Bound and born by Flame

Dragons, the small boy vaguely thought, do not exist. That's what Papa says.

The day had been bright, but the sun had gone away to hide. The boy didn't know why: he had been looking up for a while, wide eyes staring at branches leaning in and taking away all the light. Sometimes, a thing his papa called a "deer" would wander by his vision, sniffing at him, tickling him. The boy would giggle, but giggled softly, because Papa was asleep next to him, and he knew better than to wake Papa when Papa was sleeping.

The day had become night, and then the sun came up again. The boy had slept, had shivered, and glanced over at his Papa where he was sleeping. But he was still asleep, so the boy gulped and laid back, looking up and smiling at the twinkling dew. Papa was very comfortable in the leaves where he'd fallen yesterday; the boy thought that the leaves were very soft, but they were too cold to be a really nice bed.

The day had been silent, and the boy was getting so very bored of the day. He finally sat up, wincing and making a face that he knew Papa would call "pouting," but he couldn't help it. His legs were all achy, and his hands and feet felt so cold they didn't feel like a part of him now. Papa was cold too: his lips were blue, just like when he'd gone out in the big snowstorm to hunt. Mama had been very loud when he returned, but Papa had said something that sounded very much like the blustering wind outside, and the house was quiet until the boy asked for more food.

He reached over and timidly shook his Papa's shoulder. But he did not wake; the boy shook again harder, biting his lip and hoping Papa wouldn't be angry with him when he got up. But he was sleeping too soundly. The boy's stomach rumbled, and he looked around at the forest. The tall trees were calm and unmoving, bark wrinkled with shadows and moss. Sun glimmered against the leaves, and the boy made it to his feet, stretching up like he'd seen Papa do every morning. He was looking at his papa, trying to figure out if he should go find some food (surely it'd be like berry-picking in Mama's garden?), when the rush of air came down and knocked him flat on his stomach.

The boy rolled over, looking up with huge eyes, and thought Dragons do not exist. But regardless of what Papa says, one had come down from the canopy of trees--one that looked just like the pictures Mama sometimes made in the dirt outside their home when she told him stories.

It blotted out the sun, a giant shadow, rippling higher and higher past where the boy could see. Two laborious, veined wings flapped again, sending the leaves up in spiraling swaths around the boy and his father, before the beast landed on four feet that sank deep into the dirt. The boy shielded his face, and when he brought his hand back down, the dragon lowered itself and peered into him.

The boy's lip trembled; his eyes grew wide. His stomach tightened into a knot, and urine burned his clenching bladder.

Sometimes, Mama told stories that her mama had told her about dragons that would sail down out of the sky and eat the sheep and the cows and the farmers who tried to stop them. His mama had told him these, and then told him that she had never seen a dragon herself when she saw how scared he was, and his papa had said that dragons do not exist, and they never were spoken of again.

The dragon tilted its large head, blinking golden-green eyes the size of the boy's face. A low rumble, like a giant kitty purring, filled the air, and warm steam blew out of the dragon's nostrils and enveloped him. The boy shivered then, realizing just how frigid the morning had been.

"Why are you out here?" the dragon asked. Its voice was not as loud as the boy was bracing for. It was mellow, and felt like a heavy blanket being dropped down over his body. "This is very far from home, isn't it?"

The boy did not stop shivering. Another gust of summer air blew against his clothes. The huge eyes blinked, and the boy finally nodded, a little, quick motion.

Another large purr rolled through the boy's bones. Then the dragon spoke again:

"You should not stay here. You should go home. Do you know where to go?"

The boy shook his head, glancing back at his papa. The dragon's head swiveled, and the boy saw better how the great creature was coated in a river like the one down the hill past their house, rippling blue and black in the sunshine. The dragon let out another large huff of breath, then looked at the boy again.

"Did he lead you here?"

The boy nodded.

"He is dead. Come with me: I will take you home."

The boy looked over at Papa again and blinked. He did not know what "dead" was. But Papa had not moved--not even when a dragon came--so the boy nodded.

"Do you have a name?" the dragon asked, but the boy trembled under its large eyes. So, the dragon said nothing more, grabbed the boy carefully in two huge river-covered hands, and beat its wings down against the earth. The boy tried to scream something, but the wind tore away his voice as they rushed high up into the trees, and broke out overhead into the world.

* * *

Dragons should not exist, but Melaine knew they did, for she herself was one. She soared over the mountain, heedless of the oncoming night, smiling at the feeling of the sky as it bent to her every whim. The stars had shone themselves now that the sun descended again, and the new moon broke out of her shell once more. The trees beneath passed like strands of seaweed floating upwards--and she almost sailed past the smoke, except that she saw the glint of scales below.

The wind caught up to her as she stopped herself; gales crashing around her ears and buffeting her wings. She snarled and snapped steely teeth at it, then descended in a slower circle towards the large crackling fire.

It rumbled up to meet her; two trees had been uprooted, their bodies snapped like twigs underfoot and carved into a campfire. Boulders surrounded it, and branches had been thrust aside and torn asunder to let the sparks trickle skyward instead of into a waiting forest. As Melaine descended further, she saw Tye unfurl his head and peer up to her. As she landed, she saw the broken remains of a deer, splayed out across the leaves and staining them black.

"Well!" she said, shaking herself out as the forest's dark limbs closed around her. "Did you hurt yourself, or are the years catching up, old man?"

Tye smiled, but said nothing, glancing down at something nestled to his breast. Melaine's gaze followed, and she tilted her head close to see it better. It was still--sleeping, she thought--and very small.

"Did you find a wondrous treasure, O Ancient One?"

"Hush, burning heart: you were here before me."

Melaine's eyes left the small curiosity, finding his amused gaze and narrowing. The air rippled and ran as fire coursed through her belly and out her nostrils--but Tye purred soft for her, accompanied by the crackling bonfire. She straightened, proud, letting the flames lick over her scales.

"I could hold a grudge one of these days, you know."

"I know," he murmured, smile widening, and lowered his head before her. Her tail swished, coming close to the deer carcass. In another moment, she moved over to him, treasuring the uneven slide of their scales as she rolled over his back and found a place at his side. His tail moved over hers, and she purred back, low, constricting hers over his again and keeping it that way.

"I wasn't expecting to see you," Melaine said, nuzzling her cheek along his throat. "Not tonight; not here. And not with some thrown-together blaze going!"

She began to laugh, but the wind caught under her, throwing up the smell of acrid smoke and something else beneath it she couldn't place.

"I didn't expect to be here," Tye replied, pressing his snout against her horns. The steam rushed against bone and under the scales, making her skull tingle. "But I cannot find a village."

Melaine stopped nuzzling and moved back, looking up at him, perplexed.

"The 'treasure,' as you put it," he explained, smiling and raising the bundle in his arms a little. The unknown smell came again, sweet and overripe. Melaine's snout curled up over her fangs, and her eyes turned down to the precious cargo.

Firelight crackled over it, showing a small human form. Very small; just hatched, she thought, or at least not yet well-grown. A hood pulled over most of the face, but she could make out something under it--vague features. It was very still.

"Where did you find it?" she asked, trying to make out the face under the cowl. Tye let out a long purr, content.

"Miles away. They hunt here sometimes, but I couldn't see where they might have come from, even going into the lower clouds. His father died; he was waiting, alone. I gave him some deer."

Melaine dipped her head lower to inspect the boy, and quickly turned away, coughing. Spurts of fire shot from her lips as her throat rolled up, and she got up, taking a step away from Tye. Tye stood, alarmed, watching her, careful to clutch the boy close.

One fleck of fire hit the grass around them, igniting it until she grumbled and stomped it out. Pale smoke rose past her face as it turned to him again, and what he held.

The boy woke up; Tye looked down quickly as he yawned and rustled about, rubbing his face. He gasped softly, seeing one dragon, and grew afraid again seeing a second.

Tye let out a gentle purr, trying to relax the small figure.

Melaine watched him.

"Tye."

Tye turned his eyes up to her, and his smile faded seeing her expression.

"This isn't in jest, is it?"

His brows furrowed slowly, and he shook his head.

Melaine cleared her throat, tasting ember and ash falling back to her chest. She glanced at the boy Tye held, and when he withdrew the small figure, she looked back up to him.

"What does he look like, exactly?"

Tye's frown deepened. "He's a human boy, Melaine. He looks like a human boy."

"No, dear flame; what does he look like, exactly?"

Tye watched her quietly, then looked down to his small companion. The boy looked between them meekly.

"Wide eyes; unblemished skin. Hair like loose hay. Young."

Melaine did not reply, and finally he looked back up at her. Her face had slackened--the fire reflected over the glass of her eyes, unfocused and chaotic. She didn't look at him--nor at the boy. A breath sighed from her, deep from her breast, and her frame shriveled into itself.

"Burning heart? What is it?"

"It's a human boy," she finally said, soft. "It used to be, at least. That's a corpse, Tye. You're carrying a corpse with you."

The sickle-sweetness reached her even there, and she winced and stepped back further, trying not to gag.

Tye frowned, then started to laugh, and stopped as soon as he'd started. The boy looked up at him, scared. He could feel the blood pumping through that tiny frame--a tiny drum in his hand.

Melaine looked at the crumpled pile of dessicated skin and clothing he was clutching closer, then up at him again, pained.

Tye stared into the boy's eyes, then finally back at her. Neither spoke, and the bonfire blazed and burned down once-mighty trees next to them.

"Is this it, Tye?" she finally asked. He said nothing for another long moment, staring at the boy whom he knew looked perfectly fine to him. Melaine wouldn't lie to him, and he knew that too. He finally nodded, and he heard the rush of steam that fell from her into the heated night.

"You could leave him here."

Tye looked up sharply at her, and beheld the sorrow in her gaze. "You could," she repeated.

"If I did--"

He stopped. She watched him. His brow shuddered with things neither of them needed to say.

"I cannot. This is more important than--"

He stopped again. The bonfire started to fall as one of the great trees caved inwards, shifting the light and draping Melaine in shadow. Only as it flickered and rose again, did he see her form still there, quiet, waiting.

"You know I can't," he said softly.

"You could," she murmured, but bowed her head. "But-- I wouldn't know. Maybe you couldn't resist this."

The boy trembled in Tye's hand, and Tye moved closer to the flames to warm him.

Melaine straightened, and her head fell from view aside from the fire burning in her sad, old eyes.

"I will miss you, dear flame. I shall truly miss you."

She raised her wings. Tye nodded softly, murmuring, "Take care, burning heart." Her wings beat down, propelling her dark shape into the stars again, and away from the dragon and his boy.

* * *

Dragons must not exist, the woman pleaded silently, for if they do, I shall surely become one.

Her mama had told her the stories when she was young, as her mama had told her. Dragons were great beasts that swooped down and stole your cattle; that lit your home ablaze; that roared loud enough to shake mountains into dust, and could not be bested by even the bravest knight. She herself had told her son all of this, a long time ago.

But she had not told him the origin of dragons, as her mama had told her. Dragons, her mama said once, when she was old and frail and breathing as slowly as the woman now breathed, are souls who have too much left to do in this world to be at peace when they die. They are too scared to go--they resist that pull of Great Sleep. And so they remain with their purposes--not as souls who wander for heartbreak, or anger, or guilt. Their fervor gives them another life to live.

But it is a cursed blessing, that second life. It is a curse, because no one starts knowing everything. Every mother knows that; her baby must be taught, and must find its way. But a dragon has no mother: the egg hatches alone in the dirt, and if they are lucky, a name comes to their mind. And they feel, all that lifetime, that they have something so terribly important to do--something so crucial that it burns their hearts whole--and if they cannot remember then that flame becomes fury, and that fury is unleashed on our homes. We have the easy life, after all.

Her mama had smiled, then, wistful and thinking back on the long road she'd taken to get to that bed, tired and dying.

What happens if they find their purpose? the woman had asked, and her mama had shut her eyes and hummed softly.

Then they can finally rest. Then they find rest in the Great Sleep.

Her mama squeezed her hand then, and died.

She lay in her own bed, at the end of her own long life. She lay alone in the room, staring out her window at the night sky. She lay scared, remembering, and she wondered if she would find herself waking in the dirt, all of these dreams of life fading, except for a purpose that was burning her up so terribly now.

Through the empty streets, two figures approached.

The woman looked at them, only registering them as they came closer to her window. A tall figure and a small figure.

Using what little strength was left, she unlatched her window, letting in the cool night air.

The small figure ran forward, and his familiar face burst into a grin.

"MAMA!"

He jumped up, trying to clamber in through the window. The woman beamed, the moonlit air lightening her, letting her slip her legs out the window and kneel down, lifting her lost son up into her arms. He laughed, throwing tiny arms around her neck--she laughed with him, all those worries forgotten. The tall figure smiled, watching them with a confused friendliness--but as the woman and the boy looked at him, his smile began to fade.

For neither of them knew him, and he realized that the embers in his heart were still burning.

The woman smiled, knowing she was dead but not minding. She hugged her son close, and let the Great Sleep wash over her.

The man watched them go, and stood alone in the street. He remained, as did his kin, until a rush of titanic wings bore him billowing up into the stars.