by Ava Kelly
*
After dinner the next day, Orsie comes to a decision.
He wishes to be Arkeva’s friend, genuinely, not just to collect information on Nevmis. Arkeva has given Orsie shelter, food, and clothes. He even promised help once the roads clear and that’s more than others have offered since losing his magic. Orsie, however, has nothing to give back but his presence.
He extends his thoughts to his beloved, relaying his decision. Of course, the answer is muffled as it usually is lately, but Orsie knows. The whisperer will agree.
Once Orsie has his anaskett, he’ll conjure his home right here, next to Arkeva’s. Neither of them will be alone anymore, even if he has to fight Nevmis again. Until then, he will do everything he can to ease the solitude of his host, if Arkeva allows it.
*
Orsie has managed to convince the kitchen to let him cook for a change, and now he’s shuffling around, checking taste and chopping carrots. At least the pots are washing themselves, and he smiles, head turned away from the door. Arkeva is standing there, has been for the better part of an hour, watching silently. Orsie shakes his head, causing a lock of hair to slide down from his shoulder. It’s been a week and two days since Arkeva has shown himself. There’s nothing to it, Orsie understands, so he lets himself be observed. The hair tickles the side of his nose, and Orsie blows at it ineffectively.
With a groan, Orsie lets go of the knife to gather his hair back into a makeshift knot, and Arkeva walks closer. He pulls the tie from his own hair and sets it on the table, then goes to sit in Orsie’s favorite spot, right next to the hearth.
Orsie clears his throat, and Arkeva raises an eyebrow.
“I lost mine,” Orsie says.
Arkeva hums but adds nothing more, and Orsie returns to the carrots after tying his hair back. What else can he use in the stew—? An onion appears on the table.
“No,” he says out loud, “not that.” The onion is replaced by two mushrooms. “Better. Make it five.”
The castle complies, and Orsie inspects the simmering pot on the stove before he remembers he’s not alone. He glances at his host. Arkeva still watches, eyes half-lidded, but the corners of his mouth twitch slightly. Orsie scratches his nose.
“Don’t tell me you never speak to it,” he says.
Arkeva shrugs.
“Tsk,” Orsie tuts. “No wonder Thjudinn means the same as taciturn in some parts.”
A soft scoff answers, but Orsie’s already back to his cooking. The vegetables provided by the magic are fresh, and Orsie can’t help himself from getting a taste of a raw bit here and there. The carrots, especially, remind him of the way onyx used to crunch between his teeth.
“Why do you say Thjudinn?” Arkeva asks, startling Orsie from his inward thoughts.
“What?”
“The world calls them Seaborn, the Saiwal Baurin. Why don’t you?”
Orsie’s shoulders slump. This is harder to explain, but perhaps he can do it without lying too much.
“I lived on a greatship for a while in my youth.”
“How did you manage that?” Arkeva straightens from his slumped position, interest piqued.
Orsie scratches his nose. “I was there on behalf of Havesskadi.” Well, it’s not a lie, not really.
Arkeva’s eyebrows raise. “Aiti told me the ice dragon hadn’t been seen in two centuries, that all of Thjudinn were waiting for his return.”
Right, the conversation can’t go there, lest Orsie would have to explain in more detail. He’s not ready, not today, so he catches on the bit of information Arkeva let slip.
“How many mothers do you have?”
Arkeva doesn’t answer immediately, and Orsie focuses on cutting the mushrooms into small pieces.
“I had two,” comes in a whisper.
“Were you born on a ship?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember—” Orsie startles again, Arkeva suddenly close to him, drawn to his full height. His heart stutters in his chest under the cold gaze, and Orsie clutches tighter at the knife handle.
“I don’t,” Arkeva grumbles. “Tell me about the frozen sea.”
Orsie needn’t worry, because Arkeva’s discontent is aimed inward, perhaps at a memory. Surely not at Orsie, and he breathes easier.
“It’s quiet,” Orsie says, “when the ships aren’t moving, and rumbling when they travel. The wind blows with salt and ice over the decks, and everything is white.”
Arkeva pulls a chair closer to the table. Orsie talks without pause as he finishes preparing the meal. He tells Arkeva of his kin and their icebreaking ships. He speaks of their life well into the night, distracting Arkeva from Havesskadi. Perhaps he’ll forget.
*
With a hum to himself, Ark walks the upper corridor, watching the inner courtyard. Young Orsie is full of surprises. His recounts of the Thjudinn the night before have been truthful as much as he can figure. Of course, both Mana and Aiti have told him many stories, but none as detailed as Orsie’s.
Very curious. Ark rubs at his chin as he watches Orsie kneel in the snow. He talks to it, like he talks to the castle. At least the new clothes are keeping him from shivering. Ark made a good choice, and he’s quite pleased with himself.
Orsie did say something of Havesskadi. Huh. So maybe he’s a—what—servant?
Laughter echoes through the hallway, mocking him again. Ark closes his eyes briefly.
“Shut up,” he mutters.
But the malice is right. He shouldn’t care. Come spring, Orsie will be gone.
*
The nights are long, the snow outside covering the land in a white visible even under moonlight. The castle, still vibrant on the inside, feels colder despite the wider flames of fire in hearths, feels darker despite the multitude of torches lighting Orsie’s way through its halls. December ends, and with it, another scale fades. The remaining six seem dimmer, too, somehow.
He’s seeing more of Arkeva lately, and their conversations are longer each time. But the whisperer has been more silent than ever, driving Orsie to alternate between locking himself in his bedroom and seeking Arkeva out. Their interactions are more animated, and yet Arkeva’s eyes appear to be losing the bright light in them.
Lately, Orsie knows when Arkeva approaches because the torches dim, as if the castle feels the sadness of its master.
It hadn’t been apparent in the beginning, this sorrow following the archer. No, Orsie used to think it was ire and grimness. He used to be afraid, but no longer, not since he understood, finally, that it’s grief Arkeva carries. His mothers, much like Orsie’s, had been plucked away too early. His life is being spent in isolation. Self-imposed or not, Orsie doesn’t know yet.
What he does know is this feeling, running deep and inconsolable, that loneliness is all he’ll have.
“We must help him, my soul,” Orsie whispers, lying on his bed as he watches dawn paint the sky.
He was awoken, hours earlier, by the yearning of his whisperer, and now he finds himself wishing for Arkeva to find happiness. He snorts at himself. Here he is, a dragon wishing for a dragonslayer to smile.
Then again, Orsie is convinced Arkeva is more than what he seems.
Chapter Nine
Journey’s End
That night, the wind blows more forcefully than usual, picking up bits of snow and swirling them into the chamber. Ark watches it from his place on the floor, where he leans against the wall.
“What do you think of him?” Ark asks, although he already knows he won’t get a clear answer.
The essence of his companion surrounds him thickly, but his responses remain distorted. Ark feels out of focus.
“Could he be the one? But he’s too…young, and you seem ancient. I can find no reason why it feels as such.”
Ark swallows.
“Are you a wizard? Maybe if you have magic, we’d both have long lives so we can be together for many years.”
He smiles, despite his eyes filling with misery.
<
br /> “I miss you.”
His sobs echo back to his ears for the rest of the night.
*
The meal is almost over by the time Orsie gathers enough courage to ask, and that’s mostly because Arkeva’s been glaring at his plate all the time. He hasn’t said a word all evening. Orsie licks his lips, takes a deep breath, but he still doesn’t know how to begin. He huffs, poking at the last bits on his plate.
“What.”
“What?” Orsie looks up to find Arkeva frowning at him.
“You want to say something,” Arkeva says, voice flat. “Say it.”
“I—” Orsie is at a loss, and he shifts his gaze away from Arkeva’s.
“Orsie,” comes next, low and gentle.
“You remember my name,” Orsie says, surprised.
Arkeva’s scowl deepens as he scratches the back of his head, causing his hair tie to get loose. He looks embarrassed—that can’t be.
“I’m not a savage,” Arkeva mutters, teeth clenched.
A small laugh makes its way out of Orsie before he can stop it, and Arkeva’s cheeks pink. He growls, he really growls at Orsie!
“You sound like a wolf,” Orsie says, then reconsiders. “No, more like a dragon.”
Arkeva’s face loses its tension, and he raises an eyebrow. “Is that what Havesskadi sounds like?”
“Perhaps.” Orsie shrugs. “But you, Dragonslayer, must know better.”
“I do not,” Arkeva returns, amusement dancing in his eyes, although he isn’t smiling with his mouth. “Enlighten me.”
“They go ‘grr,’” Orsie mocks as he shapes claws with his fingers. “Especially when they’re annoyed, mostly before attacking.”
Orsie’s human heart thumps at the memory of Nevmis. “Surely, you must know they even growl when they die,” he adds before he can stop himself.
Arkeva’s face falls. He isn’t angry, no, he’s livid.
“Or didn’t you kill one for this castle?”
Eyes gradually widening, Arkeva’s mouth opens, then closes, and Orsie shivers with a lump in his throat.
“A red dragon—”
The plates on the table clatter as Arkeva stands abruptly, causing Orsie to jump in his skin.
“I murdered no dragon,” Arkeva grits.
It takes long moments for Orsie’s heartbeat to steady and for his head to stop spinning, but by then Arkeva is gone. Why would he be wounded by the question?
Unless—oh. Perhaps Nevmis trapped or even cursed him.
More than that, Arkeva’s words were those of a man wrongly accused. Orsie looks carefully at the walls, more confused than ever.
*
“Arkeva!” Orsie yells for the tenth time in a row, but the castle remains silent.
It’s been hours, and the archer has again disappeared. Orsie hasn’t tried to enter the north wing yet; it’s his last resort if he doesn’t get an answer soon.
“Dear one—”
Orsie stills. “My soul,” he breathes, a smile forming on his lips.
It’s rare these days, to get this sort of clarity from his whisperer, and Orsie pushes everything else aside. He withdraws against a wall, eyes closed, ears covered, focusing. He spreads his senses, unravels his thoughts, opens his mind.
“The window is open, as you like it. Where are you?”
He is here.
“Please, can you hear me?”
He can hear.
*
It laughs with more satisfaction than ever, pounding at Ark’s ears incessantly.
“You hurt him, good, good. Stupid Arkeva, you can’t have him,” the malice says in singsong, glee dripping from its words.
“Shut up!” Ark shouts, throwing the glass he’s been holding.
A yelp follows, and Ark is met with Orsie’s frightened face as he stands in the kitchen door. The glass is broken at his feet, his very bare and easily hurt feet.
“Don’t move,” Ark says when Orsie tries to step away.
He’s grateful Orsie complies, and Ark kneels before him to gather the shards in a pile to the side. It’s fitting. He bows his head.
“Forgive me; that wasn’t meant for you.”
“Who for?”
“My demons,” Arkeva admits for the first time since—since— He shakes his head, returns to picking up glass.
With a wave of his hand he could make it all disappear, but the steady motions are giving him a chance to breathe, calming him. And then, against all odds, fingers touch the top of his head, sweeping gently over his hair.
*
Orsie huffs, frowning, as he stirs the soup cooking on the stove. He can’t believe himself. Now he cares about Arkeva in a way that makes him want to tend to him. How, Orsie can’t explain. He’s been pulling all day at the strings of his anaskett, and the attachment for his beloved is undisturbed. So why does he care this much about Arkeva?
Late evening, Arkeva ambles into the kitchen, just in time for the soup to be ready.
“Here,” Orsie says as he fills bowls and places them on the table. “Nourishment makes everything better, Mother told me, especially when energy is needed to fight whatever it is you’re fighting.”
He sits at the table while Arkeva walks closer, looking at Orsie as if he’s grown another head.
“Eat,” Orsie encourages, offering a spoon.
Arkeva takes it, blinking slowly, but continues to stand there. “You made this.”
“Mhm,” Orsie hums. “You like soup, don’t you?” It’s not the first time Orsie has cooked, so he doesn’t understand the surprise.
“But you don’t,” Ark rasps.
With a shrug, Orsie blows in his bowl. He’d rather eat solid things he can chew, but he won’t turn food down.
“Thank you, Orsie.”
He looks up just in time to see Arkeva smile. He’s never been graced with such a bright face on him, and it’s mesmerizing. Orsie grins, happy to have caused it. The moment stretches warmly, lulling Orsie toward mirth, until Arkeva startles.
Wordlessly, he turns and walks out without even a bite to eat, leaving Orsie gaping.
No, not this time. He can’t refuse this bit of kindness; Orsie won’t let him. He fetches a tray from a cupboard, fills it with their meal, then carefully makes his way into the northern corridor. It appears to be the right choice, since the castle allows him passage unimpeded this time. Soon, he finds Arkeva in the same room he’d been in before, standing in front of the large windows.
The curtains are fully open, letting in moonlight. The fire doesn’t burn tonight, its absence bathing the space in a sort of cold that reminds Orsie of his own lost home. He pauses, silent in the doorway, watching. Arkeva is barefoot, as always, body trembling under his thin shirt, breath visible as he exhales. His fingers are pressed against the glass, and he looks so beautiful, almost frozen in the moment, that Orsie’s entire being thrums with this image.
How perfectly Arkeva would fit in Orsie’s castle, his presence glowing between the dark walls, his eyes bright against the frost of the stone. How wonderful he would be, sharing in the silence, complementing Orsie’s solitude. Oh, how much Orsie would love him, dividing his longevity with him, a partner for the centuries, like every dragon is meant to have.
The thought stuns Orsie, rooting him to the spot.
What about his beloved, the whisperer who holds his dragonsoul, who has been there for Orsie through the perils and misery? What about him and his pain?
Orsie’s arms protest under the weight, and he sets the tray on the floor as quietly as possible.
His anaskett has never been this fickle, but until he recovers it, he can’t trust stray thoughts most likely born of solitude. Orsie tuts at himself before making his way toward the windows. Whatever the future holds is unimportant in this moment. Arkeva needs a friend, and Orsie can give him that. He approaches slowly, easily enough that Arkeva can send him away if he wants. His fingers shake as he grips Arkeva’s shoulder, but he isn’t pushed away. Instead, Arkeva’
s hand comes to rest over his, fingers calloused and cold.
They stand there for hours, watching the snow-covered forest outside under moonlight, breaths puffing in the frosted air.
They stand together, sharing the silence, until Orsie’s chest heaves and cough travels up his throat. And it’s a dire reminder that his body isn’t as strong anymore, that the cold he adores doesn’t love him back as it once did.
Something burns inside his chest, a void where his anaskett should be. The world darkens further, until nothing remains but cool fingers over his heated forehead, the whisperer speaking kindly to him.
*
Ark feels more than sees Orsie’s body fall, and only by fortune manages to catch him before he hits the ground.
Up here the rooms are barren and cold, with nowhere to lay him down, so Ark rushes toward the only bed in the entire wing: his own. It often sits there unused, sheets undisturbed, but by the time Ark makes his way inside the room, the covers are drawn and pillows fluffed, waiting. Low heat emanates from the walls, causing his skin to break in goose bumps, but he sends a quiet thank you to the castle. Orsie needs the warmth, even though he burns. His forehead is hot, his breaths shallow and wheezing.
He’s sick with fever, and Ark shakes his head. What the hell was Orsie thinking staying in that frozen room with him? What was Ark thinking in letting him?
Ark has never been sick like this, not from the whims of winter, but he’s watched the village doctor tending to soldiers. Water then, he needs water. A glass is already waiting on the nightstand when Ark’s gaze turns to Orsie. Oh, and a cloth. A dish. Snow.
*
Orsie shivers and coughs, mumbling as his hands try to grip the air. His clothes are damp, and Ark removes them. He’s careful not to jostle Orsie too much or cause further distress. Clean bedding replaces the old at a wish, and Ark sits back down on the edge of the bed as he pulls one of the fresh sheets over the trembling form. Orsie whimpers, fingers finally finding Ark’s knee and arm to clutch.
“It’s going to be fine,” Ark hushes, pushing the sweaty locks from his forehead. “Just rest. It will pass.”
