Golden scales grow from my skin. They curl around my limbs and stretch across my chest and back. A thin band of them wraps around my throat, reaching up to brush my temples with long, glittering fingers.
The scales bring with them pain.
They pinch my muscles, squeeze my ribs. They send sharp pulses through my skull and leave me weak, exhausted, leaning on a wooden cane for support.
It hasn’t always been this way. Once, I moved freely, each step easy as breathing. I ran and danced and dreamed that, one day, I would join my mother on the mountain plains to study the gryphons, which soar there. I practised my sketches, using the jays, magpies, and crows that flit about the garden as my subjects. I poured over book after book on avian anatomy, natural history, and magic.
It was the night of my thirteenth birthday when the burning began. As I sat hunched at my desk, squinting at the small, faded print of an old tome, fire ignited in my body—and it spread fast. Within a day, I lay bedridden, choking on invisible smoke, flames scorching my flesh and bones.
Doctors told my mother that there was no need for concern. Though the sickness looked fearful, it would pass if I rested well. I would recover and return to my life no worse for wear.
They lied.
My scales were born from that fire, sprouting golden as the sun. They have not stopped burning in all the years since.
Now, I shuffle up the stone steps to the library, leaning heavily on my cane. I collect one leather-bound book from the shelf and lower myself into a cushioned window seat, alone.
Some days, the pain of my scales is less, and for a moment, I imagine hiking through waist-high grass, searching for signs of gryphon activity: paw prints, feathers, scattered eggshell the colour of a summer sky.
But those days are few and far between. More often than not, even dragging myself up the single flight of stairs at home leaves my head spinning.
So, there are no more dreams of working in the field, watching gryphons soar above. For the fire torched not only my body, but my future too.
I groan and set my book down. Today, the scales grip my arms like thick, strong fingers that set my very bones aching. Holding a hardback this size for any length of time is out of the question, and I struggle to my feet, making my way, oh so slowly, to the nearest shelf.
This one is home to thinner books, their covers painted with delicate illustrations of dragons, selkies, nymphs—and gryphons. I pluck that one free. It’s meant for children, mostly pictures with a spattering of text, but inside gryphons sweep across sunset skies, their fur and feathers a deep brownish-gold.
“Lovely, aren’t they?”
I jump, almost dropping the book. A woman stands beside me: tall, with dark hair that curls about her ears. She smiles at the shelves, arms folded across her chest, where the silver badge of a librarian glints.
“They’re some of my favourites,” she says. “What do you think?”
I look away, heat prickling my cheeks. “They’re for children.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong.”
She lifts a different volume, this one decorated with fairies dancing between toadstools, and flips it open.
“See?” she says. “I might not be a child any longer, but I can read it just fine.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“I know.” Her smile widens. “And I didn’t come here to talk about books.”
“You didn’t?”
She shakes her head, curls bouncing. Despite the warm sun that spills through one of the great, arched windows nearby, she wears a suit of brown wool that makes me sweat just looking at it.
“I see you here a lot,” she says. “You always choose books on gryphons.”
I frown at her. “Is that not allowed?”
“Oh, of course it is. I simply wondered if you wanted to do more than read about them.”
A bitter laugh bubbles up my throat. The scales across my skin squeeze tighter, pinching me, biting me, like chains. This woman has no idea how often I’ve dreamed of a life more than this, of a future I can never have. She’ll never understand.
The librarian watches me, brows drawn together above dark, shining eyes.
“Is that funny?” she asks.
“You have no idea.”
She hums and pulls a leaflet from her pocket. Deep blue paper, with silver writing that glitters in the light. But it’s the painting of a gryphon that draws my eye. Its feathers are a pale, mottled yellow, its fur patchy and grey.
“There’s a sanctuary,” the librarian says, “a little way outside of town. They look after creatures too old or injured to be released back into the wild. Last week, this gryphon arrived. I hear they’re looking for volunteers to help care for him.”
My heart lurches. “I can’t.”
“They’re inclusive. If you need any accommodations, they’ll be happy to make them.” She chuckles. “I should know. I volunteered there last summer.”
“But you’re not—”
“Ah.” She winks. “Wrong again. Here. Think about it, won’t you?”
With that, she pushes the leaflet into my hands and makes her way to the front desk, moving with a slight limp I didn’t notice before.
I smile. It looks like I was wrong: she does understand. And, maybe, there’s a future for me, after all.
It may not be the one I thought I’d have, but it exists. And it’s mine.
Laurie Doyle (they/them) is an autistic, nonbinary writer with chronic fatigue syndrome (CFS/ME), who resides in the south west of England. When they’re not writing, Laurie enjoys drawing or reading books that carry them to impossible places. Their short fiction has previously appeared in Changelings: An Autistic Trans Anthology.
Bluesky: @lauriewrites.bsky.social