Not the only strange Dragon

Osthryn takes a step back. No one has ever mentioned that before. That piece of information, however, is remarkable for more than its face value. If Dragons could resurrect themselves, why did her elders and all the other Dragons in Bettramon fear death at the hands of the humans so much? Why train the instinct for flight out of her, why drill the rhyme and the importance of the human form into her, if they could simply resurrect themselves?

“Is this what you meant? When you said that the humans can truly do nothing to me? When you said you wanted to show me why I did not know what I was talking about?"

Silovar nods slowly. “Yes."

“This is a lot. You understand that, don’t you?"

“Unfortunately, we have just gotten started. I need to know why you were taught to be so afraid of them. Your elders must have known this, mine were among them before they migrated South."

Osthryn squeezes her eyes shut. The rising volume of Silovar’s voice juxtaposes against the absolute silence echoed jarringly in her ears. “Can we discuss this outside? It’s getting loud in here."

Silovar pauses, and takes Osthryn’s hand to lead her from the circle. The rush of ambient sound washes over her when they emerge from the bounds of the warding on the Henge. Silovar guides her to a small copse a few feet from the Henge itself, sitting down among a small bedding of assorted plants and flowers. Two small saplings, freshly planted, grows among them. Osthryn takes little notice of the small garden, however, her thoughts reeling.

“If no Dragon can truly be killed, and if there is nothing to fear in Bettramon, why did your people leave? What hope was there for them to seek, if there was no need to seek it?" Osthryn reasons, her face resting on the palms of her hands.

“The story as I have it is that Dragons migrated South because the humans in Bettramon rejected magic, and we had no means to help them. Your people stayed behind to help in human guises as far as they could, and they sent us South, saying they would join us if they did not succeed."

“When did this migration take place according to your story?"

“Two thousand years ago, around the time this Henge was erected."

“And when were you hatched?"

“Five hundred years ago."

“So, neither of us have the years to verify these stories for ourselves," Osthryn sighs, looking up and dropping her hands in her lap in exasperation. She studies the small flower-beds around her, trying to make sense of everything.

“Who planted these?" Osthryn asks, the flowers and plants a welcome sight in the midst of the strange morning she’s been having so far.

“Do you like them?" Silovar asks.

“They are beautiful!" She crawls the small distance to the flower-bed closest to her, fondly grasping a flower’s head gently between her fingers to look at it. The texture is familiar, like velvet.

“This is my garden," Silovar says proudly. “I keep it small, but I like trying all sorts of things. Not one of these plants are native to this region, I like to push the limits of what my magic can compensate for in the absence of proper climate or the correct season."

Osthryn chuckles. “I am not the only odd Dragon, it seems."

“Well, not being able to fly is a little more strange than a Dragon that enjoys keeping an exotic garden.

“Point taken," Osthryn concedes, sitting back on her heels and letting the strange bud fall back to its place.

“But however few years we have to verify these stories," Silovar continues as if the flower-beds were never mentioned, “I am still determined to make it out. I doubt our elders parted amicably, otherwise we would both have better information about our respective backgrounds.” He pauses a moment. “I am not exactly keen to ask them directly."

“Why not?" Osthryn probes. “I doubt your elders threw you off cliffs repeatedly and lashed you with silver-weaved whips when you stepped out of line."

Silovar sits still, his steel eyes boring into Osthryn’s own, a fire seemingly raging inside them. She shifts uncomfortably. That was an uncharacteristically forward admission, one she doubts even Silovar knows what to do with. Thankfully, the fire in his eyes bank down, and he pushes the subject forward.

“Dragons are hatched fully sentient and capable of flight for one reason and one reason alone, they are solitary and independent creatures. The Southern Dragons are scattered all throughout the reaches below the Forest Boundary. They will not be aggressive, but they are aloof and territorial."

Osthryn cocks her head teasingly. “Then why aren’t you aloof and territorial?"

“Like you said," Silovar responds absently, tearing at the tips of grass at his feet. “You are not the only strange Dragon."

Osthryn pulls her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around her legs. She stares absently at the grass being tugged asunder at Silovar’s feet.

“I must be one of few Dragons in the South that regularly take on human skin," Silovar says at length. Osthryn rests her chin atop her knees, determined not to allow herself to interject with the question forming at the tip of her tongue.

“Dragons are proud. We retain our mystery. We are above the humans, and that is where we should remain. To involve yourself too intimately with their affairs is to lower yourself to their rank. Dragons do sometimes take on human form for a time, mostly to manipulate situations in their favour or out of some form of curiosity, but further than that they prefer to be the mysterious prayer-carriers in the sky. Worshipped by some, revered by others, and mythologised by all. I think I must be too curious, because I cannot help wandering through the Mountainkeep streets. The humans’ lives are so small, their thoughts so fleeting, but they are fascinating creatures. Like sparks jumping from a campfire, I think I can watch them come and go for the rest of my days."

Osthryn hums. “It is ironic. I spend my days in human skin for my own survival, dreading the moment anyone discovers my Draconic heritage. Yet, you are in your scales freely, as you choose, and you speak of your curiosity to take on human skin as a wound on the pride you should hold as a Dragon."

“Do not misunderstand me," Silovar interjects. “Very few humans have the privilege of knowing I am a Dragon. If my identity was discovered, it would be inconvenient at best, and infuriatingly bothersome at worst. The humans here are not as militant as those in Bettramon, but they still react poorly in the presence of what they do not understand."

“And yet, you insist that humans can do nothing to us."

“I wish there was more I knew about the Resurrection Henge," Silovar continues, not truly answering her question, staring beyond Osthryn at the Standing Stones. “While we never truly die, Resurrection is exhausting business. I had to bring a Dragon here once, when I was scarcely a hundred. It was almost as if he expelled more magical energy than he used. The ward that I told you about? I think it does more than simply seal the beacon. I can almost swear to you that that web caught that energy and sent it back to him. I wonder what would have happened if he had resurrected alone, if he would have been even more weakened had I not brought him to the Henge."

“In other words," Osthryn offers gently, “they can do something." 

“I will concede that," Silovar says, “but I will not concede fearing for your life. I do not doubt that they hurt you, and I do not make your treatment at the hands of your elders small, but humans are still smaller than you. They are weaker, of both mind and body. I need you to understand that you will not suffer what your elders made you believe."

“That does not answer why they believed that, or why your people went South," Osthryn counters.

“It doesn’t," Silovar admits. He sighs, then leaps to his feet and offers his hand to Osthryn. She takes it, realising that this conversation is duly ended. Silovar immediately steps excitedly around the bedding, and comes to stand with his hands behind his back before two saplings.

“Would you like to know what took me so long to get back to you?" Silovar asks, his characteristic grin on his face once again.

“A Baobhan Sith, and a fight to the death?" Osthryn teases.

“Nah, that was just to lead you on. An angry Bettramoni nursery-owner with terrible aim, more like. Don’t you recognize these saplings?" Osthryn kneels in front of them, tracing her fingers across the bark. Her breath hitchs – these are Glasswood trees!

“Where did you get them?!” she cannot keep the excitement from her voice. “These only grow in Bettramon, the southernmost you will find them is just before the Forest Boundary!"

“Well, I just told you, from a very angry Bettramoni nursery-owner with terrible aim."

“You went up to Bettramon, and you flew there, in plain sight?!" Osthryn exclaims, the saplings forgotten as she squares up to Silovar, her eyes blazing.

“I made sure to only fly at night. I was careful. But you were not lying,” he nods insufferably. “They really hate Dragons up there. Either that, or stealing saplings from a nursery is likewise unappreciated."

“I knew to trust my gut that you were in danger of witch-takers! Why did you do that?"

“Well, Osthryn," Silovar croons, brushing her shoulders as if smoothing ruffled feathers, his hands coming to rest on them. “You told me a story involving the bark of this strange new tree that I just had to go find, and I wanted to see if I could find a Northern elder Dragon or two to speak my mind at. I only succeeded at the first, however. Your people are really well hidden."

Osthryn’s mouth hangs open. Silovar truly is foolhardy and reckless.

“I do think, however, that it is more likely due to the fact that I only spent a day or two in Bettramon actually looking for one, rather than them being that good at hiding. The trees were a lot more interesting."

Silovar winces with exaggeration when Osthryn gives a good back-handed tap against his chest. “You could have died. Properly."

Silovar raises his hands and shrugs. “I could have revived myself."

“And lie there weakened while they stood in wait with silver-tipped spears aimed at your face? I doubt it."

“Oh, come on, at least I got some fascinating trees out of it. Why are they called Glasswood, by the way?"

Osthryn's posture softens, a smile lighting her face, "Do you have some wine or spirits with you?" she asks.

Silovar cocks his head, intrigued, "No?"

“Well," Osthryn begins cautiously, gently running her fingers over the flower on his coat lapel, “when you want to ... fly ... again, we should bring some, and I could show you."

Silovar’s grin practically splits his face in two. “Deal."