“in the bowels of a mountain, you learn what devotion means when done of your own volition.”
<<< pt. 1
word count: 7.3k tw: overall dark themes, extreme depressive episodes, suicidal language / mindset, gore, acts of violence (animal death, rough handling, biting), mentions of force feeding (but like not in a kink way, in a "you're depressed and he's not the best person for the job" way), mentions of vomiting, background character death, promiscuous undertones.
The sky above that can be seen through the opening at the top of the cavern is a mix of deep blue and fading orange. You can feel the start of winter taking shape now that the sun’s warmth barely reaches the stone floor at the bottom. It leaves your fingers more numb than not. Your teeth more clenched than usual. Your skin drier than it should be.
Most of your very limited energy supply goes into huddling in on yourself and getting up to use the bathroom.
You haven’t spared a glance at the berry bush he has brought in today. It now sits off to the side, stinking with the sickly-sweet beginnings of rot.
He sleeps away the day like you sleep through the night. You are surrounded by his scaled body to keep the cold at bay. You do not know what he will think of the mess, what he will do to you when he sees it. Maybe he already knows and is merely waiting for the cover of night to act on his verdict.
Because how could you. You should be ashamed of yourself for not taking the gift so easily given by a being so much greater than you. But you don’t. More so, you can’t. It is like your emotions sleep just as much as you do. That should panic you, but there is little of that left too.
Your body urges you, as it always does, towards unconsciousness. Where you know no dreams await. Only pitch-black silence. You go willingly, almost eagerly.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You awaken to the dark, but not the one behind your eyes. It must’ve not been very long since you closed them.
“Why haven’t you eaten?”
Uncomfortably slowly, your eyes refocus on your destiny in its human skin. Gazing down at you with no particular expression. It feels like déjà vu.
You should answer him. Your lips ache when you attempt to open them.
“Tired,” Is what you manage to croak.
He blinks, then turns away.
You think that’s it; he will leave you here to rot like the gift he gave you. It is what you deserve but you still have to swallow down what feels like vomit settling in your throat.
Between one blink and the next, he’s back with a cup. Your cup, the one he’s been using to give you water from the large cauldron.
He doesn’t ask before he cradles the back of your head, pulling you up and pushing the cup to your lips. You drink only because your body acts for you. His grip tightens and you instinctively fall limp. He continues to stem the enthusiasm behind your desperate sips with firm clenches of his hand.
When your throat no longer feels as dry, he pulls away. But he doesn’t release you. He picks you up like you weigh nothing, which you’re sure you do. Still, embarrassment warms your cheeks.
“You do not have to,” you mutter, letting your head roll back against his solid human shoulder. He doesn’t respond. He leaves with you in his arms.
You’re not sure where he is taking you. Maybe to drop you off deep within the forest, where he will not have to see your sorry state. The night is bitterly cold, but his chest where you’re pressed against is still warm. You lean into him, thinking it’ll be your last chance to soak it in.
Then he stops, as still as a statue, so abruptly you brace for some form of impact. He lowers himself to the ground—shifting your weight to one of his arms—to grab something off the forest floor, then throws it. Whatever it was cuts through the air with an audible sound, sharp like an arrow. Yet he barely moved his arm enough to jostle you. He must’ve hit something, for you can hear the faint thud of the object hitting its mark in the distance.
He continues walking while you wonder if this is a dream, even though you haven’t had one in a fortnight.
The smell of metal abruptly cuts through your daze. Your eyes are drawn toward the ground, where what looks like a large rodent lies on its side. It isn’t until he crouches down that you realize that coppery smell is blood. Blood from this animal that’s missing a chunk of its skull. Blown clean off along with one of its long ears. You think you see its back legs momentarily twitch when he grabs it. You turn your face into his shoulder to smother the panicked noise that almost leaves your throat.
“Will this suffice?”
Shaken, you’re not sure what he means at first.
“Will you eat this instead?”
“… Oh,” you breathe, truly wondering if you are dreaming. “I… I can, yes.”
He nods, then sets the limp carcass in your lap.
You think your heart stops beating for a second. Then you’re certain it does as the whole world turns black.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You open your eyes and you’re back in his cave. It still stinks of overripe fruit and it’s still dark.
“You said that you could eat it.”
He is in his human form, and there is a dead hare with half a skull next to him where he sits.
“… It wasn’t a dream…?”
He gives you a look that you’re almost proud to describe as bewildered. Then you remember your place.
“I mean,” you stumble. “Yes, I can eat it. I didn’t lie to you. But… not raw.”
“Oh,” he vocalizes, face returning to its typical blankness. “Then how can you eat it?”
“With… um, by cooking it. With fire.”
He reaches for the body and inhales, deep and low. Until your nose can pick up the beginnings of brimstone and the air seems to quiver with heat.
“WAITwaitwait—” You choke on your own frantic words, hard enough to make your vision swim. By the time you get your breath back, you hesitantly crack open your teary eyes. Relief makes your shoulder sag when you see him held still, the hare still hanging in his grasp but thankfully uncharred.
“You can’t… You have to get it’s fur off, I believe. Before you cook it. Nor can you just burn it. It needs to cook slowly over a steady flame.”
“All this just so you can eat?” He sounds genuinely perplexed by how tedious your human needs are. “How exhausting.”
Yet you have a slightly burned portion of cooked meat by the time the moon is well into the sky. He had listened and followed what you needed. Grabbed a ceremonial knife more beautiful than some of the most eccentric pieces of jewelry you’ve seen and went to work flaying the skin from off the hare. Had even gone out and got timber from outside to build a fire. You’re sat in front of said fire now. Holding onto the greasy meat with shaky fingers as you try and work up an appetite. His staring does not make it any easier.
“You are usually gone around this time, yes?” Your mouth is moving before you can think better of it. “You don’t need to… monitor me. I will eat.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “You will eat.” He doesn’t move an inch. The way the light from the flickering flames bend across his face makes something kick up in your stomach, like the scuff of a boot across a dusty road. Sweat beads across the back of your neck.
“I’ll eat…” You echo, trying to convince not just him but yourself.
Every prolonged second you take to look at the meat in your hands just makes your stomach churn more and more. You try and think of what he will do, what he could do, but not even that kick starts your appetite like you had hoped.
But then he is moving, standing up to prowl closer. Your eyes close, and you feel nothing but calm. The meat leaves your fingers. Your eyes snap open in your confusion. He is kneeling before you, pulling apart a piece from the thigh and holding it up to your lips.
“You will eat,” he repeats, and there is no room to dispute it. So, you shakily open your mouth and let him push the morsel past your lips, even if it makes you gag.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You wake the next day surrounded by his scaled body. The air is bitterly cold. Off to the side, a light sprinkling of snow lays in a circle below the cavern’s opening. The bush of berries is gone.
You lift yourself up on steady hands and it doesn’t feel quite so much like a chore. There is a subtle energy in you that you have been without for a while now, you realize. It lets you shift and squirm, until your back presses flat against a section of his scaly side. Heat touches across every point where you two meet and it stems the urge to shiver.
‘You forget your place,’ you can hear the mistress tut. ‘You are spoiled by the hearth, by its warmth. You must not become fat with your indulgence, with comfort.’
She was right, because you cannot stop yourself. You fall into that heat like you would fall into dreams, softly settling in and drifting off without a worry on your mind.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
The next time you awaken, it is because of your bladder. As quick as your sluggish limbs can carry you, you make for the outside to relieve yourself. In your frantic scamper to get back where it’s warm, you forget to be careful of how loud your steps are. When you’re able to see his form again, you catch one of his eyes already peeled open and watching.
“I am sorry,” you quickly say. “It is so cold now, I did not mean to wake you.”
He says nothing, obviously, but he does huff out his nose, expelling a small puff of smoke.
“Do you not feel cold too?” You’re asking before you can think otherwise, settling down in the spot you had previously taken up before you left. Instantly, you sigh, grateful for his toasty warm scales.
He moves his head towards you. His stare is as blank as ever, and even with only one eye open you can gleam what his gaze is meant to say.
“I guess that should’ve been obvious.” You nod, thinking. “But still, what if. What if I come back and you are frozen solid. What then?”
Another huff, this one far deeper and growl-like. You think this is his version of a humored scoff in this form.
You purse your lips. “So, it’s an outlandish thought. Shame on me, then.”
He grunts in agreement, you assume.
This time, you are the one that huffs.
All is relatively quiet, and in the silence that settles as he closes his eye back up, you notice the otherwise unnoticed. The faint echo of bird song, the occasional whoosh of wind, the deep, slow breaths he makes. Every single one making the side you are pressed against expand and deflate, moving you in a steady rhythm.
The motion is soothing. You start to understand why newborns are so easily consoled by repetitive movement. Were you ever soothed in such a way before? Did someone ever hold you when you were small and rock you? If they did, you can’t remember. Only the mistress’ firm touch remains. Before you can wonder any further, you fall asleep.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You awaken later in the day to his human form staring at you and your feet feeling particularly numb. Once he sees that you’re awake, he stands, reaching down to pick you up. He leaves with you cradled in the bend of his arm.
Like before, he treads through the thick underbrush of the forest without a wince and or second glance. His steps are rather quiet given the material he is stepping on. A combination of twigs and grass as well as the light sprinkling of snow from the night prior. To know that he lives here is one thing, but to see it is another. You lean against his human shoulder in confidence, but also because it is colder than the last time and your feet are truly feeling frozen even in your shoes.
He stops, and your heart kicks up before remembering the previous night. Looking out across the forest, you see nothing but the dull colors of late autumn covered in a thin layer of snow. No animal in sight. Yet he lowers to the ground, with you steady in one arm and the other grabbing hold of a loose stone. His eyes are trained in the distance, sharp and without a blink, as he pulls his arm back and throws. Such a casual motion shouldn’t produce the kind of whoosh that sounds as the rock pierces through the air. You try to track the path but ultimately fail, as the stone flies much too fast for you to follow.
He resumes walking while you’re left wondering how the entire force of an ancient dragon can be compressed down into the body of a singular human male.
This time it’s a badger that he scoops up. Grabbing it just below its front arms while the rest of its brains leaks out the top of its blown off head. You hold back your gag as he begins to retrace his steps. He stops for a moment, though, and lowers himself down again. Tilting you to the side where a pile of dry pine lies.
“Pick it up,” he tells you.
You listen, grabbing enough to cover your lap in dry branches and needles. Then he stands and continues on.
You watch in a stupor as he builds a fire over the embers of the last one with the pine. Then begins skinning the badger, removing its intestines and setting them to the side.
“What will you do with those?” You find yourself asking, watching the blood pool below the guts while trying to stem the urge to shudder.
“I will eat them.” He throws aside a tuft of fur stuck to his claws.
Now you’re really trying not to gag again. “Just like that?”
“I have done so before.”
“So, after I had… went to bed.” The proper term would’ve probably been passed out from the strain it took to choke down the meat he pushed past your lips. “You ate the entrails and fur of the hare?”
“Yes,” he replies while ripping the animal’s neck from its body. And like he’s making a point, he brings the remains of its skull up to his mouth where his jaw unhinges.
You whirl away from the sight and slam your eyes shut at the first crack of bone, clenching your own teeth hard against the rush of nausea. He crunches on bone like its nothing but stale crackers. It takes a monumental effort to breathe through the urge to vomit. The image of his mouth unhinging is stuck in your mind, branded behind your eyelids.
You don’t ask any more questions after that. You wait with your eyes shut until the smell of cooked meat fills your nose. He does not let you feed yourself. He breaks off pieces and pushes them into your mouth.
You are proud to say that you only choke a morsel back up once.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You are huddled into a ball on your side in the dark. The fire that cooked your food is nothing but ash. The intestines are gone and so is he. You had woken up because of the cold. Because your linen cloak is proving to no long be enough to stem the chill from invading your bones. Wrapping around yourself as tightly as you can, brushing your hands up and down your bare arms, you watch as snow floats through the opening to the bottom.
You are regretting ripping up your garments. If only you had had the foresight to know that he would be prolonging your stay.
You don’t know how long you spend pressed on your side, shivering. Curled up as tight as you can manage. But eventually, you hear the beat of his wings before you see him.
“You are awake,” he states as he drops to the cavern floor.
“T-Too cold,” you say with chattering teeth.
He sighs, low and drawn out, then moves towards you anyways. Like even though your needs are plenty and to take care of you is a bother, he still intends to go through with it.
“W-Where do you go?” You ask, “When you are away, what is it that you do?”
He pauses in his steps, his gaze heavy as he peers down at your huddled self.
“I fly,” he replies.
“That is all?”
“Mostly.”
“Y-You fly as a man?”
“Yes, at first. When I am far enough that I know no one will see, I change.”
“You… can only be yourself when n-no one is around to see?”
“Yes, otherwise they will worry and assume the worst. Assume it to be an omen of death.”
For some reason, it makes your heart heavy to know this.
“I-Is there no way to tell them?”
He cocks his head, which you take as a sign to elaborate.
“T-Tell the people, I mean. That you do not mean them any harm?”
“I could very well mean them harm, so that would be incorrect.”
“Oh, okay. I-I just mean… You do not mind then? T-That they view you as something to fear?”
“Why would I be when they are correct?”
You make to disagree, but then you’re reminded of his teeth and their bite, strong enough to break bone. Reminded of the fire he can breathe and how he can throw a stone so hard it can pierce through a skull.
He says nothing, but a sharp grin curls the corners of his lips up, devoid of any humor.
Between one moment and the next, he is back in his true form in a flash of light. His large body curls around you. You press flush to his side the moment you can, hoping for warmth and exhaling when that’s what you get.
You know that he is powerful, that he is something so much more than you will ever be. But it is in moments like these, where he lends you his own heat to chase off the cold, that you think he is not just something to be feared.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
“When do you eat?”
It is the next morning, and you ask this when you stare long enough at his face for an eye to open.
“During the day or the night?”
He grunts.
“Does that mean both?”
He huffs, then opens his maw wide in a gaping yawn. His teeth might be as big as your head.
“I will take that as a yes.”
Silence settles, but his eye remains open. Maybe your questions read so plain on your face that he decides to humor you by staying awake. Whatever it is, you take your chance.
“How long have you been here?”
His large eye blinks, then his head turns until both are trained on you.
“The stories from the valley say that you’ve been here for thousands of years.”
He grumbles.
“Is that not true?”
A huff, smoke blowing out of his nose.
“So, it’s not, then.”
Another grumble as he sets his massive head down with a slump. He closes his eyes, and you take that as an end to the conversation.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
“Am I not heavy?”
He is carrying you through the woods with another dead animal in hand.
“No.”
“Are all dragons this strong? Even while in human form?”
“Every other of my species is strong, but I especially.”
“Really?” A gust of cold wind prickles your skin. You lean closer to him. “What makes you especially powerful?”
“I just am.”
You wait for an elaboration. He does not give one.
“You were born powerful?”
“Yes.”
You get the impression from his tone that he is smug about this.
“Does that mean your mother was extremely powerful? And she passed it on to you?”
He does not say anything. Then you look up towards his face and see something shudder beneath the surface of his expression. You’d go so far as to call it regret.
“Yes, I believe she was.”
You do not need to be told the conversation is over. You can tell from his inflection alone, clipped and heavy with an emotion you can’t make yourself name.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
He is gone when you wake in the middle of the night, colder than you’ve been previous. You shudder so hard your joints ache. He returns to find you taking shaky pulls of air, balled up so tight you don’t know if you’ll ever come undone. He reverts back to his scaled form, curling around you especially close.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
“Can you truly not feel how cold it is?”
You come back from a frantic trip to the outside with the question off your tongue the second you see his green eye watching your return.
He responds with a grunt as you all but throw yourself against his side, pressing your face to his scales.
“I do not know what I am to do when it gets to the worst of the winter.”
He doesn’t respond, and you don’t need him to. You’re too busy selfishly soaking in his warmth.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
“Here.”
Something heavy and thick falls on top of you, making your limbs flail as you wake with a start.
He is in his human form. The sun has started to set, bathing the cave in the dim, residual light of day. In your lap is another cloak but with fur inlaid inside and lining the edges. It looks regal, made with the softest fabric you’ve ever had the pleasure of touching.
You caress the fur with careful fingers. “Where did you get this?”
“I acquired it from a caravan.”
“Did you… take… it?”
“I acquired it.”
“Like you acquired all your other possessions?”
“Yes. Is the garment suitable to your needs?”
Already, with just your legs covered, you feel warmer. “Yes, I believe so.”
“Good.” And then he settles behind you.
He is only ever this close to you when he is in his draconic form. To have him so near while he is dressed as a man makes you tense.
“Does this form not please you?”
You look over your shoulder to see his face. It is blank, like it usually is. Except somewhere in your mind you have started to gain the impression that what you see is not all that there is.
Maybe he is curious about you too. Maybe you are not the only one with questions.
“It does not, not please me.” You pick at the dry skin of your cuticles. “I’m… Since I was a child, I was not allowed to be near unfamiliar people. People who were not of the congregation.”
He hums, eyes narrowing.
You continue, “The mistress was my primary caretaker. She took care of all the other, um, others like me. If she saw me now…”
It is a thought that you only allow yourself to ponder in the dark, when the shadows have faces and the wind starts to sound like the call of your name. If she were to see you as you are now, what would she say? What would she do? Would she scold you? Shame you? Berate you? Would she remind you of your duty, your purpose? Would she wrap her bony hands around your throat just to finish the job herself?
“She will never see you again.”
His eyes have not strayed from you once.
“You will not be leaving here long enough to find out.”
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
Later that same evening, you ask again while held in the crook of his arm.
“How long have you been here?”
He does not respond. You wait, watching his black horns blend in with the night. For a second, you could believe he was a regular man.
“Long enough to have seen your original ruler abandon this valley.”
You feel like you stop breathing.
“… How, why…?”
“He felt stagnant.”
“…”
“So, he left, giving me his possessions and a territory to call my own.”
How cruel. The very being you were given to was never your true intended to begin with.
“Why…”
His eyes lower to you, even as his head does not follow the movement. “Are you displeased?”
Whatever it is that churns in your gut like a storm, calling it displeasure would be an understatement. All you know is that every lesson, every story, every bit of reality that was carved painstakingly into your brain until nothing else remained was for naught.
“… Won’t you tell me the full story?”
His eyes are so, so green. No field of grass or fully grown evergreen could compare.
“Please, tell me something true. Do not lie, it will ruin me.”
Somewhere in your mind, you do not care if he does or not. Let him break you, let him be the final straw. It wouldn’t be what you were promised, but it would be good enough.
“My mother did not survive my birth.” His eyes seem to shimmer, even in the dark. “I was too much for her to bare, he told me. And by he, I refer to the previous ruler. He was a companion of my mother’s, nearly her mate, unfortunately. He raised me after she returned to the heavens. Then, when he felt that he had done his job, he left me with his possessions and position.”
It has started to snow. Thick clumps of white flutter occasionally make it past the thick canopy and settle on the ground, the bushes, his hair, and his long lashes.
“There are not many of us left. We may be far apart, but he will visit me still. The last I heard from him, he had started caring for a small human child. Foolish, I thought him. What merit does something so finite have?”
He stops walking. The two of you are back at the cave’s entrance. The snow falls in full now, uninhibited by the trees. The white flakes against the black of his hair make you think of stars gleaming amongst the darkness of the night sky. His gaze is a heavy burden. It feels like he is looking through you, past skin and muscle and bone. Straight to the heart of you.
What could he possibly find in that empty hollow? What even is there to look at, besides a human made of flesh and fueled by false purpose? What made you worth keeping here? All of these questions and more are sitting ripe on your tongue, just begging to be answered.
“Dragons believe in heaven?” Is what manages to be the first question out of your mouth.
And abruptly, incredibly, he laughs. A full chuckle that you can feel rumble in his chest.
“You are strange, Child of Man.” It sounds like a compliment.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
“Why Child of Man?” You ask while watching him gut yet another animal.
“It is what you are.”
“Before, you had just called me a human child.”
“That is also true.”
“Well, I have a name, wouldn’t you rather have that?”
“No,” his tone is sharp, leaving no room for debate.
Except you ignore it, while also ignoring the phantom voice of the mistress, scolding you for your arrogance. “Why not?”
“Because names have power.”
He finishes setting aside the last of the entrails, breathing deep to exhale a stream of green fire that catches instantly against the dry timber.
“Is that why you have not given me yours?”
He looks up from what he’s doing.
“You have not asked.”
You blink. “So, if I asked, you would give it.”
“No.”
You scoff, something you haven’t done in ages, but feels as natural as breathing. “How would I be able to have power over you, anyway?”
“It is not just about power.”
You wait for an elaboration. He does not give one.
“What should I call you then?”
“Create something.”
By the time he is breaking off pieces for you to eat, you mumble “Hornton,” under your breath with a wince. His face does not indicate that he heard you, even though you are sure that he did. And for that, you are grateful.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
Your ears are frozen, and so are your cheeks. Your nose leaks as you sniff just about every second while standing near the river’s edge. Your hair is more oily than not. Though your new cloak has thus far retained its regal red color, the one beneath it is more gray than white. Stained by dirt and ash and probably vomit and the occasional splatter of blood from when he first dropped a hare in your lap. It makes the golden thread embroidered into it seem almost insignificant compared to the state of ruin the rest of it is in.
You have been gone longer than usual. You should hurry. With trembling fingers, you unclasp your top layer and remove your inner cloak. With your heart in your throat, but your mind made up, you throw your once-considered-sacred robe into the rushing waters.
You don’t stay to see it get lost in the rapids. Redonning your gift, you head back.
Now, no part of you retains any more gold. There can be no mistaking what you are.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
It is when the fire burns bright, and he has his hand on that ceremonial knife, that you let his cloak part at the bottom—pushing your legs closer to the fire, as if seeking its warmth.
He notices almost immediately. And even though your head is full of thoughts of your blood coloring the end of that golden blade instead, all he asks is, “Are you not cold?”
“… That is all you have to say?”
He regards you with those piercing eyes. Eyes that must surely be able to see the truth. How could someone so grand, so special, not be able to see what you are? Why does he keep someone as meaningless as you? A marionette with cut-off strings that refuses to stop dancing even though the show is over.
“I will get better garments to replace the ones you have. Thicker ones to ensure you are never cold.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You do not have to.”
“That’s it then? That is your response?”
“Eat.”
You open your mouth to keep pushing, but he forces a morsel of deer past your lips, making you splutter. He hands you a chalice of water like he expected this. He continues to push food into your mouth until you give up trying to protest. And when the fire starts to dim, he wordlessly fixes your cloak so that it covers your legs.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
You are restless. You can’t remember the last time you’ve felt as such. You’ve never had a reason to be. Your whole life has been a steady race, a consistent path that’s been determined long before your conception. You’ve known what your purpose was before you could form full sentences.
‘Listen well, child,’ the mistress once said. ‘You alone are our savior. Your body will be what staves off the beast in the mountain from destroying our lives, our homes, our families. Only then will you, who has no family to speak of, gain what you’re missing in the afterlife. As long as you listen and do, as long as you remain the perfect vessel, you will be rewarded in the end. As is foretold by the ancient promise.’
An ancient lie, your darkest thoughts seethe. The lie who isn’t even the true beast of legends. The lie that hides himself amongst treasure so grand it could cause wars. The lie who sleeps on rock that’s been eroded to his shape. The lie that continues to keep you alive. Who gives you his warmth like its nothing. Who feeds you and gives you water. Who still sees you as part of his horde even though you are the farthest thing from gold. Who would see the entire valley destroyed just to ensure you stay.
The sun shines bright through the top of the cavern. It must be midday, for the cold is not as biting as usual. You stand, hugging your cloak close as you step carefully toward where his draconic head rests against the floor. He opens one of his serpentine eyes as you approach. There are no words exchanged, he knows you need to relieve yourself at least once a day.
As you walk, you remember your first steps taken within these cave walls. Unsure, hesitant, yet steadfast in your resolve. Now you step with an ease that comes from familiarity but with no true purpose.
Outside is even brighter, covered in white and illuminated by the sun. You take it in with an eerie sense of calm. Then, after unclasping your cloak and letting it fall to the ground, take off running. Right through the pristine, untouched snow.
You run like you’ve never done before. Pumping arms and pounding steps. Stumbling over concealed roots and rocks but uncaring of the noise you’d be making. You run like your friend once did, when the house was silent and the mistress was busy. She ran through the fields for the tree line behind your care home with reckless abandon, with hope in her heart. You watched her go, then watched the kingdom’s cavalry pursue her. They came back no sooner than had they left with blood dripping from their lances.
Your heart drums in your ears along with the thump of your feet. Your heels ache with the beginnings of blisters. These shoes were never made for running, but you keep pushing. You push until your lungs ache too and your mind runs just as fast with thoughts of the others just like you. Who ran into these woods thinking they escaped their fate only to die from starvation and dehydration. You run, and run, and run, and run, until you’re certain he will finally know that—
The silence breaks, shatters from the bellowing roar that sounds from over your shoulder and meets you with enough force to shake the snow from off the trees.
Your steps falter then cease all together as you tumble head over heels into the powdery white forest floor. And even though your legs tremble with fear and your limbs feel frozen through, you’ve never felt so alive. You force yourself up with gritted, chattering teeth, lips pursed against the manic smile that you can feel trying to break through on your face, and keep running. Past rows upon rows of trees, past rock formations and frozen ponds until the forest suddenly breaks off and you’re sprinting through an open field.
You wonder if this is how your friend had felt, drunk on hope and the pains of living as the lances came down upon her shoulders. Except in your case, it is not a lance that awaits you. It’s something so much more.
You are on the ground one moment, and the next you are not. Picked up like a kitten with a swipe of his massive claws. You think you might faint as the ground gets further and further away, as your ears throb from the sudden gain in height. The wind cuts right through you and chills you to the bone the faster he flies.
You laugh, wildly and unafraid.
Between one blink and the next, he has landed back in the center of his riches. He releases you from his grasp and you roll with the force of it. Landing on your back on the rocky ground, forcing what little air you have left from your lungs. In a flash of light and a surge of heat, he’s there. Caging you in with his strong human arms. Those green, reptilian eyes of his narrowed down to mere pinpricks.
“What is the meaning of this, Child of Man?” He growls, smoke puffing past his lips with every word. “Was my promise of destruction not enough? Shall I go down and find that mistress of yours, make sure she never breathes another breath again?”
“Yes,” you wheeze, still cold beyond words but warming just from his proximity. “I think I’d like that, yes.”
His face contorts into something peeved. “You find this amusing, do you? I will fly with you in my talons so you can watch as I burn down everything you’ve ever known.”
“I heard you the first time,” you huff, a cut-off manic giggle. “And I’m saying I’d enjoy it.”
Whether it's the buzzing beneath your skin or the flight having scrambled what’s left of your mind, your body chooses to reach for him. Cupping his face between shaky fingers.
“I don’t actually care for them, if I’m being honest. The very foundation they stand on is built on nothing but lies. And I’ve decided I no longer stand for lies. So, tell me, you who now rules these mountains, what do you expect of me?”
He is still angry, to the point of near snarling. You imagine what it would be like if you were beneath his dragon form instead and find the thought strangely exciting. Yes, that flight definitely made you lose the last bit of sanity you had left.
He seems be battling with something internally before finally snapping, “You foolish thing. Your purpose is to stay with me until your pathetic body can no longer sustain itself.”
“You speak the truth? Truly?”
“Fool. Lies are the sins of the human psyche. Beings such as I do nothing but speak the truth.”
You’re trembling, and you don’t know what from. All you can think about is him. This being bigger than you could’ve ever imagined. Who vowed to make sure you were never cold again.
“I’m cold,” you plead, and you don’t even care if it sounds like a whine. There is no mistress here to berate you, and there never will be. “Where is my cloak? I left it so it wouldn’t tear on a stray branch while I was running.”
“I should burn that insolent mouth of yours shut,” he rumbles while your hands remain cupped over his cheeks.
“Will you? If you do, I won’t be able to eat. Would you have my body fail so soon?”
“Silence,” he hisses with a breath of smoke straight to your face. Your eyes water as he backs off between one cough and the next. But then you’re being covered by a familiar piece of clothing. “The next thing I bring back will be shackles to chain you with.”
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
“How do mates work?”
He made good on his words. Not only do you have new, thick garments for the rest of winter, but there are a pair of gold encrusted manacles set off to the side near where you two rest each day. Lying in clear sight as a reminder of what would happen if you were to try and run again.
He has gotten you a fish this time. He’s been diligently descaling it for the past ten minutes. “A mate is your chosen, your protector and provider. The one who will wait out eternity with you.”
“That sounds very romantic.”
“It is not. It is the one who would fight your battles until their last breath. The one willing to give you everything without question.”
“Again, very romantic.”
He huffs, a sound you’ve come to thoroughly enjoy since figuring out how to make him do it consistently.
“Do you have one?”
“No.”
“Would you like one?”
“There is no need.”
“How come?”
“Caring for your human condition takes up more than enough of my time.”
“Would that make me your mate?”
He stops abruptly, eyes finding you across the fire with a quick flick. You don’t shy away. The weight of his gaze is becoming more and more manageable the longer you’re at the end of it.
“You are… not my mate.” His eyebrows furrow. “You are something else entirely.”
You hum, considering what that could mean while he goes back to preparing your meal. The sounds of the fire echo off the cavernous walls. It reflects across the glossy black expanse of his horns. You wonder if he would let you touch them one day.
“You were meant to eat me.”
He looks up again.
“My purpose was to sustain you with my body. In hopes you would sleep for another year, leaving the valley at peace.”
“You could never even dream of sustaining me for a full year on that frail flesh.” He huffs yet again, offended by the notion.
“So you’d never take a bite out of me?”
“No, the force of my bite alone would probably break your fragile bones.”
“Even if I asked?”
He stares while the fire crackles and pops. You watch as a hot ember shoots into the air then slowly falls back down.
“To bite is to own,” he begins, low and with severity. “It is how pairs show that they belong to one another.”
“And?” You tilt your head. “Do I not belong to you?”
He’s quiet again, contemplative. You think that’s the end of it, but then he drops the knife as he stands. Among the clothes he found and gave you, there had been blankets. You are sat upon one now as he guides you onto your back. Caging you once again beneath his human body.
“Your mouth never stops moving,” he states while unclasping your cloak. “It is any wonder how you survived this long with such deplorable manners.”
“You are the one who humors me,” you defend yourself, more than a little breathless as he unbuttons your overcoat, then your undershirt. Until he gets a clear view of your bare shoulder.
He hums, eyes hooded. “I should punish you for such a comment.”
Then he leans down, his hot breath fanning over your exposed skin before he clamps his jaw onto the meat of your shoulder.
His elongated canines are so sharp you don’t even feel them as they pierce your skin. It is just pressure, extremely hard pressure. Hard enough to make you initially buck up out of reflex. But then he growls around your flesh and you forget all about the instinctive panic. The pain eventually starts as an ache that gradually spreads. It makes your heart thump faster and faster and your fingers tremble. Your blood runs cold and yet your skin feels hot. It is fear and elation and betrayal and security all at once. Your legs shift and he’s there pressing even further down onto you. His wings, normally pulled in tight to his back, spread out wide, giving you a magnificent eyeful of their full span.
It feels like forever passes and yet no time at all when he eventually releases you. Liquid swells and drips down the back of your shoulder, blood. It must be staining your undershirt the same way it does his lips. You watch his forked tongue slither out and swipe across his reddened lips.
You realize you are panting. His legs still bracket your own, so there is no getting up for you yet. He reaches down with a taloned hand and swipes at a trail of blood that had slid near your collarbone. You think you shiver a little.
“Have you any other qualms, Child of Man?”
“Tell me your name?” You do not need to look too closely anymore to know that he bristles just the slightest. “And I will tell you mine, as a trade.”
He does not say anything for a long while. But then he’s raising himself back up, and you concede to defeat. But it is after you’re done eating and you’re leant back against his chest that his lips skim atop your ear as he whispers.
“Malleus.”
You do not repeat it. You lean back, feeling your shoulder twinge where his bite will eventually come to scar, and give him yours.
༺𓆩༒︎𓆪༻
