Havesskadi

by Ava Kelly

  Something nudges his thigh, and Orsie pauses his motion to pick up the small ruby. He lifts it against the light, smiling at the color for a moment. The surface is polished, the inside is pure, shaped as a small sphere with a multitude of facets. It’s perfect. Orsie slips it past his lips, crushes it between his teeth, the taste familiar and dearly missed.

  He chews and swallows, now aware of how famished he is. Another ruby rolls toward him, and another, and Orsie eats his fill, savoring each stone in turn. When finished, he pets the floor, sending his gratitude with a rumble.

  It’s then that Arkeva finally stirs, waking. He blinks confusedly at his surroundings a few times, then up and down Orsie’s frame. His face betrays nothing of what he’s thinking, and Orsie refrains from squirming. Instead, he rises to his feet when Arkeva does.

  Silence stretches, longer and longer, before Arkeva looks away with a scratch to the back of his head. “You’re naked.”

  Oh. Indeed he is. The sheet lies rumpled at their feet, but it dissolves into the floor just as Arkeva bends to grab it. He frowns at the absence, then lifts his eyes to Orsie’s, who shrugs.

  “There’s no need for that,” he says.

  He focuses inward and wills a scale back on his hip, the familiar itch announcing its appearance. It blooms fully, about the size of Orsie’s hand, ready to be shaped. Orsie inhales, and lets his lips form a smile as he cups it with his palm, then flicks his wrist. Arkeva surely got that motion right, seeing how he did the same with blankets. But judging by the surprise on his face, he wasn’t expecting the scale to flutter into a thin, black wrap around his middle. It falls to the ground, just the length Orsie likes, but leaves his torso bare so he can enjoy the cold. Arkeva bends closer, fingers touching lightly.

  “I’ve never seen such cloth before,” he murmurs. “What’s it made of?”

  “Skin, scales,” Orsie says with a shrug.

  Arkeva withdraws his hand quickly, and Orsie smirks.

  “We don’t need these,” he explains, extending his finger to flick at the lapel of Arkeva’s shirt. “It’s why dragon homes don’t provide them.”

  “Dragon homes,” Arkeva repeats.

  Orsie rotates his finger in the air, pointing at their surroundings.

  Arkeva swallows audibly. “So it really is,” he mutters.

  “You didn’t know?”

  *

  Ark shakes his head. He suspected, at times, that the castle was connected to the red dragon, but he was never sure. Orsie falls silent, and Ark can’t think of anything better to do than stare. Orsie looks almost the same. His hair still flows messily down his back, but his eyes are sharper. He’s healthier, too, body fuller. His nails are black, pointed like claws, a match to the scales adorning his arms from his wrists to his shoulders.

  He stands there, letting Ark look, following Ark’s slow pacing with small turns of his head.

  A dragon.

  His dragon. His.

  Ark’s stomach suddenly growls with lack of nourishment, breaking the silence. Orsie’s lips twitch knowingly.

  “Do you want something to eat?” Ark asks.

  “I already ate,” Orsie says. “Let’s sit.”

  He moves toward the obsidian slab, installs himself on it, cross-legged, and in an instant Ark is there, kneeling in his favorite spot. Yes, yes, this is it, his companion. Like he should’ve been all this time.

  “A meal, if you will,” Orsie tells the room, then picks up the bowl of hot soup that appears next to them.

  Orsie looks pleased by the castle’s offer, and Ark is reminded of his forgotten cooking from before. Something pulls at Ark’s face—a smile he allows to form fully.

  “Good,” Orsie says, causing Ark’s chest to fill with contentment. “Now eat.”

  Ark complies, under Orsie’s watch, with his wonderfully quiet company. He finishes the bowl before he knows it, and Orsie takes it from his hands.

  “More?”

  “No.” Ark shakes his head. No, now he wants— He doesn’t really know what he wants. He’s been waiting for months.

  Orsie’s smile doesn’t leave him, and Ark can’t stop watching it.

  “Hello, Arkeva, my whisperer,” Orsie says.

  “Call me Ark,” he blurts. “Arkeva sounds like I’m being scolded.”

  Orsie hums, nodding. “Ark.” The name rolls off his lips around a small puff of frost and a deep rumble coming from his chest.

  Ark’s dreaming, surely, he must be. He extends his hand, and Orsie meets his fingers halfway, touching lightly. “You’re real,” he breathes. “Often, I wondered if I was truly sane. I kept talking to the stone; it kept answering, in a way.”

  “I heard you.”

  “The gem is your anaskett, isn’t it?” Ark asks, tearing his gaze from their fingers to look at Orsie. “But how did it end up here?”

  With a blink, Orsie tilts his head. “It was stolen before last winter. How did you come by it?”

  “I found it here, in this room,” Ark says.

  “And how did you come by the room?”

  “I found it.”

  Orsie raises an eyebrow, disbelieving. Ark shakes his head.

  “Really, I found it,” he says, leaning back to sit on his heels, and in the process releases Orsie’s hand. He misses the contact immediately, but Orsie folds his arms around himself, expectantly, so Ark doesn’t reach out again. He draws a deep breath. “September before last, I saw a red dragon fly above the forest, not far from here. I stumbled and released an arrow. It didn’t hurt the dragon, but the people thought I killed it, so…” He shrugs.

  “I see,” Orsie rumbles. “Did she have a long gash under her wing?”

  “Yes. You know it?”

  “Nevmis. She’s the one who stole my anaskett and left me for dead in the mountains,” Orsie growls. “Where did she go?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then who built this castle?” Orsie’s nostrils flare, his frown deepening.

  “I don’t know,” Ark insists.

  Should he tell?

  The malice laughs, suddenly, and it grates along Ark’s spine all the way to the base of his skull, just as Orsie jumps to his feet.

  “What was that?” he asks.

  He strides out, and Ark rushes after him, then manages to block the right side door just before Orsie reaches it.

  “Don’t go in,” Ark breathes.

  Orsie blinks at him, eyes wide. “What’s in there?”

  Shuddering, Ark shakes his head.

  “What’s in there, Ark?”

  “Please.”

  Orsie glares, and Ark presses himself harder against the door. The tension grows, while the malice shrieks with glee, but it doesn’t last. No, because Orsie’s face softens, and his hand comes to rest gently on Ark’s shoulder.

  “My soul,” he whispers, leaning closer and closer until he’s pressed against Ark’s front.

  His forehead reaches Ark’s cheek like this, and Ark closes his eyes. Orsie’s presence calms him, brings his breaths slowly back under control. He hadn’t realized how agitated he’d gotten, and Ark clutches at him, a little too tightly, but Orsie keeps rumbling, low and soothing.

  “I found it in a clearing,” Ark rasps. “I touched it and woke here and it never quiets. It’s evil. It won’t let me leave.”

  There, he said it. He’d voiced his insanity.

  “Show me,” Orsie croons, and Ark can’t resist. An entirely different sharpness overtakes Orsie’s face when he leans back, like he’s about to shred whatever it is behind the door to pieces, and it sends Ark’s heart racing.

  He leads Orsie into the corridor. It’s much like the other one, but instead of opening into a room, it continues downward with four flights of stairs before finally reaching a cavern. The place is almost as large as the entire castle, and by the time Ark’s feet touch the floor, his legs are shaking uncontrollably.

  *

  The chamber Ark leads him into is impressive, so large that fi
ve of Orsie could fit inside, wings spread wide and tail uncoiled. At its center on a pedestal of woven marble, it sits.

  Large and round, glowing red under a thick crust of charred stone.

  It isn’t right, not for a dragonsoul, and Orsie feels the sorrow coming from it with enough force to leave him breathless.

  “Dear father of time,” he mutters, just as Ark’s knees give, but Orsie catches him around the middle.

  He was expecting Nevmis in all her maleficence, but instead, here is her anaskett. Her twisted soul, heavy under the remnants of so many other perverted stones. Ark covers his ears with a gasp, the whispers multiplying in the air so fast they’re almost tangible, and Orsie growls.

  No dragon would leave their soul unattended like this, not unless they were gone. He looks around for a sign she might be hiding in a corner, ready to attack. Eyes adjusting to the dimness, he notices the patterns on the walls, feels the indentations under the soles of his feet. Scales. And the white marble of the pedestal is shaped, in places, like teeth and talons. Orsie’s stomach churns. So she really is dead. Buried inside her own soul, like all dragons when they go. He’s relieved and bereaved at the same time. A dragon is dead, even if that dragon is Nevmis.

  Orsie goes back over what he knows. After stealing his anaskett, Nevmis flew south, then east, then west and south again—very un-dragonlike—only to be shot by one single arrow. Here, in this place. For what purpose? Why would she let herself be brought down like that? Unless she simply…stopped.

  Or her own dragonsoul stopped her, Orsie thinks as he watches the red stone, heavy and enlarged. Its weight must’ve been unbearable.

  Ark’s stilted explanation now makes sense, and Orsie squeezes him closer. Ark’s breath is already labored, his eyes tightly shut. He’s most likely feeling the pull of the anaskett, but his human body doesn’t know what to do with it. Especially with all this malice, the voice of the core might go unheard.

  Clearly, the anaskett attached itself to Ark. For whatever reason, Nevmis’s soul chose him, and that’s between Ark and the stone. In any case, Orsie doesn’t think it will let him go. There’s only one choice, to bring them together, help them negotiate. They probably never connected, not in the ways a dragonsoul needs, and Orsie hopes with his entire being there’s something salvageable of Nevmis.

  He extends his senses, listens, tastes, feels— There it is. Not all is lost, then.

  “Let’s go closer,” he says, but Ark resists with a strangled bark. “I know, beloved, it hurts, but you must. Come, let’s meet her. Listen, underneath, listen to the song, only the song. Can you hear it? Listen closely, Ark.”

  *

  He holds onto Orsie like he’s a lifeline, follows his voice and his steps, trusting.

  Ark pushes through the pain, like Orsie tells him.

  The other time he came down here it broke him. Almost killed him. But now Orsie says in his ear, “You’re so brave, my soul,” and Ark listens.

  Step after step, he nears the song, strings plucked softly at first, then louder. A melody, hummed under a breath, accompanies it until the room narrows, until walls of red brick surround them, cutting off all voices.

  She sits on a chair of twigs and red ivy, her skin pink, fingers deft upon the chords of an invisible harp. Her long hair falls to the ground, red as the rubies of the castle. Crimson, like the eyes she turns to Ark. Her arms now rest in her lap, but the song continues, bouncing gently off the walls.

  “Who are you?”

  “Arkeva Flitz, Dragonslayer,” she says, her mouth barely moving, voice overlaying onto itself in echoes.

  “That’s me,” Ark agrees. “Who are you?”

  “Arkeva Flitz, Dragonslayer. Me.”

  “You are—”

  “Arkeva Flitz, Dragonslayer.”

  Ark closes his eyes tightly, then opens them again. She is still there, watching with her red gaze. Another chair of ivy forms in front of her, and Ark takes the seat.

  “The shadow was right, you are a thief,” she finally says. “But it’s not his soul you stole.”

  The room wobbles until they sit in a clearing, the red sphere between them. Ark watches himself touch it, in reverse, then walk backwards until they are on the road with the small caravan from before. Above, the dragon flies backward, and Ark’s arrow bounces off its chest to return to his bow.

  “I knew I didn’t kill it,” he murmurs.

  “No, but we were tired, our dragonslayer, so tired that we let you have us.”

  Ark understands nothing, but he doesn’t have to ask further. She smiles, takes his hand, keeps talking.

  “A long time ago, we bloomed within Nevmis. We were a warrior, we fought for so long. We saved the souls of fallen brethren; we drank them all. But”—her pride turns grim—“we didn’t realize the poison they carried was seeping into our bones. We started taking the anasketts of innocents.”

  She closes her eyes and hangs her head. Ark squeezes her fingers, entranced.

  “We found the shadow, we took his pretty soul, but he told us the ugly truth. We were a dragon no longer. We murdered.”

  She grows silent, and Ark nudges her forward. “Then what happened?”

  “We met you, Soulborn, protector, kind. We met you, and we took you for ourselves.” She looks back up, eyes ablaze in their fiery redness. “His soul saw you first, but we claimed you. You belong to us.”

  Ark inhales slowly. The truth of her words is undeniable; he knows it somehow, ingrained in his being.

  “Are you mine?” he asks.

  “We could be, but you have to do something before you can drink us.” Ark’s heart pulses in his chest. “Yes, you understand. Do you want to be a dragon, our dragonslayer?”

  A dragon, like Orsie.

  “Yes, like him. With him, forever.”

  “What do I have to do?”

  She grins, lips parting to show rows of sharp teeth. “Save us.”

  “From whom?”

  “Them,” she hisses, pointing behind Ark.

  He turns as the air hardens and dissolves, prodding at his mind with—with—they’re everywhere, growling, shouting. They laugh, bodies decaying, teeth crooked, jaws snapping. They taunt and tease, and they hurt.

  Ark screams.

  Chapter Eleven

  The Souls of Dragons

  Ark gasps awake, his hands scrambling to touch his own face. He’s fine, it was just a nightmare. He blinks at the red ceiling, gathering his thoughts as he remembers Orsie turning into a dragon. Ark rubs at his eyes.

  “Just another dream,” he mutters, impressed by his vivid imagination.

  His blanket moves, coolness crawling up his side, followed shortly by bright purple irises and a curtain of long messy hair.

  “A dream of what?” Orsie asks, the tips of his sharp teeth glinting in the candlelight.

  “Decaying dragons and a beautiful lady.” Orsie’s violet eyes draw him to their light. “And now you. Am I still asleep?”

  A smirk answers his question before Orsie rises to sit next to Ark on the bed.

  “If I am, don’t wake me,” Ark mutters.

  “I can assure you, this is real,” Orsie says, his hand finding Ark’s. “Earlier, I was thinking the same, but here we are. My soul.” He smiles, a gentle thing softening his entire face before lifting Ark’s hand to his lips.

  Their touch is cold, too light, but before Ark can say anything, Orsie lets go and rolls off the bed. He paces the room, slowly, eyes never leaving Ark, who leans up on his elbows. With every second Orsie spends away, Ark’s heart thumps heavier, his chest fills, wants—he wants—

  Ark growls.

  Orsie pauses, surprised, but then he huffs a small laugh, turning his head to hide it. Huh, he must know what Ark wants, even though Ark himself does not. The thought creates a pleasant tingle in Ark’s limbs.

  A shriek echoes from below, followed by laughter. Orsie tuts, striding over to the right side door. He knocks on the wood. “Be quiet.”

&
nbsp; “It’s reassuring to know I’m not mad,” Ark comments, and Orsie shrugs. “You weren’t hearing it before.”

  Another shrug. “I couldn’t; I was human.”

  Ark sits up on the mattress, then ties his hair back while taking a moment to rewind recent events in his head. So his companion is a dragon, and Ark lives in a dragon castle, with a dragonsoul in the basement.

  “The lady, she had red hair and red eyes. I think it’s the anaskett?” Ark’s words are confirmed when Orsie nods. “What does yours look like?”

  “Like me,” Orsie says. “I’m the first owner of my soul.”

  “There were…” Ark swallows, unsure how to word this. “Others. Dead, I think. Piles of bones and teeth and rotting corpses trying to chew on me.”

  Orsie grimaces, and Ark matches it.

  “Most likely the remnants of the anasketts she stole. Mine would’ve ended up among them if I hadn’t reclaimed it in time.” He stops then, looking down his arm.

  “The drawings, they were scales.”

  Orsie nods. “It’s a curse for us, to have our anasketts taken. We are turned human, and with each rising crescent, a scale fades. If all go, we are stuck, and our magic belongs to the thief.”

  Another cackle travels up from the cavern, and Orsie growls. Pain etches his features for a while as he stands there with one palm on the wood, and Ark understands the desperation now. That relentless need his companion, Orsie, had been sending all along. Maybe Ark misunderstood, and all Orsie ever wanted was the black gem. Not Ark.

  But the way he talks to Ark, like he’s important…

  “It wants me to drink it,” Ark says, cutting off his own thoughts, and Orsie turns his attention away from the door.

  He nears the bed, sits on the edge, eyes studying Ark closely. “Do you want to?”

  “I don’t know,” Ark admits. “Could I really be a dragon?”

  Half of Orsie’s mouth slants with amusement. “You already act like one.”

  “Don’t mock,” Ark grumbles.