Kin of Jörmungandr

I blink at the small creature, struggling to comprehend why it’s here after I left it behind.

My first thought is that it’s another of the same species. Possibly a direct relative to the bat that almost found itself in the stomach of a centipede. But no, the crippled wing leaves no doubt this is the one I left behind.

I hiss, trying to scare it off, but it doesn’t move. Claws — both those in its rear limbs and the single at the tip of its uninjured wing — cling tight to the ridges between my scales. It does nothing but return my gaze.

If you are so petrified you can’t move, then why are you here?

I lift my tail and brush it along my back, dislodging the bat. The little thing scrambles as it falls, and quickly flips after landing on its back, careful not to put weight on its broken wing.

My gaze stays locked on the lesser creature as I hiss a warning. I slither away, keeping my eyes on it for a few moments to make sure it doesn’t follow again. The little thing thankfully doesn’t move as it watches me leave, though by the way it tilts its head at me, it holds far less fear than I assumed.

If not mortified by my presence, then this bat holds far less self-preservation instincts than I’d assumed. No wonder it got caught by the centipede.

When I’m a few body lengths away — too far for its injured body to follow — I turn away, determined to continue my search without distraction. Not a second after taking my sight from the tiny bat, a slight weight lands on my back again.

I twist on myself, finding the creature in the same spot on my back I just knocked it from.

How? With its injuries, the bat could hardly have chased after me. There aren’t any spatial bends that could allow it to reach my back. Not from where it was.

Slightly annoyed, I bring my head right before this tiny thing and hiss, revealing not only my fangs, but the many teeth lining my jaw usually hidden. My threat is loud and echoes in my ears, but the bat is unperturbed. It cocks its head and chirps, dismissive of my warnings.

This little rodent… with but a motion I could swallow it whole. Is it so stupid as to not realise that? How can it not know the rule of the weak? It should stay out of my way if it wants to live, not continue to clamber upon what is the greatest predator it has seen.

A single bite would end this annoyance, but I can’t seem to go through with it.

My fangs are sharp and jaw works fine, but they refuse to chomp this creature. I am not hungry. I’m about as far from hungry as I can be; my stomach won’t be empty for many sleeps. That must be why my body refuses to swallow this tiny beast, despite its blatant disrespect to a predator beyond it.

Three more times do I swipe the bat off my scales only to have it appear back where it started before I give up and resolve myself to figure out how it catches up to me despite the crippled wing.

The problem is that it waits until I’m not looking to move. I can’t figure out how it does so with these low-density tunnels limiting my sight to only what’s ahead of me. At least the solution is simple.

I slither toward the closest hole, ignoring the incredibly light weight that presses down on my scales again. Once in an area where nothing can escape my sight — what with the number of bends reflecting my visage — I turn and brush off the little bat again. I dip through a curve that brings me into a constant fall again, where creatures limited to crawling along the earth won’t be able to follow.

My gaze stays on the tiny mammal as it watches me leave it behind. There is no doubt in my mind it has true-sight, simply by the way it tracks me, but even though I’m not looking at it directly, it doesn’t move.

I slither through the air for some time with the bat not moving before I figure this is the best time to leave. With a sudden change in direction, I head for a rift that will take me far from this cavern. My decision causes the bat to react. It scampers and squeaks, clearly aware I’m leaving.

Within a moment, the creature disappears from where it lay, and appears upon my back.

If I hadn’t been watching close, I would have missed it. For an instant, the bat created a tiny spatial bend only large enough to carry its body to mine. It’s too small even for my thinnest size to pass through, but for the bat now sitting comfortably on top of me, it is just big enough.

I turn on the critter, glaring with all I can, but the thing just lets out a happy chirp. It is gloating; I know it.

Still, the ability to bend space like that isn’t something I thought possible. Not intentionally. Just what kind of creature is this little one to do so?

Sciacylch.

Great! Willing to give any details?

Silence. Shouldn’t have expected anything more after how much it gave earlier.

So, Sciacylch is what these tiny bats are called? Never come across one before. Are they all as lacking in self preservation as this one?

The little sciacylch squeaks again, tilting its head as it looks up at me, wide eyes staring.

Now, if this little one can create bends around itself, then how do I get rid of it? Any time I push it off, it will simply open a path and return.

Why is it following me, anyway? Does it expect me to protect it from other predators? It shouldn’t need it. I don’t even know how it got caught in the first place, considering that ability. Spatial distortions are a natural phenomenon — one I am an expert at traversing — but I’ve never seen a creature able to manipulate them like this. It should have never found itself in a position to become prey, even if it couldn’t be a predator.

The only ability that comes close would be my control over my size and mass. Well, there’s also the Titan, but I’m not so sure that wasn’t just its presence tearing the world apart around it.

What’s important is I know how it’s following me now, and while annoying, it’s hardly something to be concerned about. The small sciacylch will grow tired, eventually. When it does, I’ll simply leave it behind as it sleeps. With the state of its wing, I don’t expect I’ll need to wait long.

My tongue darts out between my lips. At least this tiny bat doesn’t stink.

I twist back through the air, determined to get back to my search. It’s annoying, but the thing can stay. Well, until it grows so tired it cannot cling to my scales.

Its happy chirp is ignored.

❖❖❖

I might have misjudged slightly.

As I look back over the sleeping bat, the sting of regret burns at my chest. Really, I should have been checking on it regularly in my search, but the tiny creature weighs so little that it was easy to ignore. This is not at all what I expected.

The sciacylch sleeps. For how long? I don’t know. I’d assumed it would let go in its sleep considering the ridges between my scales are hardly much to hold on to, but apparently this tiny thing could do it easily.

If I’d been searching through bend dense space, there’s no chance I could have missed it, but the cramped tunnels my search took me through lacked any way for me to look over my scales without actively turning to look. What’s worse is that these tunnels are a labyrinth to navigate.

Every so long I spend slithering across stone, the paths will split half a dozen ways, and leave me with no way to decide which leads somewhere promising. The twenty splitting paths were still dense enough with distortions that I could see my rodent passenger, and during those, it was plenty active. Only as I progressed did the bends and holes gradually disappear.

I’ve passed a hundred tunnel junctures since, and have no clue at which point it dipped into rest. If it’s anywhere near the start, then it’ll have had a full rest… and I didn’t notice.

Slowly, carefully, I slide my tail along the scales of my back, trying to dislodge the bat’s claws without disturbing its rest. If I can get it off without waking it, I’ll be able to leave it behind.

Its claws snap off easily enough and clench tight now that what they grab is gone. I pause, hoping that didn’t wake my uninvited guest. Thankfully, the sciacylch doesn’t wake, too busy napping belly down on my scales.

The next part is the most difficult. How can I get it off without waking it? I could push it off, but I feel that is certain to wake the bat. With no good options before me, I settle with what is least likely to jostle it.

My tail tip, the thinnest part of my body, curls beneath the sleeping form with care. With slow motions, I lift it off my back and lower it to the stone. Only when I bring my tail away and the creature remains still, do I release a breath of relief.

Not wanting to wait around, I slither away. Slow at first, before increasing my pace when I’m sure the bat won’t stir. As fast as I dare, I move to the nearest splitting tunnel. As soon as I’m out of sight, the creature won’t follow me, and I’ll be free to my solitude.

A pained squeak echoes along the narrow tunnel.

Freezing, I turn to the little sciacylch who rises off its broken wing. It must have rolled onto the limb in its sleep and woken itself.

Foregoing any previous subtlety, I slither forward, determined to get out of its sight before it can find me. In but a moment, I’m tumbling down a rather steep tunnel, stretching the curves of my body to press against the walls and slow my descent. With the lack of bends here, I’d rather not gather too much speed.

As the tunnel curves to flat earth again, I let out a relieved hiss. The bat hasn’t followed. I’m finally free once more.

A chirp tingles the back of my neck.

Of course, it’s only when I’m assured of victory that the little bat snatches it away.

My head turns on the sciacylch only for it to slam its only good wing on my scales. The strike is hard to even feel, but if that didn’t reveal its anger, the glare it gives me does. With such large eyes on the tiniest of bodies, it is impossible to consider it anything close to a threat.

I hiss, trying to express my desire for the creature to get lost, to disappear, but the sciacylch only tightens its claws and flicks its head away.

Is she… sulking?

I lift my head and slam it into the earth, trying to rub out the frustration. The action does nothing but dirty the scales between my eyes in the gravel. Why can’t this little thing leave me alone? Why can’t I kill and be done with it?

Glaring at the lesser being on my back, I try a final vain attempt to scare it off, but it only gives a light huff, refusing to make eye contact.

With a resigned hiss, I give up. The little bat can’t hurt me, so I’ll just need to wait until it falls asleep again. Unsure when that will be, I declare to myself to regularly glance back, lest I make the same mistake.

The effort and dedication required to find a path beyond the borders will be demanding. If I can’t handle a simple pest for some time, then I might as well give up now.