Wings of Fire: Skyfire

Skyfire

Nope, nothing-- and here I mean NOTHING-- is more crazy then my best friend, Cloud. Well, really, Cloudshine. She and I both have unusual names. So we are called Cloud and Sky.
Her Cloud.
Me Sky.
Duh.
Yet other dragons always get us mixed up-- apparently, we look alike, though there a plenty of rather big details to tell the difference between us. In my opinion.
Cloud thinks that we should be sisters. Well, she mostly says that we should be sisters. Cloud talks a lot. She doesn't say very important things all the time, only things that she thinks are important.
Such as:
That cloud is fluffy. Like me!
And:
No one appreciates the sunshine.
And then I nudge her and we both roll down the hill from our cloud-watching positions, shrieking with laughter.
Those were the good old days.
Now Cloud's mother is dead and it's all her fault.
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Not quite.
Not quite, I whisper.
Not quite dead.

Cloud does NOT look comforted.

Might as well be, she whispers back.
Might as well be dead.
Going to die anyway.
And it's all my fault.

I can neither confirm nor deny this statement.
Injuries.
Injuries.
What are they?
A form of punishment from above?
A fully emotional thing, projected into pain through psychology?
That's what my dad would say.
That last one.
Right there.
I like to believe that, because that means that we can stop the pain if we want to.
I like to think there's always a way out of things.
Next to Cloud, however, I'm a pessimist.
Not today.
Not today.
The burns almost fooled me. Into thinking it was a black dragon, a NightWing, even, lying there on that slab of rock that serves as a hospital for us.
Being examined by a cowardly liar that serves as a doctor for us.
We don't have it so good.
But
A SkyWing is a SkyWing and will always be a SkyWing,
As my mother likes to say.
More like, as she likes to bemoan upon us.
Oh, Mother.
Mommy, really.
I call her Mommy, though most dragonets at this age(four years old and going on five) call their mothers, well, mother.
Cloud calls hers Momma. She says, to the other dragonets that we play with:

A cultural thing, really.
It's our culture.
In our culture, she is called Momma.

They ooh and ahh and I wish I could say the same thing about calling my mother Mommy.
But now, I'm just glad that I have a mommy at all.
I look back at her.
The her being Cloud's mother.
Falcon was always nice, the one who passed out all the dishes at potlucks.

Is she going to survive?
I ask the healers.

Who knows?
they reply.
Severe burns, maybe even fatal,
they say.

I don't want to care about Falcon.
Less pain for me.
Less grieving in my life.
Too late.
Cloud inches away from me as I step closer.

Stop,
she tells me.

You can't hurt me.
I have to remind her.
You can't hurt me.

But she groans in response.
Falling.
To her mother's side.
Kneeling.
Beside her mother's ear.
Whispering.
Again.
And again.
And again and again and again--

I'm sorry.

The healers, they don't know yet. They don't know it's all Cloud's fault.
But it is.
But I don't care.
Does that make me a good friend?
Or a bad dragon?
Or both?

Cloud is sobbing and I am sobbing with her.
I will be a good friend.
No matter what.
Friendship is more important than everything.
I put my wing around her, then the other wing, and though she doesn't hug back, I know that she appreciates it.
Her claws curl underneath her, sending a dried leaf beneath her talons as it curls upward, turning into ash without even hardly a flame.
But I barely flinch, knowing that she wouldn't hurt me.
That I am her friend.

You see, Cloudshine has firescales.

But she can control them.