Chapter Text
It is deep underground that you meet him for the first time.
You had long since known him—you were the one to restore his statue. You cleaned it diligently, gently wiping away what must have been years of mud and grime, plucking out leaves tucked into tight crannies, and clearing away the overgrown grass near the base.
You didn't know why you felt so called to take such care of a statue—of stone and nothing more. You had been taken back by its sheer presence, it's size and craftsmanship, but that wasn't grounds to treat it like a living being; like an old friend you hadn't seen in a lifetime.
Your preconceptions had been shattered the moment he appeared in your dreams, of course, and nothing had been quite the same since. Your every waking moment away from the bustle of labor and ranching had been spent by his side—speaking to him until one or both of you grew tired and adjourned for the day.
You were captivated, truly—by this statue, this god who happened to inhabit your farmland. Who happened to watch your every move, hear your every word and breath. For a little while, you couldn't help but wonder if it was fate. On a night of shooting stars, sat by his side in silence, watching colors streak across the sky, you hoped it was.
It is only when you are on the verge of death that the truth reveals itself to you.
Your body floods with heat—with what feels like a roaring blaze, bright enough to eclipse even the sun; and it is not enough. You cannot struggle, you cannot fight. Darkness creeps along your sight, your breathing slows to a trickle, and your pulse, once roaring in your ears in fear, grows dull. Faint.
You're dying, and you know there is nothing to be done. Nobody knows you are here, not at this hour. Even if they did, what could they do? There is nobody who can save you. Even he, the god of this land, can only watch your life fade. You hear his horror in your head. Faintly, you wish for him to look away. To sever this link between the two of you—to save himself the sight.
If you cannot live by his side in happiness, at the least, you wish for him to be spared the despair of your death.
There is a flash of light. The air trembles, and though your vision is still dark, your senses still numbed, you feel your hair stand on end. Your body knows before you do that you kneel before a god.
There is movement, a flash of colors and hair, and with all your effort, all your faith and all your will, you lift your gaze. You lock eyes.
His burn like fire, blazing bright with what you cannot yet understand as fear. He races towards you, hand outstretched, screaming your name like it is the only word he's ever known, and you—
You know deep down that you are saved.
That was the day you met him; met his careful embrace as he held your shaking form in his arms, brushing hair out of your bleary eyes and asking you if you're alright, if you can hear his voice. You gripped his hand with your own, weak but fervent, and hear him gasp. You see him smile, gaze falling to stare at the stone below as tears streak down his cheeks.
They hit the ground with a sound you cannot hear, and you know that you will do all in your power, all in your simple, mortal life to keep him away from grief—from pain and all that would ever do him harm. You know then and there that there is something that binds you to him, to the one who saved your life and now weeps in sheer gratitude.
It is this bond that keeps you by his side through the seasons. It is this bond that has him taking you by the hand to watch those same stars you had seen before, side by side once again.
It is your bond that one day leads your hearts together—your bond that lets him call you mate. When you first press your lips to his, you cannot imagine anything better than his body against yours.
You are happy by his side. You are blissfully in love; you are his as he is yours. There is nothing in the world that could change this. So you think.
It isn't more than two seasons before a steady distance starts to grow.
Snow swirls in small flurries, winding through the Deep Woods on a chilled wind, one that has long numbed the tip of your nose. You exhale, watching your breath puff into a soft cloud, slowly fading into the air as you sit. The oak tree is sturdy, and the branches are thick. You wouldn't be caught in a sudden avalanche from above. So you hope, anyways.
The trunk is firm behind your back, bark digging into your skin through your coat. The sky above is overcast, a melancholy gray that blots out sun and moon alike. At this hour, the horizon is likely a dimming orange, but you're not here to guess the time.
You're here to think.
You're not really one for introspection, you admit, but to you, this feels like a good enough reason to change that. You've been so happy lately, there's been no reason to think about things deeper than what you already have. Now, though, something's been… different. Off, even.
You sigh. You're worried about him—about Caldarus.
In your eyes, he is the closest thing to perfection possible. Considering that he was a god, you suppose that's only natural, but deification is far from the reason you love him. He is kind, to any and all without condition. You'd hardly believed your eyes when you once watched him kneel down, using his massive, clawed hands to scoop up a tiny baby bird. It was so small you could barely see it even as you rushed up to him, with him lowering his arms for you to take a look.
It wasn't injured, and with a quiet murmur, a soft gale carried the chick back to its nest. You stared up at it for a breath before turning your attention to Caldarus. His brow was pinched, his lips and ears quirked down—he was worried.
"I'm sure its mother will come back soon," You'd offered him.
"I will make sure of it," he'd said, matter of fact. "I am certain she will come asking."
That was that. A soft, if not distinct reminder of his power and how he used it. You are certain that if he held a few more memories, a little more meat on his bones, he could burn down this small town and leave not a trace behind besides ash on bitter winds.
But he would never. Caldarus is kind—he is sweeter than the Mont Blanc you bring him on slow days around the farm, brighter than the sparkle in his eyes when you tell him about your day. He is so, so loving. You love him in turn, and that is precisely why you worry.
You worry that he is too kind to confide in you his troubles.
On the day of his confession, he had admitted to you his lack of experience with emotions. You have long known of his foggy memory and weakened body—of his cooking woes and confusion with growing accustomed to being flesh and blood. As glad as you are that he shares these things with you, you know that there is so much more he keeps behind calm smiles and soft kisses.
Normally, this wouldn't bother you. Everyone has secrets, and you suppose a several thousand-year-old dragon has a few. You gladly let his past stay where it is, whether he can remember it or not. But lately, he's been acting…
Strange.
Over the past few weeks, Caldarus has been growing distant. You hadn't noticed at first, it had started small; now, it was obvious—his holds on you were shorter. He spoke less during conversation, and once after dinner, you'd spied him turning away with a hand over his nose, brows furrowed.
You remember frowning. Did you smell? You had just come off a hard day on the farm, and a dragon's nose has to be far more sensitive than yours…
You confronted him the next day. In a flushed frenzy, he waved his hands, swearing up and down that you did, indeed, smell lovely and that he hadn't even noticed his own lesser affections recently. You'd watched his face fall, his hands fidget. Watched his ears droop, his tail sweeping across the floor, scraping up dirt.
You had immediately felt so bad that you gave up your case.
You'd explained yourself in a rush, desperate to ease the saddest look you'd ever seen in your life. To your surprise, however, Caldarus had immediately understood. He'd nodded solemnly, surprisingly so, and embraced you. He had not explained anything, to your chagrin, but tightened his arms in exchange.
You let it go. It was hard to be worried in such a gentle hold.
For a while, the distance had closed. You thought the matter done with, and if it wasn't, you were willing to discuss it further. If you were making him uncomfortable somehow or doing something wrong, you'd gladly give your soul to fix it.
But now, in recent days, it had not only returned, but intensified tenfold. He's begun avoiding you. He dodges your touch, barely speaks to you, and today, you had taken his proffered hand, so happy to finally hold him again.
When your palm had met his, the flinch had rippled through his body. As though you'd dropped a stone into still water, and you stared at him, watching your reflection settle in the murky pond that he's become.
You weren't hurt—you were confused. You were worried. You know he isn't meaning to push you away, Caldarus would never. Something else is happening; you just don't know what it could possibly be, and it's eating you alive.
It's why you're out here. Freezing in the cold, blinking back to focus and finding your body shaking. Thankfully, you haven't been buried from above, and as your stretch your legs out, you hear the soft crunch of snow just out of sight.
Speak of the devil, you think, swiveling your head. Or dragon, in this case.
"There you are," he breathes your name so warmly, you find it hard to believe he hasn't said it in nearly a week. "I found myself growing concerned. It is most cold out today, and you have been alone for some time now."
"It hasn't been that long…"
Caldarus appears fully, a hand holding his robes closer to his chest. He settles by your side and sits, his bare talons in the snow. You cringe on his behalf at the thought of the cold, but he endures the feeling with nothing more than a smile at you, his face lightly flushed from the wind.
"The sky is darkening," he tells you kindly, "and I recall you not being so fond of the moths come night."
"I get scared one time…" you grumble, and he chuckles softly. You feel your chest flutter. This conversation is so brief, yet it feels so normal. It is so far from what you've been having recently; so far from the stilted words and silence.
Silence falls as the forest howls, the branches above your head trembling. You look up, and are met with a face full of snow for your effort. You cough and sputter, your every nerve aflame from the cold, desperately inching away from the potential avalanche.
Claws dig into your hips and pull you away, and as you finally shake your head and wipe away the lingering flakes, you find yourself now surrounded by warmth. Something firm lies behind you, not harsh like the oak tree, but softer.
A hand brushes over your arm. You blink. "Are you alright?" is the question he asks, his warm breath fanning over your ear from behind. You become all too aware of the feeling of his thigh against yours.
You shiver.
"I'm fine," you nearly stammer, feeling your face warm. As you are, you're nearly sat on his lap. After nearly a season with the barest touches, this feels overwhelming. Not wrong but… odd. You'd give anything for it to go back to feeling right. "Thank you, Caldarus."
You mean it, and you turn to face him. His eyes are tight at the corners, staring at you as though he sees right through you. You swallow, watching with bated breath as his hands reach for yours. You tremble as his palms meet yours, his thumbs coming to rest over your knuckles.
Almost absently, you curl your fingers around his own.
"You are freezing," he murmurs, voice deep with worry. It takes you aback, and his burning gaze flashes to yours. It sends sparks through you, from the tips of your ears to the depths of your chest. You can only stare, lips parting as he looks down at your hands, yours atop his.
Gently, he pulls them closer, up to the edge of his mouth. His breath is warm, tickling your frozen skin. His eyes flit away, meeting yours. Softly, as though he thought you'd ever deny him, Caldarus asks you—
"May I?"
May he what? You don't know. You don't care. When he's staring at you like that—like you are the greatest blessing he has ever laid eyes upon, with such a tender gaze your aching heart softens and sighs, you know you would give him every piece of you without a second thought.
You nod.
He blinks his stare away, back to your held hands. His exhale is soft and warm against your skin, and you feel gooseflesh ripple across your arms. You watch him slowly inhale, eyes lidded in focus. Like this, you think, he is otherworldly beautiful.
A sudden flash makes you reel. You blink, unsure of just what you think you saw, until you see it again. A bright orange, like a fresh flame, and you can only stare in disbelief as you watch the color build in the hollow of Caldarus' throat. Faintly, it does hit you that he is a dragon, breathing fire tends to be part of that, but to see him do it before you…
You watch in awe as he breathes out, smoke curling out of his nose as embers fly from between his teeth. They pop to the ground, and you see one land upon your hand. A distant part of you thinks you should be screaming, but you are not in pain. It does not burn you—for it melts into your skin, warming you from the inside.
His breath is like a hearth, and you shakily sigh in relief. You cannot tear your eyes away from him; from this power he wields as easily as existing. Even weakened, even flesh and blood, Caldarus yet reminds you that he is more powerful than you could ever hope to be.
As the fire fades from his throat, you know that you are utterly content with that.
His eyes regain their usual shine, and he raises them to look at you. His ears perk up, and you realize with amusement that he is expecting praise. "Did that help?"
His voice is rough from lingering ash, and residual smoke curls out of his mouth with his words. It sends a different sort of heat through you—one that no fire could ever cause.
"Did it?" You laugh. "I've walked through lava pits underground and I don't think I've ever been warmer."
Caldarus' face falls. You realize he's taken it the wrong way. "No—not in a bad way, really. It's the middle of winter, and I can compare the feeling to the mines! You absolutely helped me. Thank you—" you hesitate with an inhale, before softly adding, "—my love."
It's a little old-fashioned, but you think it's the sort of term Caldarus would enjoy. He speaks to you in such a way already, and as you watch his brows rise and lips part, you know that you thought correctly. A soft flush overtakes him, reaching to the tips of his ears, which twitch in restrained joy. He clutches your hands tighter, and so carefully, as he once handled that fledgling, he holds them up to his lips.
He makes eye contact, and he whispers a word you cannot understand. His voice turns guttural, and you shudder to your bones. A heat in your belly erupts for a reason you do not understand, and you can only stare as his eyes flutter closed, long lashes brushing your fingers as he kisses your knuckles.
Your mind sees him, acknowledges him, but it only replays that one word. Over and over, you hear it—you feel it, down to the depths of your being.
Somehow, you think, you know that word.
Caldarus pulls away. He stares at you with those bright, burning eyes. Your mouth dries up, nearly turning your question to dust. "What… did you say?"
He smiles. It's a sad thing, and he gently releases your hands. You pull them back to your side as his rest on his lap, and he averts his eyes to the snow. "It is a very old word," he says to the expanse more than to you, "One that I have not spoken in an age. Perhaps longer."
His gaze slides to yours, and his small smile widens just a touch. It's as though the sight of you gives him confidence, and softly, he says the word that shakes your bones and rattles your mind. His translation quickly follows.
"Beloved."
You shouldn't gasp—you used a term of endearment first—but it is the way he speaks it that urges you to gape. It is loving, tender. He speaks the word as though it carries his very soul, his very heart. You swallow and almost choke on the weight of knowing that he deems you worthy of bearing his love.
You aren't really sure what to say in response—there is nothing to say, you think. Something is better than nothing, though. You don't want his quiet declaration to fade into silence. "Caldarus…"
You shift closer to him. You reach out, a hand curling into his robes, into the feathers he wears during these cold days. You watch his face warp into something that you can only call a primal sort of surprise. It's so endearing, you can only stifle your giggle by biting your lip.
"You called me beloved, and you don't expect me to act on that?"
"I do not expect anything from you," Caldarus says with wide eyes, nonetheless cradling your back as you crawl closer to him. "I would never force you to reciprocate my feelings."
You chuckle. You run a hand over his collar, watching him fight the impulse to lean into you. "I'd say we're past the point of only returning feelings, as you say."
He sighs. The smile that blooms in its wake melts your weak heart, and his ears twitch off the snow that's built atop their curve. "If that is how you feel…" his breath fans over your head, and a clawed hand gently grips your chin, tilting your face up. "Then let none say I will fight you upon it, beloved."
Your chest pangs, and suddenly, you can't kiss him fast enough. His lips are chapped, but you're sure yours are the same. They're still soft, and as you focus on the feeling and warmth of him against you, you nearly miss the way his tail escapes the confines of his robe and nestles around your waist instead.
It's innocent and brief as it always is, and as you break away, you do not expect anything more. To you, this is an apology—enough of an answer to your worry. You pull back, into your own space, but a hand follows you there. It rests upon your knee and squeezes, and your chest grows tight as though it was being gripped instead.
"I… apologize," he begins, and you feel your heart stutter, "for my recent distance. You have done nothing wrong. I—"
Caldarus looks away, staring out into the snow as though it holds something you don't. You watch him deliberate, as he does when he is unsure of himself—unsure of his own vulnerability. You wait, gently resting your hand over his own. For him, you would wait your lifetime just to hear his words.
"It—it is my fault. Of late, I have been feeling… out of sorts. I had thought that perhaps this weaker body was growing ill—it seemed to come and go, and I would never wish to pass on a sickness that could make a dragon feel uneasy, especially to you. It… was never my intention to force you away or to cause you harm. I only wanted you to be safe, beloved."
Despite his warm words, he winces. "You never hurt me," you murmur. "I was worried about you. I… don't know anything about how dragons work, really, considering you're the only one I know. I do remember you telling me that dragons rarely get ill, but…" you faintly shrug. "You never know, I guess. If you really were sick, though, I'd like you to tell me so I can help you. Even if I can't actually do anything, I'd just be happy to keep you company, Caldarus."
You watch his expression change as you speak, and as you close your mouth, his former wince turns into a smile. As always, it is so soft it takes your breath away. His eyes meet your hands, yours atop his once again. "Thank you," he whispers with the howl of the wind. "I must admit—I forget at times that I am no longer alone."
The words ring with a palpable pain. Though his face is calm, you can only imagine the tempest that lingers in a place you cannot see. "I do not mean that as an affront to you," Caldarus smiles at you, somewhat shyly, "Rather, as my mind cleared upon my awakening… I came to realize that much time had passed. That all I knew had vanished. I am accustomed to time's flow, and yet…"
You've… never really thought of it that way. You knew that, per his own admission, several thousand years were but fog in his memory. You know little of history, but you know empires have risen, fallen, and risen again in that time. You know it has been generations upon generations of humans since those who would have once known him by visage alone.
A dragon is immortal, but they are not immune to the pain of loss.
"You have me, now," you tell him firmly. "And, in a way, you have the rest of the town, too. When you're all better, I'll take you to the inn, and you can meet everyone. They'll adore you."
To your surprise, he chuckles at your words. "There is the conviction I admire," he says, too earnest to be a tease. Your face burns anyways. "I will follow your lead when the time comes, beloved."
You nod, too stunned for words as he carefully stands, pulling you up with him. "I believe we are both chilled for our time outdoors," he pulls you closer, unwinding his tail from your waist. You miss its rough feeling, but his arm is a good replacement. "Shall we return to the temple?"
All at once, the cold hits you as your passion dims. Your teeth chatter, and it's all you can do to plead, "Please."
Carefully, you're led back, back to the warmth of inside. Along the way, you're kindly offered whatever Caldarus has over the fire. Apparently, he had been busy while waiting for you to return. Your stomach roils, but you smile gratefully. One of these days, you'll really need to give him cooking lessons…
As you're sat down and given a warm bowl of something that smells saltier than the sea, you forget all about your worries and woes. It's done with now—you've discussed it, however briefly. Caldarus apologized, though he didn't need to, and had more than proven his continued love for you.
It's enough for you. More than enough to quell all doubt.
The roaring hearth crackles in front of you, dancing beneath the pot. Its near light reflects in your eyes, and here, amidst the warmth and color, softness and laughter, you think that you will never know a greater joy than this.
It is under the weight of a single onion that you crack.
In recent days, things have gone back to normal between the two of you. Caldarus has returned to his usual, kind self, and you are thankful to say he's given you no reason to worry about his well-being. In fact, he's been clingier than usual lately—holding your hand as you stroll through the courtyard, wrapping his tail around your ankle as you sit and eat dinner by his side, staring at you from your periphery with a small smile that makes your heart ache every time you see it.
He seems recovered from whatever malady had ailed him, and has subsequently returned to his attempts at cooking with fervor. It's meant more than a little lying on your part, but who could blame you when you earned such sweet smiles in return?
In the end, though, you find your falsehoods collapsing around you like an unfortunate house of cards. His enthusiasm has meant that, more often than not, his meals receive less diligence than usual. That means you receive more than a few charred pieces of things you know should not be charred, and dishes that are either too salty to enjoy or too bland to want to eat.
You taste the love in them all the same, and it is why you continue to finish your plate with every meal he makes. You lie through your teeth every time—you know he doesn't need your criticism to see what he's done wrong and what he can improve. You've encouraged him heartily and never once stepped into the kitchen without his approval.
Not until now.
Your head snaps up from where you've been reading on your selected cushion near the fire, which boils a hearty stock you brought yourself for dinner. There was a harsh sound that caught your attention, like something sharp against something it wasn't meant to touch…
Your gaze lands on Caldarus, using his desk as an impromptu cutting board. That… wasn't ideal, but what catches your eye is his posture. He's stiff, tail awkwardly held in the air behind him, and as you watch his shoulder lift, his sleeve rises with it, allowing you to tilt your head and catch sight of his hand.
You gape. Faintly, you see one hand holding an onion—the onion you'd brought for tonight's dinner at his request, and the other is holding the knife you'd also tossed into the basket. A large chef's knife, the best you could commission from March, is held precariously between his fingers, somehow tight enough to whiten his knuckles and loose enough for it to wiggle in his grasp as he moves.
Is he trying to cut like that!? You think in a panic, shooting to your feet as his arm drops like a guillotine. "Wait!" You cry, racing around the fire and going to his side.
Caldarus looks down at you, beaming happily. As though he wasn't just on the verge of chopping off a claw or two, he greets you. "Beloved!"
Thankfully, he lays down the knife so can better embrace you, and you silently sigh in relief as you melt into his arms. His holds have been tighter lately, and you're glad to take advantage of it. Nevertheless, you pull away eventually, not truly able to manage a stern expression as you stare up at him.
You must have some kind of unpleasant face though, because Caldarus' own slowly falls into something hesitant. "Is something the matter?" He asks you softly, and whatever meager embers of annoyance linger in your chest fizzle out, doused in the calm tone he always uses with you.
"Kind of," you admit in a mutter, anticipating the way his ears would droop before they even do. "You're not doing anything wrong, it's just—"
You sigh. "You're just… freaking me out, holding the knife like that. I'm scared you'll end up losing a claw if you hit the wrong angle or something." You nearly cringe as you flatly admit it, hoping that Caldarus is as receptive as he usually is. He's remarkably humble, all things considered, and usually takes your advice seriously.
Thankfully, this time, you watch his brow furrow in that contemplative way you've come to recognize. "I fear… that you may be right," he looks down at the knife in dismay, and you watch his face further fall in what you can only describe as disappointment. "I am unused to these modern utensils. The grip is… different to how I remember it being."
You briefly consider why he has reason to compare knife grips from thousands of years ago to now and why he remembers that at all, but you brush it aside. You can ask later—the current problem is making sure he doesn't end up hurting himself.
"Well," you offer as he returns his gaze to you, "I'd be happy to help you get a better handle on it. Uh, no pun intended. We can think of this like… a cooking lesson?"
You've been considering them for a while now, especially with the thought fresh in your mind from the winter; you've been handy in the kitchen since you were young, and to see his unfortunate attempts of doing just about anything was—interesting. You've kept the thoughts to yourself, always dimmed by the way he smiles at you whenever you say you like what he's made, but now it tumbles out of your mouth and you nearly regret it as he tilts his head, eyes averting.
An earring sways as one ear flicks, and when he looks back at you, he looks somehow resolute. Not at all like his battle is against a chef's knife and a single onion.
"If you are offering…" Caldarus takes a step back, gesturing to his work station, "Then by all means. I will take every word you say to heart."
You fasten your metaphorical apron as you step into the heat. "Get back over here," you tell him as he blinks at you. "This is a hands on lesson. How're you going to figure it out just by watching me?"
You don't doubt that he could, honestly, considering that boredom was apparently a human concept. He'd likely spend a day or two repeating your words in his head like a mantra and practicing the grip of every finger if it meant he could impress you, and you decide to stop thinking about that there.
"Oh," he murmurs, cautiously approaching your back. Caldarus is far taller than you, and you know better than to guide him from behind. His hands linger by his sides like he's forgotten how to use them, and as you take up your knife like a sword and the onion like a shield, he asks, "Should I…?"
"Put your hands on mine," you tell him. You patiently wait as his claws slowly enter your field of view on either side, curling with hesitation for only a breath before laying themselves atop your hands. They consume yours entirely, and you fight back the thought of a potential miscalculation. You've come this far—you'll make a cook out of him yet. "Good, now…"
You start explaining the modern intricacies of chopping. It takes a little effort on both your sides, but as you drone on and on about technique and safety, you feel yourself starting to relax. Caldarus is a rapt listener and doesn't say a word as you speak, and you find your back gently resting against his chest before you can fight the urge.
He doesn't move or even flinch—so neither do you. With utmost care, you raise your hands, set them in place, and cut. It's a smooth motion, and a single ring of onion falls to the side. You check with a swift eye; nobody's cut themselves, and Caldarus' grip is nearly perfect on top of yours.
You could have cheered then and there, but you keep the momentum going. Slicing a single onion is idle work for you, but for him, it was progress. On that idea alone, you try and immerse yourself, but against your best efforts you find yourself lost in the monotony.
His hands are warm atop yours, their grip so gentle yet firm—he's doing his best to be a good student, and you couldn't be prouder. Small strands of his hair brush against your shoulders as you lean further back, and you hear the slightest hitch of his breath.
Under the back of your head, you hear his pulse. It's—
Racing.
You jolt, and at the same time, hear a sniff. Abandoning all focus, you look up, twisting your head. To your surprise and horror both, you realize Caldarus is crying.
His tears linger in his eyes, squinting slightly to see. They cling to his long lashes like dew, and his glassy gaze misses you entirely. His mouth is a fine line of focus, but you don't miss the way his bottom lip slightly juts out in what you can only describe as a pout.
Your heart skips a beat. You lose your grip on the knife, and it slices down without your knowing. The only thing you register next is the pain, searing and fresh as reality beckons you back to its side.
You swear and pull back, running right into his chest as you clutch your hand. The knife has long clattered to the table, and you watch blood slowly run from the cut. It burns like fire, and you shut your eyes and take a deep breath. It was an accident, and you don't want to worry him…
You hear the sound of your own name, filled with fear and cautiously look up. Caldarus, though still teary, looks petrified. He side steps you and gently takes your wounded hand in his, unfurling your fingers that he might see the cut better.
"I'm fine," you tell him through the hurt, "I-I lost focus, that's all. Just a stupid mistake."
"It was hardly foolish," he tells you, caressing your palm with a careful thumb. "If I may be honest, I was also… distracted. Perhaps we should resume our lessons later?"
His tone is tight with restraint, and it makes your mouth dry. You nod, watching as a dull light glows from the cut upon your finger. The pain fades and you can only take back your hand with mild wonder as you stare. The cut is gone, and not even a scar is left in its wake.
"Thank you," you tell him, watching him clear his throat into a sleeve as he blinks away his tears. You smile. "Fumes got you good, huh?"
You're not sure why you were spared the effects of the onion, but it hardly matters now. Caldarus squeezes his eyes shut, and you feel your chest squeeze with them. Like this, he looks… cute.
"Is that… what this is?" His voice is watery, and you feel your smile soften. "I had no idea… an onion's wrath could be so terrible."
"I guess dragons aren't usually affected," you surmise, thinking that he's probably never truly had the chance to get this close to the inside of one in thousands of long years. You suppose you're glad to be the first to grant him the privilege. "Go sit down. I'll take care of this."
Caldarus tries to protest. "I—"
"Nope! No arguments," you guide him back to the cushions by the fire, helping him sit and watching his tail sadly wrap around his waist. His hands are fists on his lap, and while he doesn't seem frustrated, he gives off an air of distinct disappointment. It makes you pause, and you crouch down by his side. "Hey, it's okay. Like you said, we can try again another time—and maybe not with something so strong for the senses."
Caldarus slowly opens his eyes, still brimming with tears that streak over his cheeks. He looks at you, and you get the impression it isn't the lesson he's upset about. Quietly, he says, "We certainly can, and will. You are a magnificent teacher."
Your face burns at his sincerity, and he continues. "I am only upset with circumstance. As you told me once before, it needn't be what I am doing that I enjoy. As long as you are with me, I am content."
"I'm still here," you reach out, squeezing his hand. "Even if you're not cooking with me, I get to make us something we can eat together. That's enough for me," you nearly whisper, "and I hope it can be enough for you, too."
Caldarus blinks and looks away, a complicated expression on his face. He stares hard at the fire for a moment, and you wait for him to collect his thoughts. Softly, he sighs through his nose, and your hand is gently tugged. You lean forward, allowing his arm to drape over your back.
You rest your forehead against his chest, feeling your heart quiver as he plants his chin atop your crown. You hear the rumble in his chest before he even speaks, and it sends faint, excited sparks through you. "Your company has always been enough for me," he confides, "I was only afraid of disappointing you."
Caldarus is a guardian, you remember—a god among humans. He has lived all his life amidst their ranks, glancing down at them never in distaste, you think, but curiosity. In affection, for he could never loathe your kind. He has only ever protected, only ever defended.
This vulnerability, this openness to be weak of heart before you, must be exceptionally hard for him. You briefly wonder if not all of his tears were simply caused by your lessons.
"You could never," you swear to him. "Honestly, Caldarus, I think you could burn down my house and I'd thank you for it."
Caldarus squeaks, a sound you'd never expect from a dragon's mouth. Your name escapes him in a breath, almost a wheeze, like he's torn between abject horror and a terrible sense of humor. You gently try to coax him to the latter.
"I mean, I could stay here while it gets rebuilt, and then we could really keep each other company. And think of how good the ash would be for crops! You know, actually, I'm open to talking it out, now that I've thought about it…"
Your voice drops, and it's silent for a few beats of your heart. You don't worry. You feel the way his shoulders shake like a leaf in the wind. The hand on your back suddenly leaves, and as you pull away, you see that he's covered his mouth, as though trying to hold in his mirth.
Finally, with a deep snicker, he cracks. "Aha—ahaha!"
His laughter rings down to your very soul, and you cannot help but join him. You snort your giggles behind your palm much as he does, only somewhat ashamed at your morbid joke. If it makes him laugh and reminds him that there is nothing he could ever do to upset you, you'll say and do it in a heartbeat.
You stop before he does, and you watch his tail sweep back and forth behind him as he clears his throat with a deep inhale, willing himself to calm. "You have… a most intriguing sense of humor, beloved."
"Well, you laughed, didn't you?"
Caldarus flushes, and you smile reassuringly at him. "Well… I did not say I did not share it," he slyly looks at you, and you laugh again; both in disbelief of him actually joking with you and appreciation of his understanding.
"You're a real card, aren't you?" You get to your feet, bending down at the knees. You're face to face, and you watch the pleasant pink on his face grow deeper. "My jokester dragon. What would I do without you?"
Your eyes flutter closed as you lean in, kissing his forehead. It's warm, almost feverish, and you faintly hear the strangled sound he makes before you pull away. Now, even the tips of his ears burn red, but he smiles at you shyly.
"How about I go finish dinner before the pot boils over?"
"I believe that would be a good idea," Caldarus says, voice faintly trembling. It's endearing beyond all belief, and your chest fills with a rising heat you cannot fight. "I will wait for you here, beloved."
"You look like you're feeling better," you notice, eyeing his clearer gaze. "Did you want to come back and join me?"
To your surprise, he shakes his head. "I am content to let you finish today's meal," Caldarus smiles warmly at you, making your breath catch. "I am still by your side here, am I not? That is enough… to make me happy."
There is a stone in your throat. You barely swallow it down and manage to speak. "I'm glad. Wait here, then, and I'll make us the best onion soup you've had in your life!"
It's a bold decree, and you point at the bubbling cauldron for emphasis. In pure delight, Caldarus clasps his hands together, looking up at you like you have just given him the world. He is adorable beyond belief and you march away with your head held high, ready to impress your mate.
Your bravado is false for only the first few minutes. You toss away the pieces of onion stained with your blood and gently rinse off the knife with some fresh water you'd boiled earlier. You chop the rest like it's all you know how to do, and you swiftly rush to your basket to retrieve the other ingredients.
You grab your milk and cheese, your bottle of oil and the fresh bread you'd picked up from the inn this morning and rush back to the table. You unwrap the cheese and open the bottle, sauntering back to the pot. Your focus is entirely on the way you carefully tip the milk, adding just enough to give a hint of creaminess without curdling. You layer on the cheese, your experienced hands barely registering the heat.
You step back, making sure the pot isn't about to boil over, only briefly catching a glimpse of Caldarus. His eyes are wide and, to your surprise, practically sparkling. You can't help but wink at him, and he all but beams in delight as you run back to your workstation. The onion takes two trips to add, and you gingerly add more cheese after a rough stir.
You place the lid on top and sit across from Caldarus with a sigh. His eyes bounce from the pot to you with an excitement you've only seen among the children in town. "You were so quick…" he says with wonder, "Your skill is truly unparalleled, beloved."
You laugh. "Just experience. You'll get there one day." Probably.
You're doing the best you can with what you've got. Ordinarily, you would be caramelizing onions first (hence the oil), but your sous chef had started bringing the stock to a boil without being asked, so you're improvising tonight. Despite your boast, this won't be the best onion soup anyone's ever had, but it'll be good enough.
You talk with Caldarus while you wait for things to cook down; any and every topic you could imagine rears its head at least once, and you even manage to make him laugh again to something decidedly not so dark as your house's demise. It almost amazes you how easy he is to converse with, but then you remember all the times you sat in the grass and spoke to his statue.
He has always been personable—always been interested in you and your life. It was only natural that now, able to share more than just a plot of land with you, that he makes more of an effort to truly get to know you.
You're glad, honestly. He feels like a friend, still—someone you can understand and be understood by without trying. You've always been that way with him, somehow. You're not quite sure why, but he's always been familiar. You've always known that you could trust him, with each and every part of you.
Sometimes, you catch Caldarus staring at you when your attention is elsewhere. He stares at you with a distant gaze, looking so far away, it seems like you could never hope to touch him. You always do, and he never treats you differently, yet you cannot help but wonder…
The pot makes an uneasy noise as steam shoots from underneath the lid. You squeal and get to your feet, racing for the ladle. "Even chefs get caught off guard!" You state to save face, though you catch the quirking lips of your beloved as you run back.
You lift the lid with a towel, carefully stirring around the cheese. You hum at the smell, and you faintly see Caldarus lean forward. "I'd say it's done," you smile at him, knowing that this was the best you were going to get. "I'll cut the bread. Would you mind fetching the bowls?"
"Gladly."
He gets to his feet and you two become a team. When he isn't cooking, Caldarus is surprisingly helpful in the kitchen. His large hands make carrying dishes and silverware quick work, and he shadows you from the second you pick up the knife until you shoo him away.
You cut the loaf into bite-sized slices, gingerly drizzling your oil atop it. You bring it with you to your seat on a small dish, and find a steaming bowl waiting for you. You pass the bread to Caldarus, who picks it up with a careful claw.
"Either eat it as it is or dip it in the broth," you tell him, doing the latter yourself. "Just be careful. Don't burn yourself."
"So you absorb the liquid with the bread and eat them together…" he muses, using his long nails to his advantage. "Fascinating. I remember such meals being common during my age."
That sounds about right. Hearty fare has been popular since humans were messing with clubs and fire. More as a joke, you ask him, "Really? Did you ever try any?"
He looks up at you, eyes twinkling. "Yes, actually," he admits, making you blink. "I remember… other soups like this one. Stews, perhaps. Left to be cooked all day, with enough to serve the temple. Suffice to say, I was not doing any of the preparations myself."
That's… interesting.
That's more about his past than he's told you before, and you stare at him as he carefully eats his dripping bread, tongue darting out of his mouth to catch the broth. You almost gape at it: long and forked, with the two ends curling upward to better drink the juices. You feel a strange tingle in your spine as you watch it recede, almost missing the way his eyes light up with happiness.
"It is delicious," he declares to you through a full mouth, forgoing etiquette just to compliment you. You smile, ignoring the way your own bread is so soaked you'll need your spoon to get it out of the bowl. "Truly. I have never had better."
You're not sure how much that's worth from an amnesiac, but you smile and flush anyways. "I'll be sure to pass it along," you tell him, watching as he digs into his dinner with fervor. You decide to do the same, starting with your sad, soggy bread.
It's a quiet affair after that, only interrupted by clinking. You finish your soup, pleased with yourself; it's far from the best dish you've made, but you're happy with it. All the more so from the company it was shared with, you think, looking up just in time to watch Caldarus tilt his head back and drink straight from the bowl.
The hair that normally rests on his shoulders falls back, and despite his collar, you get a full view of the way his throat bobs with each swallow. Even from here, you watch rivulets of broth race down his chin. You know what he's about to do, and for some reason, a heat builds in your chest, slowly working downwards.
As expected, his tongue sweeps across his jaw the second he pulls the bowl away, and you watch every second of it. You stare at the way the forks turn to catch stray drops, at the shine of saliva left clinging to his skin in their wake. You stare blatantly, uncaring of if he sees you. He wipes away what's left with his sleeve, sighing as he sets down his bowl.
His eyes are half-lidded, as though in a trance. Slowly, he looks up at you and blinks, the light returning to his eyes as he smiles. "Your cooking was wonderful as always," he says. You shiver at his tone—kind but… rough. "Thank you for dinner, beloved."
"Of course," you keep your voice steady from force of will, somehow feeling awkward. Like there's something going on that you don't understand. You pick up your bowl and his. You'll take them back home with you to wash them up and return them in the morning. "I'm glad I could cook for us."
You return to your basket, perched upon his desk. Gingerly, you place everything inside, faintly trembling. You aren't sure what changed so quickly, but whatever it was—
It unnerves you.
You pick up your bundle, holding it with two hands. You turn, finding Caldarus staring right back. His ears twitch when you lock eyes, and he smiles. It's small, strained. Slowly, you approach.
There's a heat in the air you hadn't felt before, and you feel your palms turn clammy. "I'll be heading back to the farm," you tell him, stopping by his side. "Sorry about no dessert. Maybe next time."
"Next time," he softly repeats, standing up. He rests a hand on your shoulder, leaning down. His lips brush against your forehead, and despite the tension coiling in your stomach, you relax against his kiss. "Be safe," Caldarus murmurs against your flushed skin, stroking the back of your head, "and sleep well, beloved."
Guilt curls inside your heart and head. He's done nothing to make you uncomfortable, really… So why are you upset?
You don't know. "I will be. And just because you asked, I'll sleep great."
He chuckles as he pulls away, and the sound makes another feeling join all the others in your chest. You're conflicted, more than you'd like to be over so little, but you'll be back tomorrow. You haven't missed a day of visits since he'd first come here. You aren't stopping now.
You wave goodbye as you leave, the door slamming shut behind you. Your horse awaits near the edge of the courtyard and as you walk, you cannot help but notice how quiet the night has become.
You visit tomorrow.
It's today now, but you come first thing in the morning after taking care of your chores. You've got a little mud on your cheek, but you decide it doesn't matter. Not today, when you just want to see how he's holding up. You pack up your basket filled with foodstuffs for the day and, on a whim, decide to teleport instead.
You walk to the statue, peaceful yet devoid of all semblance of life, and gently place your hand upon it. You feel the familiar tug at your very center, the gentle drain of essence from your being as you are whisked away by a power you cannot understand.
You arrive safely, opening the eyes you hadn't even realized you'd closed. The temple is dark, you think, frowning. Light shines in from the window over his bed, illuminating what candles usually did. That's a little strange, you think, only them taking in a breath.
It smells… odd in here. Did Caldarus make incense recently or something? You take an experimental sniff, finding the lingering scent somewhat earthy. Like fresh soil, and then it clicks. He must have been busy gardening today, coming in and out.
There's another note in the air you can't identify, but you're satisfied with your conclusion and think on it no further. You leave the basket on the floor near the sunken hearth and readily head outside.
You push open the doors and welcome the sunlight. It's warm, welcoming you as winter steadily slips away. There is no snow today, and it leaves the Deep Woods its usual shades of green and brown. Despite that, you spy Caldarus immediately, knee deep in dirt with his hands in the earth. Affection floods your veins, roaring past yesterday's tension. You run down the stairs, and it's loud enough to catch his attention.
He turns, ears twitching, a smile already on his face for you. "Beloved," he greets you warmly, "Good morning."
You do not hear the strain in his voice, and you race all the way to his garden, feet pounding over small stones. You slow to a stop, your hands hitting your thighs in your eagerness. He looks better today, you think, if not a little flushed. Not so tense, and all remaining sense of unease slips away from you, though you're sure it was solely one-sided.
"Good morning!" You plop yourself on the ground against the wall just in front of him. "Tending to the little ones today?"
It was what he called his growing vegetables, and you adopted the nickname not long after you started coming here. Caldarus hums, the sound almost like a growl with how deeply it leaves his throat. "Winter is nearly through. I am helping them transition from one season to another."
Just like him to do, you think as you watch him. He does not tend to keep a melody going as he works, but he seems to be in a good mood today, humming in a lighter tone than before. A small smile plays on his lips as he works, eyeing his small garden like a proud parent. To your amusement, you find his tail nearly lifted on end, much like you'd find a cat's when they were particularly excited.
Speaking of tails…
Last night, in a bid to stop yourself from thinking of the tension that had overtaken dinner, you decided to try and think about other things instead—though, as you quickly discovered, other things to you meant other things Caldarus says.
You had thought of an interaction some time ago, when you had been staring a little too obviously and caught his attention. You stare at him for his beauty—his undeniable grace in each and every thing, not so much the clear signs of his dragonhood; but not even you could deny the offer he gave you when he said you could ask him about anything…
You had raced for his tail so quickly he barely had the chance to blink. It was warm at the scaly skin, cold and smooth on the bony armor above. It fascinated you to no end—how it twitched when you stroked near the base or the tip, and how it gently curled around your wrist as you made to pull away.
You know that was Caldarus carefully clinging to you, but the involuntary movements held the same amount of your attention. It was only as you stared him in the eye afterwards that he admitted the act was meant to be reciprocal between mates, and with a small smile, kindly asked you to think of a substitute that he may return the favor.
You remember the heat that had flooded your face. You remember the nod you gave, stiff and awkward. You remember feeling guilty, though he implored you not to be, for taking something that could not be so easily given back.
You hadn't brought it up since, too embarrassed to even consider it. But last night, you had pondered. Tossed and turned and scratched your head for a solution, and finally—
You thought of a replacement.
One that wouldn't embarrass him beyond belief. You'd considered the obvious, the tailbone, but you think even alluding to touching you somewhere indecent would light Caldarus on fire somehow. You would be fine with it, you were partners now, but out of respect for his comfort, you abstained.
So, you chose a safer option, one that he already favored and would still make you happy.
You watch and wait for him to finish, finding yourself still amused by the wagging of his tail in time with his soft song. You relax at the sound of his hums, melting against the wall and closing your eyes.
It isn't much longer before his notes come to a close, fading into a soft wind that blows across the courtyard. You blink as he wipes his hands of dirt with a critical eye, before turning to you with a far kinder one. "Shall we head back to the temple?" Caldarus asks you, already moving to his feet. "I would be glad to brew us tea should you like it."
"Actually," you say, "I'd like to talk to you about something first."
Your words freeze him in his tracks, and for a reason unknown to you, he looks uncharacteristically nervous. His ears are stood on end, and his flame-bright eyes are wide. It makes you rush to clarify, lest he thinks you upset with him.
"It's not bad or anything!" You hurriedly exclaim, watching his chest finally rise and fall again. "I was just… thinking about an old discussion we've had." You point to his tail, which shies behind his back at your attention. Despite that, Caldarus relaxes and looks distinctly pleased, getting to his feet and offering you a hand.
"Have you thought of a substitute, beloved?" He asks, and you nod.
You fidget for a moment, holding his hand tighter as he tries to pull away. He lets you gently guide it up, to the top of your head. You carefully rest it there, feeling his claws curl against your scalp. "There," your voice quivers. "Now, you can reciprocate. As—as my mate."
Your arm drops back to your side as you watch his face. He towers over you, and against the wall, he casts a shadow from the faint sunlight that reaches this far. You swallow as you watch his gaze fall from the top of your head to meet your eyes.
His hand strokes through your hair, coming forward to brush down to your cheek. As his thumb brushes under your eye, the claw hitting your brow, he slowly leans in. You cannot move away, though you would never want to. His breath is warm against your face, somehow sweet, and as he settles nearly nose to nose apart from you, you notice how tense he looks.
His eyes are tight at the corners. Despite the darkness that now shrouds you both, his pupils are wide, nearly eclipsing familiar gold. His lips are a thin line, but his jaw is tight. You wonder if he's clenching his teeth.
A sudden thought hits you. This expression is almost familiar to you; it reminds you of when you find him as the sun falls, out foraging a little too late. It reminds you of yesterday, or all previous days when you made something especially fragrant, pleasing to a dragon's nose. It reminds you of—
Hunger.
Caldarus staring at you like he is starving. Like he has never eaten a morsel in all his days, and you are the finest piece of meat a man could ever hope to see.
The hand on your face darts to your back. It pulls you close in a rough way you've never felt with him before. It presses your chest to his, and with your back still against the wall, his hand is crushed between you and stone. Yet, it carefully traces a circle just over where your own tail would be—just over the cusp of your ass. Your breathing comes shaky as, softly, Caldarus speaks to you.
"Beloved," his voice is a dire growl, so deep that you feel your own chest rumble by proxy, "Is that truly what you want?"
This is so unfamiliar. This is not the man you know, and so you stammer. "I-I don't—"
Your reply takes too long. Is too uncoordinated. His other hand grips your chin, and the tip of his nose presses to yours. You know what he wants—he is asking for your approval with his every breath.
Despite yourself, despite your unease, you cannot say you have wanted anything more in your life.
You barely get the chance to nod before his lips hit yours. This kiss blows your eyes wide, even as his are closed in bliss. It's chaste, as it always is, but as you gasp in shock at the heat, the pressure, the everything, you feel something different.
There is something—somethings pressing against the edge of your mouth. Yesterday flashes through you, memories of a long tongue that effortlessly licked away stray juices with ease, and your knees nearly buckle.
Caldarus pulls away. You barely get the chance to breathe before you're being addressed. "You needn't lie to me," he murmurs to you, forehead to forehead as he strokes dual circles into your skin—one above and one below. "As your mate… it is my job to take care of you in whatever way you need. Whatever way you desire."
Despite his words and tone, a gentle pink spreads through his cheeks. "Even if it means touching you—" he digs his knuckles into your lower back, making your breath hitch, "—here, if you asked it of me, I would not hesitate. So tell me, beloved… Is this what you truly want?"
You do not even consider any other answer. "Yes. Yes, please, I-I want it."
Caldarus, your Caldarus, smirks.
You gape.
"If that is so… then I am the first to initiate contact this time. As my mate, it is only proper that you return the favor…"
You can't fault that logic. Even if you could, you don't think you want to; not with this heat boiling in your stomach. With a trembling hand, eyes still locked with his, you reach around his back, stroking down until you meet the top of his tail. Your fingers brush over the base of it, and you feel it twitch.
In an instant, Caldarus claims your lips again. This time, it's hotter—hungrier. You feel something sharp meet your tender flesh, realizing only when they graze you that they're his fangs. You have only ever seen them when he speaks or eats, never have you felt them before.
You think you'd like to again.
They skim your lip over and over, and it takes you too long to realize he's asking for more. You've never engaged in anything deeper before. But you've also never seen this side of him until now, and you're more than happy to roll with the punches.
You cautiously open your mouth. It takes only a second for something long and hot to dart inside.
His tongue is unbearably warm. You nearly shy away, but the thought of him finally exploring you excites you more than it makes you fear. The side of it slides across the inside of your cheek before hitting your own curious tongue. On impact, you feel a sharp pain, much like the cut you'd gotten yesterday. The taste of copper fills your mouth, and you feel the harsh, grainy texture of the muscle as it laves against all parts it can reach.
The forks press in separate directions, and as though curious, they reach for your throat. You're barely breathing now, but you almost gag as they press a little too deep. The heave of your chest seems to be a sign, for Caldarus pulls away. He stares down at you, but your gaze is only focused on the trail connecting your mouths—spittle and blood intertwined as one, thin rope.
A dragon's tongue licks it away, and you look up to find Caldarus watching you, unblinking. His eyes are wide, yet almost unseeing. They look glazed, like he's staring right through you yet into your soul at the same time.
You don't know what to say—you don't know what to do. You don't blink either, afraid of what might happen if you do. You stare until your eyes burn, fearing that he will turn tail and run or do something else that he never usually would.
Finally, Caldarus blinks. You follow suit, and while you quickly find relief, he still stares at you with that same, dilated gaze. He looks at you like you are prey, and you are unsure of how to feel now that you are bleeding and panting.
"I—" he tries to speak, but his voice is more of a growl. He clears his throat, though the sound is still wrong. Too deep. "I apologize… I was too forward with you."
You're confused, worried, and scared all in one. You want to reach out as he takes a step back—you know he is pulling away again. Just like before.
You do not. You do nothing but stand and stare as blood pools in your mouth, nearly choking you.
"I—I must ask you to return home," Caldarus tells you like a final farewell. It may as well be for the tone in his voice. "For the night. On the morrow, I would again be glad for your company. For now, however…"
He averts his gaze at last. You watch as he retreats and does not look back.
"I must be alone a while," he rasps, turning his head just enough for you to hear him. You cannot see his eyes, but you know they are not looking at you. "Good day, beloved."
Quiet falls over the courtyard as Caldarus walks away. You do not move, but you hear the distinct slam of stone doors as he makes his way back inside. The same way you had came when you had dropped off your plans for lunch and dinner.
You cannot go back that way now. You are slumped against the courtyard wall, in front of the tiny garden you had come to cherish as your own, wondering just where you'd gone wrong.
Had you even? You aren't sure. Not anymore. Your worry nearly brings you to your knees, but you stumble forward anyways, spitting out a mouthful of blood. It stands stark against the green grass, and you can only stare at it as a hush falls over the forest.
You knew now that something was wrong. You had just been too stubborn to see it. Had Caldarus lied to you?
He would never…
You would like to think that way, but after that, you don't know if you can. Had he taken you by your hands in the snow, reassured you that he was alright through sharp teeth, knowing all the while that he wasn't?
It isn't anger that floods through you; it is despair.
You were right all along. With whatever this was, Caldarus did not trust you to carry the burden—did not trust you to be there for him in the way that he needed. After telling you about how, as mates, it was one's duty to take care of the other in any way they needed, that there was no need to lie…
It hurts. It hurts more than anything you've ever felt. You trust him with your heart and soul, and you cannot say he feels the same. He does not trust you—his dragonsworn and mate, to truly take care of him, and it crushes you.
You look at the marble doors only once. They are shut, and will not open for you now.
Slowly, you turn. Under the morning sun, you walk home empty handed, empty hearted.
The forest is utterly silent.
You take care of your farm as the day ends.
You work with only the cold wind as company, herding animals with a gait that brooked no disobedience. Usually, you'd let them play around or graze a little longer, but even your most stubborn creatures run inside at your approach.
You cannot blame them. You don't want to be around yourself right now, either.
You shut yourself inside as night falls, stripping yourself down and bathing with a sluggish hand. You redress and lie in bed, staring at a ceiling even the moonlight cannot touch.
You do not know when you fall asleep. You only know that you have when you wake up. Despite this, in your dreamless haze, you seem to have realized some things.
You will do whatever you can to fix things. Nothing is broken yet, but you fear it will not be long if you cannot breach Caldarus' walls. You had long thought them taken down, and while you're not glad to be wrong, you are also not fully surprised.
He is so, so old. A few seasons of a mortal's love could never hope to reach past his scales and hide. You'd hoped you were close, and if not, maybe making progress. You are, you think, but it's not fast enough. It's come to this—Caldarus is suffering, and he does not trust his mate to aid him. You're going to change that. You will help him, no matter the cost, personal or otherwise; and thus came another realization.
There is more to your relationship than you had previously thought.
You have heard Caldarus mention things that do not add up in your mind. You are more ignorant of history than you should be, but even you know that a dragon god has no reason to know how to hold an ancient knife. There is no reason for him to be break bread with his devotees in the temple and speak as though he sat among them in flesh and blood.
There is no reason why him saying those things makes a spark of remembrance flicker within you like a familiar flame.
You don't know how much he remembers either, but you do know this—you are Starbound to him. As he is to you. He said once that you were two beacons of light, guided towards each other across many lifetimes. You had taken him seriously, but your lack of memories made it hard to fathom.
But now, you are remembering. You wonder if he is, too.
There is so much to say to him. So much to do. And you will. Today. You get out of bed, ready to get out of your nightwear, only to be startled to your knees by the loudest clap of thunder you've ever heard.
Your house shakes. The lights tremble, and several things on various shelves fall over. You snap your neck towards the nearest window, pain blooming, finding rain pouring down like the sky itself was crying.
You swear. Lightning flashes, lighting up the world. You see fallen branches and uprooted crops in the second of clarity that you get, and you duck close to the floor as thunder rumbles. The vibration that ripples through the ground reaches to your bones, as it stops, you rush to the window.
Rain lashes at the glass, pounding against it like an angry fist. You can't see much, but as you lean in and squint, you eye the walkway that leads from your house back to town and spy a distinctly Balor-shaped hole in the ground, already flooded with water. Poor guy must've gotten knocked over by the wind or something, you think, chewing your lip as you watch the storm rage.
You stand there and wait, shifting on your feet again and again until you realize that the rain is not stopping. Somehow, you have a feeling that you could wait here all day and it wouldn't mean a thing.
If that's the case, you have no choice.
You can do nothing for your crops now, but your animals still need to be fed. You still need to get to the Deep Woods—you need to visit Caldarus. You get dressed with a hesitant hand, planning your route carefully.
You'll head to the pens first, and from there you can reach all your animals with ease. Then, try and wait for a lull in the storm and make a break for the statue. It might make him upset with you, but this weather would make riding impossible, unless you wanted to get yourself or your horse sick or worse.
You pull on your boots, already loathing the way you know they'll be filled with water the moment you step outdoors. Your hand rests on your door, and you take the deepest breath you can. You let it out as a sharp, whistle-like sound. Gently, you turn the knob and open the door.
You don't get the chance to breathe before a watery gust sends your door flying to the opposite side of the wall, crashing against the side of your house. You grimace and hop outside, lightning flashing wildly across the sky. You march a few paces through the mud, fighting its pull with every step. You clutch your poor door and, with all the strength you've gained from your time in the mines and pouring over the forge, force it shut.
You slam it just as thunder roars. You hold tight to it as the wind keeps blowing, sending the water soaking through your hair flying. There's no going back now, you think, already walking away from your place of safety, of warmth. With a hand to shield your eyes, you spy your chicken coop first. White lights up the sky and you take off running.
As well as you can with all the mud while avoiding debris, you sprint. Your hand covers your eyes from the needle-sharp rain, but you look down at your feet to try and dodge any obvious branches or stones. You don't fall, and you get close enough to your birds to hear them screaming.
It's an awful sound and your chest squeezes. You lift your head—there's no point in shouting, your voice will get caught in the rain, but the urge comes to you anyways. You open your mouth, only thinking better of it as the last second of deliberation.
It's enough of a lapse in focus for you to miss your step.
You don't even make any noise as you fall—just a pathetic gasp. The wind pushes you down, into the mud and stone and you feel something in your face crunch. It's hot, warm and tingling, and as you pull yourself out of the mud, rising to your knees, the storm around you seems to writhe. Lightning dances and you catch sight of blood, dripping onto your dirtied fingers and into the puddle already forming in your shape.
A voice comes to you unbidden, familiar and deep. The sky bares her fangs today, indeed…
The gale that carried the rain shrieks above you, and even the thunder sounds like a terrible groan. As you shakily stand, feeling the cuts on your arm burn, you cannot help but wonder if this storm was alive—if even the sight of you were causing it pain.
You scowl. Come on, you think bitterly. You hit your head but not that hard. Cradling your scraped arm, you watch your every step and finally make it to the coop. The doors are latched and it takes a minute of squinting through pouring water to unfasten it and finally step inside.
You hold the doors tightly, clicking the lock back in place behind you. You turn around, placing your back to them and sigh, dropping your arms by your side. You could have stayed there forever, a dripping mess of rain, dirt and blood, but your flock is still shrieking, and wearily, you trudge forward to calm them, your boots sloshing as you knew they would with every step.
Your birds follow you diligently as you scatter their feed inside today. They don't complain much at the change in routine, and as they peck at the ground and strut around like they weren't all scared to death five minutes ago, you settle yourself against the far wall, gently sitting down with a sigh.
You've realized by now that the terrible crunch you felt was your nose. The bleeding had slowed but not stopped, and you start to shiver as you strip off your boots and empty them into a corner. The sudden water scares a few chickens into flapping their wings, but you're in too much pain to care. Adrenaline is wearing off, and every scrape and cut stings.
You work on your arm first. You don't have first aid kits in here, and you'll need to remedy that in the future, but you don't mind using a little magic right now. Your eyes flutter shut and you murmur under your breath, running your healthy hand over your bruising arm. Warmth follows its path, and the endless burning finally subsides. You sigh, and in your relief, nearly miss the way your lower belly burns with a sudden unquenchable desire.
...Huh!?
You squeal and pull your legs together, feeling parts of you that should not be aroused being… aroused. You pull your knees as close to your chest as you can, shivering from more than just the cold.
That's… never happened before. Your mind scrambles for an answer, decidedly trying to ignore the throbbing in time with your pulse down below. It was Caldarus that gave you your magic—prior this this, you've only ever felt a blissful calm come over you when you summoned the rain or healed your wounds.
You suppose that's just usually how you've always felt when casting spells—how he's always felt. Besides the primal fear he showed you down in the mines and recent weeks, you have never seen him as anything other than peaceful. You could be a lot more volatile with the highs and lows of your day to day life, and now that you're thinking about it, that unnatural sense of calm only comes to you after casting.
A thought makes you pause.
You are linked to him in a way, aren't you? Sworn in a pact to be his Dragonsworn; starbound; his mate. You could take your pick of the three, but there's a tangible bond between the two of you, especially if he's the one giving you magic. If you're right—
Is this… what Caldarus is feeling right now?
This… burning, raging arousal? Despite yourself, you blush. It's not that you haven't thought about him like that, but you've certainly never told him that. He's always been happy with innocence—holding your hand and soft, chaste kisses. You've never complained or been unsatisfied, content to leave that conversation for when he was ready. Whether that was the next day or in ten years, you would have been glad to accept it.
For you to feel this from him is… overwhelming. Against your better judgment, your thighs rub together, and the smallest force of friction makes you whimper. You nearly lose yourself to the sweep of heat that races through your veins, and you part your legs at once. You can't get distracted. This warmth within you—it's nearly suffocating. If this is really from Caldarus, then…
Has this been what's wrong all this time? This… lust?
Pieces start to fit together in your head. The sudden distance; the gap abruptly closing in a bout of affection. Yesterday, when he had finally given in to this burning in his stomach. The weariness, the tension… you cannot even imagine the restraint he has shown to not simply tear your clothes to shreds and claim you.
If you had known that this was the problem, you don't think you would have minded.
Now that you know what's been plaguing him, feeling only the smallest taste and being left panting on the back wall, you feel conflicted. Guilt runs through you at his suffering, and hurt wells up just as fast. If he had just told you this, that he wanted you—needed you, you would have gladly been there. In whatever way he desired, just as he told you.
But… of course he didn't tell you. You felt firsthand how rough he became the second his control lapsed. He could maul you alive for only a second of satiety, and after yesterday, he mustn't trust himself, if he ever did.
All this time, Caldarus has been trying not to hurt you. Trying to protect you. Trying so hard to save you from himself.
Resolution swells within your chest, overpowering your craving for touch. You wouldn't, couldn't let this continue. You were going to help Caldarus—your mate by any means necessary. Even if it meant you would be torn to shreds or bitten into a thousand pieces, you would gladly let him take each and every part of you and feel no pain; your heart and soul have been his for so long now, your body is simply the last thing for him to hold.
Thunder roars outside, and you look up, head leaned back against the wall. The window just above you shows a bruised sky, riddled with black and blue clouds. Rain continues to pour down, as though a god themselves is weeping.
You place a hand atop your nose. The bleeding has long stopped, but you mutter a healing spell anyways. You're certain you'll need it looked at by Valen later, but it's not important enough for you to stray from your course. You can still breathe and that's enough for you.
You get to your feet, putting on your boots. Lightning sends your chickens bolting around the coop, and you carefully herd them to the back of it as thunder rumbles, anticipating their fearful clucking. As the sound fades, you slowly back away to the doors, latched shut and sturdy. You swiftly unfasten it and step back outside.
Somehow, you think, the rain does not feel quite so harsh or cold as it once did.
You do not bolt for the statue, much as you'd like to. You need to call in a favor, first.
You walk through the storm as though it does not exist, barely feeling the gale biting at the tips of your ears. You decide not to force your poor horse to bear you through this weather, and so you walk alone to Sweetwater Farm.
It is calming now, somehow. The thunder no longer shakes you to your bones—you feel like something inside of you is roaring with it instead. The wind no longer shoves you aside—you stand firm against it, as though your skin is tough as hide and scales.
You think these things absentmindedly, but you do not know why. You do not know that in times like these, a dragon's protection extends so much further than you ever thought it could.
You seem to blink and find yourself at the arches that welcome you to your friend's house. The fields are barren of all usual creatures, and you make your way through mud and rocks to reach the front door.
Loudly, you knock. It takes almost a minute, but you wait patiently, barely even feeling the rain as you watch the door open. Before your fellow farmer even gets the chance to blink, you make yourself clear. "I need a favor from you."
You'll never know just what he saw in you that day that made him stare at you with fear in his eyes.
Despite the rain, the Deep Woods is completely silent.
You suppose it makes sense, considering the storm—no birds or bugs would dare try to sing over the wind. The lightning has vanished and the thunder has followed, but the wind and downpour remain constant.
It's unnerving to you. You have always known the forest to be alive and abuzz with sounds, and the quiet makes your skin crawl as you walk up the familiar stairs leading to the temple courtyard.
In the end, you had been forced to go this way. No matter how hard you tried or how much of your essence you forced into the statue, it had ignored your every plea. It had left you drained, but you continued on, climbing the stairs out of your farmland and into town.
You'd garnered more stares than you knew what to do with, but you only walked faster towards the woods—to where you needed to be.
The rain is less of a bother to you now, you've gotten used to the dampness and the squelching of your boots. A strange sort of heat in your chest has kept any shivering away, warming you enough for you to make it so far.
You might get sick from all of this—sicker than you've ever been and will ever again be, but if you're honest, you don't really think you care.
Your mate is waiting for you. In comparison, everything else seems to pale.
The stone beneath your feet makes a wet sound as you climb higher, onto the grass separating the last set of stairs from you. A brief glance tells you that the garden is flooded, and the small ponds are overflowing. Twigs and leaves are strewn within, and the Temple Flower has horribly wilted. Nature has had her way with this place, but you are certain that under his careful guidance, it will surely heal.
You race up the last obstacle between you and the doors. Your steps slow to a halt as you stand before them; twin gates of stone that block your way. You have opened them countless times. They are heavy, but you are stronger. Now, the thought feels almost poetic.
You do not need to prepare yourself—you feel like you've been waiting your whole life for this. Even when you didn't know it, you think, you were always going to make your way here again—here to him.
You open the doors and step inside, not looking back.