#almost whump

“Here I am,” he said, groaning in pain. “Covered in my own blood as the price for being an idiot.” 

Dida sighed softly as she came over. 

“You’re not an idiot,” she said, taking the bandages from him. “Well, you are, for trying to bandage your back by yourself. You could have damaged your wing muscles,” she scolded, undoing a couple layers of bandages, before snipping off the gross bandage and restarting. Her hands were cool against Allistor’s skin as she deftly bandaged his back. “There.” 

“Thanks,” he said, reaching for the tattered remains of his shirt. Dida shook her head. 

“It’s dead, Allistor.” 

“Fair enough,” Allistor said, leaning back against the scratchy tree. Dida sat down next to him. And for a moment, there was silence. 

“You’ve never used your wings outside of your full draconic form before, have you?” Dida asked. Allistor sighed and shook his head. 

“And I’ve only used my full draconic form once before,” he replied. Dida stared at him. “What?”

“Why?” she asked, the question seeming so small, so innocuous, but it was incredibly loaded. “Allistor?”

“Because, I’m a red dragon and I’m a berserker,” Allistor replied softly, staring at his sword where it lay in the yellow grass, the ruby glinting at him. “When I use any of my powers, I’m scared,” he admitted, reaching out and grabbing the sword, running his hand over the hilt and scabbard, so preciously passed on from generation to generation. “I’m scared that I’ll never come back. That all I will ever be is full of rage, and that no one will be able to stop me from hurting everyone I love.” 

It had happened before, to others in the Bjarnson clan, the Berserker Spirit taking over them, turning them into monsters of rage. It had happened to his great-grandmother, Agnes, and his grandfather had had to kill her to protect the rest of the tribes. But none of the Berserkers had born the blood of dragons, and if Allistor lost himself, he wasn’t sure what would happen. 

Dida reached out and touched his wrist. Allistor stared at her, startled out of his spiral of doom. 

“I’m scared that because I am the red dragon, I am going to be full of rage.” he whispered as she grabbed his hand and gave it a squeeze. 

“Would you like to hear something that my father told me when I learned of my scales?” she said, touching the braid of lilac in her hair. Allistor nodded. “Every colour had more than one meaning. My scales are lilac, they are the colour of confidence, of springtime, and of passion,” she said. “But they are also the colour of childishness, of fools and immaturity.  When I learned of my scale colour, I was devastated. How could I be the leader my people needed to be if I was always to be immature?” she paused, running her thumb over Allistor’s knuckles. “But, like how colours mean different things to different people, I am not defined by one meaning of my scales. I am childish, yes, but I am also brave and kind. You are not defined by your rage.”

Allistor gave her hand a gentle squeeze. 

“And I will tell you one more secret: My father’s scales were as red as lava,” she said. “He had many of the same fears as you, but instead of hiding from them, he chose one of the other meanings, he chose to be more than the rage inside of him.”

“Which one?”

“Love,” she said softly. “Red is the colour of fire, of rage, sensitivity, and of love. The kind of love that drives you to protect, to fight for justice and that is what my father chose to do. You can pick the meaning you give to your scale colour. Now, which meaning will you give your scales?” she asked, staring at him intently. 

Allistor sat in silence, thinking about it. What meant the most to him? What did he define his life by?