Wyrm

"Barclay, we do not need to decide the matter tonight. In fact, I urge you to take time and consider. We have plenty of it, and our courtship is an abnormal and clandestine one. Let us sleep and talk more when we wake."

Wyrm's own words echoed in his mind. Things had progressed nicely until tonight, and he was even able to coax a confession of love out of Barclay. Then that maid had to open her mouth. He did not begrudge her, at least not too much. She could see the love between them, that is not her fault. And yes, the love was mutual.

Barclay's gentle soul was finally his, just as he wanted, and he would keep it safe in his heart. Showering it with love, it would melt and become a part of him, and they would be inseparable. It would take time and effort, but it was all to ensure the prosperity of the wyrms, and the dragons by extension. It was his duty to rule, and Barclay was his first step. It was a step he liked.

He loved him dutifully, but there was something alongside his honorable feelings. Something that didn't make sense. An extra emotion that hid whenever he confronted it, and returned when his mate was close. The seasoned huntsman proved to be more than a slaver; under his bristling exterior was a rich vein of dormant passion.

Humans are naturally inferior to dragons in the same way an ant was inferior to a lion, but if they were lions and ants, Barclay would be the most outstanding of all the ants in the world. He was much like his hair; coarse, yet so pleasant to touch. Wyrm had taken every opportunity to run his fingers through Barclay's long black hair. It was calming, almost soothing. It seemed to calm Barclay down as well, though he never admitted it.

In those moments of calm, he would find himself imagining what Barclay would look like as a dragon. Silver scaled, despite his occupation, because his intelligence and resourcefulness were beyond that of the common laborer. Powerful legs, wide claws, and a breastbone that nearly brushed the ground when he walked. A long, thin tail, but not the most flawless of teeth. And large wings. Wings big enough to wrap around them both. Wings that would hide them from the world.

But there were many things that Wyrm liked about his mate that would be lost if he were a dragon. His long hair, his furry chest, his itchy beard, his big hands, his strong lips...

As Wyrm thought more on the things he liked about his mate, he began to slip into a dream. He was in a temple. What kind of temple?

A temple of love? No, there were no priests around to greet him. The love priests had such kind hearts. Their belief was that love should be worshipped, not craved. Lessons at the love temples were always awkward; having to practice form and position, and being scolded for every mistake. Did humans go through a similar experience? Human passion-sharing seems so simple, Wyrm couldn't see how a mistake could be made.

No, he was not in a temple of love. A temple of knowledge? Would he spend his days scribbling words on paper only to tie them to an ever expanding tome? Then he would have to wash the ink from his claws, and ink rarely washes off easily. All the work and inconvenience, yet there was no guarantee that his work would ever be witnessed, let alone appreciated. Ah, but it would be funny to watch the young Silveren frantically scan the pages that filled the shelves because they had not prepared themselves for class. Such a silly kind.

But no, this was not a temple of knowledge. A temple of guidance? No, the air did not feel dreadful and morose enough to be such a temple. He would never spend time around the priests of guidance willingly. It was not their fault, they only seeked their honors. But how could they pass judgement without guilt? How could one fail to prove another's innocence, knowing they would face a punishment of great severity, and yet still return, knowing they may fail again? Not even in his dreams would he dwell in those halls.

A temple of faith? Where the wisest Golden practice their divine arts? They could touch a rushing river and turn it into a gentle stream. They could make rain fall upwards, back into the clouds. Such wonderful magic, no wonder he was a devout apprentice. Yes, this was a temple of faith; a place full of magic.

Water falls in droplets like gentle rain around the white stone pavilion. It strikes statues of silver and gold, producing a bell-like chime. White stone columns hold aloft a gold trimmed dome with elegantly incorporated channels that catch the mist of the distant falls, transforming them into the melodic droplets.

Inside, a marble basin sits at the center of a floor made from the finest white sand from distant shores. Ah, he could lay on this sand forever. The way it forms to his body and polishes his scales, cleansing it of the grime of an endless day.

He looks up, and sees Barclay lounging on a cushion. In his hand is a glass of spice wine, still warm. He wears nothing, exposing his powerful physique and erotic allure. Wyrm smiles, and his mate smiles back. The dragon walks towards the naked man, only to realize he is no longer a dragon, but a human. Not a wyrm, a true human. His hair is the color of sunshine, and it flows down his back in a silken cascade. There is no tag in his ear, no crest on his chest, no scales on his skin.

He couches down and kisses Barclay. His beard tickles his face, just as it always did. Wyrm lays his back against his love and raises his hands. He conjures the image of a harp in his mind, just like he used to practice, and begins plucking strings of water vapor to his favorite song. The sound is light and delicate, almost as if it were made of glass. Then, Wyrm begins to sing.

"If I were to go away,

Would you follow me to the en~ds of the ear~th,

To show me what your love is worth,

Or would you go not very far,

Shrug your shoulders, say there you are,

She didn't love me anyways,

If she had, she would have stayed.

If I were to go away,

Would I always look for your beau~tiful fa~ce,

In every crowd, every place,

Or would I go and buy a hat,

Shrug my shoulders, say that is that,

He didn't love me, now it's clear,

If he had, he would be here."

Barclay's hand touches his face, gently pulling it close. He-

"Make a sound, and I kill you both," A low, gruff voice growled.

Wyrm was torn from his dream by a man grabbing his shoulder. He could not see the intruder's face, but the stray beams of light from behind the fireplace grate illuminated hard, cruel eyes.

"You're gonna get out of this bed, and I'm gonna take you outside," The man said, anger in his voice, "Unless you want me to slit his throat."

Wyrm looked to Barclay, fast asleep and dead to the world. He ran his hand through the strains of long black hair, feeling it slip between his fingers.

"I won't ask again," The voice threatened.

Wyrm closed his eyes, nodded, and climbed out of his bed. The floor felt cold under his bare feet. He wondered if he could ask to put on his stockings and briefs, but the sharp tip of his captor's knife convinced him not to. The walk through the dark halls, lit only by dying candles, felt like a tunnel to a different world.

When they stepped outside, Wyrm could see a ring of men holding torches. Not men, wyrms. Some faces he remembered seeing during the day, but most were shadowy strangers. Judging by the occasional glint of scales, nearly all were Bronzen, with only a few Silveren amongst them. Despite any differences they may have, their murderous scrowls unified them.

Wyrm was walked into the center before his captor kicked the back of his knee, forcing the young priest into a kneel. He turned his head up, only to have a large fist smashed into his cheek. He caught himself before hitting the ground, but his mind struggled to come to sense.

The chains around his neck, a sacred gift for his services, were grabbed and used to lift him to his feet. The metal pressed painfully hard against his throat, choking him. A barrel chested man brought him to his face.

"Bloody fucking tyrant," The stranger growled before spitting in his eye.

A voice from the crowd shouted, "Hang him!" Another cried "Torch him!" And more joined in with their own preferred method of execution.

Wyrm tried not to show his fear as he croaked with precious breath, "You all have no honor. I am no tyrant, nor are any of my kind."

"You lying bastard!" A man barked from the crowd, "The Golden sent knights to beat and kill us whenever they pleased! Our voices were crushed, and we had no choice but to work to death!"

A cry of agreement came from the mob, and Wyrm was flung to the ground, landing in a heap.

"You've filled your head with rebellious fervor and blinded yourself to the truth," Wyrm said with feigned calm as he tried to steady his breathing, "Your punishments are lessons, and if you were willing to learn, you would not have to face them."

"You punished us for hoping! For dreaming! All you wanted was to keep us underfoot!"

Wyrm shook his head, "Whoever has taught you such rhetoric is a heretic and a fool. We are born with our duties, decided by fate and by scale. That is a power none can wield," Through the pain and fear, he began to rise, "To deny your duty is to live without honors, for the greatest honors come from supporting the kingdom and honoring the dead. That is the way of our grand and mighty kingdom. The way of dragons! You force yourself to blame us for your birth, for your lot in life, otherwise you'd only have fate to blame. Only a child cries when fate is not in their favor. Cast aside these petty grievances and reclaim-"

A kick landed on Wyrm's stomach, causing him to collapse to the ground once more. When he tried to rise again, a boot pressed his face back into the dirt, pinning him down.

"All you have are your honors," The barrel chested man said, "You think you can threaten us by taking them away, but we no longer care. We'd rather live free than die with honors."

"And what if honors mean nothing?!" Cried another stranger, "What if they are lying, and they can't see at all?! What if it was all trickery?!"

"He's a fucking liar!" Yet another voice shouted, sending the mob into a frenzy.

The ring started to shrink until there was no space left in the center. Wyrm was pulled into the crowd so each man could have a turn punching, clawing, kicking, and spitting at him. Some men brought gloves lined with rocks to ensure their blows would bruise. Others brought long switches fashioned out of reeds to whip and fillet his back.

He fell to his side, his legs going limp from pain. He curled himself up against the endless onslaught of kicks, each harder than the last. Then the crowd backed away.

Suddenly, his chains were pulled tight around his neck once more, and he was lifted up so all of the chanting mob could see him struggling. He kicked and he grabbed at the entity behind him, but the chains only tightened.

He could see only the stars, only hear the blood in his ears. The world grew hazy, and at the sound of a whip crack, he fell into darkness.

***

Wyrmheart's hand squeezed weakly, and a strained voice said, "Bar...clay..."

Barclay leaned in as close as he could, frantically kissing his love's hand and whispering, "Wyrmheart! Wyrmheart, you mustn't speak."

"It... hurts..."

"Yes, I know it hurts. Shhh, I know it hurts. I'm here, I'm here. Shhh, don't cry my love, don't cry," The huntsman turned his head away and shouted for the maid.

Mellina came rushing in, gasping when she saw Wyrmheart's half-opened eyes.

"Mellina," Barclay stiffly instructed, "There's a pouch full of opium powder on the table. Yes, that one. Take it and mix half of it into a pitcher of clean, fresh water. Make sure it is no warmer or cooler than your own body, and stir it as best you can. Bring me the jug and a glass, then put half of the remaining powder in a censor and set it beside the table. Do you understand?"

Mellina nodded, "Half the powder in a jug of clean water, and a quarter into a censor."

"Good. Light the censor in here, not in the hall. If you breathe too much you'll lose sensation in your limbs."

The maid took the pouch and scurried away just as Wyrmheart began to groan, "It hurts... hurts..."

Barclay gently stroked the scales on his head, "Shh, shh, I know it hurts, I know. You'll feel better soon, I promise."

Mellina came back with a jug, glass, and censor just as instructed, and for the rest of the day Barclay would dose his lamb with opium to stop the pain. Even as Wyrmheart calmed into a still sleep, he continued to keep a lonely vigil. The slashes he took from Jakobo's sickle showed no sign of rot, miraculously, but they had damaged him more than he was willing to let on.

He could barely stand, and his wounded hand would shake whenever he held something. He did not know how to heal these injuries, and there was every chance that it had severed more than flesh.

The likelihood of debilitation, if not total loss of his leg in particular, wasn't lost on him, nor was the understanding that his time as a huntsman could come already have come to an end.

"If that is my fate," Barclay said to himself, puffing his pipe and watching the smoke rise through the mist of the early morning three days later, "So be it. I have many skills which I can profit from, and I will never regret my actions."

When the monks came to Fenly's manor, they said that Wyrmheart would need regular care while he recovered, and suggested moving him to the monastery.

"We have cells to house patients," The monk explained, "That way we can attend to them throughout the day. Mr. Black-pigeon, I highly suggest you come as well. I can see you're quite badly injured and limping. From your description, it's possible that a muscle has been damaged more severely than it seems. Farm tools have irregular blades that are not well kept. They leave behind jagged wounds that can easily heal improperly and become infected."

Fenly offered to keep the huntsman's cart and horses until they returned, and Mellina and Tuely stowed away and secured whatever they wouldn't bring with them.

It was a day-long trip through the countryside, following the slope of a mountain until they reached a wide meadow of wild flowers. Rising from it was a red cathedral with tall, stained-glass windows and a grand bell tower. The halls and cells wrapped around the central structure in a square ring, encapsulating a gorgeous courtyard full of fruit trees.

To its left was a tall, gray stone tower where the guards sent by the king lived and patrolled. Those guards had left some days ago and never returned, which would concern the monks more if it was unusual for them to trek to the nearby settlement's brothel and stay a while.

Wyrmheart was carried to a cell not far from the tower; a tiny room with little space left after a second bed was brought in. Despite the size, however, the cell was quite nice. The view of the field of flowers was lovely, and Barclay may have spent more time admiring it if he weren't so restless.

He would walk up the tower to the parapet and puff on his opium pipe while he watched the forest beyond, because laying down and watching his love silently suffer hurt him more than any blade could.

"I'm glad to see you are so ready to make peace with fate," A voice said from behind, startling the contemplative huntsman.

Barclay turned to see Illunt, the monk who had fetched them from the manor. He was short and thick framed, similar to the rest, except his friar's-cut hazel hair hung down a little further than his brothers and his dark red robes were far more clean.

Illunt smiled, "Not many would be so willing, especially when they've never known another way of life."

Barclay lowered his head, "It will be difficult, I am sure. I've hunted ever since I was a boy. I've slept under the stars more times than I have in a home. But I grow old, and hunting is for the young."

Illunt gestured towards the pipe and held out a corked glass bottle in exchange. The monks brewed spirits, mainly beer, in their monastery as part of an ancient practice passed down through generations. Barclay handed over his pipe and took the bottle. Illunt puffed once and sighed.

"You readily indulge in vise, monk," Barclay said with a grin as he uncorked the bottle and began to sip.

The monk shrugged, "We drink nearly every day. I'm sure a few breaths will be forgiven," he turned the hand carved wooden pipe, with its many detailed embellishments, and appreciated it, "This is of excellent make. Was this a work of your own?"

Barclay chuckled, "No. My skills with a knife end at skinning. This pipe was a gift given to me by the travelers who taught me to make opium from poppies, amongst other things. I've had it for nearly a decade now. Somehow it survived my endless journey unscathed, unlike my other possessions."

Illunt nodded, "Impressive indeed. Tell me, do you often smoke opium?"

"Only when I am in pain, which is not often. I know over indulgence leads to an insatiable craving."

"That it does. I haven't seen you without it ever since we met, however. Soon it will have no effect on you. Beyond the craving, I should say."

Barclay sighed, "Perhaps it is fortuitous that this was the last of my supply, then."

The monk returned the pipe, "Do you know how to extract pipeherb from the smokeleaf plant?"

"Smokeleaf plant? Perhaps I know it by another name, but I can say I only smoke opium."

Illunt patted his shoulder, "I will teach you, then. It is not as effective as opium, but it will not give you cravings. It can help heal weary joints as well. Many of my elder brothers imbibe in it daily. Come along now, unless you have something else you must attend to."

Illunt took him through to a swampy field just past where they grew their wheat. The smokeleaf plant was similar in appearance to grain stalks, but it had to be constantly fed water, as it drank much quicker than other plants. Illunt explained that it was a tricky plant to keep, especially in winter.

They spent the day harvesting the thick leaf stems and cutting them into short, thin strips before boiling and finally drying them over coals. They curled tightly into themselves, forming dense circles perfectly sized for the bowl of a pipe.

"You can add to the taste by adding berries and flavorful herbs to the water," Illunt explained as Barclay tried his first breath late that day.

He coughed, "It's a very dry smoke."

"Yes, you will want something to drink nearby. Something to eat as well. Bread is often the best pairing."

Illunt handed him a pouch of the coils and a beer, and offered to let him make more tomorrow. Barclay took the offer and thanked the kind monk before returning to his cell.

When he stepped inside, Wyrmheart, reading a borrowed book in bed, smiled at him and said in a quiet, hoarse voice, "Welcome back," Nodding his head towards the pipe in Barclay's hand, he added with slight disappoint, "I've begun to worry about your opium habit."

"No need. I've used the last of my opium this morning. This is called pipeherb. Illunt showed me how to make it."

Wyrmheart sniffed the air, "It smells similar to love smoke."

"Love smoke?"

Wyrmheart giggled, "Yes. It is used in the temples of love to aid the inexperienced. Not all dragons are so confident when it comes to sharing passions, so the priest offers love smoke to rid them of their anxiety. It does not diminish passion, or the physical manifestation thereof, the way alcohol does, although it can cause one to lose form."

"Dragons seem to revere love and passion greatly," Barclay said as he began the process of changing Wyrmheart's bandages.

"We are educated in it. Quite strictly, I might add."

Barclay frowned, "Educated? In sex?"