by Ava Kelly
“Dear one—”
The whisperer pulls Orsie’s attention inward, his words frail and unsure today.
“I’m waiting—”
“I know,” Orsie whispers back. “I’m close, my soul, to both of you. Be patient.”
He sounds hopeless today, the want shaking Orsie. He frowns at the sky. Maybe the incoming snowfall will drive the merchants away. Ever since entering the castle, Orsie has searched for an opening, a door, a way out other than the gates, but just as he feared, there is no other. He shakes his head.
“Please, please—”
Orsie’s breath lodges in his throat, and he squeezes his eyes shut, bites his lips so he won’t scream.
*
Orsie hasn’t seen snow this dense—incredibly beautiful—falling from the sky since he left his peak in the Ahrissals. The air is almost white with the gentle dance of large, puffy flakes, and Orsie extends his hand to catch a few in his palm. His shoulders are covered, his hair too, one even clings to his eyelashes for a moment before falling to his cheek.
His heart—his human heart swells in his chest, while his dragonsoul soars.
“It’s snowing, dear one.”
Indeed it is, and Orsie’s smile is uncontainable. He’s missed this so much.
“I left the window open, as you like it. It smells like ice and wonders.”
Ah, of course. Orsie covers his mouth while his stomach flips. Of course, if the whisperer lives around the valley, he’s surely looking at the same snowfall.
“I yearn for the day when we’ll watch this together.”
“We are,” Orsie says, “but you don’t know it. I’m very close, my soul, so close we’re seeing the same sky.”
He focuses, aims his thoughts toward his beloved, through the anaskett, trying to relay this feeling. He doesn’t think the whisperer can feel it; they never could tell each other their locations, not through words, nor sight, sound, sensations. Nothing works, nothing pierces the magical safeguards.
His long exhale trembles, and Orsie turns back to the beauty of the snow. He chooses to fully feel this shared elation instead of the burn of another fading scale.
*
The large gates refuse to budge, frosted over at the hinges, ice hanging off the wood here and there, especially in the small space between the halves. Orsie cannot believe his eyes.
The heavy snow that’s been falling for the past four days has driven the merchants away, but it also closed off all roads. At least that’s what Arkeva says. When winter takes hold of the region, nobody can pass through, and in this part of the forest, the narrow road can’t be traveled by foot or horseback.
In his case, even if Orsie manages to pry open the gates, he can’t go anywhere. He’s not strong enough to walk through a layer of snow so high it reaches over his hips, not healthy enough to survive outside.
He does the only thing he can. He screams.
He shouts and yells and bangs his fists against the wood, shaking violently in the cold snow, begging, cursing, pleading. He can’t feel his feet, his palms. His throat is raw, and his eyelids stick together because of the wetness he can’t hold back. He screams his grievance until warm fingers cover his fists.
Until he’s safely inside, wrapped in a blanket.
He numbly eats the soup Arkeva provides.
“It will melt,” Arkeva says, voice quiet. “It never lasts forever, and then you’ll be able to leave. I—if you want, I can help you. Whatever you need to find your precious someone.”
Orsie blinks. “Why?” he tries to say, but his throat isn’t working yet.
Arkeva understands anyway because he presses his lips together. For a moment, he looks like he wants to say something important, but he shakes his head, once, small and decisive.
“Don’t kill yourself before reaching them. I doubt they’d appreciate it.”
Orsie had forgotten how it feels to have care expressed toward him. Not that the castle doesn’t provide what he needs, but this concern of Arkeva’s is stirring something dormant inside Orsie.
“I won’t,” he promises.
It doesn’t stop him from staying awake night after night, trembling as he clutches the remaining scales on his arms, one on his left and six on his right, waiting for a spring still months away.
Chapter Eight
The Dragon Slayer
Ark inhales the cold air of the day as he stands in front of the open windows. He’s been waiting, breath bated, for the flurry. Day and night, he stands here impatiently watching the forest being covered in a thick layer of white, yearning for the solace it brings his companion. Today, though, the snow causes dismay. The worst of the snowfall seems to have finally passed. Sparse flakes still fall once and again, and, for the first time since he’s been here, Ark wishes it gone.
Increasingly, the longer he stays in the chamber, the harder it is to shield himself from the overwhelming desperation flowing from his companion. Ark finds himself wandering away from it, which makes him miss the wonderful presence that has alleviated his loneliness. His companion has kept him sane, held him safe, but now…
Now his chest is hollow with desolation. He has no explanation for it, no understanding of why it feels like everything is about to change. He just knows, somehow, that his companion is about to disappear altogether. Ark wishes he could go search for his beloved instead of waiting around uselessly, but the castle isn’t letting him leave. The recently fallen snow means his dear one can’t reach him either, and it’s a hard fact to accept.
The afternoon has been calm compared to the swirl of feelings of the past few days, and Ark takes a moment to watch the sun setting. The clouds are fewer in the west, letting the low rays pass through; against the whiteness of the land, the light is reflected in an orange tint over the tips of the pine trees.
“One day,” Ark whispers, “you will stand here with me, won’t you?”
There is no answer, and Ark closes his eyes briefly before walking out of the room. He’s passing through the corridor, watching the small patch of sunset red through the windows, when movement catches his attention.
Orsie. He’s in the courtyard again, standing in the snow. Ark can’t imagine what would drive him outside. He insists on going out there in his threadbare clothes, again and again. Even from a distance, his shivers are visible, and Ark huffs. The fool is going to get himself more ill than he already is.
The malice laughs, and Ark growls at it.
He picks up his pace, focusing his thoughts on dinner, and just as expected, the smells of prepared food soon drift about. By the time Ark nears the kitchen, the meal is set on the table.
“Dinner,” he tells Orsie through the door leading into the inner courtyard. “Come eat.”
It takes a few moments before Orsie shuffles in. Ark frowns at his wet boots and their obvious holes.
“Already?” Orsie asks as he huddles on the bench right where it meets the hearth wall, plastering his shivering form onto the heated bricks.
Ark pushes a plate toward him instead of answering, but still gets watched for a long while before Orsie starts eating. He does that, all the time, inspecting Ark with his violet gaze as if Ark holds the secrets of the world. If he only knew how Ark never even stepped foot outside the valley, not that he can remember anyway.
“It will snow again tonight or tomorrow,” Ark says to distract both himself and Orsie.
“But the clouds—”
“Will come back.” So Orsie shouldn’t go outside anymore.
Ark chews—trying to find a nice way to tell him that he’ll most likely die if he does—but Orsie isn’t eating. Instead, he stares at his plate, black strands falling around his face. He doesn’t have a hair tie, and Ark is taken aback by the many things Orsie lacks. There wasn’t even a bag with him when he arrived, probably stolen.
This is—Ark can’t clear the roads or take Orsie’s sadness away, but this is something he can mend, and he hurries to finish his meal.
*
The fire is ablaze in the bedroom Orsie claimed for himself, but he still shivers. His jaw trembles, making his teeth clatter in the silence of the night, and the flames grow. Orsie pulls the blanket closer while shaking his head. This cold comes from the inside.
There must be something he can do.
Orsie sticks his knuckle between his teeth. If he can’t leave, perhaps he can use this time to gather information. He needs to know what happened to Nevmis, and he’s been wasting time again, settling into false contentment within the magic of the castle. Losing yet another scale with this December snowfall has been a painfully jarring return to reality.
With a long look around the room, Orsie slowly rises from his spot against the headboard, blanket still around his shoulders. His bare feet make no noise as he walks out the door, down the stairs, until he’s in the grand entrance hall. He takes a winding path between the columns, drawing closer and closer to the unadorned door leading into the north wing.
The air is still.
He takes a deep breath before touching the wood. It slides open smoothly, Orsie slips inside—and into his bedroom.
“Really,” he mutters at the walls.
Quickly, he turns around, steps out of the bedroom—and inside it again.
And again.
“Agh!” He throws the blanket on the bed, scowling with everything he has. “You’re being unfair,” he tells the castle. “I have to—”
Orsie rubs at his face, then sits heavily on the edge of the mattress.
“Please.”
The seconds tick away in quietude, the only sound disturbing the space coming from Orsie’s raspy breathing. But then the lock clicks, and the door slides ajar. Orsie hurries before the castle changes its mind.
Oh.
He’s in the library, on the upper balcony, and Orsie takes a step closer to the banister. He’s not alone though. On the floor below, Arkeva sits on the padded windowsill next to the fireplace. He’s leaning his temple on the frosted glass, eyes closed, an open book resting on his thigh. Orsie catches himself holding his breath. Perhaps the castle wants him to ask directly instead of sneaking about. He glares at the ceiling, shivering again in the chilled air of the large room.
Movement catches his eye before, with a whooshing sound, something soft hits his side. Orsie bends to pick up the small pillow.
“You gawk too much,” Arkeva says from his unchanged position. His eyes aren’t even open.
Orsie frowns at the pillow, then at Arkeva. “I don’t gawk.”
“Then you stare.”
Arkeva finally moves, waving him down. Orsie doesn’t bother hiding his sigh as he descends the spiral stairs on the side, between tall bookcases.
“I don’t stare,” Orsie mutters once he’s close enough to be heard, just to be contrary.
As usual, Arkeva doesn’t react, and Orsie plops down on the empty half of the sill. Now though, he finds himself observed in turn. Arkeva hasn’t looked at him this directly since the first night he got here, and Orsie tries not to fidget. Some dragon he is.
“There’s magic here,” Orsie says, both as a distraction and as a way to start asking what he needs to know.
“There is,” Arkeva agrees, but offers nothing more.
Orsie chews on his cheek. “Where’d it come from?”
“Where all magic comes from.” Arkeva’s words are flat, his face impassive, but even so, he sounds amused. Orsie huffs.
“You don’t know, do you.”
Arkeva leans back, then flicks his wrist. Not a second later, a blanket lands on Orsie, covering him, and he scrambles to push it off. When he finally looks back up, Arkeva is gone.
Peculiar.
Perhaps Arkeva really doesn’t know the source of the magic, but most likely he doesn’t want to tell Orsie. He spares a glance at the snow outside. Well, dragons are enduring by nature—they have to be to brave the centuries. Even now, while Orsie is in a hurry, he can be patient. He has to be.
He stretches out and grabs the book Arkeva left behind. Ah, a tale of love. Orsie knows this one, his whisperer once read it to him.
“I’ll find you,” he breathes, hugging the book to his chest.
*
“Why bother, he’s not yours. Not to keep. He will leave; send him away faster, faster. He’s not yours, not yours.”
Ark groans at the wall. “Will you shut up already.”
“Lock him up! Yes, throw away the key.”
Sharp laughter follows suddenly, startling Ark enough to prick his finger. With a growl, he rolls off the bed and shuts the right side door with a bang.
“Arkeva,” it whispers, “come here, please come here.”
Ark turns his attention away from the malice and back to the sewing. He learned early on that the castle doesn’t provide any sort of wearable cloth. He tried a few times to make his own by using sheets off the beds, but as soon as the material resembled anything wearable, it disappeared from his very hands. The bedsheets are warm, there’s no doubt, but they are just as much an illusion as the fire, and the magic doesn’t want their shape changed. So, months ago, Ark piled up on cloth and thread and needles. Not that he needs it all that much, his body craving the cold. He’d rather feel the stone under the soles of his feet and the touch of the wind on his skin, much like his companion would.
He holds up the tunic, inspecting it against the light. It should fit Orsie. More clothes are already waiting on the dresser, next to an old pair of his boots. A little worn, but whole and warm—they should do just fine. He even found a thick coat from when he was younger, and fixed its fraying edges and fallen buttons.
Yes, this should be perfect for Orsie, to stop his shivering, maybe even aid him later in his travels. With a last check, Ark picks up the pile and moves it to one of the upper rooms, one with a view of the mountain he likes better than most. It’s barren, save for a fireplace and a chair, much like his life. Waiting to be inhabited. Perhaps this is why he chooses to bring Orsie here instead of carrying the gift out to him, but it also upsets the malice, and Ark smirks at the walls.
*
With a sniffle, Orsie rubs at his eyes. He’s fallen asleep next to the hearth in the kitchen again, and now he’s drowsy and toasty warm. He stretches, spreading his wings as wide as they go, careful not to loosen any bricks with his tail—
His inhale is sharp and it hurts as it travels down his throat.
For a moment, he forgot.
Orsie shakes himself, then forces his legs to walk until he’s outside. The cold sends him into unabated shudders while his skin gets used to the low temperature. No, he’s still—he’s still not himself. He has no wings and no tail and the limbs of his human form feel hollow on the inside. There is numbness instead of magic. Shaky hands instead of claws. Nothing to lift him toward the sky.
He can’t say how long he’s been standing here, watching the night laid over the forest, when noise catches his attention. He turns to find Arkeva in the doorway, a frown creasing his forehead.
Arkeva steps back into the kitchen before he waves at Orsie to follow.
This has never happened before, so Orsie’s curiosity wins over his caution, and he hurries after his host, surprised to be led into the forbidden wing.
The stone floors behind the northern doors are cold, a lot more than the rest of the castle, and Orsie walks carefully behind Arkeva. The silence here is heavier, the air dark and pressing on Orsie’s shoulders. In front of him, Arkeva’s steps never falter, but become slower the further they go into that part of the castle.
With the hairs on the back of his neck standing up, Orsie follows Arkeva into a large room, crimson drapes thick over the windows, a fire burning in a hearth to the side. A single armchair sits in front of it, its long shadow dancing on the barren floor, and Arkeva stops next to it.
“Here,” he says, waving at the chair.
Orsie has to take a few steps closer before his eyes adjust to the dim light enough to see what Arkeva shows him. It’
s clothing, durably sewn, of leather and thick threads, complete with warm boots and a long coat.
“See if they fit,” Arkeva adds, and he’s out of the room before Orsie has a chance to say anything.
He hurries to pull the clothes on, though, because they would be a lot better than his torn rags, especially now. He even has spares. This is beyond what he expected, and he has to swallow a few times to make his throat work.
“They fit,” he rasps. “Thank you.”
A few moments pass before Arkeva returns. He approaches, studying Orsie with a critical eye and a hum. Cold fingers startle him as they make their way into Orsie’s long hair, pulling and pushing every which way, working on tying it back. Orsie blinks up at Arkeva while he focuses on his task, the closeness allowing him to see more than ever. Arkeva looks tired, as if enveloped in a bone deep exhaustion that never goes away. The corners of his mouth bend downward and soft beginnings of wrinkles at the tails of his eyes betray his years. He’s between youth and old age, perhaps three or four decades into his life, yet so young compared to Orsie’s centuries.
And his eyes look nothing like a killer of dragons. There’s no cruelty in their amber.
Arkeva finally finishes tying Orsie’s hair, then pulls the lapels of the coat closer around Orsie’s neck. The tiniest of smiles curls his lips, and Orsie returns it, thankful for the care. It’s the wrong thing to do, it seems, because Akeva steps back, letting go as if burned.
“Go away,” he grits.
Orsie’s spirits sink faster than hot coal in snow. He opens his mouth to ask why, to refuse, but the defeated curl of Arkeva’s shoulders as he turns away stops him in his tracks.
He knows that weight, can almost taste the distress flowing in the air. The empty halls of the castle suddenly seem deserted instead of quiet, and Orsie is reminded of this helpless feeling from his days at the mountaintop, how it sometimes made him curl into himself with loneliness. So he leaves Arkeva to his thoughts, unable to soothe him because, sooner or later, Orsie will be gone, and Arkeva will still be alone.
Later, as Orsie lies in bed, the whispers of his soul’s companion are clearer for a change. He’s hurting, and Orsie hurts with him, all the way until dawn lights the horizon. They are apart, but they still have each other. Unlike Arkeva, who has no one.
