance to a hut. The handle was old and black, rusted at the edges, while the half-hearted nails hammered into the wood suggested the many repairs and hence its age.

Whether this boded ill or well for Io, he did not know.

It was also exciting that he did not; for Io was easily excited by the unknown. He was awfully curious of it, which often led to very bad circumstances for himself indeed.

"Here?"

"Yes, tiny one. In here."

The dragon knocked on the feeble wood—twice—and invited himself into the room.

Io didn't expect himself to be thoroughly shocked by the scene before his eyes. Shocked however, seemed barely adequate to describe his emotions. It was awe; surprise; and rather...curious. The man was curious.

Initially, the boy was taken aback by its color. A shimmering shade of azure edged with black; iridescent yet soothing to the eye—the sort of blue that demanded the gaze of any human who had a heart for beauty. His breath stopped short by the splash of color, Io had not the capacity to think for moments.

This color—he soon realized—belonged to the wings of a butterfly.

He noticed next the span of it; beautifully large and absolutely magnificent.

"I'm quite sure I had not pardoned your intrusion, Lord Falrir."

Yet, this seemed to have come with a price. A price so heavy that Io had to stare for a second longer.

Lord Falrir smiled. "Ah, but you will. You always do, Syl."

They were thin.

So thin—so fragile; he could almost see through them.

Weak.

Oh they looked as though they would tear upon the touch of a human whose hands were so rough in their careless nature, so clumsy in their excitement.

The young man, who appeared to be in the middle of undressing, sighed. "I'm afraid I do," His voice was pleasing to the ear. Almost endearing. "In fact it is rather silly of me to do so every year."

His hair—reaching past his shoulders and silver under the moonlight—was kept together by a single band that seemed to be trying its best to hold on to the smooth locks that shook it off ever so effortlessly.

The robe that he was in the midst of shrugging off returned to his shoulders in an elegant motion, and the pair waited for him to turn.

When he finally did however, he appeared rather surprised.

"Oh," Sylvain met the curious gaze of a boy. "And you might be...?"

Falrir chuckled. "Ah! It seems absurd, little one, that I would forget about introductions. I barely know your name myself!"

Io thought it far from absurd. Lord Falrir seemed to him like a man who often failed to remember details so small for a dragon like himself.

And yet—

"I'm Iolani Tori. A first year here," He bowed tentatively—gaze resting, still, on the wings of the butterfly.

"Ah! Iolani. What a splendid name for a bright and radiant youth like yourself," The dragon nodded in acknowledgement, as if pleased. "This is Sylvain. A blue morpho butterfly."

"Nice to meet you Mr. Sylvain," The boy said in a fairly dazed manner.

Sylvain was careful with his reply.

He seemed slightly afraid of Io—and that itself was rather strange for him to stomach.

"I...have seen you before. In the library, on Saturday afternoons, with your friend."

Oh yes.

"You've seen me and Pipa?"

Sparrows ate butterflies.

"Yes," Sylvain said quietly. "Yes I have."

Then why wasn't he afraid of the dragon?

"But how? This is the first time I've seen you sir, and well, I'm sure if I ever did I'd definitely remember," The boy insisted, quite certain about this in fact.

Sylvain said nothing, lowering his head to rest his gaze on a desk by the window.

"Let us skip the small talk, shall we?" Falrir made himself comfortable by a stove in the center of the room. There was an old kettle sitting on top of it, cozy atop glowing embers—the remains of a fire. "Syl, you'll be kind to bring out the tea and rolls? I'm afraid I'm feeling rather chilly."

The butterfly smiled small and shuffled further from the pair, retreating to a small pantry at the far corner of the room.

"You needn't ask."

The dragon appeared rather pleased at this and he turned to Io, asking if he would stay for supper.

Io was about to point out that this was, in actual fact, way past supper time and would almost serve as a guilty midnight snack but Falrir waited not for his response—patting the seat beside him while he happily adjusted his robes. "It's never not the time for supper, Iolani. Syl's cinnamon rolls are delightful, and his tea ever so pleasing."

"How flattering your words are," Sylvain had returned with a silver tray carrying teacups and saucers. "I find them hard to believe."

His smile was rare; and rare it was—for Io had never believed in the idea of intrinsic beauty, in fact he found the concept rather ridiculous.

How could something in itself possess beauty independent of the mind?

But Sylvain's smile was itself beautiful. There was no how; or why—in fact he barely knew how to describe it.

It just was.

"Believe what you will, Syl," The dragon said in return, his gaze on his teacup seemingly nostalgic. "I certainly am aware that my words are rather hard to believe."

"For a hundred years since we were acquainted, yes. Yes they are."

Io's gaze alternated between the two, wondering if he was interrupting something.

The exchange had seemed almost too intimate for him to be hearing; his very presence resembling a pea under a stack of mattresses. How he came to such a conclusion, he wasn't sure.

"Oh no, bright one. Your company is far from distracting. I barely noticed you were there," Falrir chuckled.

Io understood that the dragon was well-intentioned in saying so, but he could not help but wonder if he should be glad that his presence was negligible.

Ultimately, he figured that in such a context; yes he should. After all, he was curious.

About what however—he did not know.

Sylvain brought round an old-fashioned tier stand filled with cinnamon rolls on the lowest tier and tea biscuits on the top. Porcelain plates—some chipped on the ends—were passed around, and tea cups filled.

It soon became apparent to the boy that Sylvain had been waiting for the dragon.

Why else would the kettle be prepared?

For the tea that escaped from its spout was hot and fragrant; in addition to the wisps of steam rising from his cup, merging with the quaint air that settled round the table.

"Please enjoy," Sylvain turned to Io with a polite smile. Still tentative, but brave in its intentions. He kept his fragile wings in a swift motion and they disappeared without a trace—leaving the table less illuminated than before.

It was then when Io realized the luminescent quality of something so easily torn apart and destroyed. He was amazed first; then a little sad.

Sad that he only noticed the value of something when it was gone.

If only we could.

The ordinary turned treasure; and treasure—never abandoned.

"Splendid as usual, Syl. They seem to get better and better every year," The dragon marveled at the cinnamon roll in his hand. It was half-finished.

"Please refrain from speaking while you eat," Sylvain warned; gaze pleased at the compliment, nonetheless. "It increases the chances of choking, and your age is no comforting factor."

Falrir laughed. "Age? Then yours is no more comforting either, Syl."

"At least I have youth," His companion quipped, smiling.

The dragon felt little effect of this statement, and merely returned the smile. "Ah youth. Rather...good, I must say."

Io was particularly attentive at this, for Falrir's choice of words seemed a little different from his usual splendor.

He caught himself, however—for what made 'good' less splendid than the dragon's usual speech? Why had he not expected Falrir to use that word?

Could it be the vagueness of it? How general it seemed; so general that the use of it barely made a statement at all. Was youth good? How would one know?

Io cast the thought aside and into his cage, turning to the cinnamon roll on his plate.

"Do not stand on ceremony with us, joyous child. Eat up," Falrir gestured at the boy's tea and biscuits. Sylvain nodded in agreement.

"Alright. Thank you for the food Mr. Sylvain," Io smiled, raising the roll to his mouth—nibbling on the sides before taking a bigger bite.

It might have been wrong of him to expect a burst of flavor on his tongue, or a pleasing sensation that ignited his taste buds; for the cinnamon roll was far from splendid.

Nevertheless, it wasn't bad. Not bad, per se—just average. Io thought it to be slightly bland.

He reached for another to test his theory.

"How do you maintain your wings so well?"

"Oh, I...I barely do anything to it, as a matter of fact. How strange of you to say so," Sylvain looked away.

The dragon chuckled. "Strange? Ah you say that the truth is strange? Peculiar. Not that it doesn't sit well with me—it does. Not many people find the truth strange; they simply find it ugly."

The butterfly smiled quietly, slightly embarrassed. "Is...is that so."

"Of course, you do not trust me." Io couldn't tell whether that was meant as a question or a statement of fact. It sounded like the former, but was structured like the latter.

There was also a playful smile on the dragon's lips which left Io quite surprised indeed. He never thought he could make such an expression.

"Please refrain from straying into silly topics and drink your tea instead," The butterfly returned with a silly smile himself.

Amidst this curious banter was a boy who felt particularly displaced.

Nothing seemed to be as it...should have been.

But then that brought him to the question of what should be.

What should be?

Should a dragon be friends with a butterfly?

Should a butterfly be friends with a dragon?

Should the cinnamon rolls have tasted 'splendid' or 'delightful' as Falrir had said?

Should he be thinking about this?

Why should it matter?

He turned to the Lord; who seemed far too absorbed in the conversation to be hearing Io's thoughts at the moment.

At this, he wondered if the taste of the cinnamon rolls had anything to do with them being 'delightful' or not. Initially, he couldn't understand that flaw in the dragon's logic. Of course the taste of food had everything to do with whether it was good or not.

For tonight, the boy settled with the assumption that everything must have tasted good on Falrir's tongue. Perhaps age had something to do with taste buds—but that would be left to another day or thought.

He made a mental note to think about this matter again. Tomorrow, maybe.

But then another disjunction surfaced.

If Lord Falrir was one to overlook small details so easily; how did he remember a butterfly?

Surely, many things were bigger than a butterfly.

So Io arrived at the conclusion that perhaps the smallest things mattered most to the bigger things.

The boy found this conclusion fairly...satisfying.

He was content.

Strangely however, this contentment made him recall something else; and that was what his mother once said—

That some things tended to taste better

the closer one was to the end.

__________________________________

Victoria was doing absolutely nothing on a Tuesday afternoon.

She lazed around Luka's room, shuffling here and there—groaning inwardly; moving on to pick at a half-defrosted piece of red meat, giving up; roaming around once more in the cursed confined space, giving up, then resuming step one of boredom.

This repeated for some time, until her Winged returned from the post with a brown package of interest.

Victoria hurried to greet him.

Finally, she quipped. I was positively dying. What have you got there?

Luka's mind was quiet as usual. But the race of his heart gave many things away; including the anticipation that he had harbored within, waiting for the arrival of the post.

"It's here."

It is? Victoria marveled. How efficiently they do their jobs, those doves and pigeons. I might pick on them less next time.

Luka dismissed her remark, opening the package with an orderly tear down the center. He removed the lid of the box and rummaged through layers of unnecessary bubble wrap—finally arriving at the two packets of roasted sunflower seeds that he had ordered.

What an incredibly authentic packaging. Let me see that. Victoria landed promptly on the table, inspecting the packets of sunflower seeds.

He waved her aside.

"Go hunt."

After an entire afternoon of absolute boredom without your permission to leave the dorms you finally decide that I should go and hunt? She scoffed with a hint of sarcasm. Huh. Shan't bother with your permission next time round.

Luka gave her an impassive look. "I never said you couldn't leave."

If birds could roll their eyes, Victoria did.

I was craving for a rabbit but apparently I'm having second thoughts about sparrows instead.

Her Winged turned to her with a glare.

Oh shut it, she huffed. I'm as fond of that sparrow as you are, silly.

"Go hunt," Luka repeated, placing the packets of sunflower seeds back in their rightful box—not forgetting the unnecessary bubble wrap. He figured that it would come in handy later on. Why; he did not know.

You come along, Victoria said with a hint of mischief. It's been long since you've hunted.

"Not in the mood."

Oh really? His Avian scoffed. It's no season for romance, Luka—eagles mate for survival.

"Your point?"

Victoria tapped a skillful claw on the tabletop. Come on. Just once.

Luka caught his gaze lingering on the box covered with clear stamps and labels in foreign languages. He looked away, crossing the dining and moving towards the door.

He held it open.

"A quick one."

Victoria basked in her silent victory.

The eagle was finally beginning to understand why Slayne couldn't seem to kick the habit of checking the new catalogues every week.

There was a tempting urge to pay a second visit to the post.

*

The sight before his eyes froze the flames of his heart.

It was as if an ice-cold hand had laid itself upon this creature in his cage; whispering pretty lies that coaxed it into a false peace that decayed.

Luka didn't stop in his tracks.

It was polite to do so; to acknowledge the vulture's existence. He committed the crime of turning a blind eye to the predator that was walking in the opposite direction.

They were approaching.

The corridor wasn't lean; but it wasn't wide either. It simply stopped before the excuse of having not noticed one another could be passed as legitimately true.

Unfortunately for Vaughn he had noticed this too, and it called for the smiling mask that he so often wore.

They reached a standstill.

"Hello."

His tone was awfully polite; almost disturbing.

Luka did not bother to respond. Victoria merely hovered behind him—but upon noticing that the hallway was not large enough for both her and Vaughn's Avian to pass with their wings spread out, she slowed.

And waited for the other to back down.

This seemed unlikely however, because she—like Victoria—was waiting for her to give in too. The challenge that proceeded this was silent in its lack of mercy; and as usual, Victoria was the first to speak.

Will you let me through, vulture?

Her dark wings showed no sign of backing down.

I was going to ask the same.

Victoria was fairly perturbed by this response. It did not sit well with her implacable pride and she relayed this to Luka, who couldn't bother less. Although this, too, very much affected his quietly large ego that was perhaps even more relentless than Victoria's.

"It appears that your Avian is upset by Nox's response," Vaughn smiled falsely. "I apologize for her behavior."

The eagle stared impassively at the one who spoke, feeling that this conversation was a perfect waste of his time but still stopping nonetheless to meet the eyes of the vulture.

"However," The latter continued with a knowing pause, holding Luka's gaze, "I am afraid I cannot disagree with her on this. It simply doesn't sit well with my principles."

"On what?" The eagle narrowed his eyes, and upon Vaughn's unwavering smile, laughed. "Principles?"

Victoria was getting tired of waiting. Had they not been in such a confined space where she could have injured her Winged with an accidental beat of her wings, she would have attacked Nox right there and then.

"Oh you may be surprised, Sullivan," Vaughn's eyes were no longer smiling. "Principles matter to scavengers too, if you have not noticed."

"Principles don't suit you, vulture."

Vaughn shrugged. "And I agree. They suit the ones in the higher tiers so well, don't they? Thankfully they wear them as accessories and not an obligatory uniform that the prey do so well."

The eagle was barely insulted. He was used to hearing all sorts of things that the crows and vultures tended to say behind the backs of the hearts.

Victoria however, was impatient. Let's go, they are wasting our—

"Move."

Vaughn appeared fairly surprised by this order; as if he had not expected Luka to be so direct in his demands.

"How impolite. Do you suppose I am to obey?"

Though the eagle and his Avian were not in the mood for any form of dispute, stubborn pride refused to release its hold on their stand. They were quiet.

"Silence? That would mean consent," Vaughn smiled, tilting his head to the side and the flowing silver on his back followed suit. "Naïve."

The word latched onto his ears and Luka caught the implied assumption; that Vaughn was not obliged to obey his words. This made him raise a brow, for it was perfect common sense that a golden eagle was above a mere black vulture.

"Oh it doesn't matter what you're born with, Sullivan," He laughed, stepping closer, "what matters—are the results."

Luka was aware of what the vulture was referring to, and it was his consecutive victories in the games until...the last one.

"You didn't win."

"I am aware," He smiled. "You were awarded the victory—that too, I am aware."

"Io won."

Vaughn's dark eyes widened in pleasant surprise. "Io?"

"I...o?" He repeated with a taunting smirk. "Is that what you call the sparrow?"

He was quiet.

The vulture searched the darkness for a word. "How...sweet," He frowned, adding. "Sweet things disgust me."

Luka was very quiet. He said nothing and looked almost as if he had not a soul.

"Come, Nox," Vaughn said with a hum, slipping past the still eagle without a care. His Avian glided above Victoria who could no longer respond by blocking her way.

He proceeded down the corridor, leaving Luka behind without much of a second glance.

The latter was very quiet.

He didn't speak to Victoria; or move towards the grounds to hunt with her.

He simply stood still—

Quiet with rage.

_______________________________

Io was doing absolutely nothing on a boring Tuesday afternoon.

He was cooped up in a corner of the library, a pile of old textbooks stacked precariously atop one another. This was all very fine for him on a normal basis, but the pressure of doing well for his next block test was rather immense for the sparrow. Too immense, in fact.

He had come to the library with an intention of understanding at least one or two mathematic formulas that he had been taught weeks ago. Yet none of the texts proved to serve any purpose of improving his weak understanding of the axiomatic world of calculus.

The boy was very bored.

It didn't matter that he had come to salvage his fair grades (and by fair, he meant consecutive F's since the first test), Io was not in the mood to solve arithmetic problems that had little to do with his waking life. And yes, waking life—for calculus felt something almost like a nightmare to the poor sparrow.

He tilted his head to the side, looking at the world from a different perspective.

It looked very different indeed.

But how different was it, really?

Was the world really any different had he looked at it through an alternative lens?

If it was; then would it not mean that the world did not exist independently of his mind?

Or himself, for the matter?

Surely the world must exist even if he was not here to perceive it. Surely...?

But how would he know?

How—

Oh.

It was a butterfly.

But what was a butterfly doing here, in the library?

Io straightened in his seat; taking a closer look at the wondrous shade of azure that filled its wings.

The creature landed on his textbook—open to page two-hundred-and-twenty-five, titled Fundamental Theorems of Calculus.

Its wings moved up and down rhythmically, creating a soothing effect that calmed the bored thing in his cage.

The boy began to marvel at this wonder that was so close to him.

He'd better appreciate it. Quickly; before it was gone.

Brave enough, he held out a finger in front of the butterfly, hoping that it would, for some miraculous reason, come to him.

Just then—or perhaps as always, since peaceful moments never seemed to be left alone for noise was a jealous friend—Io heard the chief librarian's voice past the shelves and tables. She was, as usual, in a very bad mood.

"No Avians in the library! No Avians! Get out this instant! Mark my words a white slip will be issued to your foolish Winged, leave—"

It all happened very quickly.

A shadow rose above the towering shelves of books.

The butterfly hurried to flutter away, as if to take cover from an explosive danger too destructive for its fragile nature.

"Stop! Get out this instant! I said no Avians in the library!" The screeching did not stop.

Victoria swooped down from above, landing skillfully on the desk that Io was occupying.

Students stared.

The librarian continued to scream in horror.

The eagle folded her wings and fixed her gaze on the sparrow before her, ignoring the various gasps and barbaric screeching from all corners of the library. Luka however, was nowhere to be seen.

Io's eyes were wide with surprise, and he hurriedly stood from his seat—anxious.

She opened her beak, as if to speak. The sound that came out shocked surrounding prey, and on instinct, they scrambled under the tables for cover.

Io had, too, stepped back involuntarily but he noticed something despite the upsetting fact that he could not hear her.

Victoria's call was urgent; and it boded ill. The sparrow knew not why, or how he knew—but there was an unsettling air that stirred from within.

She broke eye contact and spread her wings.

Turning back as if to sign for him to follow, she took off from the desk with a burst.

__________________________

A/N: What's happening? ;__; eep m scared.

JK of course I know what's going to happen :> hue hue *taunts you with cupcakes*

On the same note, I'd like to point out the juxtaposition between Falrir and Sylvain :'D I love opposites. These are polar.

The top of the food chain—and the bottom.

Which is also why the title of this chapter is Dragonfly—because the name of this creature itself is an oxymoron. How can a dragon be a fly? :> hehe.

-Cuppiecake.