Something to Protect

The child had been crying, stumbling around the forest for hours. It was strange that nothing had yet come to investigate.

Twilight had come with a blood-red sky, then gone with a gentle wind that whispered through the pines. Moonlight now lit the woods in quiet, warm silver light that flickered gently through the branches over the tiny human.

It whimpered. It had fallen while trying to crawl over one of the logs that littered the forest floor.

The dragon watched in silence.

He had eaten human flesh twice before. Each time, it filled him with magic enough for months, even years of fire.

There was no human magic in this child. No magic to keep it warm, or safe.

But still, the child persisted. It scrubbed the tears from its eyes and got up once more. This time, the child crawled over the log without falling.

The dragon followed as it tumbled toward a small stream and drank the water. Then, it dug a child-sized hole into the mossy bank underneath a log and curled up, pulling its oversized jacket tighter.

Even without magic, the child was enough food for a few weeks. But he was curious.

How long would this child survive, without other humans?

Slowly, the dragon picked its way through the forest and looked down at the child in the makeshift hole. It was asleep already, like a hatchling tucked into a warm nest.

Suddenly, he wanted it dead.

He hated that child, who lived when his hatchlings had died. Hated that it slept peacefully when it would be killed and devoured in minutes, hours, or days. Hated the humans who had borne it, who would never let him rest.

He shook his head with a snort that spilled ash, smoke, and sparks over the child. He’d decided; this one would be food.

Then, the child opened its eyes and saw him.

They both froze.

As the smoke dissipated, the child’s eyes grew wide with fear. “Dragon,” it whispered. The dragon bared its teeth in a smile.

“Yes,” he hissed, in the human language. “Dragon.” His tail flicked over the stream impatiently. The child had started crying, but silently this time. Its tears smelled faintly like the oceans of his home.

Dragons couldn’t cry, but the look of fear was almost the same. Wide eyes, with too much white. The smell of fear itself was identical. He remembered the scent. Once, twice, it had tasted sweet when he’d eaten the human hunters long ago. But the taste of this child would be nothing but a reminder of a bitter memory, now.

(The dragon had tried to forget his old den, rank with fear and the metallic blood of his hatchlings and mate. The scent of death had far overpowered the salty sea spray that crashed against the cliffs. He’d never gone back.)

“Are you here to kill me?” the dragon growled, with a sour twist of his lips across razor-sharp teeth. This child couldn't kill him without magic.

“N-no,” the child stammered, shaking its head quickly.

“Then why are you here?”

The child started crying harder and didn’t answer. The dragon snorted again and its tail swept into the stream with a splash. The child flinched and began to sob loudly. The sound wasn’t as grating as the incessant wails of dragon hatchlings, but it was close. He looked up at the bone-white moon and let out a sigh that sent orange and crimson flames shooting upward through the pines.

He’d changed his mind. This one would not be food. Not for him, and not for anything else in this forest.

The dragon tread carefully around the child, scratching away rocks and branches. Then he laid down, circling the hole the child had made. It had chosen a good spot, full of soft moss and debris. The dragon closed his eyes and unfurled his wings slightly, shifting until he was comfortable. He left the tip of his tail in the stream. It wasn’t necessary, but the habit remained from his birthplace, where dragons measured the tides by their long tails as they slept.

The child’s sobs quieted. The dragon opened one eye and inspected it. It was staring at him, sniffling.

“Eat me?” its voice quivered.

“No,” the dragon said. “Go to sleep.”

The child wiped its nose on its arm and looked from the dragon’s eye to his snout, where his nostrils glowed with every breath.

“I’m Kuri,” it said. Kuri was a human girl’s name, from the north.

“You can call me Goldcrest,” he replied.

He hadn’t used that name in a long time. It didn’t mean anything this deep inland, where there were no oceans, caves, or golden dragons to light the waves with glittering sunlight and fire as they hunted.

Kuri pulled her knees to her chest and hugged them tightly. “Promise not to eat me?”

Goldcrest let out a chuckle that sparked glowing embers from his nostrils. “As long as you don’t try to eat me.”

“Okay,” she whispered, closing her eyes.

Goldcrest watched as her breathing evened, then covered her with a wing. At dawn, he would take her and find a new den, far away.

One that he could protect better, this time.