Dragon Fire

“Ever had a relationship end in such a way that you saw it coming, but it was as if an avalanche had hit you, or a firestorm had swept over you, leaving your charred body waiting for the next breeze to blow it into a little drift of ashes?” —Anonymous

Rain fell in steady silver sheets outside the windows of the library, drenching the thirsty spring landscape. Inside, dry and warm before a crackling fire, the dragon and the girl chuckled over A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a mutual favorite of theirs.

She picked at her tea in between chuckles; he sat tall, like a cat, with his long tail tucked neatly around his paws beside her, humor turning his eyes to silver-blue.

“And you, Belle, have you ever been enamored of an ass? It seems to be a common enough affliction among women-folk. Why do members of your gender choose to throw themselves at the dregs of mine? From what I know and you’ve told me, Titania is not alone in her suffering,” it was a typical comment of his, a subtle poke at society’s center, without the heat that would make such a statement offensive. It was a gift, she thought, that he could see so cleanly into matters of human society, without bias one way or another. The dragon didn’t seem to hate, at all. He simply made observations.

“No, I’ve never been enamored with an ass. I prefer to avoid that sort of masochism. One was enamored with me, though.” Her brows knit in a small frown. “Guy Poulinrey. He lives in the village—the eldest son of the squire who was appointed to take care of the village for the marquis, some hundred years ago.”

Sorry to see a frown appear from what was meant as a jest, he asked quietly, “He upsets you?”

She shrugged restlessly; irritated that she’d brought the mood down. “No, not really. He is a spoiled brat, for the most part, but the village holds him in high regard. Arrogant. You known the type, I’m sure. He doesn’t really care about anyone save himself and appearances.” She brushed it off, but the frown remained.

Knowing the type well, for Belle had described himself from years before to a “T”, and unwilling to allow their conversation to end on such a note, the dragon stood.

“’Sound, music! Come, my queen, take hands with me,’” he quoted, a perfect Oberon, and coaxed her from the chair and into a mad waltz, rearing back onto his hind legs and using his tail to balance. Surprised in laughter by his sudden, almost desperate, madcap cheer, and knowing if she didn’t humor him now he’d worry; she slipped a hand into his carefully positioned paw, and rested the other on his shoulder, trusting as a child when his other claw-tipped paw settled gently at her hip.

For a moment, the world stood still for the two, dragon and girl, as they danced. Laughing, they whirled twice more, and the dance ended with them panting for breath, still chuckling.

“You, sir, are an excellent dancer,” Belle gasped, leaning lightly against him to catch her breath.

The rumble that served as his laugh sounded, rolling over her like a warm wave. “Rusty, certainly, but it is kind of you to say so. You are the better dancer, Belle, if only because you have danced more recently than I.”

“You are flattering me. I haven’t danced in years.” Embarrassment made her cheeks flame.

The dragon’s eyes narrowed on her, laughter whisking away the sadness that still occasionally haunted his eyes as though it had never been.

“You want flattery? More Shakespeare for you, then, since my poetry is as rusty as my dancing. ‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? / Thou art more lovely…Belle? Belle, what’s the matter?”

Her smile had fallen, her eyes gone tormented, as wave after wave of intense homesickness swept over her.

“Belle, please, what’s wrong?” he asked again, eyes locked on her face. He was terrified that she might faint; she had gone so very pale.

“I—I’m sorry,” she stammered, dragging herself back together. “My father used to say the same to my mother, when she was still alive. I—it’ll pass in a moment,” she was shaking, still pale as ash, her hand pressed against her heart, as though to ease the pain there.

“You miss you family.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. He had known for months that she missed her family, had chosen to turn away from it. If mere words could have this painful an effect on her, though, nothing he did could hold her here. She nodded, and he knew then that she was lost to him. It would, he mused numbly, be cruel to try to keep her. Cruel to keep her from the family that she loved, crueler still to take her freedom from her. And, he knew, he was enough of a bastard to want to keep her here.

“Belle, come with me. There is a way you can see them.” He turned, and led her out of the library, knowing it wouldn’t be enough only to see, that she would go now to her family.
Forever.

Ignoring his heart’s painful flutter, he headed toward the stairs of his tower, more like Orpheus than Oberon now, knowing that she followed him. Belle hesitated briefly at the foot of the stairs. Neither of them ever entered the other’s private chamber, not after the incident so many months ago.

“Oh, but—this is your—”

“It is of no matter, Belle. Come, I can show you your family,” the dragon promised, his voice a quiet rumble, to mask the pain that would crack it like glass.

The first thing she noted was that there were rose petals strewn about the room. Other than that, there had been no change since she’d last been in his room. Puzzled as to why he would throw rose petals on the floor, she began to ask, but he herded her over to the basin she’d admired so long ago. The vines that had been on it were gone, in their place, a wilting rose and its petals were nearly gone as well.

“Look into the water, Belle. Ask to see whatever you like—it will show you anything,” he murmured, turning away to give her privacy. Though he couldn’t blame her for wanting her freedom, he did not want to see who she would rather be with.

But the dragon heard her following his instructions, heard her ask to see her father. Not the selfish fool he had met, but the kind, good-natured man who loved his daughter that she’d described. He clenched his eyes shut as his stomach knotted.

True to his promise, the water clouded. When it cleared, she could see the merchant, still abed at this hour, two of Belle’s sisters fussing over him. They looked weary and deeply afraid for their father, who shivered and sweated by turns, wracked with some kind of illness.

Belle’s gasp of horror struck at the dragon’s heart, her dismayed cry of ‘Papa!’ biting even deeper. He did not understand the bond between them; his own parents had been cold people, distant and unapproachable who had loved tradition and appearances more than their son. Even so, he thought, he could give her what she needed. Choking slightly on the words, he spat them out;

“Belle, you must go to him. Your father…your father needs you there.” He took a breath, nearly wincing as words like ice shards shredded in his throat. “I free you from any obligation to me.”

No, no, no! This wasn’t how it was supposed to end, that part of him that had demanded he let her stay shouted, fighting against the iron control he held it back with. Not like this! Not now, not when we’re so close!

She turned, unaware of his inner war, with tears shinning like diamonds in her whiskey-colored eyes. “Oh, my friend, thank you so much! I will return, though, do not worry,” she promised, as she flung her arms around his serpentine neck in a hug of gratitude.

Unseen, his eyelids closed over black cats-eyes, the irises tinged with the same purple color as his flame. A claw-tipped paw rose to rest carefully against her back to return the embrace.

“No, Belle, you won’t. The castle will hide itself from you—it does not allow visitors to return here. You will not be able to find it again. Here,” she released him, so that he could pad over to the bed, to take the book that rested on the red velvet coverlet, and hand in to her. It was beautifully bound, as all of the dragon’s books were. Embossed in silver on the black leather was the title: Le Chien de Petit-dent—The Small-Tooth Dog. It was an old fairy tale, about a man cursed to be a dog, until a princess had freed him. Startled, Belle looked up at the dragon.

“So you remember, if you’d like to,” he murmured, a roll of thunder wrapped in velvet. It was a clue, one he couldn’t help but give her, even though he knew it was too late now. He had found it, finally, the night before, and had planned on giving it to her today. But now… The persistent, optimistic part of him had finally quieted, likely numbed from the same sense of cold that was holding the dragon together. It was as though a wall of ice held his mind separate from the pain that was beginning to build up.

“I could never forget you—never! And I will come back, I promise!” The girl swore, clutching the book to her heart.

He nodded; trying to let that promise, even though he knew it was false, soothe his shattered soul. “Nevertheless. Now go, Belle. It will take you a while to get through the forest, and you must get home before dark.”

She nodded in return; looking more excited than he’d ever seen her, and threw him one last smile of gratitude. “You have my thanks, mon ami!”

The wall of ice broke, like a dam overflowed by a river.

Miserable beyond words, he could only nod again, and watch her disappear from his tower. Within moments, she was out the great doors and through the gate, with nary but a single glance back. The dragon watched until she was long out of sight.

“’Some, Cupid kills with arrows’,” he murmured to himself, his voice completely devoid of emotion. “’Some, with traps.’”

The pain was rolling through him in great, thorough waves. It was filling him with a vicious cold so unlike the numbing one from before that he could feel nothing but the pain.

“For me, he simply tears out my beating heart, and hands it to her in a basket. And she calls me friend.”

He didn’t realize that his knees were weak until they gave out beneath him. The dragon didn’t bother to try and get back up, but curled into a tight ball there upon the stone floor of his dreary chamber. He had thought, once, that his transformation had been the single most painful moment of his life—more painful than his parent’s cold indifference, more painful than the deaths of his family members, more painful than the desertion of his friends during those long, bloody days of the feud. He’d been wrong, so very, very wrong. This pain soared high above the other, taking all of the little pains and tripling them so they crashed back down on him now. Now, all he could think was that it hadn’t been enough. Once again, his love hadn’t been enough.

“What use did cursing me have, Shayia?” He asked the dead enchantress, a girl he’d once been friends with, and then betrothed to, and then enemies with. “What purpose, if it was only to end like this? When simply leaving me in human form, to blunder through like a fool, would have achieved the same thing?”

A low keening sound slipped from his throat, and unexpected, hated tears burned down his angular face. He hadn’t cried since long before his transformation—not since he had realized the true depth of his parents’ indifference, realized the futility of his attempts at earning their affection or even attention. With a growl, he curled tighter; trying to will the pain to go; hating the weakness. But it was like trying to hurry the sun on its course to the west.

“And thus you shall remain until there comes the one that will give you what you lack, despite your form. You shall have one hundred years in which to undo this curse, else you shall be trapped thus forever.”

Another petal fell, unacknowledged, as he wept.