Born in Fire

They circle the flames below, more his affinity for fire that drew them, though it is her curiosity that forces him to land.

He has never shared her patience for humans, watching with distaste when she shifts form on the periphery of the burn, her majestic golden scales and massive wings traded for the upright stance of that lesser race, though he does admire her long, shimmering hair.

I am hungry, mate, he grumbles. Let us hunt.

She doesn’t turn, gaze still deeply amber, face in repose, responding with some cheek. There is food here for the taking, in abundance, my beloved.

Roast human turns his stomach, the fire already eaten its fill, flesh devoured and blackened for the most part. He shifts in form to match her, as much as it irritates him, when she pauses to examine one of the bodies on the edge of the flames.

Dreadelve, she says, looking up from the pasty flesh of the fallen creature, one of its long, narrow ears shorn free at the scalp, giant, black eyes staring from the lifeless grimace it left behind. As she straightens, her hands smoothing at the full, velvet dress she prefers in this form, she turns to look toward the mountain peaks. So far South, so early this year. Is that sadness in her tone? Yes, but not about the encroaching species that pushes into even their territory. Her grief lies deeper, renewed when he'd hoped to distract her.

None of our concern. He takes her by the elbow, his eyes the same shade as the dead mutation of elves and mystery, knowing better than to command her when she is unwilling but already quit of this place in mind if not body. It is time, mate. Let us go.

She sighs softly into the cracking fire, sparks bursting high into an arc over her when the flames find another pocket of fuel to feed them. Perhaps you are right, she says. And that should have been that he is certain.

Except.

She stops, excellent vision alerted, and his gaze follows hers unwillingly and unbidden. Something stands on the far side of the fire, near the copse of trees lining the small clearing. She is on the move and he is at her heels as she circles the sizzling coals already fed on dried grasses and death. His chest clenches, jaw a match, when he realizes what has caught her attention.

The human child hovers in the brambles, barely a morsel to their dragon shapes, round face turned up toward her while she closes the distance. It smells of carnage and waste, the filthy thing, immobile at her approach save for a soft sway to and fro as though in time to music only it can hear. Her mate hisses at her to come back but she ignores his wishes. Yet again he finds himself in pursuit of her when they should be soaring over the treetops in search of their next meal.

Come away, he says, knowing his tone will not be well received but tired of this madness. I said, come away.

She crouches slowly in front of the trembling thing, a sharp stick in its hand. Pathetic, how it holds that meager weapon in rigid defense though it is no match for one of their kind, let alone she who rules all. Not even, truth be told, the dreadelves that somehow left this tiny human behind.

Poor hatchling, she whispers. It leans into her touch, giant eyes wide and shining with tears, face besmirched with soot. Two clean tracks run to its chin, two under its nose to its open mouth, proof of the horror it witnessed and survived, though it weeps in silence. Poor, brave weeling.

T’would be humane to kill it, he says, abrupt, harsh. This has gone far enough. He’s prepared to leave her there, mate or not, the filthy thing she now handles with gentleness sagging in her grip. It says not a word, makes no sound, no complaint. Perhaps its small mind has snapped in half. Humans are weak, after all, inferior. And while he grudgingly admits (if only in the depths of his own mind) he admires its fortitude for one so very fragile and clearly in terror, this tenderness she displays toward it? Cannot be borne. Put it out of its misery. It’s too small to survive on its own.

He has her best interest at heart. Not that it matters. When she continues to pay him no mind, he knows she is lost. Whether she understands his purposeful cruelty or not, she has always held her own counsel and tonight is no different. Her focus does not falter, and nor will it.

Surely, we can seek out like kind. It’s not a question, or a suggestion, but a design. She has made up her mind. When it is strong enough to return to its species.

Grief for our loss won’t bring back this unfortunate’s family. He tries to reason with her even now. If only he hadn’t been lured by the flames, or they’d gone some other way, flown a different course. But fate has led them here at the perfect time, to the perfect place while her sorrow is so fresh. When she looks up at him, he sees it in her beautiful eyes, the dragon mate he fought for, has loved for centuries, ached for when she crumpled in despair only one week gone. This is their first flight since they lost their egg not so long ago, the poor child of their mating dead of some malformation, silent in its shell. And a hundred years is a long time to wait for another chance. Another child.

This flight was meant to wake her, bring her the peace of the hunt, the joy of the kill. Instead, still deep in maternal loss, it has triggered something even his dragon form and magic cannot defeat.

She stands abruptly, skirt swinging when she tucks the shivering waif against her legs, finally straightening to stare down her mate. She does not speak or argue or plead. She does not have to. That part of her he loves the best now hovers between them, an indomitable wall he will be left behind if he moves against her.

He sighs heavily, shaking his head, as defeated as she is serene in her determination. They will not accept this thing, you know. The others, their court, will have much to say. Do not they already circle and challenge and jostle for position, the queen’s dead egg all the reason they need to plot for a shift in status?

She cares not, he knows, helpless as she lifts the tiny thing into her arms, chin high, the passion inside her flaring again as it has not since their last child was lost. And despite his resolve, his revulsion, he cannot deny her. He has never been capable and, as he promised her so long ago, he will fly by her side until the very end. An end he now fears will come far sooner than he has planned.

And yet, when they soar off into the night, side-by-side in love and purpose, their dragon wings fanning the dying flames, the child goes with them.