Bite. Chew. Chew. Chew. Chew.
Bite. Chew. Chew. Chew. Chew.
The dew had dried, the sun was nearing the peak of its ascent, and warmth transformed into heat as light shone down upon two boys by the riverbed. They were like wild animals, the only sounds shared between them being breathing and eating for a while, though the occasional crackle of a long-since-extinguished fire served as intermittent background noise. The air is filled with enjoyment and exhaustion in equal parts as bones find themselves flicked into a silvery stream ahead as they pick at flesh and discard what is not.
The concentration it takes to eat a fish whole can’t be understated. Most mammals, at least those that are worth eating, have bones large enough that they cannot be ignored, and thus, cannot be ingested easily while trying to eat their flesh. If you end up choking on a bone from a sandbear, you were either stupid enough to ignore the bone or stupid enough to attempt eating the bone, which is probably more damning than the former. Fish exist in an interesting spot. They’re big enough to make them worth catching and eating, yet their small, complex bone structure makes eating them an exercise of concentration, lest you end up with something spiky in your throat. It’s that concentration that enforces the silence between the two, teeth and tongue being used to manoeuvre around the maze of flesh and bone, skilled spelunkers in a way. For them, the challenge was worth it. Nothing beats a grilled fish on a sunny day.
Of course, Mama Scarfell was definitely right in her train of thought this morning: The fish wouldn’t taste even half as good if they didn’t spend thirty or so minutes trying to catch it. The professor would say something about sunk cost. Elio wouldn’t care. Morrigan would try to, but he would fail.
The creatures’ carcasses are flung towards the river, landing with a violent ‘plop’ and sinking with much more grace, allowing the boys to turn to each other and, after a good meal, talk.
“So… uh… What now?”
“Go home?!”
The words escape like a cry, coated in all the fear and shock that you’d expect. Morrigan looks much less fearful, besides the slightly panicking Elio, more so annoyed; his daily routine was to wake up early to travel or train, so it’s not as much that he felt his time was wasted, but more so the fact that he was being dismissed over something he saw as minor.
Standing ahead of them was the one in charge of their classes today, Professor Verita Auctoriotas, The Knowledge Dragon… Obviously, this no longer included Elio and Morrigan by testament of their being sent home before classes would even begin. He’s closer to Morrigan in height than he is to Elio, with an impressive build for someone who claims to be interested in discovering the truth rather than exchanging blows. Once you take into account the fact that he’s a true dragon, it makes a lot more sense; a pair of smooth, dark horns pierce through his soft, blonde hair and point behind him. They supposedly swirl in a perfect “golden ratio”, though he never actually explains what that is. His eyes, a dull celadon, contain not even a drop of sympathy for the pair after their little stunt, and his words carry the exact same firm authority of the commander, if a bit softer.
“Yes. Go home.”
“Todays lessons were intended to be meditation and study of nature energy.”
“They require peace and calm.”
“Their effectiveness will be hindered if you’re excited, especially after a fight.”
“Therefore your participation would be suboptimal at best.”
The rest of the class stands off to the side - faint murmurs and mumbles are shared between them, though it looks unlikely that they’d be coming to the rescue of the pair. The only one who came close was Gala, though only because she was scared the pair would snitch on her for instigating their match; eventually, after realising they wouldn’t, she lost most of her fire and resigned them to their fate. Elio would probably reprimand her for this later. As of now, he’s focused on trying to disarm a situation that was already hopeless.
“Okay, listen. I’m calm. He’s calm. You’re calm. We’re all calm.”
“We can just put this behind us and get some work done… right?”
The professor looks unconvinced and unimpressed, his arms crossed over his chest. Even Elio is able to take the hint, his excuses descending into mumbles and eventually into silence, giving Morrigan the floor to make his argument, one that’s a lot more reasonable simply because it’s his own and not Elio’s.
“Even if you wanted to send us home, we didn’t break any rules.”
“Is this a formal punishment? Or…?”
For a second, the professor hesitates. What Morrigan says is true - actual punishments can only be handed out for breaking rules. The pair were completely innocent de jure. All this meant was the pair couldn’t be reprimanded, let alone punished… Though all this meant was that he’d have to be a bit more creative with his wording.
“I saw the end of your bout. I was impressed, in all honesty.”
“Don’t think of this as a punishment, think of it as a reward.”
“Your match was so impressive I’m giving you the rest of the day off.”
Back to the present, the question still lingered between them: what would they do now?
It would be easier to work through what they couldn’t do rather than what they could.
Going home was an automatic no for both of them. There was no way Mama Scarfell would believe the excuse of being let off from classes early for ‘good sparring’ - she’d probably realise with ease that it was a loophole to send them home for fighting. From there, he’d only be in for more grief. On the other side, Morrigan could go home, but it’s just… he’d rather do anything else. His father would be out working in the wood shop, which meant inside the house were his mother and his four sisters; he loved them to death, but the thought of spending the whole day being dragged around to help on random errands or being annoyed because it’s ‘funny’ is a fate he’d do anything to avoid.
At the same time, aimlessly wandering around the central area wasn’t a good idea either. The whole reason Elio couldn’t go home was to avoid his mother finding out about him being kicked out for the rest of the day - spending his day in a populated area with people who knew his face was a surefire way for his misdeeds to catch up with him. Even if they didn’t report him today, all it took at some point in the future was a passing comment about him being in the wrong place at the wrong time to seal his fate. Morrigan has a similar reasoning, though it’s less to do with a random person catching them and more to do with a sibling going to complete an errand and finding him strolling through the streets as if he had no responsibilities. The rest is easy to predict.
But as much as being seen by people wasn’t ideal, going to the furthest outskirts of the island was probably a worse idea. Sure, they didn’t hate spending time around each other, but the prospect of spending an indeterminate amount of time together with no one else wasn’t going to work. Out at the beach or in the forest, all they could do was maybe spar and eat some more grilled fish - boring, an option they’d both rather avoid, regardless of how safe it may be.
A simultaneous sigh is followed by a moment of silence. The pair tilt their heads left and right as if shaking their brains down for an answer.
Eventually, one dragon turns to the other. The other dragon matches their gaze.
“The old lady’s place?”
Morrigan asks as if Elio had come to the conclusion before him. He hadn’t. In fact, hearing the idea was likely the only reason he’d think of it, so he’s slightly glad his partner in crime had bought it up. They both nod, they both stand up, they both begin walking up the river, against its flow, towards the base of the great mountain.
The Merritt River is the largest stream on the island and its main source of fresh water. It begins at a natural spring only a short distance away from the base of Dragonscale Mountain, stretching southeast through the island, its body winding between forests and plains, its width becoming larger and larger as it eventually meets the ocean; the line between saltwater and freshwater almost perfectly separates the rivers' dull verdant from the ocean's pure blue. Despite existing as long as the island likely has, it was only formally given a name about 200 years ago when Humanity first made contact with the dragons - it may have had a name prior to this, but if it did, it would precede any sort of conventional language (or at the very least language as they understood it). A walk along the river never fails to calm any nerves, the rustling stream and the occasional splash of freshwater fish providing the ambience. Growing dragons may even be taught to think of the river in moments of anxiety, which works as much as you’d expect it to.
The dragon's steps can barely be heard over the turbulence of the river as they begin the transition from forestry to plains. Morrigan walks in front - despite being taller and heavier than his classmate, his footsteps are relatively silent compared to Elio’s trudging stomps. It’s as if he’s more concerned with how he moves rather than the speed, and the exact opposite can be said for the boy behind him. Elio’s stance, his movement, his presence, is a lot more relaxed, what you’d expect from someone actively trying to kill time, humming a tune that the two of them move at the tempo of…
“Have you decided what job you’re going to choose after school is done?”
The first voice to truly cut through the noise is that of Morrigan; he doesn’t even turn towards the target of his question, just casually throwing it out into the air. A moment of hesitation, a shard of silence as if he were caught off guard, then Elio responds as succinctly as he can.
“No.”
Silence. Morrigan's confusion is palpable. Elio should really be explaining himself. The reason he doesn’t immediately is based on something he was told long ago: if you explain yourself without someone else asking, you’re implicitly asking for validation. You shouldn’t need validation - you should simply do what you want because you want to.
“No?”
“Why would I? I’m gonna become an Elder Dragon.”
More confusion layers on - there’s no doubt in Morrigan’s mind that Elio can, and probably would, become an Elder Dragon… It’s just that he may have a slight misunderstanding of what being an Elder Dragon entails.
“Being an elder dragon isn’t an all day every day job… It’s kinda just a title.”
“You do normal work and training but if there's a problem that needs an elder dragon you answer the call.”
“You have to have something else you contribute other than just being strong. We’ve got enough as is.”
The dragon leading the way doesn’t turn to see the reaction on Elio’s face, but he’s certain that all the confusion had been transferred back to him; the sound of something along their path being punted into the stream is enough for him to tell that he was also slightly annoyed. He can’t be blamed for his lack of knowledge - the path towards the top requires as much blind obsession as you can get, so you’re focused on reaching the goal rather than the much less interesting ‘what happens next’. On top of that, Elder Dragons don’t really go about telling people what they do; people know who they are and how incredibly important their position is, and… not a lot more. After a moment and a few ‘hmmm’s, Elio speaks out towards the man just ahead.
“I haven’t really thought that far ahead… I’d probably… Become a seamstress…”
“I can just get my mother to show me the ropes. Can’t be that hard.”
It seemed like whenever Elio answered one of Morrigan’s questions, it simply left the latter with another question in its place. He’s sure that any other members of their cohort would accept the answers he gives without much resistance (if they would even ask the questions in the first place), but Morrigan requires a bit more convincing. It’s born from intrigue and desire to understand in equal parts - to grasp the will of his kin, in slightly archaic terms.
“First off, you’re a man - you’d be a ‘seamster’ not a ‘seamstress’.”
“Second… You’re not gonna become a fisher like your father?”
“You’re a natural at catching them. I thought you’d stick with what you’re good at.”
“When I become an Elder Dragon I’ll still probably want to train…”
“I can’t imagine spending as much time at sea as my old man and still having time to do so.”
“How am I supposed to catch up to you guys if all I do is fish all day…”
A dull thump resounds as another pebble finds itself launched out of Elio’s path - this one moves away from the stream rather than into it, clipping the sturdy surface of a tree’s base. The sound of leaves rustling above briefly reverberates before he continues his answer, his tone carrying consistent confidence, but it was evident he was trying to get a rise out of his classmate.
“Then again, I’ll probably be stronger than you guys at that point.”
Morrigan looks over his shoulder enough to see the curve of Elio’s smirk and the crease in his eye as he speaks. He knows he’s serious. He also knows he’s a little piece of shit that likes to bait him whenever he can. As always, he doesn’t bite the bait too hard. The sharp sound of another pebble making contact with flesh can be heard - not from the back, but from the front, a resounding SMACK as Morrigan’s heel launches the stone behind him. The silver bullet flies only slightly upward but still forces the smaller of the two to shift his hips to the left, the sharp motion allowing him to avoid the projectile but sending him slightly off balance. His arms spin rapidly as he narrowly avoids falling into the current, a laboured breath falling out of his mouth as he rests for a second before a light jog catches him up to his rival. He mumbles something under his breath. It might have been ‘Asshole’. It was probably ‘Asshole’.
Thump! Thump! Thump!
The sound of a balled-up fist pounding against the door's wooden frame hadn’t even been given the chance to fade before the pair entered - the entrance had definitely seen better days, which is why it was pushed open with all the gentleness that you’d expect of a slithering reptile. Ignore the fact that they’d essentially punched the door moments ago. Morrigan ducks slightly to enter. Elio doesn’t have to, yet he reaches for the top of the doorframe to give it a love tap as he passes through.
The empty house gives them time to witness the unadulterated state of the front room, though they could tell exactly who was home today; typically, the interior isn’t being used as both a living space and a shed, which makes the tools all lying against the back wall stand out more than they usually would have. They, and thus the air around them, are fresh with the scent of dirt in all its natural glory, their surfaces moist from overnight rain or hand-done watering; the pair were unsure. Maybe the interior was designed around this theme of ‘dirt’ - the hickory shades of benches and chairs, all around a table that mimicked their tone, the house's tawny wooden walls, even the taupe tones of the long extinguished fireplace, they all work in tandem to create an everyman feel to this place. The only colour that seemed too out of place was the monochrome of paper and ink splayed across the aforementioned table. Far too brutalist to draw the attention for more than a second - possibly an intentional decision by the writer to distract people from what they wrote about, which was a waste, seeing as they both wouldn’t care regardless.
“Anyone home?”
Morrigan takes the initiative first to actually greet the house after essentially breaking in. Elio’s much more interested in taking a seat after their long walk - the clattering rattles of a stool being dragged along the cobbled floor towards the center of the room pierce the silence left after Morrigan called out. There was no response just yet; if not for the context clues within the room, they’d likely think no one was home. If not for their history with the inhabitants of the house, they probably wouldn’t have come inside, thinking no one was home, let alone relax in a home that wasn’t their own.
The thumping of footsteps on soil approaching from outside the back entrance begins to drill into the silence; they’re slightly rushed as if they sensed the presence of the pair within, yet still soft as not to disturb the tilled dirt beneath their feet. She calls out, the shrill, slightly high-pitched voice of a woman who was probably only a few years older than the pair.
“Coming! Just give me a minute!”
This was obviously not the old woman they were hoping for - Morrigan sighs with all the despondency of someone who’s gone out of the frying pan into the fire. Elio turns towards him with a smug look plastered on his face.
“What;’s with the look, loverboy? Your wife-to-be is h- Gak!”
One swift motion sweeps the stool out from under Elio’s body and sends him back first into the floor; it’s a lot easier to get under Morrigan’s skin when he’s annoyed, which is probably the only reason he chose to act now against the poking and prodding of his classmate. The fallen boy lifts himself from the ground just in time to see the woman entering the room from the back garden.
She greets them with a smile. Elio is the only one to return it.
“My, my. Look who we have here.”
“My unreliable, unbearable ex-juniors.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure?”
She bears a resemblance to a flower, in a way. Her hair is the same dulled yellow you’d expect to see on the body of a canary bird, short and frizzy after being kissed by the sun's heat, a pair of oak coloured horns sprouting from her scalp in sporadic, splitting directions like the branches of a tree. Her skin is almost the same tone, a warm cream colour that stands in stark contrast against her large, chocolate eyes, draconic as the rest of theirs were, looking almost like the pistil of a sunflower in this lighting. It was a flower so beautiful you’d assume a serpent had taken root under it. The pair grew to know that the flower hid no dangerous creatures, but the plant itself was something to be wary of. Elio opens his mouth to respond, taking the initiative over his classmate for the first time in a while.
“We got kicked out for today. Stupid reason. Don’t ask.”
The girl's gaze shifts from Morrigan to Elio, and her expression warps from confusion to conniving - Elio immediately realises that he’s not being let in with an explanation as vague as that. He signs and continues.
“We were playing Dragon Tag. The professor caught us.”
“Decided to send us home so instead we decided to come here.”
“And so you wanted to take advantage of my sweet, innocent mother to hide out here?”
The pair looks at each other for a moment.
“Yeah.” “Yeah.”
The only two inhabitants of the Clements household were Sasha Clements, a woman lovingly called “The Old Lady” by most of the younger dragons for her wisdom (and her age, but that part was obvious), and Willow Clements, the woman in front of them that didn’t really have as heartfelt a nickname assigned to her just yet. It wasn’t because of her lack of age or defining traits; it was simply because most people didn’t have anything positive to say about her most of the time. The best thing they could say about her is that she's resilient and a very hard worker, though that's the bare minimum for a true dragon like herself to exhibit. With the list of good traits exhausted, people usually defaulted to calling her “Flower Girl” - partially due to her constant work on the Clements Family Farm, found just behind their house, and partially due to her draconic archetype as the… Wood Dragon. Close enough.
She places her hands, still with a slight coat of dirt covering them, on her hips as she shakes her head, a look of feigned disappointment directed at the two. A chuckle leaves her lips as she begins to speak once again, taking slow, intentional steps towards Morrigan. He doesn’t back down, simply looking at her with annoyance.
“Well, my mother isn’t here so sadly I’ll be deciding the rules.”
“Here we go.” Morrigan mumbles under his breath, diverting his gaze from her as she enters his personal space and continues moving forward. Elio feels like he should help. He also feels like he’s walked in on an intimate moment. He’ll wait it out, if even a little.
“You two have a choice. Be sure to pick your option wisely.”
“Your first option is to put that big… strong… body to use~.”
“I want to see exactly what Number Two can do in close quarters~.”
“Take me~. Make me yours~. Fill me with your-”
“What’s the other option?”
The hand placed on Morrigan's chest is sharply removed as he immediately breaks her immersion, or rather, shatters her fantasy. She lets out a melodramatic sigh the likes of which actors train years for, and turns away from the pair, walking towards the door as she offers the second set of options.
“Since I’m so old and ugly that you don’t even want to think of having children with me…”
“Firstly, you’re not old, you’re only 24.”
“Second, you’re not ugly, you’re actually quite attractive.”
“I’m just not interested in having children for a while, I’ve told you this so-.”
“I guess you’ll have to do the second option. Grab a tool and help me till the soil out back, please and thank you.”
Her steps grow more and more distant as she departs into the garden; the pair stand in silence, taking a moment to come to terms with their reality for as long as it takes to complete this work. Morrigan seems annoyed they had to do the same song and dance they’ve been doing for a while to come to the same conclusion - she asks to have his children, he says no for a plethora of reasons, she backs off for the moment and comes back later. Elio seems equally as annoyed because Morrigan didn’t take the offer, damning them both to a morning, and potentially an afternoon, of monotonous work under the spring sun. He looks at Morrigan as if she had the key to a door and refuses to open it. Morrigan looks back at him incredulously before walking towards the tools and picking one out.
“Beggars can’t be choosers. Let’s get to work.”
“...But we had a choice.”
“No, I had a choice. You didn’t. Thus you are the beggar who cannot choose.”
“And what does that make you?”
“The chooser, duh.”
Even with his face as stoic as always, Elio can feel just how smug he was beneath his words - if he were more expressive, he’d probably have a shit-eating grin turning to look at him. It annoys him to no end, but being annoyed isn’t going to finish the work they have ahead of them. He simply grumbles as he snatches the tool leaning against the wall and heads outside.
Step, step, plunge, pull, step, step, plunge, pull, step, step, plunge, pull, step, step, plunge, pull. The sun drills down into the bare skin of Morrigan’s back as he finds himself gaining momentum, or rather a rhythm, making his way up and down his allotted field. He leaves behind row after row of uniform holes in the field's empty soil again and again and again and again, yet the field seems to stretch onward still. It was a monotonous job, physically demanding only because of volume rather than actual intensity, and yet this was what work was. The prospect of being employed was daunting to Morrigan. He realises how terrible that sounds and shakes his head, droplets of sweat falling into the soil; thoughts of that nature were reserved for people like Elio, Kara and Leonardo - not that they were incompetent, they were just… Instinctual. Instinct and employment are constantly at odds. Everyone has instincts; it’s the fate of all conscious creatures; the difference is those three act on their instincts first and foremost with less input from reason.
Morrigan worries for them. He worries for all dragons, seeing as they are his people, but those three he worries for the most in this instance.
He also worries about the day he needs to get Elio to sew clothes for him. The prospect is unnerving, very close to being terrifying. He shivers even in the summer heat.
“Something the matter, Morrigan?”
His eyes slowly open, his head slowly turning to his left where he meets the gaze of Willow; she looks slightly up and he slightly down to make up for the height gap between them and yet it feels inverted, with her intensity weighing upon his shoulders. There’s a drop of tension in his eye, one that she isn’t able to catch within their darkness as she continues onwards, expecting him to do the same. Morrigan lets out a sigh. The person to his right does too. He sharply turns in the direction of the second sigh to catch Elio mirroring his sentiment, possibly in support, likely because he’d also been caught slacking at one point himself. They both continue to till, moving at the same pace before Elio attempts to spark up a conversation.
“Women are scary.”
Morrigan scoffs at his comments - it’s about as ‘surface level’ as he knew he was.
“Everyone can be scary. It’s not about gender, it’s about having that fire in you.”
The sound of dirt crunching beneath their tools and their feet is all that fills the air for a few seconds after the comment. Eventually the silence is filled by Elio, who questions his classmate.
“Then why am I not scary? I’m sure I have that fire in me.”
“Elio, you are terrifying.”
“Are you saying that to make me feel good or because you believe it?”
One stops and then the other does. Silence falls upon the field as even the tilling of Willow descends into nothingness far in the distance. One looks with genuine curiosity, the other responds with genuine authenticity. Above both of them, the sun reaches the peak of its arching crescent, and within its light, the eyes of the Black Beast are lined with the same silver thread as the drifting clouds. There’s a stern kindness within that most misunderstand as apathy; he reminded Elio of the commander in that very moment as he began to speak.
“It’s hard for you to see as someone from the inside looking out, I understand.”
“I can’t make any promises but one day you’re going to fight someone just like you.”
“Only then will you understand just how terrifying you are, Scarfell.”
Morrigan turns once more, continuing to pierce the path ahead. His classmate is forced to start immediately after, lest he be left behind. Seconds pass, and all he can hear is the rhythmic crunching of dirt beneath them and the thrumming of his heartbeat - their tempos align, fading into the background. He begins to speak again as ‘silence’ falls upon them.
“And don’t use my reaction to you as an indicator for how fearsome you are.”
“What kind of Number One has a look of fear on their face in battle?”
A scoffing laugh pierces the veil, not at the claim of being number one; it's just so audacious that Elio was slightly caught off guard. He could hear himself saying that, so for it to come from the humble gloomstalker ahead of him in his usual dull tone was jarring to say the least.
“Hah! You think you’re number one?”
“I think Gala’s been doing a good job at keeping my seat warm.”
The last time anyone other than Gala had been at the top of the rankings was close to three years ago, and in all fairness to Morrigan, he was the one who dethroned her previous two-year-long reign at the top. It was a real shift - at that point it’d been a general consensus that she was utterly untouchable and the rest of them would have to fight for the scraps of rankings two and below… Yet she was defeated. She was dethroned. She was shown to be able to bleed.
You wouldn’t believe that if you’d seen her after the fact. Ever since then she’s been unstoppable. Maybe it was the prospect of people on her level that revitalised her flame.
Either way, she’s been burning every sin-
“ELIO! MORRIGAN! ARE YOU THERE!”
A sigh of relief. Saved by the bell. A weathered, older voice yells with just enough volume into the fields' depths for the pair's ears to catch it, the voice they’d expected to hear before, one that wouldn’t have them out here doing all this handiwork… Hopefully. Elio’s the first to turn back in the direction they’d come from, leaning the garden tool’s weight against his barren shoulder; Morrigan follows, squinting as they walk the same way as the sun's eventual descent.
"Finally. I was starting to get worried we'd be here all day."
It feels like the world cools just as their work concludes, rays that seemed to be scorching now having a tender touch. A pessimist would say it was ruthless irony. The pair knew it’d be better to relax beneath a sun that’s cool rather than one that’s cruel.
