Chapter Ten

A Lost Dragon

Orsie wheezes at the end of his coughing fit. He’s back on the bed, and Arkeva is sitting next to him. Orsie drinks the proffered water carefully, planning his escape toward his anaskett. He gives the glass back, Arkeva looks away, and Orsie lunges.

But hands catch him, and Orsie claws at the air. His scream is nothing more than a rasp, hurting inside his throat.

“Hey, shh, calm down,” Arkeva says, so gentle; why is he so gentle?

The thief.

“Come now, you’ll hurt yourself, please.”

Pain travels up Orsie’s chest, turning into another cough, violent and stronger, shaking his entire body until his eyes cry with more than desperation. When he looks at his fingers, pulled away from his mouth, they’re red.

He needs it. Now.

Orsie scrambles. Suddenly, heat surrounds him and coolness touches his forehead as Arkeva holds him in his arms. Arkeva’s skin is cold, forcing Orsie to still until he can catch his rugged breaths. The howling in his ears slows down as well, with the rocking and the soft humming.

Arkeva almost sings. How dare he? Orsie stretches his arm uselessly. He can’t reach it from here.

“Stolen,” Orsie tries, throat tight. His stolen soul is here; Orsie needs it.

“What’s stolen?”

“Give it back,” Orsie rasps, pushing himself again toward the door and the room and his anaskett.

“I didn’t—”

Orsie claws at Arkeva’s chest with no effect. He’s too weak, and Arkeva catches his hands too easily.

“Look at me. Orsie, look at me.”

He doesn’t want to, but Arkeva’s voice is soft instead of demanding, drawing Orsie’s attention in spite of himself.

“If you’re talking about the gem, I didn’t steal it. I found it last winter, right there in that room. We’ve been waiting for its owner ever since.”

What is Arkeva saying?

His eyes, his amber eyes are clear in the low light of the room.

But that would mean…

His mouth, his soft whispers, his voice.

Oh.

Orsie’s struggle lessens, and he starts trembling as understanding reaches his foggy mind.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Arkeva looks scared.

Maybe he should rest his eyes for a bit.

“No, no, no, don’t you die! Orsie.” The world shakes. “Orsie!”

Something wet spills from his mouth.

“Please, please, don’t die. You have to live. Look at me. Orsie, can you hear me?”

Why is he afraid? Orsie has finally found him.

“I don’t know how to help you.”

Oh, that’s easy. Orsie grins. “My magic,” he says, reaching to the door again, but only bubbles come out. Everything is so red.

The room spins and Orsie floats.

*

Ark’s hands shake worse than they should. Orsie is not making sense. Blood flows from his lips, yet he wants to go back in the chamber, but to what purpose? It’s cold in there, with nothing other than the gem, Ark’s precious connection to his companion. Ark bites his lip, considering, but Orsie’s body goes slack in his arms, and Ark’s on his feet in less than a heartbeat.

He walks quickly, carrying Orsie inside the room, then kneels with him on the ground.

The cold air causes Orsie to shudder and open his eyes. Good, this is good. Ark wipes at the corner of Orsie’s mouth with his sleeve while Orsie blinks. Ark helps him straighten, and immediately his hand reaches toward the stone, but Ark catches it.

“You can’t touch it,” he breathes. “It’s not yours.”

Orsie’s head turns then, his eyes dazed as he watches Ark. He tries to speak, but coughs instead, holding on to Ark’s shoulders. Another glass of water appears next to them, and Ark makes him drink again, a couple of small sips, until his wheezing isn’t as harsh but still audible in the silence. At least no more blood runs out of him.

“Dear one,” Orsie says, face pained as he forms words with great difficulty, “I left the window open as you like—”

He coughs again, this time sending red drops all over Ark’s shirt.

Ark’s breath catches.

No, Orsie must’ve overheard Ark talk to it.

“Smells like ice and wonders. I’m here; I stand here with you.” Orsie’s fingers clutch tightly at Ark’s shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He wheezes. “I was sad the first time.”

“It really is you,” Ark whispers.

Joy tumbles through his chest in an overwhelming swipe, but it’s cut off by Orsie’s shaking.

“Take it,” Ark says quickly, unclasping Orsie’s hands and turning him around.

Instead of reaching for the stone, Orsie pushes at Ark. “Go,” he rasps, but Ark shakes his head. “Step away.”

He’s adamant, and Ark really can’t deny him anything. If Orsie wants Ark gone, he will go. So he moves back until he’s at the exit, but doesn’t have it in himself to walk out completely. He needs to know Orsie will be fine.

Orsie turns his attention back to the gem. He’s sitting on the floor, the crimson sheet pooling around his frail body as he cups the stone in his hands. The gem is as long as his palm, as wide as three of his fingers. Orsie leans his head back as he lifts it to his lips, and for a moment, Ark’s afraid he’s going to suffocate, but it disappears like swallowed water.

Everything stills, and Ark holds his breath as he watches. With a hiss, Orsie curls into himself, his body quivering like the leaves on a willow, second after second, wider and taller and larger. Orsie turns slowly into a black liquid mass.

Ark finally inhales, shivering, and by the time he exhales, wings are forming. Then a tail, four limbs, and a head, black scales adorning the skin. A great jaw opens and closes a few times while the tail twitches against the far wall.

The dragon turns his head, blinking at Ark, eyes violet against his black skin. And when he breathes, frozen air rolls around, layering ice crystals over the stone floor. Ark’s never seen such a magnificent creature in his entire life.

“Dear one,” he whispers, taking a step closer.

This is the dark stone itself, Orsie himself, in front of him, the beauty of his human face matched by the eeriness of his dragon shape. Ark watches as Orsie spreads his wings, approaching. His head is almost as big as Ark is tall, and Ark lifts his hand to the side of Orsie’s jaw. The dragon rumbles from deep in his chest, leaning toward the touch, and Ark’s heart pangs pleasantly.

The dragon nudges his nose into Ark’s shoulder, steering him back inside the room. Ark follows but stumbles over his own feet, and now it’s his turn to get caught between sharp claws that set him into the underside of Orsie’s wing. His tail curls around them while Orsie lies down, and soon Ark finds himself cushioned inside Orsie’s embrace. The dragon rests his jaw on the floor with a sigh, violet eyes closing.

Of course—he needs rest.

He almost died.

Orsie almost—

Ark is suddenly hit with the realization of this discovery. His dear, dear one, here with him all this time. All the pain of the last months could’ve been spared, if only… He shivers, pushing his face against the cold skin of the wing.

Finally. His companion is here, solid and real. Ark never expected a dragon, yet here he is.

Safe.

Embraced.

Orsie rumbles, and Ark closes his eyes, relief washing through him. Yes, they need rest.

*

Arkeva twitches in his sleep, causing Orsie to deepen the hum in his chest until the body resting in his arms relaxes once more. The sun has passed high noon, and now slants toward the west, bringing with it warm light through the open windows. Orsie’s only been awake long enough to turn back to his two-legged form; the room feels too small otherwise. He pulls the sheet tighter around Arkeva’s shoulders, one hand keeping him close and the other caressing.

He waits, leaning against the wall, with Arkeva asleep on his side between Orsie’s stretched-out legs. He waits while Arkeva’s cheek rests on his collarbone, his even breaths lulling Orsie in a state of calm he hasn’t felt since he fought Nevmis. His body tingles as it readjusts to its magic, and Orsie lets himself be captivated by the glint of his sharp nails in the sunlight as he pets Arkeva’s hair.

He is himself once again.

There are many questions to be answered—by both of them. Orsie’s unsure of what exactly transpired during his delirious fever, but now that the illness is gone, their conversation will certainly be more enlightening. Orsie braces himself. What if Arkeva detests that Orsie is a dragon? And what exactly did Nevmis do to him? Where is Nevmis?

Something nudges his thigh, and Orsie pauses his motion to pick up the small ruby. He lifts it against the light, smiling at the color for a moment. The surface is polished, the inside is pure, shaped as a small sphere with a multitude of facets. It’s perfect. Orsie slips it past his lips, crushes it between his teeth, the taste familiar and dearly missed.

He chews and swallows, now aware of how famished he is. Another ruby rolls toward him, and another, and Orsie eats his fill, savoring each stone in turn. When finished, he pets the floor, sending his gratitude with a rumble.

It’s then that Arkeva finally stirs, waking. He blinks confusedly at his surroundings a few times, then up and down Orsie’s frame. His face betrays nothing of what he’s thinking, and Orsie refrains from squirming. Instead, he rises to his feet when Arkeva does.

Silence stretches, longer and longer, before Arkeva looks away with a scratch to the back of his head. “You’re naked.”

Oh. Indeed he is. The sheet lies rumpled at their feet, but it dissolves into the floor just as Arkeva bends to grab it. He frowns at the absence, then lifts his eyes to Orsie’s, who shrugs.

“There’s no need for that,” he says.

He focuses inward and wills a scale back on his hip, the familiar itch announcing its appearance. It blooms fully, about the size of Orsie’s hand, ready to be shaped. Orsie inhales, and lets his lips form a smile as he cups it with his palm, then flicks his wrist. Arkeva surely got that motion right, seeing how he did the same with blankets. But judging by the surprise on his face, he wasn’t expecting the scale to flutter into a thin, black wrap around his middle. It falls to the ground, just the length Orsie likes, but leaves his torso bare so he can enjoy the cold. Arkeva bends closer, fingers touching lightly.

“I’ve never seen such cloth before,” he murmurs. “What’s it made of?”

“Skin, scales,” Orsie says with a shrug.

Arkeva withdraws his hand quickly, and Orsie smirks.

“We don’t need these,” he explains, extending his finger to flick at the lapel of Arkeva’s shirt. “It’s why dragon homes don’t provide them.”

“Dragon homes,” Arkeva repeats.

Orsie rotates his finger in the air, pointing at their surroundings.

Arkeva swallows audibly. “So it really is,” he mutters.

“You didn’t know?”

*

Ark shakes his head. He suspected, at times, that the castle was connected to the red dragon, but he was never sure. Orsie falls silent, and Ark can’t think of anything better to do than stare. Orsie looks almost the same. His hair still flows messily down his back, but his eyes are sharper. He’s healthier, too, body fuller. His nails are black, pointed like claws, a match to the scales adorning his arms from his wrists to his shoulders.

He stands there, letting Ark look, following Ark’s slow pacing with small turns of his head.

A dragon.

His dragon. His.

Ark’s stomach suddenly growls with lack of nourishment, breaking the silence. Orsie’s lips twitch knowingly.

“Do you want something to eat?” Ark asks.

“I already ate,” Orsie says. “Let’s sit.”

He moves toward the obsidian slab, installs himself on it, cross-legged, and in an instant Ark is there, kneeling in his favorite spot. Yes, yes, this is it, his companion. Like he should’ve been all this time.

“A meal, if you will,” Orsie tells the room, then picks up the bowl of hot soup that appears next to them.

Orsie looks pleased by the castle’s offer, and Ark is reminded of his forgotten cooking from before. Something pulls at Ark’s face—a smile he allows to form fully.

“Good,” Orsie says, causing Ark’s chest to fill with contentment. “Now eat.”

Ark complies, under Orsie’s watch, with his wonderfully quiet company. He finishes the bowl before he knows it, and Orsie takes it from his hands.

“More?”

“No.” Ark shakes his head. No, now he wants— He doesn’t really know what he wants. He’s been waiting for months.

Orsie’s smile doesn’t leave him, and Ark can’t stop watching it.

“Hello, Arkeva, my whisperer,” Orsie says.

“Call me Ark,” he blurts. “Arkeva sounds like I’m being scolded.”

Orsie hums, nodding. “Ark.” The name rolls off his lips around a small puff of frost and a deep rumble coming from his chest.

Ark’s dreaming, surely, he must be. He extends his hand, and Orsie meets his fingers halfway, touching lightly. “You’re real,” he breathes. “Often, I wondered if I was truly sane. I kept talking to the stone; it kept answering, in a way.”

“I heard you.”

“The gem is your anaskett, isn’t it?” Ark asks, tearing his gaze from their fingers to look at Orsie. “But how did it end up here?”

With a blink, Orsie tilts his head. “It was stolen before last winter. How did you come by it?”

“I found it here, in this room,” Ark says.

“And how did you come by the room?”

“I found it.”

Orsie raises an eyebrow, disbelieving. Ark shakes his head.

“Really, I found it,” he says, leaning back to sit on his heels, and in the process releases Orsie’s hand. He misses the contact immediately, but Orsie folds his arms around himself, expectantly, so Ark doesn’t reach out again. He draws a deep breath. “September before last, I saw a red dragon fly above the forest, not far from here. I stumbled and released an arrow. It didn’t hurt the dragon, but the people thought I killed it, so…” He shrugs.

“I see,” Orsie rumbles. “Did she have a long gash under her wing?”

“Yes. You know it?”

“Nevmis. She’s the one who stole my anaskett and left me for dead in the mountains,” Orsie growls. “Where did she go?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then who built this castle?” Orsie’s nostrils flare, his frown deepening.

“I don’t know,” Ark insists.

Should he tell?

The malice laughs, suddenly, and it grates along Ark’s spine all the way to the base of his skull, just as Orsie jumps to his feet.

“What was that?” he asks.

He strides out, and Ark rushes after him, then manages to block the right side door just before Orsie reaches it.

“Don’t go in,” Ark breathes.

Orsie blinks at him, eyes wide. “What’s in there?”

Shuddering, Ark shakes his head.

“What’s in there, Ark?”

“Please.”

Orsie glares, and Ark presses himself harder against the door. The tension grows, while the malice shrieks with glee, but it doesn’t last. No, because Orsie’s face softens, and his hand comes to rest gently on Ark’s shoulder.

“My soul,” he whispers, leaning closer and closer until he’s pressed against Ark’s front.

His forehead reaches Ark’s cheek like this, and Ark closes his eyes. Orsie’s presence calms him, brings his breaths slowly back under control. He hadn’t realized how agitated he’d gotten, and Ark clutches at him, a little too tightly, but Orsie keeps rumbling, low and soothing.

“I found it in a clearing,” Ark rasps. “I touched it and woke here and it never quiets. It’s evil. It won’t let me leave.”

There, he said it. He’d voiced his insanity.

“Show me,” Orsie croons, and Ark can’t resist. An entirely different sharpness overtakes Orsie’s face when he leans back, like he’s about to shred whatever it is behind the door to pieces, and it sends Ark’s heart racing.

He leads Orsie into the corridor. It’s much like the other one, but instead of opening into a room, it continues downward with four flights of stairs before finally reaching a cavern. The place is almost as large as the entire castle, and by the time Ark’s feet touch the floor, his legs are shaking uncontrollably.

*

The chamber Ark leads him into is impressive, so large that five of Orsie could fit inside, wings spread wide and tail uncoiled. At its center on a pedestal of woven marble, it sits.

Large and round, glowing red under a thick crust of charred stone.

It isn’t right, not for a dragonsoul, and Orsie feels the sorrow coming from it with enough force to leave him breathless.

“Dear father of time,” he mutters, just as Ark’s knees give, but Orsie catches him around the middle.

He was expecting Nevmis in all her maleficence, but instead, here is her anaskett. Her twisted soul, heavy under the remnants of so many other perverted stones. Ark covers his ears with a gasp, the whispers multiplying in the air so fast they’re almost tangible, and Orsie growls.

No dragon would leave their soul unattended like this, not unless they were gone. He looks around for a sign she might be hiding in a corner, ready to attack. Eyes adjusting to the dimness, he notices the patterns on the walls, feels the indentations under the soles of his feet. Scales. And the white marble of the pedestal is shaped, in places, like teeth and talons. Orsie’s stomach churns. So she really is dead. Buried inside her own soul, like all dragons when they go. He’s relieved and bereaved at the same time. A dragon is dead, even if that dragon is Nevmis.

Orsie goes back over what he knows. After stealing his anaskett, Nevmis flew south, then east, then west and south again—very un-dragonlike—only to be shot by one single arrow. Here, in this place. For what purpose? Why would she let herself be brought down like that? Unless she simply…stopped.

Or her own dragonsoul stopped her, Orsie thinks as he watches the red stone, heavy and enlarged. Its weight must’ve been unbearable.

Ark’s stilted explanation now makes sense, and Orsie squeezes him closer. Ark’s breath is already labored, his eyes tightly shut. He’s most likely feeling the pull of the anaskett, but his human body doesn’t know what to do with it. Especially with all this malice, the voice of the core might go unheard.

Clearly, the anaskett attached itself to Ark. For whatever reason, Nevmis’s soul chose him, and that’s between Ark and the stone. In any case, Orsie doesn’t think it will let him go. There’s only one choice, to bring them together, help them negotiate. They probably never connected, not in the ways a dragonsoul needs, and Orsie hopes with his entire being there’s something salvageable of Nevmis.

He extends his senses, listens, tastes, feels— There it is. Not all is lost, then.

“Let’s go closer,” he says, but Ark resists with a strangled bark. “I know, beloved, it hurts, but you must. Come, let’s meet her. Listen, underneath, listen to the song, only the song. Can you hear it? Listen closely, Ark.”

*

He holds onto Orsie like he’s a lifeline, follows his voice and his steps, trusting.

Ark pushes through the pain, like Orsie tells him.

The other time he came down here it broke him. Almost killed him. But now Orsie says in his ear, “You’re so brave, my soul,” and Ark listens.

Step after step, he nears the song, strings plucked softly at first, then louder. A melody, hummed under a breath, accompanies it until the room narrows, until walls of red brick surround them, cutting off all voices.

She sits on a chair of twigs and red ivy, her skin pink, fingers deft upon the chords of an invisible harp. Her long hair falls to the ground, red as the rubies of the castle. Crimson, like the eyes she turns to Ark. Her arms now rest in her lap, but the song continues, bouncing gently off the walls.

“Who are you?”

“Arkeva Flitz, Dragonslayer,” she says, her mouth barely moving, voice overlaying onto itself in echoes.

“That’s me,” Ark agrees. “Who are you?”

“Arkeva Flitz, Dragonslayer. Me.”

“You are—”

“Arkeva Flitz, Dragonslayer.”

Ark closes his eyes tightly, then opens them again. She is still there, watching with her red gaze. Another chair of ivy forms in front of her, and Ark takes the seat.

“The shadow was right, you are a thief,” she finally says. “But it’s not his soul you stole.”

The room wobbles until they sit in a clearing, the red sphere between them. Ark watches himself touch it, in reverse, then walk backwards until they are on the road with the small caravan from before. Above, the dragon flies backward, and Ark’s arrow bounces off its chest to return to his bow.

“I knew I didn’t kill it,” he murmurs.

“No, but we were tired, our dragonslayer, so tired that we let you have us.”

Ark understands nothing, but he doesn’t have to ask further. She smiles, takes his hand, keeps talking.

“A long time ago, we bloomed within Nevmis. We were a warrior, we fought for so long. We saved the souls of fallen brethren; we drank them all. But”—her pride turns grim—“we didn’t realize the poison they carried was seeping into our bones. We started taking the anasketts of innocents.”

She closes her eyes and hangs her head. Ark squeezes her fingers, entranced.

“We found the shadow, we took his pretty soul, but he told us the ugly truth. We were a dragon no longer. We murdered.”

She grows silent, and Ark nudges her forward. “Then what happened?”

“We met you, Soulborn, protector, kind. We met you, and we took you for ourselves.” She looks back up, eyes ablaze in their fiery redness. “His soul saw you first, but we claimed you. You belong to us.”

Ark inhales slowly. The truth of her words is undeniable; he knows it somehow, ingrained in his being.

“Are you mine?” he asks.

“We could be, but you have to do something before you can drink us.” Ark’s heart pulses in his chest. “Yes, you understand. Do you want to be a dragon, our dragonslayer?”

A dragon, like Orsie.

“Yes, like him. With him, forever.”

“What do I have to do?”

She grins, lips parting to show rows of sharp teeth. “Save us.”

“From whom?”

“Them,” she hisses, pointing behind Ark.

He turns as the air hardens and dissolves, prodding at his mind with—with—they’re everywhere, growling, shouting. They laugh, bodies decaying, teeth crooked, jaws snapping. They taunt and tease, and they hurt.

Ark screams.