Dragon Fire

“Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down.” —Anonymous

It was late evening when the dragon finally returned for her, to lead her to the observatory. Their conversation started awkwardly; as he sought some topic she might be interested in. It continued haltingly, with long, hesitant pauses liberally interspersed, until Belle brought up the topic of books. He took to it gratefully, from there, the conversation ranged from art to music to architecture, and even cooking was touched upon. They both found each other surprisingly knowledgeable—Belle would never have guessed that a dragon would be so interested in human affairs (it had surprised her that he was literate) and he was still stunned she had an open enough mind to be here, with him, much less discussing the intricacies of Dante and Shakespeare. It was very late when they finally parted, reluctantly, each to their own bed.

It quickly became a routine. Belle would wake and break her fast, then bathe and dress in her room. The two of them did as they wished during the morning, whether it be wandering the castle, heading to the library for a book, or a walk in the gardens. The morning was for solitude, for consideration and meditation. It wasn’t until Belle headed to the library to partake in lunch that the dragon would appear, and conversation would strike up. The afternoon and evening were for company, to laugh, to discuss. The dragon had been gracious, offering her anything in his or the castle’s power to provide. Belle had asked for answers, to as many questions as she could think of. He had, for example, told her why there was a painting of her Grand-mère hanging in her gallery, confirmed that the lady had indeed been a great sorceress in her youth. He’d told her, in the guise of a story, of a noble boy and the powerful young woman Shaiya had been. The two had been betrothed, before a blood feud had sprung up between the two families, and broken them apart. He wouldn’t—or possibly couldn’t—say whatever had happened to the boy that had turned him into a dragon.

Slowly, inch by inch, the dragon and the girl forged the ties of friendship, tempered stronger by the alternative of solitude. Bouts of homesickness still plagued Belle, though, sudden and stunning in power, so that she was nearly in tears when one slashed through her. She could feel the dragon’s concerned gaze watching her whenever she sat down to lunch pale and quiet from the emotional upheaval.

While Belle struggled with her demons, the dragon had his own demons to deal with. He was haunted by the knowledge that his time was fast running out. Already his four months had whittled down to two weeks. The vines were gone from the basin, and the last rose was turning to rose petals—real ones—and wilting off of the silver to litter the floor of his room. They were spread like rubies on the ground, a warning he had to ignore. What else could he do? Love couldn’t be forced, only given—and even if he could force it, it wouldn’t free him anyway. The dragon dreaded those last hours, and the ultimate transformation, but he dreaded her equally imminent departure infinitely more. Belle held his heart now; unaware that he had fallen scales over claws in love with her. He still didn’t know how she saw him—simply an articulate animal with some education? A friend, perhaps, in an otherwise lonely existence? He did not know. He could only hope that she would be willing to stay until he was beyond redemption and needed to harbor the painful hope no longer. Then, when she left—or ran screaming—she’d take his traitorous heart with her. He knew he’d be desolate without her, but by then it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would.