Preparing to be emotionally destroyed by the Penumbra Podcast se

"Yes, of course," says Florian, and then he falls silent.

Those wide, golden eyes blink at Florian.

Florian blinks back.

"In any case," says the dragon, at length. "You're not fooling anyone. You have the fine fabrics, the powdered cheeks, the hair like spun silk. You even have a circlet, Your Highness."

"Well, yes," says Florian. "But the circlet is from my mother." He pauses, fidgeting with the embroidered sleeve of his gown. "And the fine fabrics. And the powder. I enjoy wearing them, you see."

"What sort of princess," demands the dragon, "does not have her own things?"

Florian clears his throat, delicately. "The sort that's a prince."

The dragon blinks at him again.

"Nonsense," says the dragon. "You're far too pretty."

Florian feels his cheeks begin to heat. "Thank you."

"You think I don't know a princess when I see one?" demands the dragon. "I've met dozens. Twenty-four, to be precise, from all around the world."

"You must be very well-traveled," says Florian, politely.

The dragon narrows its eyes, peering down at him.

"Lift your chin up," the dragon demands.

Florian does. He reaches up, helpful, to undo the lace choker fastened into a neat bow at the back.

"Bollocks," says the dragon.

"Yes," says Florian. "I'm afraid so."

"Well, what am I going to do with you?" says the dragon, crossly. "You're no good to me at all."

"You'll find that I can do everything a princess can, really," says Florian. "I can hold court with the king and queen. I've given knights my token in the form of quite a lovely flowered handkerchief." The dragon still looks unimpressed, so he offers: "When I sing, the birds in the garden come down to land on my hand."

"What use have I for little birds?" grouses the dragon.

"What use had you for a princess?" counters Florian.

"I needed your hair," says the dragon. It sounds as though it's sulking, rather.

"My hair?" says Florian, and reaches back to touch the silken strands of it, dark as night, brushed smooth as velvet.

"As a component for my transformation spell," says the dragon. "Twenty-five strands of hair, from twenty-five different princesses. It is the final thing I need."

Florian blinks up at the dragon. "What is it that you're hoping to transform?"

"Myself," rumbles the dragon.

"Yourself," says Florian, dubiously.

"I am not," says the dragon, "a dragon."

"You do know," says Florian, "that that answers nothing at all."

"Silence," says the dragon, but without the cave-rattling roar, this time. It sounds a bit sulky.

On an impulse, Florian reaches out to pat at the dragon's scaly shoulder. He can just reach, if he stretches up on his tip-toes. "If you're not a dragon," says Florian, "then what are you?"

"I'm a prince," says the dragon, still decidedly sulky. "Prince Clemence the third, of Wyseria. Or at least, I'm meant to be. I was, until a wizard cursed me to this form."

"That seems rather mean-spirited of him," says Florian.

"Exactly," says the dragon who is not a dragon, in a huff. "So now here I am, kidnapping princesses for ten years, trying to come up with enough hair for a blasted spell!"

"That does sound trying," says Florian.

"Not every kingdom even has a princess," says Clemence. "And the ones that do get so alarmed about it. Ooh, the dragon is going to eat our daughter!"

"Don't you?" says Florian, curiously.

"Of course I don't," says Clemence. "I take a few pieces of hair from them and send them on their way, but it is such a dreadful trial to get them in the first place."

The dragon-prince huffs again, that same burst of too-warm air, and then throws himself to the floor in a rather dramatic fashion, the way a young man might throw himself upon a divan if he were all in a snit. Florian hides his smile behind one manicured hand and tries not to find it terribly charming.

"Well," he says, when he is no longer in danger of giggling at the poor not-a-dragon's expense. "Perhaps I can help."

Clemence slits open one of his large, golden eyes. "Oh?"

"I've studied a bit of magic," says Florian. "May I see the spell?"

"Over in the corner," says Clemence. "In my hoard."

The prince's hoard, as it happens, is comprised of a very old sofa, several overstuffed pillows, a sprinkling of gold, perhaps just to stay true to form, and an absolute mound of books.

"Why, you have practically a whole library," says Florian, and begins sorting through them.

"It is dreadfully boring, being a dragon," says Clemence. "Nobody wants to talk to you, on account of them thinking you'll eat them."

"That seems rather unfair," says Florian, sorting through dusty books. "Especially as you seem so accommodating to guests."

"That," says Clemence, sounding decidedly vindicated, "is precisely what I said!"

The grimoire is the second book from the bottom, and Florian eases it out carefully, delicately brushing dust from the cover. He pages it open and hums softly in consideration. The spells are written in an arcane dialect, circa three hundred years ago.

Thankfully, the laws of the land that he studied at his mother's knee were written in precisely the same dialect.

His eyes flicker over the pages, skimming for the transformation spell.

"Page seventy-two," says Clemence, helpfully.

"Thank you," says Florian, and skips ahead.

It is not a terribly complicated spell, all told. The moon doesn't have to be at a particular fullness, nor does the casting need fall on the eve of the winter solstice, nor even does it require a terrible amount of peculiar components, princess hair notwithstanding.

And the best part about that is —

"Aha!" says Florian, brightly. "I think I've found your solution."

"There is none," says Clemence, glumly. "There's not another princess to be found. You were the last, the whole world through, until some other king and queen decide to have a daughter."

"But you don't need a princess," says Florian, and taps at the line. "There. You see? In the old dialect, there was no distinction between prince and princess. They were the same word."

"They what?" says the dragon, eyes going very round indeed.

"There was no distinction until perhaps a hundred years ago," says Florian, "when the term princese split into two different forms, prince and princess, the way we use it today."

Clemence is staring at him, darkly scaled snout slightly agape.

"It was the same for a great many nouns in the old dialect," says Florian, warming to the subject. "Lord and lady, father and mother, hero and —"

"Then your hair," gasps Clemence.

"Should work just fine."

Clemence leaps to his feet with a  cave-rattling crash. He is, Florian notes with a certain amount of affection, wagging his tail.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" says Clemence.

"Nothing, I suppose." Florian approaches to stand beside him, carefully inclining his head.

"Be still now," says Clemence. "I would not want to slip."

Then he reaches out his massive claws, delicate and precise, and slices through a lock of Florian's long, dark hair. It is so gentle, so very careful, that Florian does not know he has finished until he says, "That's all."

"Shall I help you arrange the hair?" says Florian. "It seems rather intricate work, for claws."

Clemence's tail swishes. "Do you mind?" he says. "I have chalk in the hoard."

He does have chalk in the hoard, and Florian sets about availing himself of a piece. He draws out the magic circle, with precise strokes; magic has always been an area of interest for him, much as languages have, and he is pleased that he knows each of the sigils that make up the array to get the spacing proper. On the end of each spoke, he draws a small diamond, and in each diamond, careful, he places the hair of a different princess.

In the twenty-fifth spot, Clemence adds the lock of Florian's hair.

"Well," says Florian. "That should be all."

"Yes," says Clemence. "Yes, I suppose it should."

They stand there for a moment, staring at one another. Then Clemence says: "Would you stay? Until the spell is done?"

And Florian, unaware that he'd been hoping to be invited until the words hang as an offer between them, says, "Yes, of course," so quickly that the reply comes out all in a muddle.

Clemence knows the words to the spell without consulting the grimoire. He's had ten years to study them, by his own admission, and he speaks them now, crisp and precise, though his voice wavers somewhat in the recital. Nerves, Florian supposes.

But the more he speaks, the more the circle that surrounds him begins to glow, bright and then brighter, until the entirety of the cave fills with a beautiful, golden light, so all-encompassing that Florian has to close his eyes against it.

When he opens them again, the light is gone.

So is the dragon.

In its place, there in the center of the circle that Florian drew, is a handsome young man with skin the same ebony of the dragon's scales and eyes the same gold as the dragon's eyes. He is well and truly naked, and Florian feels his cheeks begin to burn.

"Goodness," says Florian, softly. He takes off his mother's silken cloak and steps forward to drape it over Clemence's shoulders, to cover him.

Clemence seems hardly to notice his own nudity. "It worked," he keeps saying, over and over. "It worked!"

"It did," says Florian, and finds that he is smiling, as well, caught up in Clemence's elation.

Clemence laughs, bright and delighted, and the sound of it echoes through the cave. He seizes Florian by the waist, impulsive, and spins him around in a celebratory twirl, heedless of the way it makes the cloak fall open. Florian flushes and tries not to look.

"This is brilliant," says Clemence. "I can go home! I can see my parents. Why, if I fly at full speed, I —"

He trails off to silence — blinks down at his arms, and then twists around to peer at his back, decidedly wingless. "Bollocks," he says again.

"Is your kingdom very far?" says Florian, brow creased in concern.

"Across the Gray Sea," says Clemence, softly.

And, well, there's only one thing to be done, isn't there? Florian reaches out to set a hand on Clemence's shoulder, warm as dragon breath through his mother's cloak.

"Come, then," says Florian. "Come home with me, to the palace. We'll be able to arrange for a ship, surely. Trading vessels leave from the port for a great many distant shores."

When Clemence smiles, Florian finds, it is a dazzling thing. It dimples his cheeks and crinkles the corners of his eyes, and Florian finds that he's growing warm again, even his ears beginning to burn.

"I would be forever in your debt," says Clemence. "Truly."

"Well," says Florian. "You didn't eat me, when really you might have. So, shall we call it even?"

He holds out his hand, in invitation.