Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Unfortunately, Gareth has decided that today will be a trial of endurance.
Again.
We've done this three other times this past week, because he claims that it should be one of the easiest things for Blight to share with me—her strength and stamina. Easier than magic, easier than physical attributes, easier than sharing her thoughts, even.
If you can already take on her scales, this should be nothing for you two, he claimed. Borrowing her strength should come as easily as breathing in sync with her.
And yet, the only strength that carries me back and forth across the arena, over and over again, is my own.
Today, I'm ordered to run for what must be miles.
There are soldiers stationed in all corners of the arena, forcing me to weave between them in complex patterns.
Some bored looking courtiers file into the rooms and tiered seats above us, too, until no less than a dozen people are looking down on me, whispering and giggling amongst themselves.
Gareth ignores the spectators. He's merciless, barking orders with increasing impatience and cruelty.
Any time I'm allowed to stop running—whenever my legs are an instant away from giving out on me—he attacks without warning, forcing me to try and defend myself.
Or he sits back and sips a drink while he orders others to do the honors.
Again and again, I'm knocked around, brought to the very edge of desperation, pushed to the limits of my own strength.
Again and again, Gareth swears that I could fight him and all of his soldiers at once, if I could just trust the dragon and let her in.
Toward the end of the ordeal, I'm actually trying to do as he says. But it's hopeless. It's all I can do to survive by this point; the dragon, the palace, the king—all of it blurs in the background as I focus on nothing but staying conscious and upright.
Blight watches the whole thing through a sharp, curious gaze. She rarely turns her back on me anymore, at least, insisting on bearing witness to my humiliation and failure…for whatever that's worth.
The session finally comes to an end when my legs completely give out for the third time. I end up on my hands and knees, vomiting so many times that I collapse, blacking out for several minutes.
When my awareness returns, I find myself lying on my side, curled into a tight ball. The scent of my own sweat and sickness is strong enough that I start to retch again, but I don't have anything left in me to throw up.
When the gagging finally subsides, I roll away from the mess I've made to see Gareth sitting on a bench several feet away, fiddling with the lid of a battered canteen.
“If you're trying to kill me,” I groan, “could you just be merciful about it and use a godsdamn sword like a normal executioner?”
He doesn't answer right away, instead taking a moment to stretch out his left leg, massaging his knee. An old injury that still plagues him from time to time, he's told me.
I made sure to kick that knee earlier, and I hope it's hurting him like hell now.
“It's certainly crossed my mind that killing you would be the easier thing.” He sips from the canteen. “But, alas, I don't think that's your destiny.”
I push myself into a sitting position, swiping the arena’s black sand from my hands and clothing. “I've never really believed in destiny. If I did, I would have broken down long ago, based on the hand the gods dealt me. Instead, I've made a point of choosing my own path.”
He considers this, his brow furrowing, but he doesn't argue. He continues to sip silently from his canteen, his expression heavy and his movements weary—as if he’s the one who’s spent the past hours getting beaten down and humiliated for the amusement of the palace nobles.
I brace myself for movement, carefully unfolding my aching body as I rise to my feet and make my way over to the bench.
Somewhere in the distance, a dragon roars. I'm almost getting used to the sound; it still makes me cringe, but it doesn't always cause the typical, traumatic flashbacks anymore.
Instead, it triggers questions. The conversation with Kestrel is still heavy on my mind, too; she wasn't wrong to call me ignorant. I know frustratingly little about the influence and magic of dragons.
I’ve never wanted to know about these things.
Hating the beasts and the gods who created them has always been enough.
But now I’m trapped. This bond is a part of my story, whether I want it to be or not, and I don't know if learning more will help me, but it can't hurt—and Gareth is usually more forthcoming with his thoughts and information after watching me suffer for a few hours.
Maybe letting his guard down because he feels sorry for me, somewhere deep under that gruff, hardened shell of his.
My gaze drifts between Blight and the patch of sky above us while I grit my teeth and try to work the latest aches and pains from my body. “The dragons in the skies over Lucindris aren't the same as Blight, correct?”
“No, they aren’t.”
“And the ones that King Reave seemed to command on the night he and I met…”
“Also different from her.”
“…Isn’t he bonded to them?”
“Not in the way you and Blight are.”
“He controlled magic on that night, though.” I shiver, remembering the way that magic overtook me. “And magic only exists in this world because of dragons, right? They're conduits for divine power and influence…vessels of the gods themselves.”
He hesitates. “Yes. That’s true.”
I stare at a bruise forming on my forearm, just above the Ashwalker mark.
My mind is suddenly overflowing with questions, all racing, trying to shove their way to the front.
“They don’t give their power to just anyone, right?
” I ask, gingerly lowering myself onto the bench beside him. “They choose who to bless.”
Gareth says nothing to this, neither confirming nor denying it.
“Is that not right?” I press.
Another hesitation. “That’s how the gods designed their vessels to function, yes.”
I fix him with an expectant look. There’s obviously much more to this story.
“…There is a reason the king needs you,” he eventually says, in a voice so quiet it’s almost as though he’s talking to himself.
“Why he was so eager to come collect you himself that night.
A bond like yours, it's…” He glances toward the seats above, as if he's afraid some of our spectators from earlier might overhear our conversation.
They all appear to have moved on, but he still seems paranoid when he lowers his gaze back to me.
“…You and Blight are exceptionally rare,” he says.
“Let's just leave it at that, for now. There are still some things I’m trying to make sense of myself.”
I want to press him further, to demand more answers. But about what, exactly? It’s overwhelming to try and sort through all the things I don’t understand; particularly when I’m still feeling faint after throwing up everything I’ve eaten in the past day.
Gareth rises to his feet before I can make up my mind about what to ask next. “I want you here before sunrise tomorrow, by the way.”
“…Can't wait,” I say, flatly.
A corner of his mouth twitches with what might be the beginning of a smile. He suppresses it quickly, then leaves me and Blight alone to bond some more.
If I didn't feel like my body was in danger of falling apart completely, I would have beat Gareth to the exit. As it is, I can't get myself to move very far or fast, so I end up sitting on that bench for half an hour, at least.
The entire time, I’m hyper-aware of Blight’s presence. Every breath she takes, every scrape of her claws against the metal platform. And again, I feel the same pull I felt toward the king—dangerous and unwanted, but impossible to ignore.
I lift my head in her direction. She stares back, unblinking, her long, feathered tail sweeping back and forth like a clock pendulum, ticking away what remains of the hour.
Our staring contest lasts for several minutes before I gather the energy to stand. I move closer to her on tired, shaky legs, telling myself I just want to study the changes in her body, the way her colors are shifting and brightening.
It's incredible to witness.
I can't deny that.
My attention falls first to the scattered scales and feathers she's lost. My 'crow tendencies'—as Marta called them—resurface, and I can't help kneeling and collecting some of these fallen pieces, shoving them into my pockets.
My mind is already turning over possibilities, thinking of things I could make, how I could use these strange, beautiful materials to embellish works of art.
The dragon watches me curiously, her head tilted.
Let her in, Gareth keeps saying.
Eight days of trying, and I don’t feel like I’m any closer to being able to do that.
A crushing sense of hopelessness threatens.
I continue to kneel before Blight, wondering if I could put this feeling into words.
Into an explanation she might understand.
Her gaze is intelligent enough; I've always thought she could understand the words I was speaking—though I’ve rarely tried to have an actual conversation with her.
“I can’t let you in.” The words tumble out before I can stop them, quiet and trembling over my dry lips. “I don’t know why.”
The frill around her neck rises slowly with interest.
“Maybe because I don’t know how. Because I’ve built so many walls between myself and your kind. I’ve cursed and raged and buried feelings to protect myself and everyone I have left from the likes of you.”
Her nostrils flare.
“Maybe because your kind took everything from me. Everything. Do you see this?” I gesture to my ruined eye.
“Every day, I have to look in the mirror and see it. Every day, I have to be reminded of the night the dragons came to my city, of what happened to me just before that, of…” My breath catches in my throat.
“Of the secret that I’ve never told anyone before. ”
She's perfectly quiet. Still. Expectant. Somehow, her patient, focused stare is worse than her usual smugness and begrudging attention.
My gaze drops to my arms, first to the mark of my engagement, then to the Ashwalker symbol on the opposite wrist. Symbols of what I lost. What I became. Two marks I've defined so much of my life by, and now neither of them feels like the anchors they once were.
I feel tears welling up, threatening to spill down my cheeks—from both eyes. It's always seemed like a cruel joke on top of everything else, that the right eye itself was damaged, but not the ducts that allow me to cry; so the most useless function of it is the only one that remains intact.
Blight shifts closer, lowering her head until her snout is only inches from me. She inhales deeply, exhaling a warm breath intense enough to make me close my eyes.
When I open them again, I notice a ribbon hanging out of her mouth. She opens her jaws like she’s offering this piece of her hoard to me. She’s insistent, dragging it across my clenched fists, trying to get me to pull it free. I take it—mostly to get her to leave me alone.
I'm still feeling unsteady, my legs shaking from exhaustion, but I force myself to my feet, walking away while angrily swiping the last of the tears from my face.
After making my way back into the palace, I halfheartedly search for the king; I still plan to confront him and demand we discuss Briar's release.
But there's a good chance I'd end up vomiting and passing out again in the middle of our conversation, which isn't exactly the formidable impression I'm trying to make.
He's gone, anyway. Dealing with some sort of unrest in the heart of the city, I'm told.
So I stagger up to my room instead.
Inside, I find a gift waiting for me on my bed: A small tin full of tea leaves.
I mentioned my fondness for the drink during one of Arlo's visits, and, just like that, the little charmer has gone and done something about it.
He's left a note as well, letting me know that this particular blend is helpful for pain relief.
His handwriting is tiny and perfectly neat, as one would expect from a prince who was probably taught to read and write the instant he could hold a pen.
But there are several messier drawings scribbled in the margins—dragons and flowers and what might be Ruffus. I smile as I trace those illustrations.
Once again, he proves to be a spot of sunshine amidst the storm.
And maybe I should sleep, and maybe it's terribly silly in the midst of those bigger storms I need to focus on, but I decide I want to use my evening to make him a gift in return.
I take out Blight's feathers and scales, adding them to the other interesting bits and bobs I've been collecting during my palace wanderings over the past days—everything from discarded wire, to buttons, to broken pieces of decorative trim.
I also grab several pairs of gloves from my wardrobe.
Dainty things meant for formal occasions, but layering them makes them more protective, more useful.
Settling down in front of the fireplace, I heat a piece of wire until it's pliable, then bend it carefully into the shape I think the prince will most enjoy: a dragon.
He's so enamored with Blight; I like the idea of him having a figurine of her to keep him company when he's too sick to come visit us.
I work late into the night, twisting wires, fashioning wings out of feathers, adding tiny details with heated metal until my fingers ache. Once I’ve finished, I consider wrapping the ribbon Blight gave me around the figurine's base, but decide against it. That goes back into my pocket.
I'm excited for the chance to be able to give Arlo something. But it's therapeutic to me, too, working with my hands like this. Controlling something. Taking broken pieces and making them into something whole.
I need to know I can still make beauty out of ruined things. That's how I once explained this hobby to Marta, after she grew exasperated with the piles of materials I'd started leaving scattered around our shack.
In so many ways, this was the reason for my chosen profession, too. To be able to walk through the ashes of the broken world we’d been left with and connect other survivors, to find something worth salvaging between us all…it’s the only thing that kept me going most days.
And it’s the only thing keeping me going in this moment, too.
“So maybe it's not silly after all,” I mumble to myself, holding the little dragon up to the firelight and watching it shimmer.