#reis dular

Some things never changed—Reis had always been the wary sort, even before he had known her. She liked to be careful. She left nothing to chance. He swallowed. Reis being a dragon he could stand; the fact she did not remember him twisted his gut. One could love a dragon—one could love someone who had forgotten, also. But if Reis had but remembered him, their life could have pretended at normality. Reis with her memories would be the same with or without scales. Reis without her memories? Life was empty without her. How could he ever make up for what had happened, save for by finding a way to bring her back?  Beowulf could imagine what their lives would have been, had she kept her memory: a temple knight and a dragon, fighting injustice on their way to find a cure for the beautiful dragon. He smiled, glanced across camp again to where Reis kept vigil, and she stirred, met his gaze with an even stare. She was his Reis, giving him that same look she had when they had met first: slightly curious, partially annoyed, and hazy with exhaustion. A few houses in Lionel had caught fire one night and he had been in charge of evacuating that section of the town. Her house had not burned—but she had been evacuated from her bed and she had been little pleased about it, though understanding of his duty.  He stood and, across camp, Reis continued to watch him. Not as though he were a threat, merely keeping an eye on him. With slow, purposeful steps, he made his way to her. Reis did not stir even as he came close enough to brush fingers over the glittering scales of her snout. So strange, to think of his beautiful, tiny-nosed Reis with a snout! But she was beautiful this way, too, gleaming purple in the low firelight, the promise of power in every minuscule shift she made. “You are safe here,” he told her. She blinked at him, tilting her head to the side in what had to be amusement if he knew her at all. And he could not stop himself, he did not have the will, he reached out and trailed his fingertips over her smooth scales. Beowulf sucked in a breath and Reis—she hummed, like she was pleased, and he grinned, a fool’s lovestruck grin.  What was he if not a lovestruck fool?  He leaned down and pressed his mouth against the top of her head. The scales caught against his lips as he mouthed into her, Remember me, remember me, please, Reis, just remember me. Huffing, Reis settled into a more comfortable position, pulling her wings more tightly around herself. Beowulf pulled away, rubbing at the sting where his lip had been cut. Her eyes shut fully and she seemed more relaxed, so he crept away, back to where he had left his possessions. There was hope, yet, there had to be. Beowulf rubbed at his lip again, his flesh giving just that little bit more at the agitation.  And somewhere, some dusty tome had the writ: thou shalt not kiss dragons.