Dragon Fire

“Love the heart that hurts you, but never hurt the heart that loves you.” —Vipin Sharma

Belle stirred quietly, blinking in the low light of the Great Hall. The fire before her in the giant fireplace had burnt low, but still emitted heat and small purple-colored flames to lick at what remained of its fuel. She turned over to face the dragon—a dragon no more. As she’d expected, the man had once again taken his place, stretched out on his side beside her. He slept quietly, chest rising and falling with his steady breathing. The injuries he’d gained coming to her rescue stood out on his skin with a horrific sort of juxtaposition, dark red against the paleness of his face and what she could see of his chest beneath his loose shirt.

She nearly reached out to him, almost brushed the thick silver hair back from his angular face, wanted to smooth the lines etched there even in sleep away. Belle refrained, fearing, perhaps unnecessarily, a reaction like the one earlier. But she did take a moment to study his features more closely. A straight, aristocratic nose sat easily in his narrow face, winged eyebrows arching over his deep-set eyes, the lashes currently fanning over the high cheekbones. There were small wrinkles around his eyes, and lines etched at the corners of his mouth, adding more character to his planed face. Dark, mauve bruises stood out beneath his eyes, speaking of little easy sleep, and the three scratches slashed across the left side of his face, sparing his eye, and sliced into the flesh of his cheek.

Belle froze as he shifted slightly, watched as his eyebrows drew together when he found it hurt to move, and then settled again with a soft sigh. She relaxed again when the man showed no signs of waking.

Why? She wondered. He’s human, so why does he take that form? She had heard of sorcerers who could do great and terrible things with their magic, but she simply couldn’t equate what she’d observed of the dragon-man to that kind of arrogance. Besides, why would anyone wish to change themselves into a dragon? It was frightening, certainly, but…could he really have taken that form for no better purpose than to appear frightening?

He could, she realized, appalled. Hadn’t he sent her father back nearly in tears, with threats of dire consequences if Rhys didn’t return within three days to pay for taking shelter when it was needed? But…if he was truly that self-centered, why would he have gone to the trouble of saving her, of being injured for her sake?

He shifted again, another grimace of pain flitting across his pale face. Belle jerked her attention back to him as he shuddered once, a long shiver that wracked his entire body. His face tightened with discomfort and misery, and he tried to curl in on himself, into the dubious comfort of a ball. The dragon-man gasped as the movements tugged and reopened some of his wounds, flinching from the pain.

He was having another nightmare.

She did reach out this time, torn between hoping he would wake, and that he wouldn’t. The least she could do was to ease his pain a bit, as Grand-mère had shone her. He didn’t wake, but a pale hand shot up to grasp hers when she touched his shoulder, clinging like a small child, startling her away from her plan to ease the ache of his wounds. Gradually, his breathing evened again, and his muscles unlocked. The man’s hand loosened slightly on hers, but he didn’t yet release her. When she attempted to draw away his face tightened again, though he made no move to stop her, which in itself had her halting her retreat. Instinct and kindness told her to allow the contact, even while her pragmatic side shouted that he was at the very least a sorcerer, and not to be trusted. She ignored the pragmatism, and lay back down as a yawn ripped through her. Belle’s body was demanding more sleep, so she pushed all thought away, and gave into slumber.

The first thing he became aware of at dawn, when he woke, was warmth and contact, concentrated against his front. The second thing he noticed was the scent of lavender and rosemary—at least, he was nearly sure it was rosemary. It was a comforting smell, invoking memories of the long-ago nurses and caretakers from his childhood. The dragon’s eyes opened resignedly, unwilling to give up the hazy warmth of an uninterrupted, dreamless sleep. It had been a very long time since he’d been able to sleep through the night undisturbed, without waking once or twice. He had a vague impression of a soft voice, and a gentle hand offering comfort, but he couldn’t be sure that he hadn’t simply dreamt it.

With a shake of his great head, he dismissed it, and looked down at the girl sleeping beside him. Belle lay curled against his chest, sound asleep, as though she hadn’t a care in the world, with her head pillowed by his front leg. The dragon’s eyes widened marginally when he saw that one of her tiny hands was trapped in a cage made by his paw, the tender flesh a bare hairs-width from his dagger-like claws. Carefully, not daring to breathe, he pulled the talons away from fragile skin, blanching at the thought of what might have happened if he’d but twitched in his sleep.

Belle stirred as he drew back, following his movement to remain pressed against the warmth of his body. The dragon blinked, taken aback by the unconscious trust in the girl’s movement. A second later, he was floored by an even larger conclusion.

He could lose his heart to this girl, this woman, who he’d ripped from her home. There would be no getting it back, he realized, no second chances for him. When she left—and he knew she would, for there was no way she could ever be content to simply stay—his solitude would quickly become unbearable.

The dragon lay still for a very long time, with Belle asleep beside him, gazing into the fire he’d relit, lost in thought.