Two months passed in relative peace. The last of the winter snows melted, swelling Solseyja’s high mountain lakes with freshwater. Lindír was unaccustomed to peace, but he spent it as best as he could. He swam in those frigid lakes, letting the water cleanse his scars and purify his scales, or else spread out his wings and sunbathed wherever the sun was brightest, or counted every coin and gem in his hoard, dividing them up by material, size, and quality. Though Solseyja had no native creature larger than a small bird, he soon learned of the plentiful supplies of dolphins and small whales living in its seas, and on some days he took to hunting.
The dragons of Solseyja had many social activities, but the only one which Lindír partook in was meals. They would eat every second day or so, a great evening meal in which all the dragons would come together and feast upon freshly-slaughtered mutton and fish. Normally he would be loath to engage in such noisy, communal affairs, especially given that his mastery of the local language was still crude in the extreme, but there were several things which lured Lindír forth from his lair. Besides meat, that is.
The first was the novelty of it. So many dragons in one place, and although her status as a newcomer still marked her, there was none of the awkwardness which the presence of a dragon always engendered in humans. She was with her own people. Even when she was asked a question that Yrsel or Camreth would have to translate, the questions were always friendly, and more often than not had little to do with Lindír’s status as a stray at all. She began, slowly, to understand what it was about communal meals that appealed to humans so deeply.
The second reason, paradoxically, was the attention. A disadvantage of living as the colony did, in isolation and relative plenty, was a severe lack of the sorts of endeavors that Lindír had always thought defined dragonhood. None of the others had been in battle, none of the others had traveled so far. Although Lindír was not one-tenth of the storyteller than Ámnistr had been, she was nonetheless happy to share her experiences. She would recline in the center of the assemblage, or circle around the outskirts so that her voice emerged from the dark, and elucidate the battle which had given her each and every scar, or tell of the alien festivals of the small folk, or relate the story of her meeting with the hellira. And the other dragons, they would listen! They would laugh, or trill with elation, or hiss with tension, all at the command of Lindír’s voice. Biorra, in particular, seemed to enjoy stories quite a bit.
She was the third reason. Lindír could not keep himself away from her, even as it became clear that this attraction was not of the honorable sort. The sight of her, her scales delicately lit by flame, the breadth of her shoulders, the smooth curve of the back of her neck, it beckoned to him. Whenever Biorra spoke, he listened, even if he did not understand the words. It was a paradoxical desire, for as much as Lindír wanted Biorra’s presence, he also despised that want. He would position himself near her at dinner, but never allowed himself to be within reach, and although he would pay close attention when she spoke, he only rarely conversed, afraid that his awkward command of the language would lead to his undoing.
On the morning of the equinox, while Lindír was planning to sleep through the whole day, Yrsel appeared at the mouth of her lair and began shouting.
“It’s trade day, Lindír, you won’t want to miss this, I promise, you really won’t.”
Lindír ignored her as long as she could, but was eventually forced to concede that some interest was due. She rolled off of her back and into the reclining posture of a satisfied animal, legs all outstretched and tail curling.
“Trade day? What is trade day?” Lindír said.
“It’s how we grow our hoards,” Yrsel said. She was stretched with anxiety, wings folded tight and neck directly forward. “But it only comes around four times a year, and if you miss it, you’ve missed it. I, personally, don’t intend to miss it; and given how far behind you are in terms of building a hoard, I would very strongly suggest that you do not do so either.”
Lindír glanced at the scattered coins of her hoard, considering. She did very much want more. But she also very much wished for sleep.
“How far will I have to travel for this?”
“To the edge of the island. An hour, perhaps.”
Lindír stood, though drowsiness turned it into an awkward affair of scrabbling claws and stumbling limbs. Then, after shaking off the gold which had adhered to her scales overnight, she followed Yrsel to the doorstep.
“You’ll be glad you came,” Yrsel said, her voice sing-song.
“I’m sure.”
It was a short journey, out of Solseyja’s mountainous spine and into the lowlands which hugged the coast. Lindír had had to cross them a few times, either whilst exploring or whilst crossing over them on his way to the best fishing spots, and had seen herds of sheep and bands of humanoid travelers from a great height. Now, though, Yrsel guided him to a place he had not been before, near a small bay, where Solseyja’s smaller inhabitants swarmed by the hundreds. To his surprise, the dragons swarmed there also.
It reminded him of nothing so much as a farmer’s market, dragons perusing the wares of a score of scores of little sellers, debating which goods would be the best to buy while they conversed among themselves or with the owners of the stalls. There were many differences of course, and not just the presence of the dragons. For one thing, instead of proper stalls, most of the little people had brought their wares in large wagons and set them out in piles, clearly not intending to have any unsold materials at the end of the day.
For another thing, it was not cabbages and parsnips, bread and bacon being sold here, but gold and jewels and objects of finery. Here was the source of the omnipresent hoard-fillers, the aquamarines and amethysts and the gold and silver coins with the drakkar’s head on one side and the anvil on the other. Many of the piles were nothing but that. Other sellers offered stranger things: statuettes of dragons in copper or silver or even gold, abstract pieces seeming to represent flame or sea or something stranger, or pieces of jewelry sized for a dragon’s form.
It was only as Lindír and Yrsel landed that Lindír realized that the little creatures selling to the other dragons were not, in fact, human. For one thing, they had tails, and their heads would have been level with a human’s chest. Their faces weren’t flat, either, having instead a sort of stout muzzle, and their ears were pointed and flicked back and forth as they spoke. Lindír grasped at an animal comparison: but although possessing traits of foxes, of rodents, of weasels and dogs and wolves, they were not entirely akin to any of them. None of those other animals walked habitually upright and wore clothes of fine wool, anyway, nor were they able to converse as casually with a dragon as dragons conversed with one another.
“What is this?” Lindír said.
“It’s trade day,” Yrsel said. “The nisken give us the produce of their mines for our hoards, and in exchange we give them… various things. Usually favors.”
“Those little creatures, those are nisken, then?”
“Indeed they are,” Yrsel said, pacing toward the ad-hoc market. “So well-travelled and you’ve never met a nisken?”
“I was under the impression they were not particularly common,” Lindír said, hunching his shoulders and looking in any direction besides Yrsel’s.
“I wouldn’t know,” Yrsel said. “They’re the only ones who live on this island besides us and the sheep, discounting temporary visitors. They’re a funny little people. Sorcerers at craftwork: anything that can be forged, shaped, or carved, they can make it, and quite a few things that can’t be if you understand my meaning. But they…”
Yrsel stopped in her tracks, eyes widening with sudden fear and panic. “Someone should inform them about that. I’ll return in just a moment, Lindír.”
Yrsel immediately burst into action, leaping into the air and flying off in the direction of the market. For a moment Lindír lowered his hind legs and prepared to wait with his tail on the ground like a dog awaiting the return of its master; but then he remembered that he was in fact twenty years old, and quite curious about trade day. So he set off at a walk, looking to see what could be seen.
Ever since he’d come into a hoard, Lindír had been somewhat enamored by the idea of expanding it, though traditionally the fantasy had taken the form of seizing gold by the chestful from a just-wrecked ship or from the coffers of a slain king. Though unglamorous, it remained true that gold was gold, and so Lindír stalked through the rows with distinct interest. In his two months on Solseyja, Lindír had also learned a thing or two about hoard aesthetics. He needed more gold, for instance, and proportionally much more aquamarine and much less amethyst, and so he searched through the piles for the brightest gold and clearest aquamarines.
Until he stumbled across an artwork which captivated his attention. It was a sculpture in stone, of a bird, but no kind of bird which Lindír had ever seen before, a bird with a curved knife of a beak, wings like flame, a coat of aquamarines on its breast, a huge crest of feathers atop its head, and eyes of solid gold. The crest, in particular, set it apart from any other bird which he had known before, and drew his eye dearly, such that he had no choice but to ask the owner of the statue for the price it would take to purchase it.
That was not an effortless matter, for he did not share any common language with Lindír; but eventually another nisken was brought over who did speak the trade tongue which Lindír had been using, and they were able to converse.
“Now, as I was trying to ask you,” Lindír said. “I wish to purchase this bird you have here. What price might be necessary for it?”
The nisken, an aged and bent sculptor with grey, balding fur, nodded enthusiastically. “This one goes for a month on the mill. If you could read the sign, you would know that… but I catch the feeling that you are foreign to this island.”
“I am,” said Lindír. “What is the mill?”
The nisken chuckled. “Ah, yes, definitely foreign then. The mill’s a wonderful thing, you see, dragons enjoy it quite a bit. They—”
At that moment, another nisken arrived at a full sprint, panting for breath, her hair all a mess, shoving her way past the translator that she might speak with the old nisken on what was clearly a matter of some great importance. He listened with a keen expression, and when she was done speaking he nodded in an avuncular way. After listening to his short response, the younger nisken woman retreated.
“What was that all about?” Lindír said.
“Nothing of importance,” said the old nisken. “What was I talking about? Ah, yes, the mill. The mill is a cunning machine we nisken designed to allow the strength of dragons to be of use to us. You hitch up to it and turn it around, and we can use it to power all sorts of machines for any purpose you can think of.”
Lindír knew immediately the sort of machine the old man was describing, and his jaw fell open in shock. “Like mules in a smithy?” he said.
The translator did not even need to relay his words to the old nisken, who laughed and began to speak at once. “It’s hard work, yes, and I know too well how it bruises your draconic pride. But we were not going to give up our gold for nothing. And a dragon has the strength of a score of mules, anyway, so we earn much. If you want the bird, you’ll have to spend time on the mill.”
Lindír hated the idea of being yoked to a mill like a beast, even more than a dragon would who had been born free; but she also very much liked the sculpture of the bird, which made the prospect more agreeable to her. Her mind wandered, caught in the conundrum. “What sort of bird is it? I’ve seen nothing like it before.”
“Then you hail from the North, not the West. To tell the truth, this bird does not come from life; a skraeling visitor showed me an illustration of this bird once, saying that he had seen its ilk in the possession of a Western merchant. You can see, perhaps, why I was struck with the desire to replicate it in stone?”
Lindír looked down at the statue, half the size of its maker, and wondered how long it had taken to make. Either this was the product of an incredible effort, she thought, or else the nisken truly were possessed of an incredible skill. But before Lindír could make any coherent response, a voice from behind obliterated her thoughts.
“Oh, Lindír! I was afraid you were going to miss trade day.”
Biorra’s voice was a needle of shock in Lindír’s tail, and the moment he heard her he whirled around to face her, nearly smiting a nisken with his tail in the process. “Biorra! Hello!”
Biorra recoiled in turn, lifting one claw to her chest in a delicate gesture of deference. “I did not realize you startled so easily. My apologies.”
“You did not startle me,” Lindír said softly. “And you may thank Yrsel for my presence; she is the one who awoke me and informed me of… this. I was just about to acquire this bird, do you see?”
“Yes, I do,” said Biorra, looking down. Her voice was tinged with a quiet melancholy. “I think it would look excellent in your lair.”
Lindír gritted his teeth, carefully observing her expression. “Did… you want the bird?”
After a pause, Biorra said, “I looked at it. Briefly.”
“If you set your sights on it first, then you have the claim on it. You may have it.”
More words rose up in Lindír’s throat, an offer to pay the price for it in Biorra’s stead. The idea of so beautiful a creature being hitched to a mill offended his sensibilities, even if her powerful frame would certainly take to it well. But that would be a stretch too far, and he strangled the words before they emerged.
“No, no, really, you may have it. I have forty such beautiful things in my hoard, while you have… two? The bird would have little value as the forty-first item in a hoard; but as the third, it would be invaluable. And a shame to let such a well-crafted piece have so little value.”
The charity stunned Lindír, as it always did, as it likely always would. And from her, as well, the object of Lindír’s affections. She was not merely beautiful, not merely powerful, but kind and eloquent as well, so many positive qualities combined into a single flesh that it caused something within Lindír to finally burst.
“You’re very kind,” he said. “Of all the dragons I’ve met, here, you’re rather exceptional. I think you get it from your father, but it suits you well.”
Biorra rumbled pleasantly in the back of her throat, her back arching as her tail flicked to the side. “Well, would you look at that? The stray thinks I’m exceptional!” she said. “I’ll have to tell all my friends about this. Ancestors grant you luck with the bird, Lindír.”
At that, she turned around. Yrsel returned not long after, helping Lindír via translation and her experience of which deals were the most favorable. By the end of trade day, Lindír was the owner of one pile of gold, one pile of aquamarines, the stone bird, an eclectic collection of jewelry and ceremonial weapons, and several debts. Lindír hardly cared, for her thoughts were elsewhere. That evening, as she ferried the materials to her hoard with the aid of a giant clay pot suspended from her chest, her mind was entirely focused on Biorra.
The moment in the nisken marketplace had ruptured a dam within Lindír; or rather two dams. The first dam was the dam of speech. Having not merely spoken to, but complimented Biorra without making a complete fool of herself, Lindír now felt some small measure of confidence in the power of her own tongue, and used that confidence to talk to Biorra whenever she could, though only ever of small things, trifles and inoffensive gossip. Biorra often seemed distinctly uninterested in that sort of conversation, though; oftentimes she would instead attempt to ask Lindír about herself, about her past, forcing Lindír to bare her heart or else redirect.
And baring his heart was an increasingly dangerous thing, especially when Biorra was involved, for Lindír’s heart only grew more full of longing for her. The beauty of her blue scales and stocky form, the gold which decorated her horns and claws, these things alone were enough to send Lindír into a sort of trance. With time, he became more familiar with the rituals of draconic intimacy: Ziorrin and Camreth would often mark their meeting with an exchange of play-bites, quick nips at one another’s snouts; while some dragons would lie folded within each other, belly to back, making of their wings a blanket for their partner. Lindír did not yearn for touch in general, but he yearned for those things with Biorra.
And the more he learned of her, the greater this affection grew. Biorra had no role within the colony, at least one that Lindír could discern. Instead she wandered. She could be found in every mountain, it seemed, supping with every family. Once Lindír overheard some other dragons, in passing, refer to her as a dilettante, and references to her “fads” for calligraphy or hunting or living with the nisken or living out in the wilderness were speckled throughout her speech.
Where others might have taken that as a mark against her, Lindír only took that as another in the growing list of Biorra’s admirable traits, evidence of a love for life which he had not had since he was about twelve years of age. The most blissful moments were the ones where he could pretend that he did not exist, could sublimate himself into Biorra’s every word and gesture while she tried to tell him about runes or how to form clay without one’s claws puncturing the material.
It was a shame, then, that Lindír’s feelings could not exist without her, separated from her in some etheric sense. If it were just about emotion, raw and unbound to material reality, then all would have been well. The problem was that this affection was not feeling itself, but rather that Lindír was feeling it. For Lindír had felt that way before, not even a full year ago yet; and she knew that that led only to horrific betrayal of the heart. Being as she was a scar-coated stray, small and feeble of body, ineloquent and explosive of character, and utterly ignorant of the social conventions of dragonkind, there was no comparing Lindír to Biorra. If Biorra learned of the thoughts which assailed Lindír late at night in her lair, or while she wandered far afield through the pine forests of Solseyja, then mocking laughter would be the best possible result. Lindír did not want to imagine the worst.
Yet the desire in Lindír’s heart refused to abate, for her every interaction with Biorra served only to strengthen it. There was no avoiding her in a community of less than seventy lives. Her desire grew so strong, so potent that it turned caustic and made Lindír feel sick to her stomach. Something had to be done, something had to break or give, and in the end Lindír decided that it was better to confide in another—to risk the secret getting out—than to suffer any longer.
One evening, he appeared at the entrance of Yrsel’s lair and requested entry. She gave it, eagerly and willingly, and began giving him a grand tour of her lair. It was indeed spectacular, a high dome of a room with space for four dragons to sleep, but Lindír’s mind was not on that. Once Yrsel’s voice no longer filled the chamber, Lindír had no choice but to say it out loud.
“Yrsel, I need your guidance.”
She tipped her head to one side, trilling quizzically. “What about?”
“I…I…” Lindír swallowed. His heart felt as though it were going to give out, or his ribs to burst, and his wings sagged low to the floor. “Biorra. It’s about Biorra.”
“Oh,” Yrsel said piteously. “You have feelings for her, don’t you?”
I’m just waiting for something absolutely terrible to happen. Lindír can’t have it so good you are too mean to her to let that happen.
As I said once before, reading this fills me with amazing feelings. On a side note, I am getting confused with the use of pronouns
Oh, I'm sorry. I've been trying to make sure it's always clear when Lindír switches, but I suppose that there's always going to be a little confusion with characters who use multiple pronouns.