Wyrm

The nameless young man kicked and snapped at the fat, greasy brute trapping him in a corner of a dilapidated shack.

"Dirty oaf!" The young man shouted, "Get away! I will kill you where you stand if you think your dirty wishes will come true!"

"Bonnie lad," The oaf tutted, "There is nothing behind your words, wyrm. Stop fighting and let me feel your supple body."

A meaty hand reached for the young man's neck, but the youth snapped his teeth down on it. The sharp points sink in easily, the taste of foul blood fills his mouth.

"AAAAHHHH!" The oaf howled before pulling his hand free.

Blood rolled down in a light, steady stream, falling and soaking into the rotted floorboards.

"You say there is nothing," The young man shouted, "But I am not without fury! Relent, or you will die by my hands!"

"Bloody wyrm!" The oaf barked, "Disobedient cur, you are! I'll teach you to bite your master!"

The oaf lunged and grabbed his prey's tattered cloak. Their hands battled over the cloth, ripping it in the process. The frail stranger couldn't keep hold, and the cloak was torn off and discarded, leaving him with nothing. The cold breeze nipped at him, but the adrenaline in his veins boiled his blood. Normally, he'd be furious. He'd lay waste to the oaf and the land he stood on. Now, he felt fear. He dodged another grab, but it was a trick. The oaf snatched his wrist as soon as he darted into reach. The young man kicked and barked, but his grip was like a vise.

"Stupid pup," The oaf snarled, "Now you'll learn."

The young man braced against his imminent beating as best he could, but before the strike could come, there was a deafening snap and another howl of pain.

"Damn it all!" The oaf roared at the top of his lungs.

His grip loosened, and the captive was able to break away. Still, the oaf's bulk blocked any avenue of escape. He readied himself to fight, but the oaf was turned away from him.

"UGLY BASTARD!" The oaf roared.

"Leave him, Haddly," Another voice, rough and commanding, said.

"Like hell I will!" Haddly snapped, "He's mine!"

"I was the one to find him. He belongs to me."

As the voice got closer, so did the sound of boots against the old wood. Fear grew in the youth's chest as the tension in the room rose to a fever pitch.

Haddly snickered, "And where's his mark? I don't see your crest on him. Shouldn't have left him behind, Barclay!"

There was another snap, and the young man could see the tip of a whip in the corner of his eye.

"I have my brand in my pocket. I only stepped out to clean it," Barclay said.

"Mines in the fire," Haddly sneered, "Seems I'm a step in the lead."

"So you admit you are a leech."

"I'll be a leech," Haddly shrugged, "And you'll watch as I sink my teeth into this bo-"

There was a whoosh and a clang, followed by the sound of sizzling meat and a blood curdling wail. Haddly was knocked to the floor by his own brand, flung at his head from the furnace. He grabbed at his face as the iron stamp burned through his skin and into his cheek. The youth watched as the oaf seared his own hands trying to pull the metal from his flesh. Then he felt his arm grabbed and he was dragged away. He turned and saw a man in a wide-brimmed leather hat and leather coat. His face and body were turned away, but his hat couldn't fully hide his long, black hair. They moved quickly out the door and into the cold forest, leaving behind the banshee of a man. A wood wagon pulled by two Clydesdales waited just beyond a smattering of trees, and as they drew closer, its cargo of cages and dead game became clear. They came up from behind, and suddenly the young man was being stuffed into a steel prison on his hands and knees. There was a slam and the heavy click of a large metal lock. He tried to see his captor's face as he ran towards the reigns, but the hat obscured him once again.

"Coward!" The captive shouted, "Release me from this prison at once, or I shall tear your flesh from your bones!"

"Silence. You'll have your freedom once we are elsewhere," Barclay said calmly.

The young man was about to object, but the thought of facing Haddly, certainly more ugly and cruel if alive, silenced him. Barclay spurred the horses and the cart took off at a clip. At first, the young man kept trying to hold himself above the bars below him, but he was too weak to weather the bumps and would slam his chin painfully when his arms gave out, so instead he covered his head with his arms as best he could and curled up his body. The horses slowed to a trot, causing a dilemma. Would the violent but fast method ultimately be less painful, or would extended caution be the better route? Even resting was painful, and the encroaching dusk sapped what little light he could see by. The heavy silence was worst of all. It compressed his already fragile heart and stirred his mind from thoughtless panic to visions of despair. Just as the stars were visible in the gaps of the canopy and the moon was near its apex, the cart came to a stop. The young man looked to the driver and watched as he brought the wick of a hanging lantern to life. He turned and climbed into the cart, moving amongst the cargo until he reached the young man, his visage still hidden by shadow.

He grabbed something from behind him, then said, "Move your head out first and slowly, or you'll stay in there."

The caught prey puffed up his chest as best he could in his position, "I will not bow to your authority, cowardly thief. I advise you to beg my forgiveness, or you will be my first victim."

"I will not offer again. Do as I said. Whether you are in there or out here makes no difference to me."

His prisoner readied another reprimand, but he was no fool. Instead, he planned to run as far as his legs would take him once he was loose. What he would do after, he would have to think of while running.

"I will accept your offer, coward."

"Barclay."

"I am not stupid, coward Barclay, I have heard your name from the oaf's mouth while you quarreled. And make no mistake; I am not bending to your will. Once I am free, I expect the utmost care in recompense."

"Make your demands, but I implore you, move as you do so."

The young man stopped talking. He began the awkward process of reorienting himself so his head faced the exit, made all the more difficult by his desire to keep his eyes on his captor. As he moved, Barclay followed along with the sound of clanking metal, and when he reached the gate, Barclay removed the heavy lock. The youth turned his attention to the gate, and saw beyond it a vast lake full of stars. His captivation was so intense that he wasn't aware of himself. That is, until he felt cold metal clamp down around his neck.

"What are you-!" He started to shout, but it was too late, "A collar? You coward! You've chained me like some filthy animal!"

"Aye, I have," Barclay replied, "The chain is long, but you won't be running off unless you take the cart and horses with you."

He hopped down to stand in front of the cage, and the young man could finally see his face. He had the tan of a laborer. His face and hands were tanned dark with only hints of it's much paler origin. He had the musculature of a laborer as well; almost stone-like in its definition. His loose, blood stained shirt didn't hide the hair on his chest, and his unfastened leather coat framed the cotton cloth more than covered it. He had a short beard that covered his jaw and upper lip, and his face had long claw marks on one side and the scar of burn on his other cheek. His hand, now reaching out to his captive, was much marred by old wounds and scorches to a degree that it had been somewhat deformed over time.

"Let me help you down," Barclay said, "I don't want you to start crying after you fell on your face. I've heard one man weep, I needn't hear another."

The young man glared, then pushed himself off the back of the cart and landed on his hands and feet.

"I don't need help from the likes of you, you mindless beast," He snarled.

He stood, but his legs were wobbly. Whether it was from fatigue or unbalance, he couldn't tell. If he walked on four legs instead of two, he could be so much more stable, but his new morphology was frustratingly unstable. His experiments in the shack had taught him that much, at least.

Barclay sighed, "Sometimes I wish I were a beast. I would only work for food, not coin. Alas, I am cursed to live with the luxuries only man can enjoy."

The chained one scoffed, "Hah. Humans know nothing about luxury. Even your kings live as pigs compared to us."

"That may be so, but you forget who you are," Barclay said as he pulled a string of dead rabbits from his cart.

"Forget who I am?" The young man asked indignantly, "I am a dragon! I am of those who sit at the apex of creation! I watch all those below us toil endlessly while we live as gods!"

"I make no claim to the contrary, but perhaps you have yet to look at yourself."

The dragob gritted his teeth. He hadn't yet seen all of himself, but he had seen his chest, hands, and feet. His body was no longer that of a dragon's. Now he looked all but human. The only vestiges of his draconic lineage were the patches of golden scales, smooth and flat like a snake's, and his jagged teeth. Barclay's words brought this reality back to him, and a pang of despair filled his chest.

"I know not what you mean," The dragon said, holding back his emotions, "I am still a dragon. Or will you tell me next that my scales are nothing but a delusion?"

"Your scales make you not human, that is without dispute, but you have not the wings or tail of a dragon, and I've certainly never seen one so small. Call yourself what you like, wyrm, it makes no difference to me."

"Don't you dare to call me that!"

"Don't call you wyrm?" Barclay asked as he lit a campfire, "Then tell me your name, and I will call you by that."

The nameless half-dragon opened his mouth, but closed it again. He couldn't remember his name, nor could he remember his face or the names and faces of his family. He didn't know who or what changed him or for what reason. With no response, he turned his head away and closed his eyes.

"None do, little Wyrm," Barclay said, his voice surprisingly remorseful, "Some say it's because of the shrinkage of their brains, others attributed it to the curse."

"I am not cursed!" Wyrm barked, "And I am most certainly not little! I'm likely twice your age!"

"Yet you look little more than half," Barclay replied, "Your mind is the same. I heard that dragons wisen at a snail's pace compared to humans."

"Over 80 years!" Wyrm roared, "I've lived over 80 years, and you dare say I am not wise?!"

"You fight against reality itself. I would say that is more childish than wise. I suppose that is to be expected, being that you have the mind of one taking his first steps into adulthood. Now come and eat and warm yourself. You are cold, and don't try to deny it. I can see your shivers from here."

Denying was exactly what Wyrm wanted to do, but the delectable scent of seasoned rabbit haunches wafted into him. His mouth watered and overflowed. The lure was enough to bring him in closer, but with great caution. Barclay gestured to a blanket laid on the ground across from him, where two cuts of fragrant meat sat on a napkin cloth. Wyrm lifted it carefully, but quickly lost himself in the flavor. He closed his eyes to better savor the taste while he chewed slowly. He felt his frozen skin start to thaw from the fire's heat, and Barclay managed to sneak behind him. He set his heavy coat on Wyrm's shoulders and held out a cup with an amber liquid. The cup was warm, and Wyrm swallowed its contents in one drink.

"Spice wine," Wyrm said, a blissful smile crossing his face, "I remember it well. They would take it from the merchant ships and bring it to us. Ah, its flavor is magnificent!"

"It's quite nice," Barclay said as he refilled the empty cup, "Drink slowly. Humans are not so resilient to alcohol."

Wyrm sipped more slowly this time while he watched Barclay fill his own cup and sit down. There was a sadness in his movements, and he ate and drank sparsely.

"These are kind offerings, Barclay," Wrym said.

"You spoke my name without insult. You must have truly been starving to be so grateful."

"Yes, well... It is often wise to forgive an enemy; especially one who offers recompense. That is what my wisdom tells me."

"This is quite the meager recompense, is it not?"

"That is true, but I suppose you have not much to give, and thus what you have given is in equal spirit to a king offering a fortune. Release me now, and I promise to spare your life. You have earned that much."

Barclay sighed heavily, "Yes, I suppose we should tarry no longer. Have you had your fill? Good. I will unchain you, but please come to me. I am tired, and I do not want to stand."

This struck Wyrm as odd, but he wouldn't pass on the opportunity. Warily, he rose and walked to Barclay's side. Barclay poked at the fire with a pair of metal tongs, turning over logs and reorganizing what remained.

"Lie next to me," Barclay said, gesturing to the empty half of the blanket, "Yes, right there. This will make the process easier. Good."

Wyrm felt odd. His whole body felt soft and tingly, and it was hard to stay still. He watched as Barclay retrieved a heavy iron key from his pocket and reached for the lock. When he did, Wyrm could see a strange look on his face. It was sad, even regretful. Barclay took the lock in one hand and twisted the key. There was a click, and the collar fell away. But the expression didn't waiver. Something about it made Wyrm's chest swell and his pulse quicken. Barclay stood and walked towards a heavy glove on the ground. He slipped it on and examined what looked like a rock by the fire, then took both back to Wyrm. Wyrm hadn't moved save to prop himself up on his elbows. The tingling and the feeling in his chest, now stronger than before, compelled him to stay. Barclay lowered himself to his knee. Meeting his eyes and having him so close made Wyrm's insides warm for some reason, and when the handsome man spoke, he hung on every word.

"I... I want you to know, little Wyrm, that I... I take no pleasure in doing this."

"I understand Barclay, but you've made the correct decision in freeing me."

"I only do this for your sake."

"Yes, I understand. You needn't feel sad. Be happy; you have the gratitude of a dragon now."

Barclay lifted his arm and brought it to a rest across Wyrm's body. The touch made sparks in Wyrm's body wherever skin met skin, and doubly so for his scales.

"Barclay..." Wyrm asked, confused by the sensation, "What are you doing...?"

"I'm truly sorry, little Wyrm," Barclay said.

In the next moment, he pressed his lips into Wyrm's. The former dragon's entire body felt unbearably euphoric. His brain grew fuzzy and his limbs started to numb.

When Barclay pulled away, Wyrm stammered, "Y-you- in the spices- you put- you put the h-herb-"

"Dragon's Lust, yes," Barclay said solemnly, "It was in the spices I used on the meat."

"You- you don't understand! F-for humans, it's- it's nothing more than a spice-"

"But for dragons, it's a powerful aphrodisiac. Yes, I know."

"No! No- it's- it's- did you eat it? You- you need to tell me if you ate it!"

"I did. It was an ingredient in one of my mixes. It only occurred to me that I had it when I met you. I cooked both rabbits with it. Little Wyrm, please understand that I didn't use it in hopes of taking advantage of you. I am no brute like Haddly. There is a rumor that the herb is potent enough to distract from pain. I'd rather you feel pleasure than pain, that is the truth."

Barclay closed his eyes and lifted his gloved hand. In it was a red hot crest made of iron. Wyrm's eyes went wide. He struggled to escape, but Barclay was too strong.

Wyrm pleaded, "No! Please! I beg you! Let me go!"

Barclay said nothing. He swallowed hard, then pressed the crest into Wyrm's pale chest. Wyrm screamed as pain seared into his chest, hotter than the sun. Barclay tossed the crest to the side and kissed him again. Pleasure washed over the heat, but not enough to quell it. Barclay noticed his weeping, and in a panic moved his lips to Wyrm's chest to suck on his nipple. That quelled the pain easily, though the heat remained. Still, panic didn't leave Wyrm's chest.

"What- What have you done?"

Barclay lifted his head to explain, "I had to brand you to keep you from being taken, just as Haddly had tried."

"No..." Wyrm whimpered, his voice growing weak, "You don't understand... You don't know what you've started..."

"Shhhh. Try to relax. You're on the edge of sleep, so please stop struggling. I will do nothing else once your eyes are closed, I promise."

Barclay was right. What parts of Wyrm could still be felt were close to collapse and his vision began to blur. After trying and failing to speak again, darkness overcame Wyrm's mind, and he fell unconscious.

When he woke, he was sitting at the front of the wagon. The horses pulled them through the crisp morning air at a steady trot, never noticing the uneven ground. He was wrapped tightly in blankets and resting against Barclay's shoulder.

"Coward..." Wyrm said, weakly.

"So you have woken," Barclay said, "I was worried you would not, truth be told."

As his body caught up to his mind, Wyrm felt a hot pain on his chest. He felt for the brand, and when his fingers brushed it, the sharp pain made him squeak.

"Please refrain from touching it until it heals. It will be another day, so please have some restraint," Barclay said, touching Wyrm's shoulder.

Wyrm didn't try to reply. He didn't try to move or jerk away. He could hardly manage to move his mouth enough to speak.

"What will you do?" He asked.

"I ask that you keep covered, even if the sun is hot today. We will enter a village soon, and it is illegal to be seen nude while in public."

"Stop it..."

"We can find something to wrap you in. Something cheap. Then I need you to carry supplies for me. You'll need to earn your bread from now out. Last night's meal was a special occasion."

"Barclay," Wyrm said with all the little strength he had, "What is to happen to me?"

Barclay was silent, almost as if the question would vanish if he waited long enough.

"You will be tagged," Barclay said at last, "That will make you mine, and if you ever run away, you will be brought back to me."

"So I am to be your slave?"

"...No. You are already my slave."

Misery overwhelmed Wyrm, and he began to quietly weep into his blanket. Barclay didn't react except to quicken the horses' pace. It didn't take long for Wyrm to run out of tears, and he was left with nothing but his pain and his gloom. Time passed, though its length was heavily warped in Wyrm's mind, and the sounds of nature were replaced by the sounds of civilization in gradual steps. The noisy market with vendors enticing passing patrons and townsfolk going about their day filled the air outside the imposing stone wall with it's many guards walking along the turrets. Barclay gave the reins over to a stable hand and paid for a place to keep the steeds while they visited the town. The shoeless, blanket-wrapped Wyrm drew the eyes of passersby. If he were in another mood, he would feel shame, but his spirit was doused and numb. He had no will to run, nor could he until he was sure his honors would remain intact, so he followed behind Barclay like a duckling following his mother.

They stepped inside a small wooden storefront with a man sitting by a lectern. A large curtain hung on the back wall, obscuring a dim passage, and the wall opposite the lectern had many papers whose text had since faded and became illegible. The man started at once when Barclay entered, followed by Wyrm.

"Barclay, g'day to ya. Whadya got for me?"