Prismatic

Callaghan couldn’t help but smile as he listed off the appearance of nearly everyone inside of his bar, including himself. Sporting flannel was one of his favourite and only outfits. He didn’t exactly have the fashion sense to dress himself properly every morning. Not like he had too, he worked at a run down bar that didn’t exactly have a dress code. “Well I’m pretty sure most of these people are illiterate, so yeah I’d say you don’t exactly fit in with this kind of crowd,” he mused taking a drink from his beer. Looking over the boys things again before cocking an eyebrow, “your therapist told you to come down here? I mean you could have chose anywhere else, I’m sure there’s a less chance of getting in a fight down at a McDonalds.”

“What exactly are you doin’ if you don’t mind me asking. That just looks like gibberish to me,” Cal took another drink, “Are you in school or something?” the boy was very interesting, and not just because he managed to avoid getting injured in the scuffle but because well he was different and Cal wasn’t afraid to admit that he was very cute. 

Pav smiled across the bar at the, if he was entirely honest, stunningly attractive bartender. “Well I speak four languages. I bring the average somewhat closer to the norm just by being here. You may, of course, thank me for my tremendous service to your bar.” He took another drink and drew an idle doodle in the margins of his text before laughing, “She didn’t suggest your bar. But she suggested a social setting. Coffee shop, bar, concert. I choose your bar. One of my students recommended it.”

Pavlos looked down at the papers in front of him, very neat Greek characters in their gridded rows on the page, “Well you know the expression ‘it’s all Greek to me’? Well......” he gestured broadly to the books in front of him. 

Now that he was closer to the weird man, he could definitely sense something off about him. Something that wasn’t human but there was no way he could place it. It wasn’t like he was a vampire, but he had that poisonous sort of smell to him, almost like the way cigarettes smelled toxic. But he looked completely human. Who was this guy. “Great, wouldn’t want y’calling the police or anythin’ this place doesn’t exactly have the best reputation,” Cal flashed a smile, as he walked back around the counter, continuing to make Pavlos a drink, plopping it down in front of him with a small ‘clunk’ of glass against wood. “Inbred blood? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he took the sweater nonetheless, tossing it in the garbage he had underneath the bar counter.

Leaning forwards on his elbows to comfortably to talk to Pavlos, looking over all the sheets he had laid out, “Not to be rude –” Callaghan started with a slight furrow of his eyebrows before looking back to Pav with a questioning glance, “What are you doin’ here?” the werewolf paused briefly standing back up straight to grab himself a bottle of beer that he cracked open, “Not that I mind, you’re a nice change of character than these…people. Y’don’t look like the bar sort.”

Pavlos looked at the glass in front of him and picked it up, watching the clear liquid slosh about inside as he rolled it between his fingers. The bartender was something. He couldn’t tell what without sticking his tongue out, and humans tended to be frightened by a long forked tongue but... definitely not human. “Those men. Who were fighting. Clearly the product of inbreeding.” He took a drink and smiled at the bright bite of it. It might turn out to be a good evening after all.

The bartender’s question made him laugh as he took another sip, “Is it the height? The fact that I can dress myself in something other than flannel? The books?” He chewed on his bottom lip and smiled softly, “I needed a place that wasn’t my apartment to do homework. My therapist demands I leave my home for more than class and work. So. I’m here, in your bar, getting attacked. It’s like high school all over again.”

The younger man did not look as though he belonged there, and from the crowd of ne’erdowells and rather dirty looking patrons, Pavlos stuck out like a sore thumb. Cal almost wanted to ask if the man was lost, I mean he was doing what looked like homework no less. This wasn’t exactly the College hangout in town, not like a Starbucks or hipster cafe that was for sure. Callaghan noticed the two arguing men getting rather heated. In fact he could sense it long before he heard it, the way their hearts raced faster, it could smell their intense perspiration from where he stood. Cal was tense and wary, he was used to people fighting in his bar, frankly he kicked people out on a regular basis. But he felt as though he should stop this before they got closer to the strange man who he was making a drink for at the moment. However Cal had no time to react before the two men came stumbling forward with fists and screams, pulling the well dressed man down to the ground with them. Literally caught in the middle between them.

Dropping everything he hopped over the counter with ease, grabbing one of the men from the back of the shirt, “Hey! Knock it off!” Cal snapped at the men, luckily his werewolf strength was enough to at least get the two men off each other. Ignoring the boy briefly as he screamed at them to leave, “You two cunts can continue your fight outside, y’fuckin animals!” Cal kicking them out rather aggressively. The moment they were out of the picture the bar started up in a dull murmur once again as people continued conversations and drinking. Cal moved to the man who had been pulled into the mess and offered a hand, “Sorry, are you alright?” Cal could smell blood in the air however he wasn’t sure if it belonged to this mysterious man or the two scrubs he just kicked out.

No sooner had Pavlos bent to translation in earnest then the argument off to his side transitioned into a full-blown fight, with him in the fucking middle of it. “Oh are you fucking kidding me!” he hissed as he was thrown from his bar stool, managing to surreptitiously sink his fangs into one of their biceps before the agile bartender had ripped the fight apart with inhuman strength; enjoy those hallucinations and crippling pain asshole. Pavlos stood back up again, making sure the magical bracelet was still attached firmly to his wrist an examining the hole that had been torn in his sweater before nodding to the bartender, “Fine. It takes more than some drunken louts to actually do any damage. I’m stronger than I look.”

He dusted his notebook off from where it had fallen and parked himself back on his bar stool, shucking off his damaged sweater to just the black t-shirt underneath it, “Could you throw this away for me, please? It has inbred blood on it now.... and could I have that vodka tonic a triple now? I feel like I need the jumpstart.”

@diaphoroi

The smoke twisted in its artistic way, forming curls in the gloom, illuminated only by the age-speckled bar lights. Along the wall was every hue of amber liquid in their inverted bottles. The bar curves into the room, dark in the barely lit room. Through the windows, the diamonds of lead panes, trickles the sallow light of street-lamps. The smell has changed over the years. Once it was of the perfume that clung to clothing, skin and furniture alike. Now since it’s reopening by Callaghan, it smells mainly of hard liqueur and cigarette smoke. There are establishments that are more like restaurants now - all clean with waiting staff. Not here. Not at the “Seafret” It was always a den of debauchery, alcoholism and the great unwashed of the town. It still is. Although the owner tries his best to make it as wholesome as possible.

The night before had been rough, a full moon. To most people it was just another night, for Cal it was a lot tougher. Often finding himself deep in the forest, naked. Having to track his trail back home. Normally he’d close down the bar on days after the moon. But against his better judgement, he opened. Serving the few men and woman who’d come in for a quick drink and to listen to the tunes he had playing over the speakers. Nothing too abrasive, casual music. Some indie shit he picked up off spotify. People seemed to like it, he’s had no complaints yet. The sky had just finished darkening, some people were leaving. Two drunkard however were having an annoyingly loud conversation at the other end of the bar, Cal keeping a close eye on them. As well as the interesting and rather – quiet man who had entered the bar, something seemed off about him, and it wasn’t that he was probably the most attractive man he’s seen step into his bar.

Tuesdays were, by far, the absolute worst day of the week. Not only did he have to teach three classes of freshmen and sophomores, by far the most idiotic creatures on God’s green earth, but it was his first Graduate Seminar of the week; which was usually when Dr. Vatteran told him all the work he’d done of the weekend was worthless. Pavlos had definitely made the wrong choice for graduate advisors; even if Pamela Vatteran was the country’s leading expert of ancient greek translation. Which went on to inform his decision to do his homework at a bar that night; not that he could get drunk, alcohol was a toxin and do to the venom that flowed through him he was immune, but it got him out of his penthouse and into the nitty-gritty. 

He rolled his eyes heavily at the pair of men who were rapidly approaching shouting, about a sports team no less, and bent his head back to the notebook in front of him, full of triple-spaced lines of Greek text that he’d painstakingly transcribed before heading out to the bar. It would probably be frowned upon to bring a 900 year old manuscript to a dive bar with him. Fidgeting with the silver and leather bracelet that wound its way several times around his left wrist, ensuring he continued to look human instead of his natural form, he looked at the smolderingly hot bartender across the chipped wood of the bar, “Vodka tonic please. With a twist.” The argument to his left grew marginally louder and he rolled his eyes again, twirling the pencil between his fingers as he bent back to his work. At least he was out of the apartment. Baby steps.

Easy. 

Such missions always left a coat of blood on him, though, which meant a shower after a mission was always a must. Now, smelling like whatever basic-ass soap and shampoo SHIELD kept at the Triskelion, he found himself being summoned to Maria Hill’s office for another hunt. 

After a short briefing and being handed a file, Andrei marched back up to a helipad, where he had disembarked from a jet not an hour ago. The jet was still there, but once Andrei climbed inside, he could tell that the pilot was different from their height. Andrei thought he could smell something like fear on the new pilot. They must’ve been a newbie, if they honestly thought the Vanator might shift at any given moment to sink his claws and teeth into their skin. No- it was shit like that that got mutants locked up in the Fridge or killed, and Andrei treasured his freedom too much to even think about attacking SHIELD personnel. 

Once he was settled in and they were in the sky, Andrei pulled out the file, which was in Romanian. His eyes narrowed as he saw that he would be assigned a partner. Andrei usually worked alone, meaning that he didn’t need to worry about some idiot who probably would get in his way. However, he did work with the Black Widow at one point without wanting to rip her throat out, but it was quite possibly because he knew she could rip his out, if she tried. 

There wasn’t much on his partner in the file: just a codename and his ability. Even SHIELD wasn’t stupid enough to assign Andrei a partner without telling him who he was, especially a partner with an ability such as the Seraphs.

When they landed, he stayed seated as the Seraph called out and walked towards the jet. “Sorry for the wait, prinţesă,” he mocked drily. “We’ll try to not get caught in the middle of a storm next time.”

“You can leave now.” He called to the pilot as he settled into his seat, propping his boots up against the seat across from him. A glance was cast across the plane at the Vanator and he chuckled, “I am many things.... but a princess I am not. If those are the rumors they tell at the Triskelion these days I have to go back to set the mythos back up again. If Hill’s cleaned all the fire damage in her office maybe I”ll take a spin through it again.” He pulled his 3DS out again and started up his game. If his partner had anything to say about the mission he could say it, but Zeke knew what he was being flown across the world to do. 

For a second, there was nothing else but the sound of the air con and Zavarel- Z- fidgeting. Then, the angel exploded into laughter, prompting Caleb to cross his arms and give the angel a real, full-hearted glare. “You’re just going to keep messing with me, aren’t you?” 

He was still glaring at him when the door opened yet again. Caleb quickly neutralized his face, trying not to make a look of disgust once he saw the food that a nurse was carrying to him. Eugh. Well, Caleb had always wanted to lose a few more pounds. Maybe the shitty hospital food could help with that. He thanked the nurse, who only smiled a bit nervously and then left. Looking down at his tray, Caleb saw a napkin with a number scrawled on top. He sighed. 

“Too bad there isn’t a way to just let people automatically know I’m gay,” he said, picking up the spoon to play with the porridge a little. He glanced at Z. “Does… God really have any stance on that, really? Or, well, the rest of heaven…?

Z snickered as the nurse brought a tray of what could loosely be called food. His snicker got a little louder when he saw the phone number and broke into a full guffaw after she left, “I mean I can’t fault her taste but is it really the appropriate moment to give someone her phone number? You’re about 40% broken right now. Clearly her standards are low.”

Hearing his full name fall from Zavarel’s lips was… weird, to say the least. Caleb chose to ignore the feeling in his gut, though. “Hey- short to you but long enough to me, buddy.” 

Wing talons… What the fuck were wing talons? Caleb decided that he was never going to get into a physical fight with the angel, no matter how annoying he was. Not to mention that he could probably beat Caleb down onto his ass without them; all Caleb ever did to exercise was run and do some pushups and shit. 

The way that Zavarel talked nonchalantly made Caleb realize that the angel has really seen some shit in his time. Not the kinds of things normal people have seen, but actual bloodcurdling and twisted things that would make a mere human lose their minds. 

Damn if Caleb had never been so inspired to paint before.

He warily eyed the angel as he sat down on the edge of his bed, begrudgingly admitting to himself that he had a nice face. “Uhm.” He squirmed a little, uncomfortable by the sudden change of the tone of conversation from sass to sincerity. “Thanks, I guess. Sorry that’s about… sixty years of your eternal life you’re not going to get back.” 

“Sixty years? Try 57 years, eight months, thirteen days and six hours.” He paused for dramatic affect and shrugged broadly, “We have a book on your life. I read the ending..... beware hunchbacked gypsies riding wheat threshers.”

He waited an appropriately long amount of time, smoothing a hand down his chest and picking non-existant dirt from under his fingernails before he couldn’t hold his laughter in anymore and burs out in a hearty chuckle, “Oh my gosh your face. There’s no book. Humanity has free will. Your life ends whenever it ends. Nothing is preordained. But Father on high your eyes got really wide.”

“… What happens if you, well, don’t do a good job?” he asks. 

“Not that, y’know, I’m over the fact that you just, I don’t know, bitch slapped me with your fucking wing. I’m just a curious guy.” He gave him his best withering look, though he was careful not to overdo it so that Zavarel could answer his question.

“I served in the Divine Legion. I was there when we took back the Garden of Gehanna, at the Siege of Gomorrah. You think I can’t handle watching a single human for your miserably short lifespan?” He chuckled dryly. “I can handle you, Caleb Joyner.”

“I wasn’t wearing my wing talons... count yourself lucky. I could have slapped you a lot harder.” He shrugged and thought, “If I fail, and you die in some way I could have prevented I’ll be sent back to the Legion, demoted, and probably forced into terribly difficult missions. But don’t worry. I have no intention of letting you die.”

Thus, he continued to sass the angel of heaven right as he had been doing. 

“Got myself into this mess?” His voice raised indignantly. “Damn asshole was walking out in front of the car and-” 

There was a knock on the door. Caleb whipped his head around to see a doctor step in, long hair up in a ponytail and a layer of lip gloss on her lips. 

“Mr. Joyner,” she greeted him, “I’m Dr. Michaels, and I’ve been taking care of you since you were admitted last night.” Her eyes flitted from Caleb to the angel- Zavarel- but from the way her eyes seemed to pass over the angel, Caleb quickly induced that she wasn’t able to see him. 

Either Zavarel was really his guardian angel or a very attractive and elaborate hallucination. 

“I heard… voices?” 

After Caleb reassured her that he had only been talking to himself, Dr. Michaels listed out his injuries. A concussion, several considerable scrapes, a few broken (but not cracked) ribs that had contributed to his life almost ending, a broken arm (not his dominant one, thankfully), and extremely minor fractures to his spine. After saying yet again how lucky Caleb had been to make it through and telling him he’d be out in a few weeks, she left him alone.

He looked back at Zavarel. “You’re still here,” he murmured, though his disbelief wasn’t as strong as it had been before.

As soon as the door was closed he leaned forward and bitch-slapped Caleb with the tip of a golden wing. “Shut up. Of course I’m still here. I’m fucking eternal. You know how hard it is to kill an angel? You certainly couldn’t manage it.”

He sat back down, scratching one of the glowing silver tattoos that cut across his torso. “This is unprecedented but... I think you’re going to have to get used to me. I’m not about to say I couldn’t hack it as a guardian angel to one of the Paragons. So. Get used to me.”

Too soon, the angel (there was no other explanation- those wings had been all but crafted into his back) turned back around, and Caleb was bereft of a full view of his wings (though the very gay part of him did appreciate seeing his face and torso). His words sounded a bit ludicrous, as grand of a statement that it was. 

“A manual?” He found himself saying. “Isn’t… isn’t there some kind of training process for… guardian angelship or whatever?” God, he sounded insane. Fuck- was he being blasphemous for swearing in front of an angel? Aw, shit- there he went again. And knowing his browser history and general character, he might as well be headed to hell, assuming it was real.

Well, apparently, if angels were real, hell would be as well right? As would demons and heaven and maybe even purgatory and maybe even the big man upstairs himself, the God with a capital G…

Fuck- this was making his head hurt. 

He huffed a long sigh and sat sideways on the uncomfortable chair; not the way it was intended to be used but the human craftsmen hadn’t really taken a fifteen foot wingspan into account when they made it and he’d just finished preening, he wasn’t about to mess up his feathers just to explain something to a mortal. 

“I’m gonna level with you. I don’t know if you’ll keep seeing me, or if things are going to go to the way they should be and you won’t notice me anymore. But since you can see me, and you know you’ve got one of us, I might as well introduce myself?” He hadn’t intended for the end of his sentence to lilt upwards in a questioning tone, but it happened anyway. So he was going to have to forge forth and pretend it didn’t happen. 

“I am the Seraph Zavarel; sent forth from the Throne of Glory to watch over and protect you from harm.” He cleared his throat awkwardly as he looked over the hospital bed and bandages, “For the record.... I started after you got yourself into this mess.”

“Then you’d be one hellofa doctor, goin’ ‘round shirtless an’ paradin’ ‘round your tats with… wha’s even on your back?” he mumbled. Another thought struck him. “You’re not a hal… hallucin… hallucination, are you?“ Even in his drugged up state, he could tell that he was barely comprehensible at this point. “I wonder if I can sue the hospital for over… overdosage…” He said, trailing off. Words were starting to get harder and harder to say, let alone think; it was like trudging through mud or four feet of snow.

His eyelids grew heavier and heavier until they closed completely, the morphine pulling Caleb back into a synthetic sleep. When he blinked again, the lights were slightly brighter than before, and when he looked across the room, he saw that the stranger was still there.

Caleb’s mouth dropped open.

“What the fuck?” His voice was clearer than before. Perhaps someone had come in as he had passed out again (that had been no dream, his waking up to see the stranger) to lower his dose, because Caleb was finding it a lot easier to express his disbelief and surprise at the moment. “What the fuck are those?” 

Caleb clearly wasn’t on morphine anymore, and he could still see Zavarel, which wasn’t something that happened. This wasn’t the best start to his first day on the job. 

“Uh...... shit.” Z quickly turned around and pulled the handbook out of his pants and flipped through the pages, trying to find the passage that stipulated what he had to do if his protectee could see him. He quickly turned back around, wings unfurled behind him. 

“be not afraid! I am an angel of the Lord your God. I bring you blessings from on high.”

Unfortunately, however, the book didn’t give very clear instructions on what to do if your protectee didn’t immediately drop to their knees and start praying while you made a quick escape. Caleb was staring him down and Zavarel could quickly feel his control of the situation unraveling. 

“You uh..... should not be able to see me and I’m going to be honest with you the manual doesn’t really tell me what to do in this situation.”

He awkwardly cleared his throat in the beeping semi-silence of the hospital room.

It was supposed to be a simple chore. It was disgustingly routine, really- it was just picking up some trash then pitching it into the dumpster outside. Of course, with Caleb’s luck, drunkards and miscreants alike were spilling out onto the road from his neighbor’s party. He watched with amusement as someone tossed a friend into the back seat of a car before getting into the driver’s seat. The car rolled forward haltingly. Sober my ass. Unthinkingly, Caleb stepped forward onto the road. A guy stumbled out in front of the car, oblivious to the vehicle behind them. Stupid assholes, attempting to drunk drive and walk and shit. Caleb raised his chin to call out when suddenly, the car lurched forward. 

Instinct drove him to lunge forward and grab the guy by his collar, using his momentum to push the stranger away from the oncoming car. Before Caleb could get himself out of danger, a hammering pain crashed into his side, and everything went black.

The next thing Caleb Joyner knew, he was groggily blinking up at a dimmed light above him. 

He could tell that he wasn’t at his apartment right off the bat. The scent of the room was too sterile, and the air con too cold. He slowly became aware that there were… things strapped to his body, if the dull aches in his arm and sticky feelings on his skin were anything to judge by. Looking to his left (which took an unnecessary amount of effort to do) he saw the outline of his bed (or well, cot), the IV stuck into his arm, and the machines set up beside him. 

So- he was in the local hospital then. 

Well, this was a fucking inconvenience. 

He had a gallery to paint for that would go up in eight months, and he had nada to show for it. Thank god he had a friend who worked here though; he was in a private room, which meant that he could probably do some sketching while he was holed up in this hellhole.

Neck starting to hurt a little from craning it to the one side, Caleb rotated his head again with just as much difficulty as the first time. Fucking morph-

Eyes picking out a figure in the corner, Caleb froze.

“Who the fuck are you?” he croaked. He couldn’t really tell who it was, shrouded in shadows as they were, but he could’ve sworn that something was… glimmering behind them. 

Every angel served in the Divine Legion until they were either vanquished or moved to serve another function but as long as he had been dead, Zavarel had longed for a spot in the Guardian Angel Corps. Not because it seemed cushy or because it got him out from another ceaseless battle with the forces of darkness while the Throne of Glory sat empty, but because he genuinely liked watching out for people. 

So being assigned a human who was already broken was something of a let-down. It almost felt like cleaning up someone else’s mess.

The slow beeping of the monitors were driving him nuts as he waited for his new charge, Caleb, to wake up and start doing anything that actually required guarding. Luckily, however, hospitals seemed to always come equipped with a lot of magazines, and so he perched on the edge of a chair, reading one, idly preening one of his six golden wings with his spare hand. 

It wasn’t until the young man woke up, and spoke, that Zavarel knew something was terribly wrong. 

“Would you believe me if I said one of the doctors?” 

He hoped Caleb was too drugged up to notice the doctor had no shirt, shimmering tattoos of rank and affiliation, and six wings. Morphine was a helluva drug. 

It had begun last night, a light itching in the center of her palm that had suddenly turned to a blazing beacon against the night sky where before there had only been a muted glow under calloused skin. She’d awoken immediately, more because of Valdr’s sudden and violent reaction than because of the glow itself.

Once she’d finally calmed her dragon down – low soothing murmurs alongside hands pressed firm against a wing to keep him calm (long gone were the days when she could simply flop down on top of him and keep him from wiping out half the trees that created their little enclosure on the mountainside above the Ingeborg’s camp) – they’d discussed, coming to the realization that there must have been another egg.

Another lie on top of decades of neglect – another reason for them to finish this war quickly so that they could be free, so that they could be their own selves, and fly to the edges of the earth away from this revolution that cared nothing for their safety, and their lives.

Malva sighed, lying belly down Valdr’s tail and watched the countryside flit below them like a patchwork quilt – there was nothing she loved more than watching the world grow small under the beat of his wings.

Why do you sigh?

She smiled as her dragon’s voice echoed in her mind and replied in kind, I wish we could keep going. Past the Mirror Lakes and the Dragon Scale Ice Tops – I wish we could go now, and see the world like we want.

I do as well, he replied, the longing echoing against the sides of her skull with an almost palpable pain, but we owe this new rider and their dragonling our help. Think of all the pain and confusion we can spare them.

Malva smiled, and pushed herself up, balancing herself and bouncing nimbly along Valdr’s writhing tail to collapse again, on her belly, along his neck. She ran a hand down his head and scratched the soft scales just behind his eyes, “Shush you,” she murmured aloud, letting the wind carry her words to his ears, “I wouldn’t trade all our pain and confusion for a second – not when we can say we did it on our own.”

Neither would I, my rider, neither would I.

Malva grinned, letting the pure joy of flight fill her with happiness, and let herself drift off into a light sleep as the wind passed by her ears, lifting her hair off the nape of her neck and cooling the slick sweat of summer off her body. She had just slipped into a dream when the dully glowing scar on her hand pressed in with a violent ache and woke her instantly, “Down!” she called, nudging Valdr with her hand before scrambling back into her saddle, “They’re right below us down, down, down!”

I feel them too, no need to scream, he chided, before adding in a snide tone as he began his steep spiral down to the ground, Perhaps someone is more excited than they let on to not be the only Rider and Dragon in Kjellefrid.

Malva ignored his comment, refusing to even deign Valdr’s condescension with a response, and braced herself for the impact of him thudding into the soft earth of the countryside. She slid deftly off his back, and lifted an arm above her in a slight stretch, all the while casing the area for ambushes.

Clear? She asked quietly, knowing Valdr would sense any other beings beside the new Rider and his dragonling before she would.

Clear, he responded, but you should, perhaps, round my wing and ensure this scrappy young Rider does not shit his pants at the sight of me.

Malva giggled a bit, and rounded Valdr – all the while admiring, quite selfishly, the way the new polish she had found did indeed make his purple red black faded scales look metallically jewel-like in the sun – and came face to face with the scrawniest peasant she’d ever seen.

“Fuck,” she muttered, “Because they’re going to love him any more than they love us, hm?” she asked aloud, reaching up to run a hand along Valdr’s jaw.

“Well,” she nodded to the little boy, “Hop up boy – if you want to live, you’re coming with us,” she paused, before amending her statement, “Well, if you want your dragon to live you’re going to come with us. We’re your only chance.”

I hope he’s not afraid of heights, Valdr murmured in her mind, and Malva giggled, before wondering if the old stories were true, that a Rider could only hear a dragon she was connected to – or if this little peasant boy could hear her Valdr too. Ah well, she’d soon find out, she supposed.

But the fucking thing had started to hatch. 

Looking back, somehow Sindri thought he should have seen that coming. His life had been so exceptionally uninteresting and boring something weird was bound to happen eventually. Middle child, apprenticed to the weaver because he had some weird propensity for colors and dying, just working and drinking at the tavern every night. Of course when he’d had his birthday, creeping on bare feet through the Mayor’s house, when he’d touched that mottled black and red egg for the first time, he’d heard her screaming in his head for the very first time. 

RUN. TAKE ME, CHILD, AND RUN.

Which is really how this whole mess had gotten started. 

In hindsight, however, he definitely should have stopped for shoes. But instead he’d run pell-mell out of the Mayor’s house, stopping by his tiny hovel just long enough to shove clothes, a loaf of bread and a dagger into a bag. Over his back went a hunter’s bow, and enough arrows to keep him safe before he was running out of the village, ignoring the cry raised by the guards at the gate. 

It wasn’t until the sun peaked over the horizon and he was slumped against a tree, coated in sweat, that the egg started to crack. Sindri watched, enamored, as the bits of shell flaked off to reveal a small creature, no larger than his sister’s dog, that looked up at him with venom green eyes. You’re younger than I thought my Rider would be. her voice echoed in his head, gentle and laughing, But I have waited centuries for your touch. 

“You’re a dragon.” he managed to squeak out, “You’re a dragon and you hatched for me.” 

For you, and only for you. He looked over her scales, glittering with the viscera of her egg and pulled a rag from inside his shirt, carefully cleaning off scales of glittering sapphire and jet-black onyx. When he had finished cleaning her off, she awkwardly clambered up into his lap, looking up at him with those ancient eyes. I am Eldingar, I would know my rider. 

“Sindri.” he managed to stammer out, carefully wrapping his arms around her and carefully running his hand over her head, “Sindri Ivarsonn”

Conversation was cut short by a bellow of wind, a massive dragon, and a beautiful woman. Sindri picked Eldingar up carefully, unsheathing his dagger as he held her close. But as the woman talked, his tension eased somewhat, and he crawled up on the dragon’s back, still clutching Eldingar close.