FINTAIL

𝐒𝐈𝐗

I THINK of innocence like a curse rather than a gift. And for good reason, too — what good has it done for the living world? Because no matter the creature, no matter the century, no matter the risks, the rewards, or the power, innocence exists to be snuffed out.

I've seen it too many times to count.

The weak are the first to die. Happiness is a target for those who lack it. And life, as wonderful as it may seem, throws what you humans call 'curveballs' — some too quick to dodge, and others too violent to fight.

I suspect that, by reading this far, I have already killed yours. It is nothing to be scared of; the death of innocence is a rite of passage from your helplessness to your helpfulness. But, for our dear friends of teeth and tail, they have yet to learn this. Innocence, to them, is a blessing. A choice. A way of life.

And nothing defines pure innocence better than the youngest longsnouts of the clutch: Thorn and Able. One, green, marked with leafy triangular impressions, and the other gray and orange, striped from fin to tail in black and boasting a mohawk-like nub between his eyes. They were unique, as most siblings were: Able preferred to scour the deepest waters and chase little tadpoles across the swamp, whereas Thorn loved exploring the weirdness of the insect world — often letting butterflies rest upon his snout. But, unlike the rest of their family, the only thing that mattered more to each other than their satisfactions was joy. Not brute force, not dominion, not food, mating, or anything in between.

Only joy. And they believed joy was the remedy to their mother's illness.

They weren't wrong — humans know laughter is the best medicine for pain. It fuels the source of life's most precious moments.

But Jagger saw otherwise.

In a word, the crimson deep-slated longsnout was a spineless pessimistic hog. That was three words — forgive my rude language, but nothing 'innocent' seemed to sprout from the tuft of that lazy beast. He reeked, he spat, he hissed, and he growled. He did everything any ordinary king would do: sleep, let little birds nibble little bugs off his hide and fangs, and eat whenever pleased. And, if it ever grew on him, Jagger would waddle around a certain perimeter of their home, kicking up dust, gnawing on the meals of his siblings, and scowling away the day long before it had even begun.

And, above all else, prove to his youngest that happiness is, as all things are, futile. Which, sadly, was the only factual truth that spilled from that longsnouts unorthodox tongue.

At least Thorn didn't have to bear witness to such atrocities, quietly hopping over the red longsnout's sleeping body and scurrying off toward their cave.

Thorn couldn't shake off the goofy grin plastered to his snout. He and Able had spent much of the day trying to find the best rock in the valley, something so profound and special that it would make Mother purr. And he was positive his find would do just that — he carried something that looked an awful lot like obsidian. The smooth, worn down edges and twinkling surface that turned gold in the starlight appealed to the curious youngster like nothing else.

But, beneath all that excitement, lived worry. Earlier, Thorn's clumsy fingers let the mineral slip from hold and chip upon a larger rock. Now there was a crack at the tipped ends, and a sharp tip at the base which didn't belong there. All Thorn hoped for now was that the rock, even broken, still felt magical for her.

No scent of Able, he grunted, flaring both nares to sample the easterly winds. Jagger hasn't woken up. Good. I have plenty of time.

And so he started to wander.

There was something precious about watching curious mortals embracing the world in its entirety. A predator could walk the same route day in and day out, but they will always stumble upon something new hidden beneath the folds of nature. And, to Thorn, this was true in every single way.