Fion

Victor does not speak as I do. It would seem the language of this island has evolved since Father put me to sleep. I do my best to conform my pattern of speech to his, though it is difficult.

“We fly west,” I observe as he glides through the air with me clutched in his great scaly palm. I cling to his tawny claw when he climbs suddenly to avoid a puff of cloud, thinking briefly what a long way it would be to fall if he suddenly lost his grip.

“Mirantha’s castle lies at the heart of the island.”

“Wouldst thou… would you,” I try the new sounding words, very clipped to my ears and a little harsh, “would you tell me a little of the island and how it has changed since I fell asleep?”

“When did you fall asleep?”

“I was born in the year 1220 of the Age of the Sun. When I fell into slumber, I was twenty years old.” 

Victor’s great dragon head makes a sound like a gasp. “The Age of the Sun ended in the year 1443, and the current year is 217 A.B.. That means you’ve been asleep for…”

“Four hundred and twenty years,” I finish for him. 

Victor is silent for a while. Thoughtful. Then he surprises me with a question.

“So which is it? Are you twenty years old? Or four hundred and forty?”

“Both, I suppose. In my waking memory, I am but twenty. But my soul, I think, and the subtle memories impressed upon it in my long centuries of slumber, that feels far older. And thee, Victor? That is— how old are you?”

He grunts. “I’m twenty-five. But I carry also in my soul the memories of my bloodline, and all the dragons that came before me. So in a way, I may be even older than you.”

I find that news comforting, somehow. From the moment I saw him Victor wasn’t quite what I’d pictured him to be. In appearances, he is in no way lacking. Powerfully built, more than six feet tall with golden hair and tawny brown eyes, he has a wide jaw and a hero’s brow. But his personality isn’t what I imagined it to be. Perhaps it has something to do with the wicked red tattoos that ring his neck and wrists, foul runes placed by fouler magic. The witch he said he works for, this must be her doing.

To think my one true love, for whom I defied time itself to one day meet, would be slave to such a woman. More than once since I was jolted from my slumber I’ve wondered if it wasn’t some awful mistake. Surely, my true love would not be such a one as this…

Then I think of faithful Azariah. He would not have mistaken Victor, for Mother burned his very image into the treant’s own heart. Besides this, there is Victor’s personality itself. Though he insists he is a bad person, to my eyes, he does not seem bad. He’s done bad things, perhaps, but his soul, yes… his soul, formed by the loving hands of Valion, that is still uncorrupted, whatever he has tainted his hands with. 

“Four hundred and twenty years,” Victor muses as we begin to fly lower to the ground. I’d nearly forgotten the question I’d asked earlier about the island, but he has not. “Since you fell asleep,” he recounts, “Lusemia has seen more than its share of war. High King Braxtus was the one that finally put an end to it over two hundred years ago. He united the four great houses and ruled from the center of the island. His sons that came after him ruled wisely and justly. Then… Mirantha Veil.”

“The Crimson Witch?”

“She has many tricks. Little by little her poison seeped into that once great house Braxtus and into the surrounding areas as well. It seeped into the land and sapped the people’s strength. With cunning words she wove schemes and instigated conflict where there should have been none, and the weak minded of this island fell prey to her manipulation. She married the old king and turned the great houses against one another, weakening each of them thus, so there would be none to oppose her when she murdered her husband and assumed the throne.”

Victor is flying lower and lower, till the tips of my toes are nearly skimming the trees as we go over the forest.

“The four houses came to their senses then, but were already too weakened to oppose her properly. Her magic does that. Saps strength, rots steel, crumbles the will and the very hearts of the people. Besides this, it corrupts the ground, so nothing good can grow.”

“Recognizing the danger of opposing her, the houses retreated in on themselves. Trade between them has become almost non-existent. They hoard their resources in anticipation of another blight, and pay her a yearly tribute not to ravage their crops with her spells. This all took place more than fifty years ago.”

“Fifty years,” my brow creases with this unsettling news. “Has no one challenged her in that time?”

Victor snorts as he takes me lower into a glade and lands, carefully setting me on the ground. I step back and watch with silent wonder as his great dragon form recedes, leaving the man to stand before me once again, naked as he was last night when I found him. Blushing, looking away, I summon grass to weave a kilt around his waist so my pure eyes will not be corrupted by his casual nudity.

He looks down at the grass kilt and smirks cynically.

“What’s the matter? Never seen a naked man before?”

I tip my nose up slightly. “I have now. Thanks to you.”

“You could have enjoyed the show a little longer,” his voice mocks me. I may be unused to the language of this era, but the tone of insult hasn’t changed in four hundred years.

“Are all the men of this age as indecent as thee?”

Victor barks a short laugh. “Doubtful. My circumstances are not like other men’s.”

“Because thou art a dragon?”

“Because I am a slave,” is his cold reply, and he startles me by taking my jaw with a cruel hand. “Things like innocence and decency, they are worth nothing in the witch’s castle. Do not imagine anyone will cherish them, or treat you preciously in that place for the sake of your purity. Least of all me.”

I watch him from this close distance, saying nothing, only following the movement of his eyes as they play across my features and scan the length of my body. Then he shocks me by descending suddenly with a forceful kiss.

I stand dumbstruck, undecided whether I like it or hate it. The taste of him is metallic and strange, somehow faintly reptilian. The hardness of his body against mine is rough and interesting.

His hand lowers to grip my waist, and the fierce pressure of his fingers pulls a faint cry from me.

He stops kissing me. Hesitates. Pulls away.

I haven’t known him long, but Victor’s expressions are somehow very clear to me. There is want in his eyes, but also pain. Regret. I sense this keenly as he exhales sharply and pulls away from me, showing me his muscular back as he starts away through the woods.

“Come with me. We’ve reached the borders of the witch’s territory. From here, we go on foot.”

He turns back suddenly, piercing me with a predator’s glare. “Don’t even think about trying to run.”