Chapter 12 #2
He glances over his shoulder. "Oh, this is just the beginning. I will not simply break the tree, but use it for a specific purpose."
“Oh. Yes, I’m sure you have it all planned out."
"Plans are for lesser beings. Dragons simply do, without plan, and then succeed spectacularly. At least, that has been my way."
I decide that arguing definitions with a dragon during a thunderstorm is unlikely to improve my life.
The work continues. At first it resembles destruction more than construction.
Branches accumulate in piles. Entire bushes disappear.
Several promising pieces of material are rejected after apparently failing some standard known only to Vyrathion.
More than once I see him throw something into the river with the expression of a nobleman dismissing an incompetent servant.
Yet beneath all the chaos, a pattern slowly begins to emerge.
Larger branches become supports. Straight trunks form a rough framework. Broad leaves are layered together to create a roof. The structure develops in fits and starts, usually interrupted whenever Vyrathion becomes annoyed with either gravity, weather or plant life.
Still, every time I expect him to abandon the effort, he continues. That, more than anything else, surprises me.
"Do you want me to help?." The offer slips out when he drags another heavy branch into place.
He doesn't even look up. "No."
"I can carry things."
"No."
"You could at least pretend to consider it."
"No. Be quiet." The branch finally settles into position and Vyrathion steps back to inspect his work and folds his arms. "I cannot have this delicate and highly advanced construction interfered with by a lesser creature."
But I can’t help feeling a bit guilty, just sitting and eating berries while he works. So a while later I try again. By then he's soaked from head to toe, his immense muscles gleaming with moisture.
"You don’t think this would go faster with two people?"
His eyes flash silver. "You’re always trying to get in my way. Sit still and simply admire."
"All right. Let me know if you need me- I mean, if you want me to do anything."
"So that you can not do them? I’m onto you, Morgan. All my kind commands go unheeded. All my gentle admonishments ignored. Question after endless question is asked. Now, sit where you are. Do not interfere."
I can't even argue with that one. The rain continues hammering the island while the river churns around us. Somewhere downstream lightning flashes across the sky, illuminating the floodwaters in brief white bursts.
During one of those flashes I notice movement.
The monster. It's still there. Only a section of its back breaks the surface now.
Occasionally I glimpse the ridges along its spine.
Once I catch sight of its eyes before it slips beneath the muddy water again.
The thing isn't attacking. It's watching.
For some reason that feels worse. The creature knows exactly what happened during its first attempt.
It knows what Vyrathion can do. And despite that knowledge, it hasn't left.
When I look back toward the dragon, he's wrestling a particularly stubborn branch into place while muttering darkly about standards.
For the first time, I notice something else.
He's completely miserable. Rainwater runs down his face.
Mud clings to his clothes and boots. Every few minutes he pauses to glare at the sky as though the storm has personally insulted him.
Meanwhile I'm sitting beneath the largest tree on the island. Relatively dry and relatively comfortable while I watch.
The realization arrives so quietly that I almost miss it: This shelter isn't for him. He doesn't need it. If anything, Vyrathion seems like the sort of person who would rather stand in the storm and complain about it than admit he requires protection from it.
Yet he keeps working. He keeps dragging branches through the mud and layering leaves across the roof and reinforcing supports that look perfectly adequate already.
He's doing it because I'm human. He’s building it for me.
The thought settles somewhere deep inside me and refuses to leave.
For a while I simply watch him. The dragon finally places what appears to be the last major section of roof.
He steps back, folds his arms and studies the structure with obvious pride.
A large section immediately slides off the side and lands in the mud.
Neither of us speaks. The fallen section lies there accusingly.
Vyrathion points at it. "That was intentional."
"Obviously." I put a hand in front of my mouth to hide a smile.
He looks at me with suspicion. "It’s a mechanism that improves ventilation. It’s beyond your understanding."
I nod. "Definitely."
His eyes narrow more. I have the distinct impression that he knows I'm teasing him. Fortunately, he seems too invested in maintaining his dignity to acknowledge it.
The shelter is eventually finished. Or perhaps abandoned.
It's difficult to tell the difference. The roof sags in two places.
One wall leans slightly outward. The entire structure appears uncertain about its long-term prospects.
It looks most of all like a pile of random wood that someone has assembled as a bonfire.
Yet when I step closer and look inside, I discover that it accomplishes the one thing it was built to do: It's dry. Well, mostly.
Three people could fit inside, though only if they developed a very close relationship with one another.
If one of them is an eight-foot-tall dragon with muscles like old Greek statues, only one other person will fit.
If that person is a girl who tends to curviness and who won’t have much against physical contact with that dragon. Say, someone like me.
I glance back at Vyrathion. He stands with his arms folded, rain dripping from his hair and a satisfied smile on his face.
"Well?" he demands. “Can you at least try to appreciate some of the ingenuity in this structure? Or is all of it truly too advanced to grasp?”
I look at the shelter. Then at him. Then back at the shelter. "Only some of it, but even I can see it’s wonderful."
He nods indulgently. "Precisely. I shall make a decent servant out of you yet."
The answer should sound arrogant. Instead it sounds pleased. And somehow that affects me far more than it should.
Before I can examine that fact too closely, lightning flashes over the river again. Far beyond the curtain of rain, two dark eyes break the surface of the floodwaters.
The monster is still there. Watching the island. Watching the shelter.
Waiting to see what happens next.
The shelter proves to be better than it looks.
That isn't saying much. From the outside it resembles a pile of branches that lost an argument with a storm. Several supports lean at angles that seem optimistic rather than structural, and one side of the roof sags low enough that I keep expecting it to surrender entirely.
Yet when I duck through the entrance and settle onto the thick layer of leaves covering the floor, I discover that most of the rain remains outside.
The difference is immediate. The constant hammering becomes muted. Wind no longer drives directly into my face. Water still finds its way through a few gaps overhead, but compared to standing in the open storm it feels almost luxurious.
For the first time since falling into the river, I start to relax.
A moment later Vyrathion ducks inside after me. The shelter instantly becomes far smaller.
He has to lower his head to enter, and even then his shoulders nearly brush both walls.
Rainwater drips from his hair and clothes as he settles himself with obvious reluctance, like a large king forced to occupy a tiny peasant's cottage.
For several seconds he studies the interior in silence while water continues pouring from the roof outside.
Eventually he nods. "Excellent."
I look around the cramped structure, then back at him. "It’s very fine."
"Obviously. Dragon made. But you are to keep quiet about that."
A drop of water falls through the roof and lands directly on his nose.
"Do you think it might leak?" I ask, carefully looking away.
He wipes the water off his nose. "Certainly not. It breathes."
"That’s what I thought."
Vyrathion gestures toward the entrance, where sheets of rain continue pouring past. "Outside is a storm capable of uprooting forests. Inside is merely damp. That difference is called great success."
Another drop lands on his shoulder. He points toward it before I can. "Perfect. I wanted some water just there."
I bite the inside of my cheek and decide that preserving his dignity costs me nothing. "It’s ingenious."
Apparently satisfied, he leans back against the wall and folds his arms. “Quite so.”
For a while we simply sit there listening to the storm. Rain drums against the roof. The river growls beyond the trees. Every now and then thunder rolls overhead and the entire shelter creaks softly in response.
The strange thing is that I don't feel afraid anymore.
A few hours ago I was being carried through a flood by a dragon while convinced I was about to drown.
Now I'm sitting inside a badly constructed hut on a tiny island surrounded by raging water, and somehow this feels safer than almost anywhere else I've been on Xren.
Maybe that's because Vyrathion is here. The thought slips into my mind before I can stop it. The entrance rustles.
Clyde squeezes inside carrying a damp stick almost as long as he is tall. The little Plood waddles proudly across the floor and presents it to Vyrathion like a sacred treasure.
The dragon stares at the offering. Clyde stares back.
"I don't want that."
Clyde continues holding it out.
"I have no use for sticks."
The Plood carefully places it beside the wall anyway, then curls up near the entrance looking enormously pleased with himself.
I can't help smiling. "You know," I say, watching Clyde settle down, "I think he likes you."