SPN Fic: Handsome (1/5)
*****
Jensen forges up the path, straining just to stay in the saddle with each labored step his mount takes. Both of them are heaving for breath in the thinning air. Until now he’d been able to keep upright as the trail steepened, but he wonders how much longer he can endure. The pain in his side is worsening. There’s a ball of lead lodged there, tendrils of red heat snaking out from it, throbbing in time with his pulse.
The horse is finding its own way now, up the narrowing, near-imperceptible track. Small branches sting his face as they push past, but he barely notices them.
He must’ve outpaced any pursuit by now. It’s been hours, this flight. Somehow he’d made it out of the City’s walls and through the crowded lanes of the nearest villages huddled up around them without being stopped, without being caught.
Jensen had gotten the Heir out of the Council Chamber safely, by some miracle, out of the Palace and sprinting headlong into the narrow warren of streets knitted haphazardly around it. Just him and the Heir and two other low-ranking guards. He wasn’t sure how much of a lead they had over the traitorous soldiers who had slain a room full of royals and courtiers minutes before. Jensen pushed the thought of the dead from his mind. He focused on running, on breathing through the pain, on keeping Prince Brock right behind him. Random turns to the left and right and left, until… “It’s a dead end.” Before them, a solid wall blocked where another alley should have opened up. Jensen leaned a shoulder against the brick for support and gasped to the Heir, “Up. Up to the rooftops, Sire.” To the men, “Go with him. To the South Barracks. Deliver him to General Morgan. To Morgan alone. I’ll lead them off in the opposite direction.”
Jensen had made certain not to outpace the men following him until they were well to the north of the kingdom’s capital, Grandcoup, on their wild goose chase. He isn’t certain whether the Heir made it to safety, but he’s trying to buy Brock as much time as possible. Jensen had instinctively turned his stolen mount toward his own outlying hamlet, to his childhood home, like an injured animal seeking a familiar lair. But it hadn’t been long as he rode before it’d penetrated the red haze blanketing his mind that Richardson was the first place the traitor’s troops would look for him. Of course they would seek him out at home. Jensen could almost hear his father’s voice berating him for being stupid enough to almost lead them there.
The thought of his father simply added to his misery. If Jensen were half as skilled an armsman as his father once had been, he’d have found some way to avert disaster, to keep them all safe, to save the Queen.
Instead Jensen found himself on the run, halfway up the mountain, hoping at last to shake the enemies still dogging his heels.
Enemies, he thinks, too numb with fatigue and pain to make sense of the word. Just yesterday, he’d called them his compatriots in the kingdom of LeGeai’s army.
The ornate doors to the Council Room burst open with no warning. Muskets aimed and fired, barking out death before anyone in the room could react. Jensen saw Queen Amanda as she leapt to her feet and took three shots to the chest, her body jerking with each impact, her last expression shock mirroring Jensen’s own as they saw her sister, Alaina, stalking into the room through the smoke shouting orders to her troops, who refilled their guns with powder and shot. Jensen grabbed Brock by the shoulder and shoved him toward the back corner, praying Alaina hadn’t known to station more killers at the door that opened onto a secret stair, made just for such escape. Behind them another volley flew. Jensen had no time to draw his own pistols. From the corner of his eye he saw Prince Colin sheltering behind one of the thick oaken chairs, pinned beneath the body of a fallen guard. Jensen shielded Brock with his body, too. A shot grazed his arm, another struck his side, blunt like a punch. No stopping. They hurtled through the concealed door and away. His last glimpse of the slaughter was the Queen’s sightless eyes staring at the ceiling.
Right now Jensen’s fairly certain he’s dying, too. Every step his horse takes has become excruciating. He presses his hand into his ribs, feels the expanding puddle of blood that’s soaked through the tattered panel of his jacket and the waistcoat beneath. It stains the lace on the sleeves of his formal court attire bright red. He wipes his sticky palm on his thigh.
Perhaps he should have gone to his father after all. To say goodbye.
His vision blurs, but he doesn’t dare stop. Winter has just recently retreated, and this spring’s been cold and damp. The chill is even worse on the mountainside than in the valley. The thready light of the afternoon has turned to grey and in a few hours it will be gone. He’ll never survive a night without shelter.
If he survives at all.
The forest seems to be thinning ahead, the path starting to widen. He presses his knee into the stalwart mare’s side, encouraging it up one more rise. His eyes search for a shelf of rock that might indicate a cave, a hollow, someplace he can go to ground.
Instead, as he emerges from a break in the trees, he discovers before him-rising out of the rock as if grown from the mountain’s stone itself-a massive castle.
Great, gray planes of masoned stone jut up from the ground. The weight of the thick walls contrasts with a cluster of slender, cylindrical towers, broad banks of diamond-cut windows juxtapose with arrow slits. The rooflines are worn and cracked in places, individual bricks softened and crumbling from the ravages of time. Twisted ivy and layers of moss blanket the walls in green, all the way up to the ramparts, and a thicket of what must be hundreds of wild rose bushes-their nascent, tightly-furled buds snippets of color among the briars-encircle the outer walls and encroach into the empty grounds, stretching out toward the forest fringe.
Jensen realizes that he’s come to a halt, stunned by the inexplicable sight of a castle where no castle should be. He clucks softly to his horse, urging it cautiously onto the footbridge that spans a shallow moat. They pass underneath wrought-iron gates three times the height of a man. The gates stand ajar, and Jensen can only hope that the place is abandoned. It must be.
Everything is still. The ring of his horse’s hooves on the paving stones echoes bleakly. His wound throbs in time.
Once inside, Jensen finds the grounds themselves are even stranger. Although signs of ruin and disrepair are everywhere-even clearer up close- just to the left he spies an elaborate garden, carefully tended. There are terraces of artfully arrayed plants and grasses, low shrubs, walkways carefully lined with crushed pebbles and shallow stone benches. He sees two intricate topiaries flanking the entrance to what looks like a formal hedge maze, the greenery neatly trimmed and squared away.
Jensen barely has time to wonder at the beauty of the garden in such forsaken wilds, when the main doors to the inner hall swing open, and a man steps out into the failing light.
There’s something familiar about the figure. Steel gray hair and bushy brows, a pointed chin, the stiff posture of a soldier.
Jensen blinks. Could it be? He must be delirious. He watches the man turn as if to speak to someone following behind, and in that instant, there is no doubt who it is.
Father. Jensen’s head spins, not just from blood loss.
Yet his surprise at discovering his father in this place is but a featherweight against shock and dread he feels a moment later. When he sees what emerges from the castle next.
It’s a dragon.
No. It simply can’t be possible. Dragons are only legend, wild stories spun by children and fools and crackpots. A fabulous tale to tell in low voices around a campfire, or concocted by a roaming tinker come to town looking to draw a crowd for his cheap wares.
As a child, Jensen had hated these stories. Hated the accounts of dragons stalking through the night, burning whole villages, stealing away children for their monstrous appetites, merciless and bloodthirsty, foes to all humans. The winged beasts haunted Jensen’s nightmares, even as his father hung on every word, cherishing every new detail of dragonkind.
As an adult, Jensen had watched as his father’s fame and respect as a royal armsman became eclipsed by this obsession, people whispering behind their hands, tutting condescendingly at a grown man’s credulity, his fixation on the myth of dragons. Mad, some called him.
But by all that’s holy, it is truly a dragon here before him.
It’s not a huge beast, but as it ducks its head to clear the archway and stand looming over Jensen’s father, it seems enormous. In that awful first moment, Jensen takes in its diamond-shaped head sitting atop a thin, sinuous neck, its razor sharp fangs and killer claws. He can see its wings-massive, graceful arcs of bone and translucent skin-not quite laying flat against its back. It stands out against the gray stone of the castle’s walls, its deep green hide as smooth and lustrous as a the leaves of summer trees in shadow, or like emerald jewels illuminated by candlelight. Or like the slime at the bottom of a well, Jensen adds, refusing to allow himself to admire anything about such a loathsome creature.
The dragon turns, rising up slightly on its hind legs, as if it’s about to lash out. It moves into a patch of sunlight, and Jensen can see that the green tones shade into glints of copper and amber, gold and turquoise along its soft underbelly.
That’s where Jensen must aim. Quickly now.
He rowels the side of his poor horse and gasps as he reaches across his body to his saddlebow. The brace of small, pearl-handled flintlock pistols he wears as part of his court uniform may be decorative, but they are functional enough for this.
He draws one out of its holster. He can barely stay seated, nearly drops the weapon from his grasp, weaker than a babe despite the adrenaline flooding him with renewed energy. His arm shakes as he raises it, the lumbering gait of the tired horse jostling him further, and he knows he must get at least some dozen yards more before he can possibly hope to hit his target.
He should be afraid, knowing better than most people the tales of how impervious dragons are to attack, the damage and death they can wreak in return. But he feels no fear, just burning anger. He’s done for anyway. Why not try to save his father, and perhaps to seek some personal vengeance on the embodiment of his father’s mania?
The monster spots him and rears back further, nearly hitting its head on the ceiling of the doors’ ornamented overhang.
“Alan! Beware, there’s an intruder!” it says, in words as plain as day. Its voice has a rich, mellow timber, like one of those stringed instruments you have to hold between your knees to play. It’s not the savage growl that Jensen would expect. If he’d ever given much thought to what a talking dragon would sound like.
Jensen shakes his head. This is no time for hallucinations.
“Father, run!” he yells, his voice hardly strong enough to carry across the open space. He’s almost close enough to pull the trigger-impossible as it is to imagine he can actually do the creature harm-when his father dashes forward. He places himself directly in Jensen’s line of fire, his hands held out, commanding.
“My god, Jensen. Stop!”
Jensen may or may not have obeyed, if from nothing else but habit-obedient son, obedient soldier. But it doesn’t matter, because his horse reacts before he can. It plants its forefeet and halts, so abruptly that it skews back almost on its haunches. Jensen is flung forward out of the saddle, the sky and the grass smearing circles into one another as he tumbles, plummets, and hits the ground with a sickening thud.
Darkness and pain shoot through him, almost too much to bear. Jensen forces them back once more. He can’t pass out now, not with his father rushing toward him, the beast closing in behind.
He tries to roll onto his side to see more clearly, but suddenly his father’s arms are around him. They pull and clutch him close, and Jensen can’t hold back a moan as a fresh wave of agony surges over him. He can’t tell whether it’s the earlier musket shot, or, more likely, that he broke a rib or two in the fall.
“Jensen,” he hears his father say, but it’s as if from a long way away. “My boy, what has befallen?” It’s been years since his father spoke to him so kindly, and in his weakness, it makes Jensen’s throat tight with unshed tears. There’s no time to weep, though.
“Get away, sir, save yourself,” he gasps, struggling to move, to get in front of his father and try to shield him from the beast’s imminent attack, futile as that may be. It could use fire, or vile sorcery, or it might simply disembowel them with swipe of its talons.
Yet his father’s hands are firm, holding Jensen immobile. “There is no danger, I swear.”
“But the-“ Jensen has trouble saying the word aloud, even as the thing slithers up to stand beside them. “-the dragon?”
“Harmless,” his father insists. “But how have you come here? How were you hurt?”
Jensen has a hundred more questions, but a sudden image of the slaughter at the royal castle flashes through his muddled brain, and he has to tell, to warn, to hand off this burden. His father will know what to do next. “There was a plot against the Queen. Alaina and her adherents have murdered her, likely Prince Colin as well-” Jensen swallows hard against that thought, “-a dozen others who sat with us as they met in Council. Her troops are in the Palace, in the City. They-they hunted us, sir, but I think the Heir may have escaped.” Jensen has to halt as another bolt of pain jags through him. He squeezes his eyes shut and finds he can barely reopen them to slits. “Father,” he murmurs again. All others words seem to have been emptied out in that final delivery.
“The Queen. Murdered.” There’s quiet agony in his father’s voice. How many years had he spent as one of a handful of her closest guardians, when she herself was a young girl and newly crowned?
“Jared,” his father says then, urgently. And it takes Jensen a moment to realize he’s talking to the dragon. How odd. “Can you help him?”
From above them comes another voice. “Perhaps. I don’t know.” It’s the monster. “It depends on how much internal damage there is, how weak he’s become. From the look of his coat, it appears he’s been shot. Is it musket ball? I’m afraid I’m don’t have much expertise when it comes to weapons.” It’s insane, but the dragon sounds almost… apologetic. Concerned, even.
“We can’t just sit here. Jensen is near death, my Queen is killed, and the realm is likely in chaos!”
“Well, there’s nothing you can do for your son, I’m afraid,” the dragon replies. “Unless you know more of the healers’ art than you’ve let on, which hasn’t actually come up in conversation before now, it’s true, however that’s not surprising, given that neither of us has been ill, but-“ The beast looks down at Jensen, and the sudden intensity of its gaze makes him feel like his very soul is being weighed and measured. Its words become less wandering, more clipped, serious. “I’ll keep him here. I will do all I can to keep him alive. You go back down the mountain. Find out what’s happened to your people.”
Of course that’s right. There’s no reason for his father to stay, just to watch Jensen breathe his last. Especially not when he could be of aid to others. It wouldn’t be like his father at all.
Jensen uses the last of his strength to raise his head, catching his father’s gaze with his own. “Go,” he urges. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the dragon lean closer, and Jensen shudders.
There is part of him-the part that’s still a small boy-which wants to beg his father not to leave. Not to abandon him in the dragon’s odious clutches. But Colonel Ackles’ commitment has always been to the Crown, even after retirement compelled him into his strange role as dragon scholar and local curiosity. Even if he’s only one man, Jensen knows nothing will stop his father from going to the Queen’s Palace in Grandcoup, if there’s any chance to help defend what’s left of the royal family. Jensen respects that duty. His father had instilled that same fundamental loyalty into Jensen from the earliest age. It’s why Jensen joined the service as soon as he was old enough. Oh, how he longs to stand up and ride away now, too.
And not just because the Prince still needs me, he thinks, closing his eyes against the unnerving sight of the dragon, looming over them.
“I’m sorry, Jensen,” his father murmurs. His hands grip Jensen’s shoulders hard, and then he eases him off his lap to stand. The cold ground beneath Jensen feels so good, and he recognizes that fever has set upon him. “Jared will take care of you,” his father continues firmly. “He’ll heal you. And I’ll return when-if-I can.”
Jensen must be losing the last of his senses. What can a beast do to help? And why would it wish to help Jensen anyway? It’s more likely to kill him. Or eat him. Or both. Either way, it probably can’t hurt worse than this.
He tries to watch as his father turns and hurries away, grabbing the reins of Jensen’s mount and leading it towards a set of stables that are tucked into one corner of the courtyard. But Jensen doesn’t even have the strength to turn his head.
“Sleep,” he hears the dragon whisper. And he does.
Jensen’s delirious. He’s dreaming. He’s had dreams like this before, dreams of a beautiful man, gently stripping off his clothes as he lies helpless. A beautiful man with broad shoulders and skin like honey. Eyes like oceans. Hands like heaven.
He waits. Waits for those hands to move lower, to touch more intimately. This is about the time-if past dreams are any gauge to measure by-there will be a tight grip around his cock, a loose tugging at his sac, the wet heat of lips and tongue and the slick, tender curve at the back of the man’s throat.
But no. There’s none of these. Only what feels like cool water dribbling over a burn, then measured pressure against his wound, prodding and tugging. No pain-shouldn’t there be pain?-but Jensen can’t see, doesn’t understand. Tries to blink to clear his vision, to no avail. A bitter-herb tasting drink dribbles past his lips. He struggles, tries to spit it out, to choke. But firm hands hold him still. There are nonsensical words. And hush, hush.
Then he is alone.
He dreams of his mother, soothing him through another fever, a toddler’s fever. The same fever that took her life. He dreams of his father, teaching him the rudiments of combat with a small wooden sword, watching him jump his pony over a hedgerow, reading to him before bed by candlelight. A book full of vivid pictures of great winged fiends, of dragons unleashing havoc in ancient, faraway lands, of fire disgorged in orange and crimson on the page.
***
Jensen wakes. Or no. He must still be dreaming. Because the man is there again, silhouetted against the flames in the hearth across the room. He’s tall, his back a solid wall. He’s looking down and Jensen can’t see his face. There’s long hair falling forward, obscuring it.
The stranger turns and approaches the bed and once again Jensen’s thoughts turn to desire. It’s a face to write sonnets for, sharp features and sculpted cheekbones stained with pink from the heat of the fire. His chestnut hair sweeps back from a high forehead to fall, unruly, along his jaw. His mouth is wide and made for kissing. If only in this dream Jensen weren’t so feeble, so very cold. He shudders as the man pulls back the blanket and sits on the edge of the bed.
Somehow, there’s a basin. And a cloth. Cool water across his brow, the pungent scents of rue and rosemary. The beautiful man, workmanlike, impersonal, wiping him down like a hard-used horse.
“Well, this is peculiar. Strange, no question,” the man mutters softly to himself as he strokes the cloth down Jensen’s bare chest, his shoulders, his belly. “You. You’re strange, but-“ the words are barely a sigh but Jensen catches them. “-special.”
Strong arms ease Jensen up to a sitting position to bathe his back, and he finds himself tucked into the crook of the man’s neck. Unable to resist, he turns his head to mouth at the skin there, letting his tongue slide along the taut tendon. Jensen can’t ever remember clearly tasting something in a dream before, but a heady mix of salty sweat and masculinity fills his senses.
The stranger goes rigid, his breath hitching sharply at Jensen’s touch. He doesn’t push Jensen away, but he doesn’t respond, either. Jensen’s sick-addled brain protests again that this is not how the fantasy is supposed to proceed. He tries to raise his chin to look at the man’s expression, but his head feels heavier than a pile of stones. Jensen closes his eyes instead, nuzzles deeper into that muscular shoulder. He fumbles weakly for his dream lover’s hand, tries to pull it into his lap, willing his cock to thicken and throb. Willing himself to burn and shiver with something other than fever. Willing himself not to die.
The man recoils, practically falling off the bed, and to Jensen’s shame he hears himself let out a soft cry, both at the pain from the sudden jostle and the disappointment at the loss of the sweet sensation of heat and strength.
The man does not speak again. He does not return. Or if he does, Jensen’s unaware.
***
He rushes up once again from the well of darkness, and this time Jensen’s certain he’s not dreaming, because his eyes are crusted over and stinging and his body aches as if he’d been trampled by a herd of cattle.
Someone has bandaged his side while he’s slept; he can feel the tautness of the linen as he breathes. His side still throbs insistently, but the pain is no longer fierce, overwhelming, mortal.
He find that he’s lying in a grand, old-fashioned bed, one of those with carven posts and embroidered curtains that Jensen has only seen members of the nobility possess. The room beyond appears to be grand as well or, at least, it was once a long time ago. Plaster from the high ceilings has cracked, dropping into crumbled piles on the floor, and in random places the velvet-napped, gilt wallpaper has peeled off of the walls in long strips of crimson and gold. The room is cluttered with peculiar, expensive furniture: a chaise and two stately armoires, spindly side tables and satin ottomans and grandiose curio cabinets full of objets d’art. Across the room there’s a dining table large enough for twelve, but with only three mismatched chairs, its surface stacked with books and papers. Beyond that are a set of large, arched double doors, propped open so that Jensen can see they exit into a Great Room beyond.
And over by the enormous formal fireplace is the dragon, curled up, its wings smoothed flat and its tail tucked under itself. It looks smaller. Less intimidating. It is also reading a book, which is one of the least intimidating things Jensen can imagine. He should be scrambling away in fear and revulsion, but instead he finds he’s mostly…curious. He watches the beast reach out with one claw and delicately turn the thick page of a leather-bound tome at least a yard wide.
“Nice to see you awake.” It doesn’t turn its head, doesn’t glance in his direction. “I’m glad you’re feeling better. That is, if you are. You haven’t said anything yet, so perhaps you aren’t, which wouldn’t be at all surprising, what with losing so much blood and cracking a rib and all. Luckily, the ball wasn’t lodged very deep… although perhaps you’d prefer that I didn’t describe all of the gory details.”
It cuts off this torrent of words abruptly and ducks its head down below the top edge of the book as if hiding. As if it’s embarrassed.
Jensen’s never imagined speaking with a dragon before. If he’d even believed dragons existed or could speak. And if he had, he would have told you that he’d sooner cut its head off than exchange a civil word. But here he is, not dead as he should be, lying in a soft bed, the wound in his side no longer trying to devour him from the inside out.
Not that any of that matters. It doesn’t seem like a time for either conversation or slaughter.
“I have to go,” Jensen croaks, his throat dry. He tries to sit up, and quickly finds that he’s nowhere near as fit as he’d hoped. His head spins and his whole body screams in protest. He flops perforce back onto the mattress like a landed fish and realizes he’s naked but for the bandage around his middle and scrambles to pull the bedsheets back up to cover himself. What the hell? Where are his clothes?
“I think that you should try to stay still, at least for a bit longer,” the dragon says mildly. “You aren’t recovered yet, and it’s taken awhile just to get you to this point. It would be a shame if you made it this far, only to relapse because of doing too much, too soon.”
“How long?” Jensen demands sharply, all other questions swept aside as he recalls the recent terrible events. Recalls the Queen, the princes, his father. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“This is the third day.” Jensen sees one large eye peek back over the top of the pages. Jensen notices that it’s almond-shaped and slightly tip-tilted. The pupil is round like a human’s, with the iris a kaleidoscope of blue-green. “But your fever finally broke during the night, and, according to what I’ve read, it’s simply a matter now of healing and getting your strength back.” Its head disappears again and disembodied words float across the room. “Unless infection sets in.”
Jensen has seen soldiers with blood infections that go systemic. It’s neither an easy nor quick way to die. “Do you know how to cure that?”
“I think so. But I’m not finished reading.” It sits up even higher and bobs its head toward the book. “Really there’s so much about human physiology I never knew, it’s all very interesting, particularly the immune system, which-”
“How long?” Jensen says again, realizing the dragon will babble on unless he interrupts. “How long before I can leave?”
“I don’t know,” the dragon replies, slightly chastened, almost anxious at his lack of knowledge. It’s strange how Jensen can read the emotions of the beast so easily. Even if he weren’t addled from fever and pain, the whole scene would still seem surreal.
“Anything could be happening,” Jensen mutters, half to himself. “The Heir could be captive, or killed, my father could’ve walked into a trap.”
“There’s not much you can do about it, I’m afraid,” the dragon chimes in, returning to what appears to be its bizarrely cheery manner. “Even if you could get to Grandcoup-which you can’t-you couldn’t be much help to them in your state. Although, I suppose it depends on what you’re needed for. Maybe you could be useful in developing battle tactics? I don’t suppose you could shout orders to troops while propped up in bed?”
“You’re not helping.” Jensen rubs a hand over his face, trying to brush away the cobwebs of illness, trying to make some kind sense out of this demented situation.
“Oh. Of course. Sorry.” The dragon subsides for a moment behind its book, but then pops back up again. “Would you like dinner?”
“I’m not hungry,” Jensen snaps. The dragon winces, and Jensen almost feels contrite. But to hell with worrying about etiquette when dealing with a fucking dragon.
“Maybe later. Would you like some water at least?” It points a claw toward the nightstand next to the bed, the glass on it half-full.
Jensen’s thirst returns. He reaches out for the glass but realizes he has to sit up to drink. Gingerly, he moves, attempting to put as little pressure on his side as he can. He struggles with the bedding, grunts at what feels like stitches pulling ominously.
In the blink of an eye, the dragon is moving across the room toward him. It’s as silent and fluid as quicksilver, one moment by the fire, the next right beside the bed, incredibly large, reaching out one arm as if would help Jensen up. Like it’s going to touch him.
Jensen jerks back in horror. A bolt of pain shoots across his ribs. “No!”
“Excuse me!” the dragon cries, drawing back hastily in turn. “I did not mean to startle-I was-was just going to help. Never mind.”
It edges backward, retreating toward the giant book, its head low to the ground, non-threatening. Almost like a hound, if a hound were twice the size of a horse.
Jensen again feels the absurd temptation to apologize. But he finds suddenly he doesn’t have the strength for even a single word. It’s as if the slot of a lantern has been shut and the oxygen feeding the flame disappears. Jensen’s light flickers and dims. He drinks, fumbles and almost spills the water setting the glass back down. His head drops to the pillow with a soft thud.
His skin crawls at the thought of the thing sitting there, just watching him as he sleeps. But underneath that aversion is a small thread of calm, a strange feeling that nothing bad will happen as long as the dragon is safeguarding him.
Jared, Jensen recalls as he’s swiftly drawn into darkness again. Father called it ‘Jared.’
He doesn’t sleep as long this time, as far as he can tell. The angle of the sun coming through the windows has only shifted slightly in the interim.
“I found something that I believe is going to help. Both with the pain and with the knitting of your wound.”
Jensen jolts in surprise at the sound, his heart suddenly racing. Never, never will he be used to the idea of being in the room with a dragon, much less one that likes to chat.
“The recipe was unclear in some places about the correct proportions, but I think I estimated everything correctly.” The beast is by the hearth again, but this time it’s stirring something in a pan over the neatly-lain fire, a long-handled spoon clutched in its large, but somehow elegant claws. Something about the sight, the way it’s standing, seems to ring a bell in the corner of Jensen’s brain. Then the dragon transfers the contents of the pan into a teapot and carries it carefully to Jensen’s bedside, and the moment is gone.
Up close, the thing’s teeth are quite terrifying. But Jensen finds himself looking at all the ways this real dragon is different from how the legends describe them. How its hide appears so soft, not encased in armored scales. How lanky it is, not bulging with muscle and fearsome power. How its eyes are fringed with long lashes, the expression in them so concerned.
With more dexterity than such a large creature should possibly possess, the dragon deftly pours the tea, or whatever it is, into a delicate porcelain cup with a gold-plated rim and handle. “This tea set was here when I discovered this place. I did some research and it may be an antique from the Lansbury Era over 250 years old. Isn’t that amazing?”
Jensen picks up the cup and looks into it skeptically. He brings it up to his nose for a sniff. The liquid has a verdant smell-tangy, like cut grass or fresh reeds by a riverbank-and something else, unrecognizable, sweet and acrid at the same time.
“You can drink it,” the dragon assures him. “It’s safe.”
“Is it magic?” Jensen says the word like it burns his tongue. Humans have no magic. In the oldest histories of their realm and all the lands around it, their laws forbid citizens anything to do with it, and as such, if it had once existed among them at all, it had petered out long ago. This lack made the folktales of dragons’ dark and powerful sorcery even more frightful. His father’s avid interest in its existence had felt dangerous and had made Jensen uneasy. Jensen’s always been a man dedicated to rule of law. Jensen’s always been a man who rejected the fantastical.
And yet.
He peers into the cup again.
What would magic look like?
“There’s no magic in there,” Jared answers. “Unless you consider the propitious combination of medicinal herbs to be magical. Sometimes I think some of the plants in my garden appear as if by magic, because I certainly do not remember seeding them. This spring I’ve been battling both ragwort and hawksbeard, which are completely useless and aren’t even pretty as ornamentals.”
“But dragons are sorcerers? You can do magic?” Jensen presses.
The dragon snorts and Jensen looks up quickly to see if it’s breathing fire. Is it true they can breathe fire? But there’s only a self-deprecating smile on its face. “Not much. I have some little magic. Child’s magic. Parlor tricks and-um-“ The dragon glances aside for a moment but then continues. “One or two other things that every dragon youngster learns. You see, magic is temporary, illusory. I’m more interested in knowledge. Knowledge is ever-lasting.”
It makes the pronouncement primly, sounding more like a schoolmarm than a monster. Jensen has to remind himself that, no matter how charming this particular creature may seem, dragonkind has the weight of all his people’s lore and all his father’s meticulous research against them, telling Jensen that they are alien and deadly.
A small voice inside whispers, That’s the same father who left you in this one’s care.
Jensen takes a sip from the teacup, rolling the strange tastes around in his mouth. The liquid tingles, warming his throat and chest like a swig of brandy. Almost immediately the strain in his muscles from bracing against each painful breath starts to loosen. He allows himself to lean back against the headboard. He’s feeling brave, foolhardy in fact. “Can you show me some?”
“Knowledge?” the dragon asks.
“Magic.”
The dragon cocks his head, eyes sparking bright blue and gold with eagerness. “Really? You’d like to see? I know not everyone-I mean, your father was always interested, but-yes. I could show you.”
It raises a front foreleg and waves it toward the tray of convalescent’s food that had been placed on the nightstand since the last time Jensen looked. There’s an array of fine dishes holding small portions of various tempting foods. They seem fine enough to be served at the Court’s High Table: soup, ragout, a cheese soufflé, some grey stuff that looks like pâté, a half-loaf of soft, white bread with butter. If Jensen felt even a fraction of his normal appetite, he would have devoured the lot with gusto. As it is-between his damn infirmity and his apprehension over what magic might entail-he simply grips the blankets in his fist like a lifeline and watches for what the dragon will do.
A moment later, the silverware skitters across the tray top and then floats up into midair, untouched. The spoon, fork, and knife pinwheel and dance to and fro across the bed in front of him, the plates levitate and spin slowly, careful not to spill their food.
Jensen reaches out to touch one of the twirling utensils and his finger tip tingles, a sparkling sense rushing up his arm like frozen nerves beginning to thaw. “Oh,” he breathes.
But then he glances at the tray and sees that the original silverware is still sitting beside the plate, all of them normal and still. He looks back to the dancing pieces just as they fade and wink out of sight in a cascade of twinkling light like shooting stars in the night sky.
The dragon is watching Jensen carefully. “What do you think? Are you disappointed? I’m afraid that it’s nothing special,” it says. “Like I said, just illusion.”
Jensen composes his face, trying not to show the rush of delight he feels. It’s not right. Dragon spells are supposed to be malevolent things designed to deceive and injure humans. But this? This was charming. It was whimsical. And although Jensen’s never much cared for charming and whimsical before, he finds himself tempted to ask for more. He restrains himself, slowly taking another mouthful of tea.
“I’m not disappointed,” he admits at last, torn between keeping his guard up and wanting to ease the anxious furrow on his host’s brow. Why does he care how the dragon feels? And why does he care if he reveals his own amazement?
The dragon gives a little sigh of relief and starts puttering around, pouring fresh tea into Jensen’s cup and straightening the bedding. Jensen’s suddenly aware of how easily he’s adjusted to its nearness. He could reach out and touch it if he wanted.
Not that he wants to.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Of course. That is, you may, if you’re feeling up to it.”
Jensen lets out a surprised huff of amusement at the casual slight to his grammar. “Why are you like this? I mean-” he gestures vaguely at the tea, the food. “I thought dragons hated humans? Why are all the stories I’ve ever heard full of horror and destruction and the devouring of virgin sacrifices?”
The puttering stops, and the dragon turns to Jensen. “It’s not that we hate humans. Or, let’s put it this way, some dragons hate humans, but not because they’re humans. You see, dragons by nature tend to be very… acquisitive. So some dragons, if they feel something of theirs is threatened, might attack, sometimes preemptively, to protect and keep what they think is in jeopardy.” The dragon shrugs, rustling its wings. “And some are just louts, honestly. The problem is, dragons also tend to be very solitary, and sort of grumpy. Most have never even seen a human, wouldn’t want to. So they hide. Humans never get the chance to encounter most dragons, so they only know the tales of the rare altercations with the cruel and violent ones.”
It makes Jensen contemplate just how one-sided every legend he’s heard might have been. “And I’m guessing there are a lot of humans out there who are ‘acquisitive’ as well. Guessing that when they go hunting for legendary dragon treasure, there’s likely to be a confrontation.”
“It wasn’t always that way,” it says. “There was a time-long, long ago-when dragons and humans lived in closer harmony. Not many of those stories have been passed down. Perhaps because they aren’t as exciting as the gory battles. In some of the histories I’ve been able to dig up, at least, it’s just assumed that there is regular association, trade and alliances, shared property. I mean, just look at this castle.”
The dragon points around the room. Jensen follows its gesture, but doesn’t get what he’s expected to see.
“It was deserted years ago,” it explains, “and I haven’t yet been able to determine who its owners were, but this was clearly built to accommodate dragons, in the days when men and my kind lived amicably.” The dragon darts over to the double doorway and extends its wings, its face animated with the telling. “All the entries are larger than necessary, the ceilings too. The stairs are shallow and wide, not very comfortable for human stride, but easier for dragons than regular human stairs.”
“I’ve seen that style in many other chateaus, and in Queen Amanda’s palace as well,” Jensen says. “Perhaps it’s just an architectural fashion?”
“Yes, yes, I’ve seen descriptions of those, too. Although I don’t really understand why some humans have a preference for feeling tiny in their own homes. Or maybe a giant lived here before, not a human? I’ve never met a giant, but then you’ve never met a dragon, and I’m real. Except why would a giant keep human-sized furniture? Never mind, it doesn’t matter, because there’s evidence of dragon accommodation in the layout of the kitchens, the stables. Some of the balconies have special reinforcements that enable me to take flight off of them without causing a collapse. I keep running into different aspects as I explore the place. It’s all very exciting.”
Jensen finds a smile playing around his lips, reluctantly beguiled by the dragon’s enthusiasm. “Just how long have you lived here?”
“Not such a long time. But dragons are quite long-lived by your standards, so you would probably account it as more than I do. Once you are up and around you’ll see I haven’t made much headway in cleaning up all of the neglected parts of the castle and the derelict rooms.”
“But the gardens?” Jensen says dryly, recalling the meticulously tended hedgerows.
“Ah, yes,” it replies with satisfaction. “The gardens are coming along nicely.” The creature practically scampers across the room to peek out of the window so it can look out at the landscaping. When it brushes against the thick brocade curtains that hang on either side, dust billows up. “It would be nice if the sun would come out a bit more, though. Too much rain is almost as bad as too little. Especially for the roses. Some of the varieties can be very temperamental, and the soil does not drain well in that low southeast corner of the property. ”
Jensen wonders how long the dragon would ramble on about the subject if uninterrupted. “You said dragons are loners. But you don’t seem very shy.”
It glances quickly over its shoulder and then ducks its head, turning to look back out the window. If a dragon could blush, that’s what this one would be doing. “It’s true. I’m odd that way. Have been all my life. And since there are few of my dragonkin around, or who are willing to put up with my gregarious ways, I tend to gravitate toward humans.” He looks sidelong at Jensen again. “That is, when I can find ones that are not superstitiously afraid.”
Jensen frowns. He thinks he’s been fairly undaunted under the circumstances. “Is that how my father came here? How did you meet?”
“Oh. Um. How did I meet Alan? I-uh, I often need supplies-there are so many things I can’t make or grow myself-and in order to trade for those I, well, I sometimes trade with humans. If I safely can. And your father-um, he came upon me when I was making one of those trades. But he is not a man who’s frightened by dragons-”
Jensen mutters under his breath, “You can say that again.”
“-and he was curious about me, so we talked. And it was nice to have a-a friend, I guess.”
Jensen tried to imagine the gruff, demanding man he knew his father to be in conversation with this loquacious creature. Considering it a ‘friend.’ Did his father even have friends? On the other hand, given his father’s dragon mania, Jensen’s fairly sure the man would have braved the den of one of those aggressive dragons, just for a chance to meet one. Right before he got fried to a crisp, Jensen thought wryly.
It hits Jensen that he himself is sitting here conversing amiably with a dragon, when at one time, when he was a small boy, he’d imagined he would grow up to be a great hunter, travelling the world to track them down, shooting them right through the heart, ridding the world of the dragon scourge. Of course, that was before he was old enough to learn that dragons were a myth.
And now, incredibly, all of Jensen’s original assumptions are crumbling in the face of a dragon that serves tea and worries about the roses.
*****
| Part 2 |