A Candle in the Rain

"There weren't always Dräghons in the valley," she murmurs against my collarbone, her breath warm and her foreign pronunciation rolling off my skin. "Or so I've been told by the others. But I can't recall anywhere else." The fireplace that sits in the corner of the room crackles in response, illuminating the unclothed lining of her back. Smooth and unscarred, it gives no indication of the appendages hidden within.

"Can you?" she asks, looking up at me with golden eyes, her pupils dilated. "Can you remember what it was like before... before we crossed paths?"

I run my hand through her hair, as soft as silk, and for a moment dark brown turns to red, burning my fingertips just enough to sting. I don't pull away. I smile at her, fascinated.

My lips graze her forehead, and I breathe her in. Sandalwood. Petrichor. The faintest zest of the blood orange we shared hours prior.

"No. No, I cannot."

As I open my eyes, the dimmed room, the cushioned feeling of the mattress beneath my weight, the velvet sound of her voice are gone. Instead, heavy rain drops haze my vision, war paint runs down my cheeks and metallic percussion pounds in my ears, as rhythmically as the sound of a heartbeat, bringing the bloodlust to life among the crowd as it roars, and screams, and groans in harmony.

Shrouded in the midnight darkness of monsoon season, Elièn Valley hangs in the narrow balance of life versus life. Vines climb along the steep sides of the ravine, rain bouncing off leaves, past the castle and houses sitting into the mountains, and colliding with rock until it finally hits the ground. At the front ranks, the water accumulates past foot level. One of the leading soldiers, a man whose sole purpose is to serve the King, throws his armor at his feet, plunging his hands into murky water. He fishes out handfuls of mud, using it to cover his torso in a thick, dark X, then raises his lance with a howl, his bloodshot eyes ready to fight.

The army of militia responds with nearly as much fervor.

"Men of Elièn," King Crocus yells with the authority of man-made royalty, pacing in front of the troops on the back of his grey steed. "Hear the Valley, for it is finally speaking to us!" He points a finger to the sky, bottomless like a spilled vial of ink. "Hear the thunder rumbling, the winds lifting--we must protect it at all cost. We have lost enough to the fire, now comes the time to fight against our own demise!"

Noise travels along the ranks like a ravenous wave ready to take lives, the smell of dyed leather prickling nostrils, the sound of unsheathed silver swords clouding ears.

"Men of Elièn, follow me into the Dräghons' throat!"

The marching begins.

It isn't long before my thighs burn from the effort of running uphill in thick and clingy mud. I soon fall behind, watching broad shoulders whoosh past me with ease, rage fueling their bodies, before shoving me aside. My desire to keep up falls limp, silently dying and sticking to my insides like a parasite.

Or perhaps it never was alive.

"My kin may be nomads at heart, but time has tired our feet, as well as our wings." She rises from the bed as she says it and I take the opportunity to admire her; wrapping her olive skin in ruby red velvet, reaching down for an apple and taking a crunchy bite, its juice glistening on her bottom lip. I ache to follow her and get a taste for myself. "We have settled."

I listen to the longing buried deep within my chest, making my way to her. My feet circle hers, entwining our legs. "And you are made to stay."

She smiles against my lips as I kiss her.

I spot them before anyone else, but keep my mouth shut. Concealed within the shadows of the ravine, they feign immobility, claws digging into rock, wings closely tucked in. I blink away the rain and make out a flash of pointy white teeth above us — the hisses may fall onto deaf ears, but I know how to recognize aggression when I see it. It's nearly a matter of seconds before bodies drop to the ground like spiders, diving for their enemy with shrill, carnal whistling.

The battle happens too fast.

I can't make out much anymore, nothing but the hallowing cries of pain and the tearing of flesh, both human and Dräghoni. A hundred-some pairs of reptilian eyes sparkle through the night like stars in the sky, illuminating distorted faces and gory scenes. Limbs are torn while wings are severed, jugulars slashed and hearts impaled. Suddenly, screams of fire pierce through the air, and if there was ever a chance of peace, I now know we have truly lost it. Flames blown by the Dräghons burn through man flesh, turning it black, necrotic, rotten — arms turned to coal-like appendages that fall to the ground and get stomped on. The army retaliates with their own secret weapon, one unbeknownst to most, including thieve-turned-soldiers such as myself: coordinated attacks of poisoned arrows.

Humans and Dräghons alike begin to fall by the dozen and I myself can barely move, stuck in the middle of a scene I can only describe as a nightmare of the worst absolute kind. A splatter of blood whips me across the face and suddenly it all becomes too real -- the hatred, the murder, the carnage.

I need to find her.

"You are a disgrace, Quin." My father's eyes are as pale as a dead fish, pushing me down into the core of the earth with nothing but the disappointment in his stare. "To us, to this kingdom, to our goddamn species!" His fist meets the table, but only because I am now too old for back-handed slaps and neck holds. I don't falter.

"Your fixation with these nomads, these animals," he spits in disgust as he says it, saliva drooping down the petal of the flower arrangement that sits in the center of the dinner table. Asshole. "Has gone on far too long." The severe line that makes up his lips barely parts as he turns away from me.

"You are not my son."

The corner of my mouth twitches, slightly upwards.

"Funny." He halts at my voice but doesn't turn to meet my gaze. "You were never my father."

When he dies of sickness the following spring, I do not feel sorrow.

My heart is thumping in my ears as I push my way through, dodging a set of sharp Dräghon teeth. I desperately search the rabid crowd for her, my gut twisted with the horrific possibility of finding her already dead, her golden eyes dull and lifeless. The image makes my skin crawl and I will myself into faster movements, climbing through the piles of bodies at my feet, my dagger kept close for defense.

At last, I find her, fighting with her people with her teeth bared, her pupils into slits, her wings stretched out. She freezes as soon as her eyes find mine, predator slipping into a prey's skin. Defenseless, vulnerable, harmless. Her lips cover her teeth once more, her canines retracting into the safety of her mouth while her claws return to nails. My relief is palpable — it sprouts, a flower blooming within my lungs and I breathe it out, then in again.

I need to hold her.

If I can just make it a little farther, take her hand in mine, lead us away from this battle and its bloodshed, far enough to forget it all ever happened.

I begin making my way to her and it prompts her to do the same. She steps forward, then walks, then runs toward me with wide, human-like eyes that shine gold. The color I will never be able to find anywhere else. The color my dreams are made of. The color I fell in love with.

It is taken away from me in the snap of a finger as everything goes dark and blurry. Pain taints my vision. Or is it the rain? I cannot tell. I blink, roll over and cough involuntarily, my muscles spasming. When I look down at myself, my clothes completely soaked through, I understand what happened.

One of my legs is gone. Vanished. Torn at the waist and bleeding out into rain water.

I cough again. I look up, trying to focus.

I see her.

Fallen to her knees, clutching two arrows that have been shot above her right breast. Poisoned.

I am numb. It's impossible to tell where pain ends and heartbreak begins.

She's inching herself toward me. With every ounce of strength left, I flip onto my stomach, my chin submerged in water, and pull myself with my hands. The pain is blinding — agonizing — but I push through, I have to. I have to. Minutes or years later, as my body runs cold and my mind blank, as her lips turn purple and her hair grey, I extend my hand just as she does hers. Our fingers touch.

Our tangled limbs make a mess of the covers. Her laughter bubbles as I press kisses into her neck, licking exactly where I know she's the most sensitive.

"It tickles!" Her hand taps my shoulder, pretending to push me away. "Please don't make me burn your pretty human skin." She licks her lips to prove her point, her pointy tongue grazing mine.

It's my turn to laugh.

"You wouldn't."

In the distance, the fire dances. Above us, the rain sings a lullaby. Tears fall from my eyes as I blink for the last time, following her soon after her soul leaves her body.