by Ava Kelly
The kitchen is just like any other, with cupboards and shelves and a couple of tables in the center. The pots and pans are clean, hanging on their hooks, but no one else is there. The workers and other dwellers must already be slumbering in their beds. The door leading outside is closed, but the one to the pantry is open, and Orsie’s empty belly forces him to leave the comfort of the fire for sustenance. The dragonslayer did say to help himself, so Orsie carefully chooses from the shelves enough to appease his hunger.
Soon, his eyes are closing, and he would happily sleep right here on the wooden bench if he didn’t think his presence might disturb the morning chores. So he makes his way up the stairs next to the kitchen and tiredly collapses in the first empty room with an unused bed he finds.
*
The sun is already high in the sky when Orsie wakes, and he ambles to the window to take a look at the dragonslayer’s castle in the light of day. It’s larger than he thought, a structure of gray stone with rooftops tiled in red, and crimson ivy crawling up the walls. Curious. The leaves should be falling since it’s already October, but the plants seem to be thriving.
The smell of cooking draws his attention; his stomach growls. Orsie listens to its protests and finds a full meal waiting for him in the kitchen. Soup, potatoes, warm bread, and he spares no second thought before starting to eat. He tries to pace himself, but even if the plates seem empty too soon, he’s full and content.
Something feels strange as he clears the table after himself, and the sensation follows him outside during his walk around the courtyards: one in the front where the large gates are and one nestled neatly between the buildings. No trees in the inner one, but a few stone benches in a circle. The castle walls make up three sides of the yard, while, the fourth one opens over the forest, suspended above the treetops as the structure juts out of the slope. Orsie takes a moment to gaze at the mountains, impressed by the red castle inside the sea of dark green pine trees against the sunset. Then he realizes—there is nobody else here.
No one disturbs the stillness.
The castle appears deserted, and only the muffled voices from outside the gates break the silence. It sounds like the merchants camped there are starting to recite from their scrolls again.
Orsie sits on a bench, covering his ears. He closes his eyes, too, inhales slowly. He listens for his whisperer, but the man is silent today, so Orsie reaches for his anaskett. It still feels all-encompassing, its essence everywhere, meaning it’s still somewhere in the valley, not necessarily close, but not far either. Orsie lets out the air in his lungs and draws breath again. This is why he hasn’t sensed it sooner—because he’s been drowning in the magic of his own soul.
The castle is enchanted.
Perhaps Nevmis did pay the dragonslayer to stay away. And what greater gift than a dragonbuilt home. It’s why the halls are warm, why the food is delicious despite its bland appearance, why no one else is there, yet the castle seems cared for.
Orsie places a palm on the bench next to him, thanking the home for its care. Ah, there it is— It smells like dinner, and Orsie’s eyes fill as he misses his own castle. Too long since he’s seen dragon magic, since he’s been nurtured by it, and Orsie lets himself bask in its presence.
That night, he falls asleep feeling safer than he has in a while.
*
Ark watches his young visitor from the corner of a window in the north wing. If he stands just so, he remains unseen but can observe the courtyard, inside the kitchen, and along the hallways to the sleeping chambers above it. It’s been five days, and soon the youth will start growing tired under the weight of the place. Ark glances toward where the gates are, though he can’t see them from here. The merchants are still there, their presence like that of a parasite. With a scoff, he turns back to his guest, who’s sitting on a bench in the inner courtyard, facing away.
He can’t be older than twenty-five. His skin is bruised, scraped in many places, his eyes wary, and he isn’t too steady on his feet. More than once, Ark’s seen him hang onto walls as he walks. How long until the magic fatigues him?
The malice whispers, “Wait and see,” promising to drive him insane. So Ark had better get rid of the intruder. He’s not sure if the threats hold true, but he can’t risk another life tainted by the avarice. If the merchants don’t go soon, Ark is going to have to clear a path for the young man. Ark has a choice between saving him and ignoring the fools outside the gates, and he’s not so sure he’d choose the latter.
Below, the visitor is saying something, and Ark cracks the window open, curious.
“Tell me, castle, do you have a name?” He’s talking to the castle, and Ark huffs. “Some do. Want to know my name? It’s Orsie, and some days I think it means idiot.”
Orsie. Ark whispers it, barely audible to his own ears. It sounds like the wind passing high above the roofs of the castle, entwining itself with the trees, piercing high toward the skies. Orsie. It sounds like flight. For a moment, something tugs at Ark, spurs him to reach out. Orsie. He murmurs it again, and the rumbling hiss of it blends into the walls, as if he belongs here with Ark, within the madness. He needs—
Ark shudders and looks away. No. He doesn’t need to know his name, doesn’t want to know anything about him.
*
A week later, the castle is just as breathtaking and gentle. Orsie has been walking its halls and rooms, sometimes finding himself talking to it. The whisperer’s been more silent than usual, the dragonslayer forever out of sight, and Orsie hasn’t had any luck in finding out what Flitz is doing in a dragon castle. Or where Nevmis is, because she doesn’t seem to be around. He doubts she’d let him stay in her own lair, close to his stolen anaskett. Her taunting couldn’t be this careless, and Orsie puts her out of his mind for now.
Which leads him back to Flitz. People in the village call him a dragonslayer, although the castle doesn’t bear any weapons or hunting trophies. There are only books, red ivy, and a general homeliness within its walls. Perhaps he isn’t a hunter at all. Orsie scratches his head. He could sneak inside the forbidden wing. From what Orsie can gather, it sits toward the north, which would make sense for a dragonbuilt home, but who knows what the magic of the castle might do to him. So Orsie is left with the second option, to ask the man directly, a difficult task since Orsie can’t find him. Besides, their last interaction has proven the dragonslayer is sure to be sparing in telling secrets to a stranger.
No, if Orsie wants information, he will have to befriend and earn the archer’s trust first, and he can’t begin by entering the north wing against Flitz’s wishes. His courses of action are limited at present, so Orsie’s been trying to fill the days by exploring what he can of the castle. He’s even found a library, impressive and not as dusty as the rest of the uninhabited rooms, so perhaps his host visits it often. They haven’t met in there yet, but the dragonslayer might just as well be keeping his distance as he waits for Orsie to leave.
He cannot. The merchants are still there, waiting, and Orsie is stuck. His attempts to find another exit are fruitless as well. Not even the inner yard, where it overlooks the forest, offers safe passage, as it falls into a rugged cliffside Orsie can’t possibly hope to descend. Instead, he tries to save the little strength he has left because, despite everything, the castle is not bad as places go and quite comforting after his long journey.
Too soon, Orsie finds a thin layer of early November hoarfrost covering the courtyard one morning, reminding him of the passage of time. The situation is not dire, not yet. He palms his remaining scales over the sleeve of his shirt. He has plenty of time left to find his anaskett, and its proximity calms Orsie. He waits as patiently as he can.
“Dear one—”
There he is. Orsie smiles and turns his thoughts toward the whispers.
*
He’s doing it again. Smiling. Ark is confused. Instead of getting tired, Orsie becomes livelier, even though he’s sick with an illness he carries in his bones, making him trembl
e and cough. Ark doesn’t think he’ll live for much longer, perhaps a couple of years. For now, however, the weight of the castle seems to avoid him.
Ark slinks closer and leans around the corner to look along the hallway. From here, he can see inside half of the kitchen. Orsie’s legs are stretched out where he sits next to the hearth. That’s a good place, warm, Ark likes it a lot. Orsie’s voice drifts over, and Ark can’t help the twitch of his mouth, but he stops it before it can turn into a smile. This is— He shouldn’t get used to his presence, not like the castle seems to be doing. It must be the way Orsie talks to it as if it’s a living thing. Ark would call it weird if he weren’t speaking to the walls himself.
Maybe he’s a magical being. He looks human, but he might be a wizard or something that can change shape. His name is surely strange, not Danvian, not Thjudinn. Ark’s read about a gryphon in one of the books who could change his appearance at will, so perhaps that tale holds some truth after all. Ark can think of no other explanation why the malice would say—
“Take him out, out, out! Away!”
—that.
It’s been hissing and sputtering, like a wounded animal, to either send Orsie away or lock him in a cage.
“Keep him here, with us. He belongs to us.”
“Your indecisiveness is unbecoming,” Ark mutters under his breath.
No whispers of murder. Not even one toward Orsie. It is too peculiar to ignore, so Ark keeps watch.
*
A rising crescent has passed since Orsie arrived here, the dragonslayer ever elusive. He’s been spending his time reading and resting, but his thoughts return to his anaskett. So close, and every day still so far away. His beloved is growing sadder, his thoughts less and less cohesive. They’re so near and yet kept apart. No wonder he’s losing hope.
He glares at the sky, pushing away at the misery.
“We brought you a beautiful young gift, great dragonslayer!” a voice shouts from outside. “Grace us with your generosity!”
Orsie stands in the middle of the courtyard, eying the gates with disdain, despite shivering in the increasingly chilly air, when footsteps fall on the stone behind him. He turns to find the dragonslayer, no weapons on him, wearing a simple shirt and leather breeches, his feet bare in the layer of frost covering the land. His skin is tinted purple from the cold, but he doesn’t seem to mind. Orsie hides a smile, reminded of his love for the winter. He misses being able to appreciate it.
Flitz glowers at the gates, jaw clenched, and a low noise makes its way out of his throat, more of a growl than a grunt. He shakes his head, causing strands of his hair to fall from their loose fastening. It’s longer than Orsie thought, much longer than any other hunter’s he’s encountered before.
“You want to leave,” Flitz says.
Orsie startles, finding himself staring. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“I’m looking for someone dear,” Orsie says. It’s the truth, and perhaps it’s not a good idea to tell Flitz this, but the man has kept his promise. He hasn’t hurt Orsie. Moreso, he’s allowed the castle to care for him, and he’s grateful.
“Aren’t we all,” the dragonslayer says, so low Orsie doubts he’s heard it right.
He has nothing to say to that, though, so he turns his gaze back to the gates. A shiver rushes through him, causing his teeth to clatter against each other.
“You’re cold,” Flitz says. “Go inside.”
Orsie rolls his eyes, but Flitz is already moving toward the entrance, and Orsie’s gesture is left unanswered. Clothes are not something the castle provides, its rooms warm enough for Orsie’s worn garments. Maybe he should carry a blanket while outside.
The aroma of prepared dinner meets him as he follows Flitz into the kitchen. Orsie watches silently from his favorite spot next to the hearth while Flitz gathers bits and pieces of food on a tray. So he does need nourishment, after all.
“Will you stay,” he asks, causing Flitz to look at him, “to eat?”
*
Ark paces the length of the chamber, letting the cold air cool his head. He is restless, his companion silent, and Ark dreads upsetting him again. It was a mistake to share the meal. His heart thunders in his chest, pushing a heavy lump in his throat. He swallows, bracing himself, before kneeling in his favorite spot. From here, the light of the moon falls just right, reflecting toward Ark in a way that soothes the solitude.
“Dear one, are you there?”
The answering contentment steals his breath, and Ark leans back, relieved.
“Please don’t leave me,” he can’t help whisper.
Reassurance. Ark inhales sharply, closes his eyes.
“I brought our favorite book tonight; let’s read.”
*
For the past two weeks, every three days, Orsie has had company at dinner, even though the meals are surrounded by just as much silence as any other time. Well, Orsie isn’t the most versed in the art of conversation himself, and the quiet company is still pleasant. Who would’ve thought he’d be this relaxed in the presence of a dragonslayer.
Tonight, however, he has a mission, and he draws a deep breath before he pushes the book he’s found toward the other man. When he stumbled upon it, safely hidden between two other volumes, Orsie was surprised, pleasantly so. It’s a collection of stories, most of which Orsie knows by heart already. If the dragonslayer likes these, he can’t be as vile as the rumors paint him, can he?
“Where’d you get that?”
“It was in the library,” Orsie says. “Is it your favorite?”
Flitz’s jaw clenches, but he isn’t glaring.
“You signed it,” Orsie continues, encouraged. “Your name, Arkeva—you’re Thjudinn.”
Nothing follows, the dragonslayer unmoving, and Orsie’s heartbeats quicken. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“Half,” finally comes, raspy and low. “How do you know about the Thjudinn?”
“I met some once,” Orsie says. A twitch flashes at the corner of Flitz’s mouth, barely there, and Orsie has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from smiling. A reaction, finally. “May I call you—”
“Nobody has in a while,” Flitz interrupts.
“That doesn’t mean no.”
Flitz taps a finger on the wood of the table, watching Orsie intently as if to search for ill intent. Why, though, since the dangerous one here isn’t him, but Orsie doesn’t dwell on it. His host is confusing, emanating safety instead of aggression. Orsie needs to find out more about him, especially since he’s still unable to leave. The dreaded merchants don’t seem to be running out of supplies.
“Fine,” Flitz—no, Arkeva—finally says.
Orsie blinks. “My name is Orsie,” he returns, but Arkeva is not looking at him anymore.
Instead, he pulls the book closer, runs his fingers over the edge. “Did you read it?”
“Yes.” Orsie nods. He hasn’t, he listened to it being read to him, but Arkeva doesn’t need to know that. “It’s incredible.”
The amber of his eyes is not as sharp as Arkeva looks back up. His gaze softens as he talks about the stories in the book, and Orsie lets himself be lulled by his quiet, raspy words.
*
Morning finds Orsie asleep on the bench in the kitchen, a blanket laid over his shoulders. A sweet pang travels through him at the pleasant feeling forming in the back of his mind. His whisperer is content today, and Orsie smiles.
He extends it, this smile, and imagines he receives one in return. It’s hard to tell, especially when the words in his head are not really words but entanglements of sensation and thought. Today, they’re mostly fuzzy, without coherence, and Orsie lets himself enjoy it. Perhaps the whisperer is dreaming.
*
What is Ark doing, returning to the kitchen for shared meals? They aren’t even talking all that much, mostly about the books in the library or about the forest when they do. But his companion seems pleased, against all odds, so Ark figures he can f
inally have a friend.
Wait, no. No. Orsie will perish soon, either because of his illness or due to the castle’s magic, and if he doesn’t, he’ll leave.
Everybody leaves.
Orsie said so himself—he’s on a quest and his destination is not here.
No, Ark is no one’s goal. Not even— It’s hard to keep hoping when the weeks pile up and he is not here, not yet. Delayed, perhaps, Ark cannot decipher his answer. And he knows—deep down inside, he knows he shouldn’t ask for more. He shouldn’t be greedy. He already has his companion’s attention; getting his presence, too, might be impossible.
This sensation has been sharper lately, as if an undeniable and immovable obstacle keeps him away from Ark. It’s been getting harder, too, to feel what his beloved feels, to sense his mirth or his sadness.
Their bond is unraveling like worn cloth, myriads of its threads enveloping Ark from all sides until he doesn’t know where his lungs end and the air begins. His head is full of sensations, most of them his own coming back to him, if he sits for too long in the chamber. The echoes of his mind dissipate and return, shuffling him around like a leaf in a tumultuous stream.
Perhaps this is it.
Their time running out.
Their end.
*
Ark stands just outside the kitchen. The aroma of the meal is inviting, the light spilling from the open door low and welcoming.
He shouldn’t, but he walks inside.
Orsie smiles at him, like—like— Ark turns away.
*
Orsie breathes in the crisp air carefully as he watches the sky. Clouds, gray and thick, gather in slow rolling waves as they have been for the past few days. Orsie hasn’t seen Arkeva for just as long, and he doesn’t understand how he wronged his host.
