Havesskadi

by Ava Kelly

  He’s not so sure though. Orsie’s fever worsens still.

  Ark keeps watch, whispering softly to him, just like he always whispers to his dear one, one of his only two companions in this wretched existence he doesn’t dare call life. But Orsie is flesh and blood, and he responds to Ark’s words, curling up toward him, gripping at him through his fever.

  Ark aches to hold him, to soothe his tremors. He doesn’t, he can’t, and not because it might upset his companion. Ark doesn’t think he’d mind this comfort given to a dying man, but because—

  Orsie cannot die. Ark feels that if he gives in, it would be as if he’s accepting that Orsie’s quest will end here. Somewhere, his dear one journeys as well, and Ark wishes that whoever Orsie searches for will be found, just like Ark himself is hoping for his companion to arrive. He’s been waiting, and solitude alone is no reason to tamper with another’s happiness. He has the power to do so, if he wants. He has the power to do plenty of things. But he hasn’t fallen into temptation so far, and he won’t, not with Orsie.

  Ark satisfies himself with slow caresses through Orsie’s dark hair, this single contact stinging deep inside his soul.

  *

  It’s evening again when Orsie finally falls asleep. His delirious state had heightened all through the afternoon until it almost felt as if his heart would beat out of his chest. Now Orsie slumbers, breath wheezing, continuously trembling.

  Ark hopes the rest will help. He changes his own clothes, then stands there, watching the bed for a long moment. His eyes droop, and Ark yawns in his fist. He should get some rest himself, and he checks on the right side door—still well closed—before slipping through the left. The narrow corridor is quiet and cold, but Ark leaves the passage open so he can hear Orsie’s distress.

  The curtains of the large windows are still drawn apart, and the chamber is bathed in silver from the moonlight sifting in. Tonight, like the last, the sky is clear and the moon bright. Ark sits cross-legged on the stone floor next to the square obsidian slab mounted in the middle of the room. He runs his fingers over the edge for a while before turning his gaze toward his companion.

  The large gem resting at the center of the slab is dimmer than usual, its dark surface less reflective.

  “Dear one,” Ark says, “I’d open the window, but our guest is resting. He is ill; I fear he won’t—”

  Ark stops himself from voicing his thoughts and runs his fingertips nearer. He’s never touched the gemstone, he doesn’t need to, but he likes to be as close to it as possible. He inhales deeply before lying on his side, curled up around the obsidian, his temple on the black slab.

  “I can’t even call for a doctor, dear one. I don’t know how to help him.”

  His companion’s presence is muffled tonight, and Ark squeezes his eyes shut.

  *

  He must’ve fallen asleep because when he opens his eyes again, it’s already light outside. Ark hasn’t slept this long in months. He rubs at his face before making his way into the bedroom.

  Orsie is so still in between the crimson sheets, his skin covered by a wet sheen, and, for a fraction of a dreaded moment, Ark’s heart stops. But Orsie keeps breathing, shallow and rare draws barely moving his chest. A glass of water sits next to a cup of tea on the nightstand. Ark cleans whatever he can reach of Orsie’s skin before asking for the sheets to change again. He drinks tea and tries to get Orsie to drink the water, a sip for himself, an encouragement for the other. It’s slow, but soon the glass is empty.

  Ark’s stomach grumbles and he shakes his head. He can’t stand food. His teacup refills, the castle persistent.

  “Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll drink that.”

  The afternoon rolls over with much of the same, which is good because Orsie isn’t worsening, but bad because he isn’t waking up either.

  The sun sets, evening bathes the room in darkness, and that’s when Ark realizes the malice has been silent, quieter than ever, since Orsie collapsed. But Ark is all out of patience for its games, so he puts it out of his mind.

  He wets the cloth in cool water, then wipes at Orsie’s forehead.

  “I have a deal for you,” Ark whispers. “You get better, and I’ll make sure you find your precious someone. I promise I’ll find them for you. Whatever it takes; just—live, Orsie. Please.”

  He pulls the sheet tighter around Orsie, then squeezes his hand. A tattoo marks the back of Orsie’s right forearm, a row of scales of some sort, perhaps shields. Ark hasn’t seen them before the other night, and now he can’t help running his thumb over them. There is much he doesn’t know about Orsie, and his stomach turns at his next thought. He may never find out what hides beneath those pale violet eyes. No doubt, Orsie has shouldered hardships before arriving here, but he holds a clarity in his gaze, some sort of brightness that hasn’t left him. Ark often wonders if his own eyes are the same as when he was a child, or if the malice has darkened them permanently.

  The right door is still closed, its occupant still silent.

  With an exhale, he walks away from the bed and shuffles toward the left side chamber. He needs air, and once inside, he opens the windows, hoping against all hope his companion will answer tonight.

  Ark ends up sitting on the windowsill for long hours before gathering enough strength to reach out. He postpones it until the moon is low, but still visible over the treetops, dreading the lack of answer. Finally, he kneels in his favorite spot, leans closer.

  “Dear one, I left the window open, as you like it. The air is sharp tonight, and I’m waiting.”

  His companion is with him, Ark feels it, but his response remains muted.

  Ark draws air, too weary for his liking, and lets it out slowly. On the floor, a little to the side, a book lies open. Forgotten, in the middle of reading. Ark snatches it.

  “We never finished this story,” he says, then starts reading, trying to give his mind a rest from the misery.

  *

  Orsie is thirsty.

  He opens his eyes, finding himself in a strange bedchamber, unlike the others in the castle. This one is almost barren of furniture, dark drapes hanging open at the edges of large windows. It’s night, but enough light is coming in from the moon for him to see around himself. The room seems red in the shadows, and Orsie blinks repeatedly. No change. A dresser rests against the far wall, a door open on its left, and nightstands at the sides of the bed.

  A glass of water sits right there, and Orsie pushes himself up against the headboard before leaning over to grab it. His hand shakes, some water spills, but he manages to drink, if a little too hurriedly. He coughs around the lingering ache in his chest, drinks some more, and coughs again. By the time he finishes the water, the shivering of his limbs has become manageable, and his eyes have stopped wanting to close.

  He takes stock of himself then. He’s cold, but feels hot, even though nothing but a thin sheet covers him. His skin is clammy, his hair plastered wetly to his back. It hurts to breathe, and his head spins.

  The whisperer’s words form in his mind, and Orsie stills, listening. His jaw trembles with his smile. He’s reading a story of a raven and a wolf, lost forever to each other but eternally together. Orsie’s read it, too, last week. It ends in happiness, unlike Orsie’s journey, because—

  He can feel it in his bones.

  Knows it.

  He won’t get to see the spring again. Perhaps he won’t even meet the dawn.

  So he quiets his inhales, listens closely. The whispers shift and twist, filling the air as the story unfolds.

  It’s—

  The sounds stack in murmurs, traveling around Orsie as if they’re reaching his ears instead of spanning his thoughts.

  His chest pangs, and Orsie pushes at his weakness until he’s able to stand. Gathering the sheet around himself as best as he can, he follows the pull of the story, fingers pressing against cold stone.

  The corridor stretches ahead, narrow and dark.

  It smells like winter, like magic, l
ike his soul.

  His blunt nails scrape at the wall as he walks, reminding him of how he used to do the same on his way to the core room of his castle. If this is death, then what better way to go but surrounded by the memory of his home. Orsie’s eyes fill as he sways, his chest full.

  The feeling of words turns into actual whispers, into sounds he can hear as he approaches the opening at the end of the corridor. Behind it, he finds a wide and tall room, large windows open on the left, letting in the frosty night air. In the middle of the space, Arkeva is kneeling, bent over something on the floor, his back to Orsie.

  “And that is the end of this story, dear one,” the whispers swirl, resonating from outside Orsie along with the ones he feels from within.

  He leans dizzily on the wall with a gasp.

  The sound makes Arkeva turn, revealing—revealing it. His black anaskett, lying on familiar obsidian.

  “My soul—”

  Right there, in reaching distance, pulsing through him, calling. Orsie’s knees give out, a myriad of sensations running through him, a million questions and a dire want to have it, take it back.

  His breaths shorten as he steps forward, but his legs don’t listen, and Orsie crumples toward the floor, body weakened.

  Hands catch him, gentle hands like all the whispers he’s lived with during his journey, and soon his head rests against Arkeva’s cold chest as he is carried back through the corridor. No, he wants to say, wants to beg not to be taken away, but his throat constricts with cough, chest heaving.

  “Shh,” Arkeva croons. “I’m here, calm down.”

  He’s here, between Orsie and his life.

  Chapter Ten

  A Lost Dragon

  Orsie wheezes at the end of his coughing fit. He’s back on the bed, and Arkeva is sitting next to him. Orsie drinks the proffered water carefully, planning his escape toward his anaskett. He gives the glass back, Arkeva looks away, and Orsie lunges.

  But hands catch him, and Orsie claws at the air. His scream is nothing more than a rasp, hurting inside his throat.

  “Hey, shh, calm down,” Arkeva says, so gentle; why is he so gentle?

  The thief.

  “Come now, you’ll hurt yourself, please.”

  Pain travels up Orsie’s chest, turning into another cough, violent and stronger, shaking his entire body until his eyes cry with more than desperation. When he looks at his fingers, pulled away from his mouth, they’re red.

  He needs it. Now.

  Orsie scrambles. Suddenly, heat surrounds him and coolness touches his forehead as Arkeva holds him in his arms. Arkeva’s skin is cold, forcing Orsie to still until he can catch his rugged breaths. The howling in his ears slows down as well, with the rocking and the soft humming.

  Arkeva almost sings. How dare he? Orsie stretches his arm uselessly. He can’t reach it from here.

  “Stolen,” Orsie tries, throat tight. His stolen soul is here; Orsie needs it.

  “What’s stolen?”

  “Give it back,” Orsie rasps, pushing himself again toward the door and the room and his anaskett.

  “I didn’t—”

  Orsie claws at Arkeva’s chest with no effect. He’s too weak, and Arkeva catches his hands too easily.

  “Look at me. Orsie, look at me.”

  He doesn’t want to, but Arkeva’s voice is soft instead of demanding, drawing Orsie’s attention in spite of himself.

  “If you’re talking about the gem, I didn’t steal it. I found it last winter, right there in that room. We’ve been waiting for its owner ever since.”

  What is Arkeva saying?

  His eyes, his amber eyes are clear in the low light of the room.

  But that would mean…

  His mouth, his soft whispers, his voice.

  Oh.

  Orsie’s struggle lessens, and he starts trembling as understanding reaches his foggy mind.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Arkeva looks scared.

  Maybe he should rest his eyes for a bit.

  “No, no, no, don’t you die! Orsie.” The world shakes. “Orsie!”

  Something wet spills from his mouth.

  “Please, please, don’t die. You have to live. Look at me. Orsie, can you hear me?”

  Why is he afraid? Orsie has finally found him.

  “I don’t know how to help you.”

  Oh, that’s easy. Orsie grins. “My magic,” he says, reaching to the door again, but only bubbles come out. Everything is so red.

  The room spins and Orsie floats.

  *

  Ark’s hands shake worse than they should. Orsie is not making sense. Blood flows from his lips, yet he wants to go back in the chamber, but to what purpose? It’s cold in there, with nothing other than the gem, Ark’s precious connection to his companion. Ark bites his lip, considering, but Orsie’s body goes slack in his arms, and Ark’s on his feet in less than a heartbeat.

  He walks quickly, carrying Orsie inside the room, then kneels with him on the ground.

  The cold air causes Orsie to shudder and open his eyes. Good, this is good. Ark wipes at the corner of Orsie’s mouth with his sleeve while Orsie blinks. Ark helps him straighten, and immediately his hand reaches toward the stone, but Ark catches it.

  “You can’t touch it,” he breathes. “It’s not yours.”

  Orsie’s head turns then, his eyes dazed as he watches Ark. He tries to speak, but coughs instead, holding on to Ark’s shoulders. Another glass of water appears next to them, and Ark makes him drink again, a couple of small sips, until his wheezing isn’t as harsh but still audible in the silence. At least no more blood runs out of him.

  “Dear one,” Orsie says, face pained as he forms words with great difficulty, “I left the window open as you like—”

  He coughs again, this time sending red drops all over Ark’s shirt.

  Ark’s breath catches.

  No, Orsie must’ve overheard Ark talk to it.

  “Smells like ice and wonders. I’m here; I stand here with you.” Orsie’s fingers clutch tightly at Ark’s shoulders, nails digging into his skin. He wheezes. “I was sad the first time.”

  “It really is you,” Ark whispers.

  Joy tumbles through his chest in an overwhelming swipe, but it’s cut off by Orsie’s shaking.

  “Take it,” Ark says quickly, unclasping Orsie’s hands and turning him around.

  Instead of reaching for the stone, Orsie pushes at Ark. “Go,” he rasps, but Ark shakes his head. “Step away.”

  He’s adamant, and Ark really can’t deny him anything. If Orsie wants Ark gone, he will go. So he moves back until he’s at the exit, but doesn’t have it in himself to walk out completely. He needs to know Orsie will be fine.

  Orsie turns his attention back to the gem. He’s sitting on the floor, the crimson sheet pooling around his frail body as he cups the stone in his hands. The gem is as long as his palm, as wide as three of his fingers. Orsie leans his head back as he lifts it to his lips, and for a moment, Ark’s afraid he’s going to suffocate, but it disappears like swallowed water.

  Everything stills, and Ark holds his breath as he watches. With a hiss, Orsie curls into himself, his body quivering like the leaves on a willow, second after second, wider and taller and larger. Orsie turns slowly into a black liquid mass.

  Ark finally inhales, shivering, and by the time he exhales, wings are forming. Then a tail, four limbs, and a head, black scales adorning the skin. A great jaw opens and closes a few times while the tail twitches against the far wall.

  The dragon turns his head, blinking at Ark, eyes violet against his black skin. And when he breathes, frozen air rolls around, layering ice crystals over the stone floor. Ark’s never seen such a magnificent creature in his entire life.

  “Dear one,” he whispers, taking a step closer.

  This is the dark stone itself, Orsie himself, in front of him, the beauty of his human face matched by the eeriness of his dragon shape. Ark watches as Orsie spreads his wings, approaching. H
is head is almost as big as Ark is tall, and Ark lifts his hand to the side of Orsie’s jaw. The dragon rumbles from deep in his chest, leaning toward the touch, and Ark’s heart pangs pleasantly.

  The dragon nudges his nose into Ark’s shoulder, steering him back inside the room. Ark follows but stumbles over his own feet, and now it’s his turn to get caught between sharp claws that set him into the underside of Orsie’s wing. His tail curls around them while Orsie lies down, and soon Ark finds himself cushioned inside Orsie’s embrace. The dragon rests his jaw on the floor with a sigh, violet eyes closing.

  Of course—he needs rest.

  He almost died.

  Orsie almost—

  Ark is suddenly hit with the realization of this discovery. His dear, dear one, here with him all this time. All the pain of the last months could’ve been spared, if only… He shivers, pushing his face against the cold skin of the wing.

  Finally. His companion is here, solid and real. Ark never expected a dragon, yet here he is.

  Safe.

  Embraced.

  Orsie rumbles, and Ark closes his eyes, relief washing through him. Yes, they need rest.

  *

  Arkeva twitches in his sleep, causing Orsie to deepen the hum in his chest until the body resting in his arms relaxes once more. The sun has passed high noon, and now slants toward the west, bringing with it warm light through the open windows. Orsie’s only been awake long enough to turn back to his two-legged form; the room feels too small otherwise. He pulls the sheet tighter around Arkeva’s shoulders, one hand keeping him close and the other caressing.

  He waits, leaning against the wall, with Arkeva asleep on his side between Orsie’s stretched-out legs. He waits while Arkeva’s cheek rests on his collarbone, his even breaths lulling Orsie in a state of calm he hasn’t felt since he fought Nevmis. His body tingles as it readjusts to its magic, and Orsie lets himself be captivated by the glint of his sharp nails in the sunlight as he pets Arkeva’s hair.

  He is himself once again.

  There are many questions to be answered—by both of them. Orsie’s unsure of what exactly transpired during his delirious fever, but now that the illness is gone, their conversation will certainly be more enlightening. Orsie braces himself. What if Arkeva detests that Orsie is a dragon? And what exactly did Nevmis do to him? Where is Nevmis?