From Fire Born

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley. They came and went like a callow lover; lingering through the warmer months and the depths of night, before fading away in the weak sun of winter. No word or warning before their departure. In that, they were far too similar to a lover – one lover in particular.

She had given no sign. No hint of her intentions. Not even a note scrawled on parchment to say where she was going, that she was sorry for stealing the last of the coin, that her love had been more than a lie.

Lathalia cursed the woman who hadn’t left that note when she saw the dragon that winter morning, for women and dragons had become one and the same – something to be avoided.

The beast shouldn’t have been there. The Valley was dusted in snow from last nights fall, bereft of greenery and prey. Winter had hit the southern land of Cleost like a battle-axe over the past three weeks. Gone were the long, bright days of summer, and with them the dragons, flying north in their annual migration. And the Valley, as it had for the past six years that Lathalia had made her home within its cradle, was tucked up tight against the biting winds and plummeting temperatures, its inhabitants content to sit in their hovels and wait for the world to thaw. The only living creature more than six feet from a raging hearth fire was Lathalia, and she was less than pleased about it.

At least, she should have been the only creature.

But there was the dragon. And it was watching her.

The few dragons nesting in the mountains encircling the Valley had left weeks ago, long before the first flake of snow. Wyverns this year, a small brood of mottled-green juveniles that hadn’t given the farmers much trouble. Lathalia had steered clear of them. People generally kept their distance from the beasts, for obvious reasons, so no one paid much mind to her resolute avoidance. She never passed within one hundred yards of the dragons, two hundred if the wind was at her back. When one of the wyverns slithered into a crevice near her cabin, nursing wounds from a fight, she’d stayed inside for a week rather than risk walking past it, going three days without food. That had raised some questions – Ygroff asked why she had not come for her meat on Fyrsday, as she usually did, but Lathalia allayed his fears by describing the sniffling cold which had kept her in bed. Ygroff, as soft as his belly, had given her an extra cut of venison free of charge.

Up with the pale winter dawn to scavenge for what little herbs remained in the bare-branched forest edging the mountains, Lathalia hadn’t even thought to check for the beasts. In her six years in the Valley, winter had been blessedly free of dragons, if bitterly cold. It was her favourite time of year. No watching for winged shadows. No long walks to circumvent disaster. Which was why she hadn’t walked the back trails through the forest that morning, instead taking the main route from town like any other person. If only she was any other person.

The dragon melted into its surroundings, white with streaks of bark-brown. Golden eyes gazed out of an ancient head, painted with scars and crowned in horns. It was a true dragon, with four legs and two boned wings. She hadn’t seen one of them in years. Had almost believed the rumours that they’d become extinct.

The great white beast huffed steam from its nostrils, very much alive.

Lathalia stopped fifty yards from the forest, which the dragon stood before like a sentry. If she had been any other person, she’d be halfway back to town by now, her throat raw with screams as she roused everyone to the danger at their door. She’d considered it, certainly. And she’d probably have gotten away with it, too – it would make sense if the dragon came after only her, because she’d been the only one outside when it appeared. But her bones were too cold for running, and she couldn’t muster up much more than an indignant sigh.

She’d have to handle this one by herself. And, with the townspeople and their prying eyes still safely tucked away, she could risk it. No one would ever have to know.

The dragon was not the only creature that rumours thought extinct.

Lathalia withdrew her hands from the folds of her wolf-pelt coat. Winter bit at her fingers. She took a breath, felt her traitorous heart thud-thud in her chest, and thought fire.

Her hands thawed in an instant, twin flames crackling in her palms. The heat travelled up her arms and down her back, banishing the cold like an unwelcome houseguest. Strands of hair, as red as the fire, brushed against her cheek. And though she could not see them she knew her eyes were burning too, an unearthly liquid bronze.

The dragon crooned.

It had known she was a witch from the moment it caught her scent. Though her magic had been dormant for years the smell of it lingered like a memory, and the dragon had caught it in its maw, savouring a taste it had long been denied. A taste Lathalia had denied herself, too.

She walked towards the dragon leaving melted footprints in her wake, the snow burned through to the sleeping earth beneath. She would have to cover them up later, but for now she savoured the warmth of her magic like a woman starved – because she had been starved, for six long, quiet years. The only feeling which had ever come close was the naked embrace of –

Lathalia refused to think her name. Banished the memories of skin and sweat and sighs so content she’d thought they’d last forever. What a fool she’d been.

The dragon approached slowly, its entire body trembling like a plucked string. A long, ridged tail swept patterns in the snow. Membranous wings drooped on either side of a belly as large as a full-grown bison. With its neck stretched to full height, the dragon would be as tall as the belfry. It could crush Lethalia’s bones between its jaws as easily as she could bite an apple.

But this dragon had no interest in eating her. None of them ever did.

They met midway. Lathalia dismissed the flames in her hands and reached out, palm open. She shouldn’t have. Feeling the bond would only make it harder for her later. But six years of thirst would not let her resist this chance to drink.

Triple-lidded eyes blinked at her, gold and black. The dragon extended its serpentine neck, lowered its head, and gently pressed its snout into her palm.

The bond was instantaneous. Lathalia wasn’t drinking, she was drowning, submerged in the ocean of magic which swelled and roared between them. This was the banquet she denied herself, the true depths of her power. If she cast a flame now, it would be a fireball – but she wouldn’t need to. As long as the bond remained, the dragon could rain down fire of its own. His own.

She didn’t want to, but Lathalia felt the patterns of the dragon’s life. She saw his triumphs and his failures, his teeth sinking into bison-flesh, the day he first took flight on delicate wings. He held nothing back. Some dragons were more private, keeping their histories to themselves, but this one wanted her to see everything. To know. To feel.

He’d been just as alone as she was.

Lathalia wrestled the black feeling inside her, refusing and reshaping it. Now was no time for grief. Someone from town could come around the corner at any moment. She couldn’t put it off any longer.

Witch-friend, the dragon hummed. Lathalia. Witch-friend. It had caught her name, then. And his was –

Sleep, she whispered.

The dragon collapsed, his legs folding as easily as autumn leaves. His golden eyes found her one last time before drooping shut, burning into her memory. She stepped back just as his head fell away from her hand, thudding against the earth in a flurry of snowflakes. His tail gave one last twitch, then was still.

Lathalia knelt amongst the snow-dust, catching flakes in her curls. On her face too, she thought, for there could be no other reason for the wetness on her cheeks. She wasn’t allowed any other reason. People didn’t cry for dragons.

Witches did. But all the witches were gone.

Sleep, she pressed again, pushing him further into himself, this dragon whose name she couldn’t bear to hear. Sleep. She followed him, followed the paths of his blood to the slowing beat of his heart. She cradled it in her hands.

Stop.

And it did.

She felt his scales cool beneath her fingertips. The bond wavered, then cracked like ice. Her magic wailed within her, an aching cry of rage and despair. She clamped her lips together to stop the sound from escaping, to stop the salt of her tears from rushing in.

There’d been no other choice. She knew that, believed that, repeated it to herself again and again as she knelt beside the dragon whose life she had extinguished. He would have followed her like a puppy, endlessly loyal and filled with joy. The townspeople would have been filled with fear.

They had learnt to live with dragons. They could not – would not – live with a witch.

Lathalia tamed her heartbroken magic, drawing it together for one final spell. This one was more complex; a song, low and quiet. By the time the last note left her lips and she stood, aching and cold once more, the dragon was gone.

All that was left was a mist of snow that seemed to have wings.

She walked onwards to the forest, the scales-turned-snow swirling in her wake, and prayed she would never have to use her magic again.

But the prayers of witches are rarely answered.

***

The man, having just come around the corner, saw Lathalia walking into the forest with an unusual burst of snow in her wake. He made to follow her, but the first step found his boot submerged in water. Water which steamed with warmth.

She had forgotten to cover her footprints.