Never Sift For Wenches

As a knight’s son, Drake grew up in the courts surrounded by valor and chivalry. A small but eager boy, he dreamed of the day when he would be old enough to protect the realm like his father (a knight of some renown).

He loved animals and could often be found helping to take care of the horses and hunting dogs. He was also fascinated by the stars and lingered around visiting astronomers, gleaning what knowledge he could from them.

During his childhood, Drake was easily captivated by bards’ tales of knights performing miraculous deeds, wielding magic swords, slaying dragons, and standing firm against the forces of evil that would destroy the realm.

His chance came during the winter of his fourteenth year. He was old enough and had proven sufficient skill with a blade to ride out as a squire in his father’s company.

News of treachery swiftly followed. The company had betrayed the crown and become brutal mercenaries, sell-swords for the highest bidder. For years, that was all the court knew until, one particularly cruel winter, Drake returned. He was the sole survivor of a battle with a rival mercenary band that had claimed the lives of his father and all the company.

It was clear that Drake had come back…changed. He was now nineteen but appeared nearly as young has he had when he’d first left. His face and body were scarred, and he walked without making a sound. There was little shine in his once bright eyes. He had no interest in the pleasures of the court and threw himself into training.

It was also clear that Drake was now cursed. When he fought, his nails and teeth grew sharper and scales erupted in the creases of his body. If he so willed, he could transform into a draconic beast, awful and fury-filled but lacking the wings of a true dragon – one final indignity. Rumors abounded. He’d stolen fruit from a wizard’s orchard. The fae had altered him for their amusement. He had delt with devils and forsaken his immortal soul for power. Whatever the truth was, Drake would not speak of it.

Over the next decade, Drake grew in both strength and height, until he topped two meters and could wield multiple blades with ease. (“The curse,” the courtiers whispered. How else could such a soft, small boy become so powerful?). He also grew in isolation and apathy, fighting like a man who did not expect nor care to see the next dawn.

You, a budding polymath, came to court as a royal attendant. Despite the lavishness of the palace, you found no rest there. Your house had fallen on hard times, shaming the crown in the process. Furthermore, though the royals found your displays of knowledge amusing, the kingdom had become more orthodox of late, and studies of the natural world were held as uncouth. You had been taken in out of charity and everyone knew it.

With no wars to fight, Drake found himself restless and without a raison d’etre. He behaved recklessly in simple border skirmishes and often trained to the point of collapse.  Unwilling to “let so useful a weapon dull itself,” the royals assigned Drake as your protector. Ostensibly, it was because, fallen house or not, you were still a noble and somebody had to make sure you conducted yourself in an appropriate manner.

You detested this. Being saddled with a babysitter? Horrible. What’s more, knights were boorish men who enjoyed only violence and could barely think for themselves. For some reason, this situation amused the courtiers to no end.

You heard rumors about Drake. He had traitor’s blood. He was fae-touched, cursed. But what did it matter? He was an irritating obstacle. A large, perpetually-frowning presence who said only the most basic of things to you: “Yes, Your Grace.” “Not right now, Your Grace.” “It is time to go inside, Your Grace.”

Yes, you were content to ignore Drake. Until one night.

You were up on the ramparts charting the stars. He stood beside you, frowning as always. As you observed the sky, you found yourself unable to recall the name of a particular star. You tapped quill against parchment and hummed. The name wouldn’t come. You made a guess. Crossed it out. You were just about to give it up when a quiet voice beside you said: “Obscuris Minor.”

Those were the first words unrelated to his duty that he had ever spoken to you. You looked at him in confusion; he was right.

“How do you know that?” you demanded.

Drake looked away. “I learned it when I was a child, but the knowledge is useless to me.”

You bristled at his statement. Then you covered up your notes and pointed into the sky. “What’s that one? The one all by itself, as if the other stars have fled.”

“Are you ordering me to-”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “Dracona.”

“And that one?”

“Yrsa.”

The exchange repeated a few more times before you crossed your arms, satisfied.

Over the next several months, you paid more attention to Drake and sometimes engaged him in conversation, though his responses were always curt and proper. You learned that he was serious and stern, true, but he was also virtuous and kind. The only time he seemed to lighten up was in the presence of the small group of knights he had recently assumed command over. He also doted on his horse.

“You’s the only steed that will bear me,” he confided, in another rare moment of openness. Even then, he looked away from you. “The others all spooked when I came near.” You couldn’t bring yourself to ask why.

Drake was obviously strong, but you had never seen him fight. Every time you tried to follow him to the training grounds, he would notice your presence, no matter how stealthy you were, and send your away.

Still, you and Drake grew closer, and it wasn’t long before you felt the first traces of romantic feelings for the stoic, but kind-hearted knight. You hid these feelings well, or so you thought.

For his part, Drake had begun to suspect that you now saw him as more than just a protector. He wished he could feel honored, maybe even return those feelings, but he wasn’t a fool. It must be some courtiers’ game at his expense and, even if it wasn’t, your feelings couldn’t possibly last. You weren’t aware yet of the nature of his curse, after all. 

Unfortunately, peace in the realm could not last. War broke out with a neighboring kingdom, and Drake was removed from your service. In the relative safety of the palace, you worried for him and his small company. The fighting was said to be fierce, and you heard tell that, in many skirmishes, a beast would appear on the field and turn the tide of battle.

Feeling useless, and to distract yourself from the worry, you began to study herb-lore and simple medicine.

Soon, the palace where you resided was no longer safe, and the court moved to the capital.

On route, your retinue unexpectedly passed the site of an ongoing battle and was caught up in it. The knights with you defended the courtiers admirably, but all seemed lost until…

A creature, larger than the carriage, four-legged and wingless appeared on the battlefield. Covered in a black and red scaled hide and with teeth and claws sharper than any blade you had ever seen. As you watched, you realized that the rumors had been true. This beast fought with intelligence and fury precisely directed at the realm’s enemies. When the opposing army began its retreat, the beast collapsed, a number of fresh wounds on its side and belly.

You were shocked to see your realm’s forces also begin to move on, no one sparing a thought for the creature that had saved their lives. The unfairness of it ignited something in you, and you leapt from the carriage, ignoring cries of protest as you made your way to the fallen beast.

Its amber eyes swiveled to you, and a low growl began in its throat as you came near.

You stood your ground.

“I believe you can understand me,” you said, fishing a jar from your satchel. “I’m not going to hurt you. This is a poultice of comfrey and sage. It staunches wounds, prevents them from rotting. See?”

You uncorked the jar and held it out, fighting the shaking in your hands. The beast raised its head and appeared to sniff the contents. Satisfied, it lowered its head, but a growl still rumbled in its throat.

“You fought valiantly, and you don’t deserve to be left behind this way. Please, let me help you.”

Reaching one poultice-covered hand out, you gently placed it against a shallower wound. The beast shuddered under your touch, but allowed you to rub the salve into the wound. You moved on to the next.

“I’m sure this sounds selfish,” you sighed, “but I believe your interventions are saving someone dear to me. I’ve received no word of his death, so I have to keep hoping.”

The growling stopped. You continued your work.

“It’s better protection than the charm I sewed into the lining of his gambeson before he left,” you laughed. “That little trinket has no rending claws or sharp teeth. Just my love, whatever good that will do. There. I’m finished.”

You backed away as the beast rose to its feet. It gave you one last glance before darting away across the field. With it gone, you hurried back to your retinue, preparing for their admonishments.

The party made camp in relative safety, having met up with the kingdom’s forces from the earlier battle. You were confined to your tent, restless and frustrated, unable to scout around for news of Drake.

You had just resigned yourself to ignorance when your tent flap was thrown open and you stared, gaping into a pair of sea-blue eyes. Drake looked haggard, still in his armor and painted with mud and drying blood.

It took all your practiced decorum not to embrace him, but you leapt up nonetheless.

“Your Grace,” Drake’s face was crimson, though from anger or another emotion, you could not tell. “My duty once-upon-a-time was to safeguard you from all harm. Why would you do something so reckless?”

“The summer palace was no longer safe.”

He shook his head and heaved an exasperated sigh. “You’re willfully misunderstanding me. I heard what you did this afternoon.”

You crossed your arms. His attitude had returned to how it had been when you’d first met him. Serious, stern, no hint of softness. And you’d waited so long to see him again. Your voice rose before you could stop it.

“The knights all say the beast fights the realm’s enemies. Yet when it appears, they leave it to fight alone. And when it’s injured, they leave it to lick its wounds alone. It’s too cruel.”

“Draconic creatures are dangerous and unpredictable. They are outside of the gods’ graces. I cannot allow you to taint yourself that way! I would never forgive myself.” Drake seemed to be looking through you, and you noticed the tremor that had started in his gloved hands. Was he injured? Had he eaten anything since the battle? Drank anything? You stepped closer to him and lowered your voice, making it soft and soothing as you had done this afternoon when you had gained the beast’s wary trust.

“Ser Knight, you’re speaking nonsense. To me, it seems as if the gods have sent us a divine protector. Who are we to judge the skin it wears?” You reached out, intending to take his hand. “Come. At least let me give you water, wash the dust from your face.”

Drake’s stern countenance began to soften, and he let your fingers brush his for just a moment before swiftly turning away. When he spoke, his voice was tight.

“No, Your Grace. I should take my leave. Goodnight.”

Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, Drake left the tent.

You stared after him for a few minutes, tears pricking the corner of your eyes. Getting up to tie the tent flap closed for the night, you paused. In the space where Drake had stood was a faint odor of comfrey and sage.

In his own tent again, Drake clenched and unclenched his fist. His armor felt too hot, too restrictive, in a way it never had before. Would it have been so terrible to allow you to take him by the hand, rub the grime from his face?

He started to pace, doffing pieces of armor as he went - hauberk, arm guards, greaves - until he was down to just his gambeson and chausses. With suddenly shaking hands, he unlaced the gambeson and pulled it over his head.

Your words echoed in the silence of his tent: someone dear to me.

Drake’s fingers quested over each stitch in the lining until he felt it through the quilted fabric, a thin circle of metal, no more than an inch in diameter. He’d seen charms like this dozens of times; they were common; given by worried mothers and dutiful lovers. Charms against physical harm, against frailty of spirit, for honor and glory in combat, for a safe return. Drake had never received one before. 

Just my love, whatever good that will do.

A breeze slipped in through a gap in the tent flap and chilled his sweat-drenched skin. The wounds you had treated had stopped stinging. On his human body, they looked less severe, their ragged edges already closing. His extraordinarily fast healing kept him out of the surgeon’s tent. Just as well. He could tell from the way they whispered and grimaced that he made them uncomfortable.

As he should have made you uncomfortable. But you hadn’t been.

This afternoon, when he’d seen you approach, resolution and concern fixed on your face, Drake had been struck dumb, wanting to flee but unable to. Your touch burned and soothed all at once.

He waited for you to scream, to flee, to try and strike him. But you had not.

Drake avoids you (and his own feelings) as best he can. The night before the knights and the traveling courtiers are due to go their separate ways, Drake is visited in a dream by members of an infamous mercenary group: The Band of Beasts (the Kaidou and officers equivalent of this world). They’ve been working with the kingdom that is currently fighting Drake’s….and they have an offer.

“You’ve caught my attention,” a voice boomed.

Drake spun around, searching for the source of the voice, hand flying to a sword he didn’t have. His mind had left him unarmed.

He was face to face with a man double his height, and certainly much much stronger.

“There are more curses in this world then just yours, knight captain.”

Around the massive man, a half dozen creatures stepped up to flank him. Some draconic, others not, but all fierce.

As Drake watched, the creatures shimmered and shifted, their bodies rippling for a moment, until he was faced with regular humans, their smiles inviting.

“All of you,” he muttered in awe, “like me.”

“Of course,” rumbled the massive man. “Wouldn’t you like to be among friends?”

“My duty is to my realm” Drake shot back, once again reaching for a sword he didn’t have.

Six eyebrows raised at him, unconvinced.

“Not just duty,” Drake insisted. “It’s my purpose, the only reason I’m alive.”

“But what do they give you in return,” said a lean white-haired man whose bestial form had been winged and black. “Mistrust? A wary eye? I can see their fear has lodged in your heart.”

Drake reached up and felt the charm sewn into his gambeson. It felt like the only solid thing in this dream.

“And you’ll never have their affection.” In a blink, a black-haired woman appeared next to him. Minutes ago, she had smiled at him from atop an arachnid torso and legs. She stroked his arm,  face full of pity. “I know what you’re thinking. You’ll hide it. They’ll never discover. But did you know? It’s not just battle. Anytime the blood grows,” she whispered in his ear, “hot, out come the talons, the unsightly scales. There is no hiding this. There is no wishing it away.”

Drake shuddered. He reached again to feel the charm, but the woman held his hand down.

The mountain-sized mercenary leader stepped up to him.

“When we next meet on the field,” he rumbled, “you will be outnumbered. I’ll offer you one chance to save your company, to save the people you hold dear. If you agree to come with us, fight with us, we will end our agreement with your kingdom’s enemies. Do not be a fool.”

Unfortunately for the Band of Beasts, Drake has a little more integrity than they were counting on, and a plan is concocted for him to feign desertion and become a spy in the infamous mercenary group.

He cannot bring himself to say goodbye to you, as he realizes that you will soon despise him for what he is about to do. He rips the charm from his gambeson and leaves it in your tent.

After his desertion, you are confused and distraught. But you are also a clever and intrigued. The charm should have been very difficult to find and, even if Drake had found it, how did he know to return it to you? You put two-and-two together very quickly and set out to interrogate the members of Drake’s little knight company (basically medieval SWORD) who confirm your theory about Drake’s cursed form. They also inform you that he is the one who orders them off the field when he transforms, as he feels that if the battle has gotten that serious, only his life should be risked. Our boy has some self-destructive tendencies.

You also speak with an elderly knight trainer (medieval Sengoku) who knew Drake when he was younger and is fond of him but was unable to give the young man the affection he craved due to the court’s expectations/pressures (needless to say, he regrets this now). The trainer says that Drake is doubly cursed. The first is his draconic form, a power Drake’s father had wanted for himself and treated his son harshly because of it. The second curse is self-inflicted and is Drake’s self-hatred manifested in a desire to sacrifice himself (either all at once or piece by piece over many years) in a twisted attempt to finally achieve purpose and love.

Well, you are not having any of that nonsense, so you travel into the territory controlled by the Band of Beasts to bring Drake back.

Drake is the first person you encounter there, and he approaches you in his draconic form in an attempt to scare you off (ooo he’s being so big and scary). You are unfazed.

Either way, you and Drake do meet up (he refuses to reveal his human form to your, still believing that you have no idea they are the same), and he travels with you, hoping to lead you out of dangerous territory and back to the free lands.

During this time, you play dumb and do not reveal that you know the beast is Drake. You do, however, speak very highly of ‘your knight’ and try to explain how much those who take the time to know him value him. You also tempt him to reveal himself by being a little…. scandalous. I mean, people change in front of their dogs and cats all the time, right?

You were using the last of the daylight to make notes on a sheaf of parchment. With your tongue between your teeth, you drew symbols with a piece of blackened kindling from the fire.

Much of the hesitation you’d shown around the beast a few days ago had faded and, when you noticed him curl up after supper, you quickly moved to sit against his side.

“You’re quite warm, you know,” you said and started writing.

For the first time in his life, Drake found himself jealous of the beast. Social decorum did not apply to animals, and the beast was free to lay its head down while you scratched its ears or ran a slow hand down its back, over the spikes that, at rest, flattened themselves against his spine. When the touches became overwhelming, the beast was free to roll on its side, belly exposed, in an instinctual act of trust. Sometimes, you would touch it there as well, hands always gentle as you stroked. 

Gentleness. What sort of justice was it that a cursed beast should be handled so gently while Drake, who was coming to realize he craved just such a thing so intently it was making him ill, should remain untouched? 

Change back, said the selfish part of his mind. The childish part that still naively believed love and gentleness were freely given and without condition. No, it was too late now. You were only so kind because you believed the beast to be merely a creature acting on instinct. An animal who would react like any other when you had its trust. To reveal himself now would not only shame you (you’ve slept against each other! You'd ridden on his back!) but reveal the true horrific extent of his curse and shatter any affection you felt for his human self. And Drake clung to that affection like a drowning man clings to a fallen timber.

When you reached the forest border, Drake planted his feet and would go no further. This was the edge of the Band of Beasts' territory.

"I see," you said. "You've led me out of the forest against my wishes."

Drake bowed his head in the gesture you had come to learn meant yes.

You stepped out of the forest and into the afternoon sun. Drake remained shadowed in the trees.

"And you won't come with me? You're missed you know."

The draconic head swung side-to-side. No.

"Does some magic keep you bound here?"

 No.

 "Your own will."

A slight hesitation and then: yes.

"I see," you said again. "This must be farewell, then. I don't suppose we'll meet again, though I'd like to."

Your piece said, you watched Drake intently, searching for a reaction in the scaled face, the slitted eyes. He looked defeated and somehow more animal-like than you had ever seen him.

To truly set him free, you'd have to break the curse he's placed on his own mind, the one that makes him hope for no more than to die having been a useful weapon and then to be forgotten like any shattered blade.

 "Would you lower your head, please?" you asked, reaching a hand into your satchel. "I have something I'd like to give you before I go."

Drake's head tilted in confusion, but he complied, lowering himself until you were at eye-level. He bowed his head.

You drew out a braided cord looped into a long circle. At one end was a copper token, no bigger than the center of a daisy. You held the circle in Drake's view.

"I gave this charm to a kind and virtuous man. It was given freely and out of love. Now, I give it again to that same man. He is brave and loyal, even to those who don't see his worth. He can be reckless at times and holds his own life far too cheaply. Still, I give this charm freely and out of love."

Smiling softly, you placed the cord around Drake's neck and leaned in, touching your forehead to his and your hands to either side of his jaw. You closed your eyes.

The scales beneath your fingers and forehead burned and softened, the new skin shifting under your touch.

When a pair of large gloved hands enveloped your own, you opened your eyes and met blue eyes wide and flecked with fear.

Drake stared at you for one heartbeat, two, then cast his gaze to the ground. The words came out in a rush and in a voice hoarse from disuse. A deathbed-style confession from the man who had held everything back.

"You must understand, there will always be shadows of the beast on my body. I have traitor's blood in my veins and will never be able to attain titles or land. Animals fear me. I don't know how to relax, or make small talk with courtiers. I can't dance or recite poetry-" he paused for breath and you took the chance to cut in.

"Please," you whispered, "raise your head.”

He shook it instead, but his hands gripped tightly, and his forehead remained pressed into yours.

"I cannot. If I look at you now, I will be lost."

"Then I will find you again."

The words drew his eyes to yours like a compass to a north star, and there was no more hint of fear in them. Instead, they shone with awe and wonder.

Drake stood then, and you realized that the transformation had left him kneeling on the dewy ground. His hands never left their grip on yours but dropped to his sides. Now, he seemed at a loss for words, simply squeezing your hands as if for reassurance that he wasn't dreaming.

"I should confess," you muttered. "You gave yourself away when you returned the token to me. I've known it was you all this time, but I was afraid you'd run if I admitted it."

"I-I probably would have."

"Some of the things I did to you were...teasing at best and improper at worse."

A blush and a smattering of red and black scales surged up Drake's cheeks.

"But I don't regret any of them," you continued. "And I don't believe you do either."

"I don't. I, I – damn," Drake dropped one of your hands to scratch at the back of his neck, and he suddenly became very interested in the grass beneath his boots.

"Go on," you encouraged, a smile teasing your lips.

"I'll tell you some other time. I think I've exhausted my courage for the day, for the week probably." He dropped your hand and readjusted himself, straightening his clothes and running a hand through his hair. It looked as ragged as the rest of him.

"If we can find a stream, I can do something about your hair," you offered. "I'm sure the knots must hurt."

"As you say," Drake murmured, still staring at you as if in a daze. You had the impression that, at that moment, you could have suggested just about any course of action to him and he would have complied.

Drake moved to take a few steps back the way you had come and stumbled. You tried to catch him, but you both sank to the ground under his weight.

Drake tried once again to stand, but his limbs did not cooperate. He collapsed and faced you.

"I apologize, but I- it's been so - I'm not used to spending so much time in that other form. My body needs to readjust. Would it be alright if I took your hand?" He asked, face terribly flushed as if he hadn't been holding both your hands minutes before.

You laughed. "I'll give you both hands and both arms. Though this does not bode well for you ever learning to dance." You smirked.

The noise startled both of you. A voiced exhale and then a second, bubbling up into the air one after the other.

Now, it was your turn to look at your companion in awe as you realized the source of the sound the same time he did: laughter. And Drake did not stop laughing as he embraced you and pulled you down into the heather. Then he lay, breathless and quiet but smiling, beside you, his fingers intertwining with yours.

You walked out of the mercenaries’ territory together, hand-in-hand. At first, Drake gripped your hand like a crutch while he waited for his body to remember what walking on two legs felt like. As his balance returned, he loosened his grip but couldn’t bring himself to let it go.

You were keeping up a mostly one-sided conversation. Drake nodded and commented at the appropriate times, but he couldn’t help but feel dazed. His thoughts tumbled the way his body wanted to. What you were telling him seemed unbelievable. Not just you, but his comrades, and even old-man Sengoku…they were hoping for his return, not because they needed his strength but because they missed his presence.

“Come home,” you had said.

Home. The word had meant nothing to him for such a long time. A useless, grey word that always settled wrong in his ears. Now, the word shone golden and warming. Home. I’m coming home.

You stopped your monologue and turned to him.

“How are you feeling? Getting used to two legs again?”

Drake nodded. “I feel steadier, though I don’t think I could run.” He looked down at your clasped hands. Yours was so much smaller, warmer than his own. Suddenly, the seriousness of it all struck him; he cleared his throat and dropped your hand.

“Thank you for, ah, letting me use your hand. I won’t impose any further on your kindness.”

You frowned but didn’t press.

You continued your journey as the day grew hotter. There was less tree cover here, and you both wiped sweat from your brows.

When you came across the river, your eyes lit up.

“Finally!”

Drake followed you to the shore as you dipped a hand in the water. A few minnows brushed your fingertips.

“The temperature is lovely,” you sighed. Without another word, you rolled up your trousers and began to wade out. Drake turned away, blushing fiercely; he thought he’d gotten used to the sight of your bare ankles and calves while you traveled, but your confession cast even familiar actions in a new light.

“The depth is perfect,” you called. “Though it may be a bit shallow for you.”

Back on the shore, you rifled through your bag and pulled out a thin bar of soap. You snapped it in half and handed one half to Drake.

“I did say we’d do something about your hair once we found a stream,” you explained. “This is much better than a stream, and now I want a proper bath. You deserve one, too.”

Once again, Drake felt heat creep up his neck and scales bloom on his palms. He closed his hands into fists. “My Grace, we should still try to do things properly. I wouldn’t want to shame you by seeing you disrobed or by you seeing me.”

Now, it was your turn to blush. Not from his mention of nudity but from the way he’d addressed you. Since you’d known him, Drake had used a few formal titles for you, but never ‘my.’ Once again, for some reason you were still working out, he’d thrown politeness and formality up as a barricade between you, but the ‘my’ gave you hope. You could take small steps, and you’d take care not to push him too far into unknown territory.

“I’ve thought of that,” you shook off your embarrassment. “See those large rocks in the middle of the river? We can stand on either side of them and catch no glimpse of each other’s bodies.”

Despite Drake’s initial protest, you found it took little convincing to get him to agree to a quick dip. Then, it was only a matter of strategic eye closing and staring pointedly away from the river until, at last, you stood on opposite sides of the rock, clothes and Drake’s sword (he’d refused to leave it on the shore) on the stone between you.

You took your time, working the lather over your body thoughtfully, as if painting. Drake, meanwhile, was efficient and rough, scrubbing his skin as if scouring a pot. When it came time to clean his hair, Drake kneaded the soap into his scalp with business-like fingers.

The soap’s scent hovered around him, herbal and heady. He paused his scouring and breathed deeply. He did his best not to think of you behind him, of your bare skin and dripping hair, of the way you hummed to yourself. Drake praised and cursed the rocks between you. Then, he knelt and dunked his head into the crisp river, coming up only when his breath ran out.

After another round of closed eyes and averted gazes, you and Drake were back on the shore and clothed. You were once again digging around in your bag and trying to figure out what to do next; Drake had said little during the whole bath, and you were beginning to fret. You knew you could be overbearing at times. Perhaps you had pushed him too far.

Apologize, said the voice in your head. The voice belonged to a part of your that had gotten used to being politely suffered through.

You were working out the phrasing of an apology in your head when Drake held a small wooden comb in front of you.

“Is this what you’re looking for?”

You sniffed. “Yes, thank you. It must have fallen out when I got the soap.” Facing him, you rubbed your fingertips over the teeth of the comb. “Are you certain you would like me to fix your hair? I realize I asked you during an…emotional moment, and I couldn’t stand it if I made you uncomfortable.” You added a laugh to the last bit, burying any hint of worry.

“Yes, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

“Alright then.” You placed your bedroll on a soft patch of ground and knelt on it. “Sit in front of me and face the river.”

Drake did so, and you examined his hair. Washed, it wasn’t as tangled as it first appeared, and the color was brighter.

“Goodness,” you murmured. “It’s like a flame.”

In front of you, Drake shifted, and you chastised yourself again. You’d become so used to speaking your mind around his bestial form, that you’d forgotten to keep your thoughts to yourself.

“I’m going to work out the knots,” you continued. “I apologize if it pulls. If you would like me to stop, simply say so.”

At Drake’s slight nod you began, fingers gentle and lips pursed.

After you picked apart each tangle, you apologized. Drake insisted he didn’t feel a thing. It was strange to have so much concern directed at him, and he hardly knew what to do with it. Surely, you understood that he’d borne worse pain than a wooden comb could inflict, and yet you still treated him with the care reserved for people who hadn’t had to hold the raw edges of their own wounds together.

He only wished you would speak to him – he could have listened to you talk about anything, and he’d grown used to the way your voice brightened the stillness - but you seemed determined to do your work silently.

“Usually, when my hair gets like this, I hack it off,” Drake said suddenly, surprising himself.

Your hands stilled. “Do you prefer it short? I could try to cut it.”

“No. I prefer it longer. My,” he swallowed, “father wore his short.”

A few heartbeats passed, during which Drake hardly breathed, before you resumed your combing.

“Then longer it shall be,” you said. “I’m nearly finished. Would you hand me the brush?”

Drake passed you the brush and took the comb. He stared at the little tool in his hand. A few strands of his hair were wrapped around the teeth. Like a flame you had said. Drake had the misfortune of inheriting his father’s appearance, hair most prominently of all. An outward sign of tainted blood. But what if it could become something different, something good…

Serious though Drake’s ruminations were, they were all forgotten when you began to brush his hair. Your movements were rhythmic, gentle, and his thoughts became lost in them.

Finally. Finally, it was your fingers against his skin, your breath that blew a stray lock away from his nape. Your gentleness was no different than it had been when he wore scales and fangs.

Exhaustion crept through his body. Since Drake had found you in the forest, the beast had maintained a constant hypervigilance. It was only now that its muscles unwound themselves and its breathing slowed. Safe he reminded himself. Home. Drake repeated the words with each stroke of the brush, as his eyes closed and he leaned, little by little, against your chest.

When Drake woke, the sun was setting and his head was resting in your lap. His muscles tensed, ready to leap up and apologize, but your hand on his forehead soothed him.

“Shhh,” you murmured. “Be still. You’re not doing anything wrong. I’ve rested against you a fair few times, so let me return the favor.”

Words wouldn’t come, so Drake only nodded and closed his eyes again.

Safe.

Home.

As a knight’s son, Drake grew up in the courts surrounded by valor and chivalry. A small but eager boy, he dreamed of the day when he would be old enough to protect the realm like his father (a knight of some renown).

He loved animals and could often be found helping to take care of the horses and hunting dogs. He was also fascinated by the stars and lingered around visiting astronomers, gleaning what knowledge he could from them.

During his childhood, Drake was easily captivated by bards’ tales of knights performing miraculous deeds, wielding magic swords, slaying dragons, and standing firm against the forces of evil that would destroy the realm.

His chance came during the winter of his fourteenth year. He was old enough and had proven sufficient skill with a blade to ride out as a squire in his father’s company.

News of treachery swiftly followed. The company had betrayed the crown and become brutal mercenaries, sell-swords for the highest bidder. For years, that was all the court knew until, one particularly cruel winter, Drake returned. He was the sole survivor of a battle with a rival mercenary band that had claimed the lives of his father and all the company.

It was clear that Drake had come back…changed. He was now nineteen but appeared nearly as young as he had when he’d first left. His face and body were scarred, and he walked without making a sound. There was little shine in his once bright eyes. He had no interest in the pleasures of the court and threw himself into training.

It was also clear that Drake was now cursed. When he fought, his nails and teeth grew sharper and scales erupted in the creases of his body. If he so willed, he could transform into a draconic beast, awful and fury-filled but lacking the wings of a true dragon – one final indignity. Rumors abounded. He’d stolen fruit from a wizard’s orchard. The fae had altered him for their amusement. He had dealt with devils and forsaken his immortal soul for power. Whatever the truth was, Drake would not speak of it.

Over the next decade, Drake grew in both strength and height, until he topped two meters and could wield multiple blades with ease. (“The curse,” the courtiers whispered. How else could such a soft, small boy become so powerful?). He also grew in isolation and apathy, fighting like a man who did not expect nor care to see the next dawn.

[Now for the X Reader stuff]

A minor noble, you came to court as a royal attendant. Despite the lavishness of the palace, you found no rest there. Your house had fallen on hard times, shaming the crown in the process. You had been taken in out of charity and everyone knew it.

Drake was assigned as your protector. Ostensibly, it was because, fallen house or not, you were still a noble and somebody had to make sure you conducted yourself in an appropriate manner, but to you it felt as if you had been saddled with a babysitter. With a realm at peace, was there really nothing more important for a knight to be doing? For some reason, your being paired up amused the courtiers to no end. You heard rumors about Drake. He had traitor’s blood. He was fae-touched, cursed. But none of those rumors seemed to fit the man you grew to know.

He was serious and stern, true, but he was also virtuous and kind. The only time he seemed to relax was in the presence of the small group of knights he had recently assumed command over. He also, and you smiled to think of it, doted on his horse.

“She’s the only steed that will bear me,” he confided, in a rare moment of openness. Even then, he looked away from you. “The others all spooked when I came near.” You didn’t ask why.

Drake was obviously strong, but you’d never seen him fight. Every time you tried to follow him to the training grounds, he would notice your presence, no matter how stealthy you were, and send you away.

Still, the two of you grew closer, and it wasn’t long before you felt the first traces of romantic feelings for the stoic but kind-hearted knight. You hid these feelings well, or so you thought.

For his part, Drake had begun to suspect that you now saw him as more than just a protector. He wished he could feel honored, maybe even return those feelings, but he wasn’t a fool. It must be some courtiers’ game at his expense and, even if it wasn’t, your feelings couldn’t possibly be true. You weren’t aware yet of the nature of his curse, after all.  

Unfortunately for you both, peace in your realm could not last. War broke out with a neighboring kingdom, and Drake was removed from your service. In the relative safety of the palace, you worried for your knight and his small company. The fighting was said to be fierce, and you heard tell that, in many skirmishes, a beast would appear on the field and turn the tide of battle.

Feeling useless, and to distract yourself from the worry, you began to study herb-lore and simple medicine.

Soon, the palace where you resided was no longer safe, and the court moved to the capital.

On route, your retinue unexpectedly passed the site of an ongoing battle and was caught up in it. The knights with you defended you admirably, but all seemed lost until…

A creature, larger than your carriage, four-legged and wingless appeared on the battlefield. It was covered in a black and red scaled hide and had teeth and claws sharper than any blade you had ever seen. As you watched, you realized that the rumors were true. This beast fought with intelligence and fury precisely directed at the realm’s enemies. When the opposing army began its retreat, the beast collapsed, a number of fresh wounds on its side and belly.

You were shocked to see your realm’s forces also begin to move on, no one sparing a thought for the creature that had saved their lives. The unfairness of it ignited something in you, and you leapt from the carriage, ignoring cries of protest as you made your way to the fallen beast.

Its amber eyes swiveled to you, and a low growl began in its throat as you came near.

You stood your ground.

“I believe you can understand me,” you said, fishing a jar from your satchel. “I’m not going to hurt you. This is a poultice of comfrey and sage. It staunches wounds, prevents them from rotting. See?”

You uncorked the jar and held it out, fighting the shaking in your hands. The beast raised its head and appeared to sniff the contents. Satisfied, it lowered its head, but a growl still rumbled in its throat.

“You fought valiantly, and you don’t deserve to be left behind this way. Please, let me help you.”

Reaching one poultice-covered hand out, you gently placed it against a shallower wound. The beast shuddered under your touch, but allowed you to rub the salve into the wound. You moved on to the next.

“I’m sure this sounds selfish,” you sighed, “but I believe your interventions are saving someone dear to me. I’ve received no word of his death, so I have to keep hoping.”

The growling stopped. You continued your work.

“It’s better protection than the charm I sewed into the lining of his gambeson before he left,” you laughed. “That little trinket has no rending claws or sharp teeth. Just my love, whatever good that will do. There. I’m finished.”

You backed away as the beast rose to its feet. It gave you one last glance before darting away across the field. With it gone, you hurried back to your retinue, preparing for their admonishments.

Your party made camp in relative safety, having met up with your kingdom’s forces from the earlier battle. You were confined to your tent, restless and frustrated, unable to scout around for news of Drake.

You had just resigned yourself to ignorance when your tent flap was thrown open and you stared, gaping, into a pair of sea-blue eyes. Drake looked haggard, still in his armor and painted with mud and drying blood.

It took all your practiced decorum not to embrace him, but you leapt up nonetheless.

“Your Grace,” Drake’s face was crimson, though from anger or another emotion, you could not tell. “My duty once-upon-a-time was to safeguard you from all harm. Why would you do something so reckless?”

“The summer palace was no longer safe. We had to leave. How were we to know we were stumbling into a battle?”

He shook his head and heaved an exasperated sigh. “You’re willfully misunderstanding me. I heard what you did this afternoon.”

You crossed your arms. His attitude had returned to how it had been when you first met him. Serious, stern, no hint of softness. And you’d waited so long to see him again. Your voice rose before you could stop it.

“The knights all say the beast fights the realm’s enemies. Yet when it appears, they leave it to fight alone. And when it’s injured, they leave it to lick its wounds alone. It’s too cruel.”

“Draconic creatures are dangerous and unpredictable. They are outside of the gods’ graces. I cannot allow you to taint yourself that way! I would never forgive myself.” Drake seemed to be looking through you, and you noticed the tremor that had started in his gloved hands. Was he injured? Had he eaten anything since the battle? Drank anything? You stepped closer to him and lowered your voice, making it soft and soothing as you had done this afternoon when you had gained the beast’s wary trust.

“Ser Knight, you’re speaking nonsense. To me, it seems as if the gods have sent us a divine protector. Who are we to judge the skin it wears?” You reached out, intending to take his hand. “Come. At least let me give you water, wash the dust from your face.”

Drake’s stern countenance began to soften, and he let your fingers brush his for just a moment before swiftly turning away. When he spoke, his voice was tight.

“No, Your Grace. I should take my leave. Goodnight.”

Without so much as a glance over his shoulder, Drake left your tent.