Chapter 23 #2
The Plood offers no opinion. Of course he doesn't. But the silence that follows somehow feels worse than disagreement would have.
The problem is that I don't actually think it's true.
This morning keeps replaying itself in my mind.
Vyrathion standing among the Plood, holding that ridiculous little cup.
The excitement in his voice when he realized it contained gold.
The hunger underneath that excitement. I had understood that gold mattered to him.
I don't think I truly understood how much.
For several days it became easy to forget.
Not completely. I was never foolish enough to forget that he was a dragon.
But I became accustomed to a version of him that felt strangely domestic.
A dragon who peeled fruit because he thought I needed it.
A dragon who built shelters without being asked.
A dragon who stood watch while I slept and noticed when I was limping before I noticed it myself.
Those memories come back one after another as I walk. Vyrathion carrying a tree across a stream. Vyrathion gathering food. Vyrathion carrying a huge fire log through the jungle so I could fry some meat.
Each memory feels warm right up until I remember how the morning ended. I slow without meaning to.
The Plood drift farther ahead before realizing I'm no longer keeping pace. Several stop and wait. Their black eyes remain fixed on me while I stand beneath the trees and stare at nothing.
Maybe that was my mistake. Maybe I spent so much time seeing the parts of Vyrathion that felt familiar that I forgot the parts that weren't. A dragon doesn't think the way I do.
A dragon doesn't place the same value on things that I value.
And a dragon who has spent years starving for gold was never going to choose five strangers over the thing he needs most in the universe.
The thought settles heavily in my chest. What if that was it? What if the island was all we ever got?
A few days together. A few nights beside a fire. A few moments stolen from circumstances that were never going to last.
The jungle becomes blurry.
I blink and realize my eyes are wet. "Oh, come on," I whisper. “Not now.”
I wipe at them with the heel of my hand and keep walking, but the tears return almost immediately.
The admission feels different now that he's gone. There is nobody here to hear it and nobody here to argue with it. I love the stubborn, impossible dragon.
And there is a very real chance that I will never see him again. The realization hits harder than anything else. Harder than the danger. Harder than the uncertainty. Harder even than the thought of being alone.
I reach out to touch a tree trunk. I can’t walk on if I can’t see where I’m going. The bark is rough beneath my palm. I lean against it and lower my head, trying to get control of myself.
This is ridiculous. Vyrathion isn't dead. He's probably marching through the jungle right now, insulting plants, terrifying wildlife and obsessing over that stupid little gold-plated cup. The image should make me feel better. Instead it makes my throat tighten.
A strained sound escapes me, somewhere between a laugh and a sob.
"Crazy," I whisper. The word isn't entirely affectionate. It isn't entirely angry either.
My knees give way and I slide down the trunk until I'm sitting among the roots.
Around me, the Plood stop moving. None of them approach.
None of them retreat. They simply wait in silence, watching me with their enormous black eyes.
For once I appreciate their strange restraint.
If one of them tried to comfort me, I think I might completely fall apart.
Instead they stand there while I bury my face in my hands.
The tears come harder than I expect. Part of it is fear. Part of it is exhaustion. The jungle has been wearing me down for days, and until now I never really admitted how much of the burden Vyrathion carried for me.
But most of it is him. I keep remembering things that didn't seem important when they happened. The way he automatically moved branches out of my path. The way he noticed I was limping before I did. The shelters. The food. The endless arguments. Even his complaints.
I used to think he was being difficult. Now I realize that half of those complaints were simply the sounds he made while taking care of me. A fresh wave of tears forces me to stop and breathe.
The stupid dragon never once admitted that he cared. Not directly. He would rather wrestle a dinosaur than say something straightforward. Yet every day since we met, he found some new way to keep me alive.
I wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand and stare at the jungle floor. Maybe that's why this hurts so much. Because somewhere along the way I stopped thinking about what Vyrathion could do for me and started caring about him.
I love him. The truth settles over me with a strange finality. I love the arrogant, impossible dragon.
And now that he's finally found a path toward the thing he's wanted for years, there's every chance that our lives have split apart for good.
Life on Xren continues with complete indifference while my heart quietly breaks beneath a tree.
Eventually the tears slow. My eyes still burn, and my face probably looks terrible, but at least I can breathe again. I sit there for another minute, listening to the sounds of the forest and gathering enough determination to stand.
The girls still need help.
That fact remains true no matter how miserable I feel.
I push myself upright and brush leaves from my clothes.
"Okay," I tell Clyde. My voice sounds awful.
I clear my throat. "Okay. Let's go find them."
But the Plood don’t follow me. They stay still, looking in one direction.
No wonder. One of the bushes has a face.
A human face.
I wipe my eyes and squint. “Hi. It’s okay. These aren’t bad Plood.”