Anathema

The moonslight eliminates treetops far below and reflects from the river, but she cannot see him. Her desperate eyes scan the landscape for any hope he would have survived the fall. Her mind races, but her thoughts are empty of any real substance in this moment.

A dark shape grows from between the treetops, growing larger and larger by the second. She scrambles backwards just the Dragon ascends rapidly into the air right in front of her, climbing as if to reach the stars above. The scales glint beautifully silver in the light of the moons, and the wings spread to gargantuan proportions. Osthryn crawls backward until her back hits a boulder, breath heaving she watches the Dragon that banked down and is now hovering before the cliff. Twice in one day had she seen a Dragon in their true form, and now he is hovering mere feet from her, piercing her with his expectant gaze.

“You were at the square this morning," Osthryn breathes. Smoke spills over from the Dragon’s eyes and nostrils, the steel-blue eyes that once belonged to what Osthryn believed to be a handsome and silly young human mage are now glowing coldly with untold power.

In a rush, all the versions of how her meeting with a Southern Dragon could have transpired fall through her mind. None involved her being practically courted by one in disguise for weeks on end at the steps of a royal library.

“It’s your turn, Osthryn," Silovar’s voice echoes in her mind. The teasing invitation is easy, light hearted, as if flying is the most mundane thing in the world. Osthryn shakily rises to her feet, but that is as far as motion is taking her at this point. Panic immediately wells up within her at his words, drowning out the awe and reverence she should otherwise be feeling in this moment.

“I can’t."

The Dragon shrinks down in a whirl of smoke as it comes to a landing, Silovar emerging from the dissipating smog and walking toward her with a reassuring smile on his face, his hand outstretched. “You can."

Osthryn shakes her head numbly, staring beyond Silovar over the plunging cliff. “I cannot fly. I mustn’t fly, they will come for us all."

“We are not in Bettramon," Silovar gently reminds her, his hand snaking around the small of her back to lead her closer. “Never once, in my five hundred years, have I met a Dragon that could not fly from the day that they hatched. You can do this."

Osthryn leans back, straining against his hold, clutching at her braid. She shuts her eyes tightly as Silovar starts to guide her to the cliff’s edge, setting off another memory.

The fire did not lie; it had revealed her scales, and they had betrayed her. She stood on the cliff at Devil’s Peak, silver-tipped spears at her back to ensure she did not try to escape. Osthryn had heard it was first called Devil’s Peak for the Dragon that once lived here, and now it was called Devil’s Peak for the accused witches and Dragons alike that were plunged over the cliff face. The chief ’s son had the honours. With a push she was sent falling to the ground below. Her conditioning held, she should not fly. She would not fly. To fly was to risk them all. Like when she was a youngling, she looked to the clouds for comfort. They were dark, grey, and wet. She ran her fingers over them, imagining a wet woollen blanket, or the moss-covered rocks in a stream. Her shoulders twisted into the starting nubs of wings as she anticipated the pain, but she held to her resolve. Osthryn closed her eyes, slowing her heartbeat to a stop. None of her kin would be sought out for her weakness. She will. not. fly.
“Shhh,” Silovar's hands graze her shoulders, enveloping her with something warm, “Osthryn, it’s okay. I am sorry, I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you so far. Here, shhh, I am sorry..."

Osthryn realises they are back to the trees lining the slope behind them, Silovar wrapping his coat around her shoulders. She’s sitting hunched over, still gripping her braid in her hands. Silovar crouches in front of her, his usual playful boisterousness replaced with a dark solemnity. Some of the coldness of the Dragon lingers in his eyes as they search her face. She feels hot tears pouring unfettered down her cheeks. Embarrassed, she reaches up to wipe them, and notices the glint of bronze scales on her fingertips. She hides her hands under the coat, instinctively mumbling “Talons be nails, claws be hands. Spines be hair..."

Silovar leans in close, kneeling on the ground beside her, grabbing her hands and wrapping them in his. "Hey. Hey. Stop. You don't need to do that."

Osthryn stops.

Silovar watches her carefully as her breathing gradually slows.

"Please ... take me home. On foot," Osthryn specifies, trying to smile, but only manages it weakly. She is relieved when Silovar chuckles gently at her attempt at levity.

Osthryn gratefully accepts his hand to help her up. He leaves his coat over her shoulders, and she tugs it closer appreciatively. While it is unlikely anyone would see them walking back through the city at this time of night, Osthryn is sure that her hands are still covered in unruly scales, so they remain tucked under the heavy woolen fabric. Besides, the heft and warmth of the coat over her shoulders is a surprisingly effective comfort.