Chapter 22
Twenty-Two
Elowen no longer winced when she bent forward. Her back still ached, in the way half-healed wounds always did—tight and tender. The worst of the pain had passed. The bruises had faded too, replaced by raised pink skin mapping out the scars to come.
She moved carefully as she swept the dust from the stone floor with a bundle of dried herbs, the scent of them meeting her as she worked.
Midas watched her from the shadowed curve of the cavern wall, one wing tucked tightly to his side, the other stretched lazily behind him. His eyes tracked every motion—each twist of her waist, each soft breath of exertion. He said nothing, but she felt his gaze like sunlight against her skin.
“Don’t worry,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m being careful.”
He grunted softly, the sound somewhere between a chuff and a sigh.
She didn’t take offense. She’d learned, by now, that Midas communicated in subtle ways.
The twitch of his tail when she stood up with a wince.
The way he always positioned himself between her and the entrance to the cave.
The way he gathered fresh food for her and left it near the fire so she wouldn’t have to forage herself.
Or how, when she cried in her sleep, she always woke up curled into his warmth.
Elowen reached into a basket near her makeshift bed and withdrew several pieces of polished metal and broken jewelry—trinkets from Midas’ hoard that she had carefully chosen over the last few days.
One by one, she began arranging them along the stone shelf near the cave wall.
A golden chalice with ivy designs. A silver comb. A cracked hand mirror.
Dragons didn’t share. She knew that. This was his sanctuary and his hoard. But Midas…he let her touch them, and gave no growl or warning when she did. No possessive snarl that indicated it bothered him.
He simply watched as though he had been gathering it all for her in the first place. Maybe, in some fated way, he did, and that's why it never bothered him when she dug through the piles of treasures.
Elowen’s presence in his cave shifted the air in ways Midas hadn’t foreseen. Her scent lingered on everything, so much so he wondered if it had soaked into his very own scales like rain into soil.
He didn’t mind it, he just didn’t know what to do with it.
She moved among his hoard like she had always belonged there. She hummed under her breath as she turned old trinkets into decorations.
And Midas, the giant, ancient thing that he was, stood frozen against the walls of the cave, terrified she might leave if he so much as breathed wrong.
His tail absently thumped against the cave ground, disturbing a pile of coins. They clattered to the ground noisily, pulling Elowen’s attention in his direction.
She stepped forward, unafraid, and looked at the pile near his tail and his stance against the cave wall.
“I can stop,” she said softly, “If I’m upsetting you.”
He wanted to say No. Never. That she could keep every bauble. That she could have the cave if it meant she stayed. But words were impossible in this form, and so instead he lowered his massive head and bowed it until he could touch her shoulder with the end of his snout.
She smiled at him. A warm, human smile that made his entire chest ache with yearning for something with her he could not yet name.
She reached out to touch his snout, and Midas, the old foolish beast that he was, trusted her enough to lean into it.
Midas had left earlier that day, flying off into the mist-heavy morning.
Elowen hadn’t asked where he was going, she never did, because she knew he’d come back before nightfall.
She didn’t want him to stay curled up in the cave with her all the time anyway, for a creature as large and majestic as him deserved to kiss the skies the way she wished she could.
In his absence, she moved through the cavern. The piles of gold and trinkets glittered like autumn light, and though she never took anything, she’d begun to tidy them to give herself something to do. And partially, to uncover the stories that might still linger beneath centuries of dust and loss.
Near the far back wall, beneath a pile of silver goblets, she found a cloth.
She blinked and knelt, brushing the edge with her fingers. The fabric was faded and worn, dulled by time, but still soft to the touch. Carefully, she dragged it out, coughing softly as a cloud of dust billowed upward.
It was a tapestry.
Not grand or particularly ornate, but still detailed. The embroidery was old, done with skillful hands and slow stitches. Elowen laid it flat on the stone floor, her breath catching in her throat.
Dragons.
Dozens of them, stretching their wings across the weave in a pride of crimson, silver, storm-gray, gold. Her fingers hovered over the central dragon.
It was golden. Massive. Regal. And at its side, nestled beneath one outstretched wing, was a smaller dragon with a darker hue. A hatchling.
But where the others were bright with color, this small one had worn thin. The thread had faded, the image of the hatchling nearly invisible now, its body rubbed raw from touch.
Elowen felt her heart tighten.
She wasn’t certain how she knew but this tapestry had once brought Midas comfort. He had come to it again and again. Not for the strength of dragons or the pride of flight.
But for the memory of his mother.
Her gaze blurred as tears welled in her eyes. Elowen sat back on her heels and gently gathered the edges of the tapestry in her lap. She stroked the corner of the fabric where the faded hatchling lay and whispered, “I’m so sorry you were alone for so long.”
A sound behind her stirred the air. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to.
She felt Midas—sensed his presence filling the cave with heat and weight and breath. A low huff escaped him, and Elowen turned to face him, still holding the tapestry in her lap. His eyes glowed faintly in the firelight, watching. Silent.
“My mother died when I was young, too,” she admitted, her voice fragile but steady. “She was sweet. Too sweet for our village. She loved music. Dancing. Things that weren’t allowed.”
She swallowed, brushing her thumb along the edge of the tapestry.
“She went out to pick wildflowers for our shop, but made the mistake of keeping a butter-yellow one for herself on her nightstand. The Council said that was against the law. She was lashed until she got an infection, and then she died of fever.”
Midas’ breath caught—a low, rasping sound in his throat.
Elowen looked down at the tapestry again.
Smoothed the image of the dragons. Carefully, she stood and moved toward a small niche in the stone wall she’d cleared earlier.
She folded the tapestry with trembling hands, then placed the bundle inside the alcove and stepped back, brushing a strand of hair from her face.
“There,” she whispered. “Now she won’t be lost again.”
When she turned, Midas was still watching her. Something deep in his eyes shifted, like she had uncovered a most beloved memory from the very depths of his heart.
He moved toward her slowly, tail dragging behind him like a chain. He lowered his head to the alcove and breathed in deep, letting the scent of the tapestry and her hands settle in his lungs.
Then he looked at her, leaned in, and gently pressed his forehead to hers. And in the silence, she felt him say thank you.