Chapter Text
“She rings like a bell through the night,
And wouldn't you love to love her?
She rules her life like a bird in flight,
And who will be her lover?”
- Fleetwood Mac, "Rhiannon”
Once upon a time—yes, yes, I know, that's really how this starts—in a land of dragons and knights and fair ladies in foul situations, a majestic castle sat on an unremarkable hill. Or, rather, the knight thought it was majestic. For in his wildest childhood dreams, he never believed he might once be on a quest of his own—poised to rescue a beautiful maiden from a terrible fate.
If he wasn't so bloody blinded by the sheer thrill of it all, he might've taken more notice of the charred ring of grass surrounding the castle's front gates. Or, perhaps even the smoky black cast of the stones that comprised the crumbling old tower. He certainly should have noticed the footprints in the grass, or the skeleton of a dead shrew that lay strewn across a nearby flowerbed. But, you see, this brave young man in his sparkling new armor—simply...didn't.
What can I say. He was new to this.
The gate creaked when the knight pushed it open, filling the otherwise quiet country air with that terrible shriek of metal against metal. One hand clutching the handle of his unmarred sword, he strode through the entrance—heart thrumming in his chest with the courage he was known for back home. But just before the great rusted door of the castle, he paused.
A breath filled his lungs. Then another. Overhead, a bird trilled and went gliding away towards the trees. And yet, the knight lingered. He wasn’t fearful. No, surely not. The three-time dueling practice champion of Gryffin Glade was no coward. Sure—those had all been practice fights, and none of the other knights had really aimed to kill—but, no, what a silly thought to think this man could possibly be afraid.
“Come now,” the knight chided himself, loud enough to shake him from this temporary hesitation. “The lady awaits.”
And so it was that—with the idea of that poor, helpless damsel filling his thoughts—the gallant young knight drew his sword, pulled open the door to the castle, and charged.
A word about our knight.
Before the more…judgmental members of the audience—yes, you, I’m talking about you—begin to think him something of a fool, it may be worth mentioning that this knight, in his youth, was a scholar.
Yes, alright, he was impulsive. Brash. Overly-talkative at the best of times. Downright irritating at the worst. But say what you might—there was nobody in all the realm who knew more about alchemy than he did. No other knight in Gryffin Glade had toiled so much as he did in the forge behind the old windmill—tinkering with metals of all sorts, experimenting with the flames, inventing contraptions no other soul (save his companion Sirius the blacksmith) could appreciate… And none of these scholarly feats, surely, could have been accomplished if our strapping young knight was truly as foolish as he looked.
And yet—here he was, charging sword-first into a castle of unknown troubles—not bothering to stop and consider just why the lady he was called on to save was in danger. What horror awaited him beyond that long stone corridor? What terror lurked that brought the doom of all the would-be rescuers before him?
Take one guess.
No, really. I'm asking you. Take a guess.
For those of you who guessed, “other knights!” — you’re wrong. For those who shouted, “dragon!” — congratulations, you win. There is no prize. For the one joker who cried, “Lily, before she’s had her morning coffee!”— you’re not completely wrong, but we’ll speak of that terror later.
Now hush, all of you. I’m telling a story.
The dragon of Cokeworth Castle was just as you might picture it. Green scales, fangs that would make a dentist weep, and talons that could shred said dentist to itty bitty bits. Its eyes were a dastardly red, its feet (paws?) had to be as large as a dining table. It’s spiked tail—well. You get the picture. The only unusual aspect of this creature, perhaps, was its smell.
Now, I don’t have the faintest idea what you would imagine a fire-breathing lizard monster to smell like, but whatever you’re thinking—you’re wrong. The dragon of Cokeworth Castle, vicious and terrifying though it appeared on the outside, filled the old castle with what could only be described as the pleasant scent of lavender.
Our dashing young knight had about four seconds to appreciate the delightful aroma before the fire erupted. He jumped, diving to the side just as a column of flame blasted into the spot where he’d just been standing and sniffing the air. A most undignified yelp escaped him when his eyes fell on the dragon. Straining to make out the details, (for the knight was—as you all may well guess—cursed with unfortunate vision), he lifted his sword in front of him in a silent—and he could only hope menacing—challenge.
“Hello, there,” said the knight. (His mother had always stressed the importance of good manners.) “Pleased to meet you, Sir Dragon.” A pause. “Or…Lady Dragon?”
The dragon of Cokeworth Castle—somewhat predictably—did not reply.
The knight was ready for the next blast—dropping and rolling just in time to avoid the worst of the fire. The edge of it singed the side of his arm, but that was of no consequence. His shining armor—forged by the knight during one of his scholarly experiments with metals and homemade materials—was built to withstand moderate amounts of flame.
He rolled to a stop behind a large chunk of stone, shaking his arm where it still felt a twinge warm. If he could just avoid a direct blast…perhaps he could make it to where the maiden was hiding, guide her past the dragon, and escort her to safety without having to harm the poor beast.
Yes, that was it. That’s what he’d do. But—
A roar shook the room. Their dragon was growing impatient, waiting for his prey to emerge again. It roared once more, but this time it sounded less ferocious. More…pleading? Could that be possible? The knight was reminded momentarily of his friend Sirius the blacksmith, and the mangy dog that was never far behind him—scratching at the door and wordlessly begging for Sirius to come outside and run…
But, no. How ridiculous. The knight shook himself of the thought. This was a fire-breathing predator, not a puppy in Gryffin Glade.
Collecting himself, the knight peered out from around his rock. The dragon was a short distance away now, clawing at the flagstone floor with seemingly growing impatience. Unfortunately, the creature was blessed with excellent eyesight (lucky bastard) and the next column of flame sent the poor knight diving back behind his stone.
However would he sneak past the dragon at this rate? Of course, there was always swordsmanship. But fighting another knight would be one thing—he was prepared for that—but slaughtering a beast for simply doing what was in its nature? Killing a dragon for behaving like a dragon? Well. That didn’t seem very chivalrous to our knight.
But…if it was the only way to rescue the lady…
Sucking in a deep breath, the knight got to his feet. If he was going to die here in this (rather poorly-decorated) castle, at the feet of this dragon—he would not do so while hiding behind a rock. Feeling far less brave than he had when he walked in, he stepped out of his hiding place completely and hurried over to retrieve his fallen sword.
The dragon lifted its head, looking almost giddy as it turned to face the knight, unhinging its jaw…
But then it stopped. Its eyes widened, its head tilting to the side as if it was listening for something. The knight hesitated, shifting on his feet and readying his sword. What was happening? Was the creature reconsidering its plan to turn our young knight into a nice crispy supper? Perhaps something he’d done had tamed the creature. Had it sensed his spectacular bravery? His superior swordsman abilities?
Yes, our knight was really beginning to believe he’d actually done something impressive in all that rolling around and flopping behind rocks. Silly man. But that’s knights for you.
No, the knight was not responsible for the dragon’s change of demeanor. No, my friends, it was someone else entirely. Someone powerful. Someone brave. Someone intimidating. Someone….well, she was mostly bored at the time, if I’m honest.
Her voice rang—clear and curious—through the echoing room.
“What’s going on? Are you—oh.” Her tone hardened on that final word. “A knight. How surprising.” (She did not sound at all surprised.) “What brings you here, Sir Knight?”
Her tone of voice made it quite clear that she’d asked that question without caring one bit about the answer.
How did our knight respond, you might ask? I’ll tell you what—count to four. No, six. No, ten. No, you know what—count to twenty. Yes, twenty. Twenty whole seconds ticked away before our dashing, brave, scholarly young knight could even begin to process what had just been asked of him. Now, count to fifteen—yes, fifteen. That’s how long it took him to close his gaping jaw, which had fallen open the instant the fair lady entered the room. Count to three. That’s how long it took for him to think something along the lines of, God’s wounds, she’s beautiful. Count to twenty again. That’s how long it took the poor fool to clear his throat, collect himself, and answer the bloody question.
“My lady,” he said. Was he a little breathless? Yes, I suppose it’s fair to say he was. But a dramatic introduction? Well, any knight could handle a dramatic introduction. It’s the first thing aspiring knights are taught, you know.
“I am Sir James of Gryffin Glade, son of Lord Fleamont Potter and Lady Euphemia, and champion swordsman of the glade. I come here, in the service of one Lord Evans in—”
“Terrible start.”
Sir James stopped, frowning at the interruption. The lady was staring at him with crossed arms, standing unflinchingly beside the dragon while it sat patiently on its hind legs—watching the exchange.
James was reminded once again of Sirius the blacksmith’s pet dog.
“You started out well,” the lady began. Her hair was red. Beautiful red. Like the color of the warm embers at the end of a fire. Or the leaves in the grove by the old windmill in Gryffin Glade—where Sir James had whiled away so many hours of his youth. He loved that color red. He always had.
The lady was still speaking. He forced himself to focus.
“—But then you go right into who sent you and why you’re here without offering anything new and—really, Sir James—you don’t think I’ve heard all of this before?” She huffed, brushing a strand of that beautiful red hair behind her ear.
Did all ladies still look this breathtaking when irritated? James wondered.
“What is it with you knights! No creativity! If my father is going to keep insisting on cursing me with all these questing knights—”
“Cursing?” Interrupted James. He was growing more confused by the second. “Every knight that has come here—faced death here—did so to rescue you from—”
“From what?” The lady took a step closer to James. “Rescue me from what, do you think?”
“From...danger of course.”
The lady snorted. Yes, actually snorted.
“Oh, of course,” she said, with a gesture of mocking surrender. “Oh, the danger. Oh, the absolute calamity. How could I possibly go on? Living in this horribly large castle all by my lonesome, with a beautiful garden. And a beautiful pond. And shelves upon shelves of old wine and fresh herbs and tomes upon tomes upon tomes of literature and art and poetry and—”
“Are you mad!” James cried. The poor, baffled knight could make no sense of what he was hearing. It was as if—almost as if—this Lady wanted to stay here and be the dragon’s dinner. “There is a fire-breathing dragon! Right here in this room! Do you not see it?”
“Oh,” she waved a dismissive hand. “Godric won’t hurt me.”
“Godric?”
“The only danger I’m in, Sir, is the danger of never being married. But that is my father’s fear and his alone.”
“You don’t want to wed?” (Our dashing young knight sounded—bless him—disappointed.)
“Why would I want to wed? I have seen what men are like. How they think. How they act. You knights think yourself different. Think yourself chivalrous. But to you, I am not a person but a prize. I am what you wish to boast about in alehouses with your friends. But that is not my choice. Here, I am free. Here, I am myself.”
Sir James was quiet for some time. What a riveting surprise, this lady was proving to be. He had never met anyone quite like her. So fierce, so bold. So utterly sure of who she was and who she wanted to be. In that moment, our smitten young knight wanted nothing more than to know her better.
“So I’m clear—you wish to spend the rest of your days living with none but a dragon?”
“Better to live with a dragon than a man.”
“Is that so?”
“At least my dragon will never be unkind to me.”
“Oh yes, he’s terribly kind. A real charmer, that one. I was almost incinerated by his kindness—not five minutes ago.”
The lady couldn’t help it. She laughed. The sound was melodic and sweet—like a taste of honey after a lifetime of stale bread.
The knight’s smile was not unnoticed by the lady. How bright those eyes looked when they held hers just then—like soft sunshine in the aftermath of rain.
She bit her lip, forcing back that ridiculous thought. “That’s because he was trained to attack knights,” she replied, as flatly as she could manage. “How else would my father find a suitably warlike husband for his daughter to marry?”
“Your father trained this creature?”
“You cannot honestly be under the impression that it’s difficult to train a dragon. And I thought you seemed cleverer than most.”
In fact, dear audience, it was not the word “clever” that sprang to our fair lady’s mind when the knight first appeared before her. As she’d observed him—waiting for a response while you all counted to twenty and fifteen and three and twenty—it was not his intelligence she’d pondered, but the sharp line of his jaw…the rich hazel of his eyes…those renegade black curls that escaped through the edge of his helmet. He was young, surprisingly young, perhaps even her own age. Those features—so striking—and those arms…what strength they must contain…
Well. This Sir James fellow was a marked improvement over the geriatric chauvinists her father usually sent. That was for certain.
None of this, however, was clear to our young knight—who thought, surely, that this enchanting woman was also a bit off her rocker. And how could she speak to him—a knight!—in such a way!
“I’ll have you know, my lady. I have faced countless dangers to arrive at your rescue today, the likes of which none but the cleverest of knights could survive to tell the tale.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s right.”
“And your armor looks so shiny and unused because…”
“I polished it, of course. Couldn’t let a beautiful lady like you see me in rough and unkempt armor.”
“And if I said I liked my knights rough and unkempt?”
“Then let me duel your dragon, dear lady, and I shall make myself into what you please.”
The lady—for the first time, perhaps, in all her encounters with knights—was rendered momentarily speechless. Our knight watched her come closer, met those green eyes that sparkled with some feeling he could not put description to. And in her stare, he found himself holding his breath.
Eons seemed to pass before the lady retreated, backing away until the dragon was once again between them. “Go ahead, then, Sir James,” she said. “Prove me wrong.”
Godric, it soon appeared, really had been toying with our knight in their first encounter.
In this fight, there was no break. No time for thought or shelter. No sound but the knight’s own ragged breathing and the echoing dragon roar.
Sir James dove. He dodged. He deflected slashing talons with the flat end of his sword. All the while, he was determined to draw no blood. After all, this was her dragon, was it not? Her pet if he could venture so far? If she really was all alone save it in this place—how cruel would it be to slay her one companion?
The lady watched, with surprising anxiety, as the agile young knight avoided blow after life-threatening blow—so quick on his feet she could hardly keep track of all his movements. But why—she wondered—was he not attempting an offensive.
Most knights couldn’t wait to start hacking away with their swords. They’d shout in triumph at each drop of dragon blood they shed…each anguished whimper they’d lucked into eliciting. Only after their inevitable defeat would she allow herself to despair for her beloved Godric. Dressing her beloved dragon’s wounds, she so often worried that one day, inevitably, the horrible day of his defeat would come and she would be forced to wed the horrid creature who killed her oldest friend.
But this knight…this knight bore his sword in nothing but his own defense, doing no harm even as his exertion grew. He was panting. Exhausted. He couldn’t last much longer if he didn’t fight back. The urge rose in her to speak up. To stop them both. To save them both—
And then the knight began to speak.
The summer before James was knighted, a dog ran into the forge where he and Sirius the blacksmith were working.
It was a mangy, scruffy little thing. A puppy, to be sure, but one that had known nothing but the wild. James had been sure that it was a lost cause. Dangerous, even. What would happen, he’d asked Sirius, if a dog like this found its way to the village where the all those small children lived. What if some innocent villager got hurt?
But Sirius had not been afraid of the creature. With a calming presence and a determination that teetered on the edge of insanity, Sirius taught it to play instead of fight.
And—despite every protest James had made—it worked. The dog and Sirius became fast friends, and everyone was happier as a result.
What can I say, dear audience? Our knight had a soft side.
Can you guess what happens next?
“Now, Godric,” said Sir James to the dragon. “That’s a good dragon. Look what fire you have!”
Roar!
“I know. Yes, I was thinking—”
Clang. Crash. Roar.
“—that perhaps—”
Thwack.
“—You might consider a proposal of mine—”
Roar.
“I see that you—oof—that you—ouch! Christ!”
Clang. Clang. Thud.
“That you might have some unchecked aggression you need to let out, but—shit—”
James dropped to the ground just as another jet of flame surged above him, sending a shock of uncomfortably warm tingles down the back of his neck. “Well said,” panted James. “A very well-reasoned point. Hat’s off you to, my friend. Or helmet’s off, perhaps I should—”
It was in this increasingly incomprehensible rambling that our clever young knight was struck by an idea. An idea so foolish, so stupid, so unfathomably moronic, that—well, that it just might work.
Without hesitating, without thinking, without giving himself the possibility of changing his mind—Sir James, Knight of the Order of the Phoenix, three-time dueling champion of Gryffin Glade—stood up, faced the fire-breathing dragon, and removed his helmet.
I know what you’re thinking. Our knight is toast. Shish kebab. Find a cemetery plot and call a priest. There is simply no way that this catastrophically stupid act of pure hubris would actually work.
Or is there?
“Are you mad?” The lady was panicked. “You fool! You idiot! Put your helmet back or—or—”
Was the lady worried for him? Did she want him to survive? That thought made the reckless knight smile.
“I only want to have a word with your Godric here, my lady,” he replied. “Face to face. Man to—dragon.”
“You are mad!”
“Raving, yes. I quite agree.” In another swift motion, he laid his sword on the ground. He moved next to his gauntlets, letting them both fall one by one to the ground—as a challenge, of sorts. But not, in this instance, a violent one. “My dear fellow,” he addressed the dragon—which seemed to be regarding him now with a degree of hesitance. “I come in peace, I assure you. I do not wish to hurt you.”
The dragon snorted, quite like its mistress, and James resisted the urge he felt to flinch from the hot embers that trickled down from its nose.
“I came only to assist the fair Lady Evans, but seeing that I was sent here under false pretenses—” The thought rankled. What a boarish man, that Lord Evans was, to exile his own daughter to a castle with a deadly creature. All for, what? Some crazed manipulation of all the knights of his land? To secure himself some status? Put a proven warrior in his debt? Is that what he was doing? Trading away his family for a chance to expand his land, his power, his security?
And did he care at all for the safety of his child? What if the training hadn’t worked? What if his daughter had been killed by the dragon instead. James had never had much malice in his heart, but now he could kill that ghastly lord for what he’d done. No wonder his daughter distrusted men. James found himself supportive, suddenly, of her desire to feed all the men to her dragon.
“Then,” he continued, “I will not ask the lady to depart from here if she does not wish to leave. And in return, I only wish—” He continued to remove his armor, stripping off piece by piece until there was nothing left but the garments he’d worn underneath. “—that you do me the honor of—well…not eating me. I’m rather fond of being alive, you see. I’d really like to stay that way.”
The dragon stared at him. It was clawing at the ground again, sniffing James as if weighing its options.
James cracked a grin. “As you can see, good Godric, I am no longer in chain mail. I no longer have my sword. You are trained only to attack knights, are you not? Well—” he gestured at his clothing—flattening the creases of the special jacket that he and Sirius the blacksmith had invented in the forge. “What kind of knight would fashion himself like this?”
At that statement, the Lady Evans—despite all the unimaginable fear that coursed through her at that moment, seizing her heart in a vice—giggled.
The sound invigorated James, and he chanced a glance in her direction long enough to match her smile, to feel the warmth that seemed to radiate from her now that she wasn’t regarding him as some sort of pest.
“You have quite the companion, here, Godric,” declared James, though his eyes remained fixed still on the lady. “I would take off this armor for her forever, you know, if she wished me to. There is nothing that knighthood could ever bring me that I would desire more than her company.”
Was the Lady Evans blushing? Yes, dear audience, yes she was.
And she hated it. God’s wounds, she hated it. There was nothing she wanted to hate more than this man. This man. With his words, words, words. Pretty words. Heart-fluttering words. And his quick wit. And his agile moves. And his gentleness and compassion and—God. God. God. God.
“—In fact,” continued James, heart pounding in his chest at the look—the look she was giving him. “If she agreed to leave this place with me right now—”
Uh oh.
That was it. The grave mistake.
You see, dragons, in this world—as it so happens—are complex creatures. Capable of training and impressive obedience. But capable, also, of immense emotion. And, like the rest of us, immense loneliness.
Godric the dragon—fearsome monster of Cokeworth Castle—was one such creature. He loved his Lady Evans. His Lily, as he knew her. He loved her nighttime stories, told from her own imagination. He loved her gentle, soothing words when he was hurt. Her playful laugh when he was not. He loved her silly dancing, in the lazy afternoons when no knights were there to bother them and the flute she owned was free to fill their home with music. He loved how she stood up for him, even when he was wrong. He loved how she believed in him, even when the shot was long. She was all the kindness he never knew he deserved, and the thought of her leaving?
It was the one curse he could not endure.
And so, Godric the dragon—fearsome monster of Cokeworth Castle—did what any scared creature would do when facing the threat of losing what was most dear.
He lashed out.
Or, more specifically, he attacked.
Our poor, lovestruck knight—in all his chivalry and recklessness and hope—was still looking at Lady Evans when it happened. His eyes shining with all that he could not contain. When suddenly, her features changed to horror. Abject horror. And her scream pierced the air.
“NO! Godric, no! Wait! JAMES!”
James had only just turned around when the blast hit.
Lady Evans lost all sense.
She screamed again, so loudly she could feel it scratch at her throat. The fire struck Sir James square in the chest, sending him reeling back and collapsing to the floor below. Where he lay, motionless, under a rising plume of smoke.
Godric continued to advance, bearing his teeth and snarling.
“No!” shrieked the lady, throwing herself forward towards the fallen knight. She leapt between him and the approaching dragon—spreading her arms out wide to put herself between her knight and any more danger. “Godric, stop!”
He did, skidding to a halt right there in front of her. His eyes were wild, and somehow sad. She knew at once what had caused his rage. “I won’t leave you, Godric,” she whispered. “But please don’t harm Sir James.”
Godric bowed his head. It was—the lady thought—the closest to surrender that a dragon could get.
Without wasting another second, she reeled around and collapsed to her knees.
“Oh, James,” she said. “Sir James, I am so sorry. He didn’t mean—please don’t—”
Her heart racing, she ripped at the blackened fabric of his outer garment—desperate to find the damage…to see if any of her herbs or potions could fix what her dear Godric had just done.
“I’m sorry,” she continued. Tears were clouding her vision. “I’m so so sorry, Sir James. You don’t deserve—”
“My lady—”
“Lily,” she corrected without thinking.
Our knight was grinning. “Lily—”
“You’re not going to die here, James, do you hear me? You’re not—”
“I know that, dear lady.”
“No, I mean it. You won’t, I swear. I’ll fix you. I’ll—”
“Lady Evans.”
At the forcefulness in his tone, she looked up, startled. He was smiling at her without a trace of pain—his face revealing nothing but a burn on his chin that looked fairly minor. His eyes—beautiful eyes—twinkled with peculiar merriment.
Slowly, holding her gaze, he lifted his hands to his chest and ripped his garment open. On the other side of the charred fabric, his white undershirt was plainly visible. It was completely unmarred. No burns. No soot. No imperfections or dirt. It looked freshly washed. Untouched. The backside of the outer garment—where his hands had ripped it—was just as immaculate.
Just as slowly—carefully—James took Lady Lily’s hand in his and pressed it against his shirt, just over his heart. “You see? I’m perfectly unharmed.”
Lily could only stare at him. Dumbstruck. “But…how?” She knew how hot her dragon’s flame was. This was absurd. Unheard of. Impossible. “Witchcraft?”
James cracked a smile—equal parts charming and arrogant. “Alchemy,” he corrected. “I forged this garment myself, out of flame-resistant materials. My friend is a blacksmith. He helped.”
Lily laughed—equal parts relief and amusement.
“Now, my dear lady—” began James, lacing his fingers through hers. “I’m wondering now if you might give some thought to my proposal.”
She grinned. “And what proposal is that?”
“I’m wondering if your dragon would consider coming to work with me in my forge.” He lifted her hand, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "You'd be welcome too, of course."
And that—my darling friends in the audience—is how the knight got the girl.