Chapter 3 The Plan
I know from experience that nothing else will get done today. Once Cherry gives in to one of her glooms, she'll collapse and sleep for hours before she's coherent again. With that in mind, I return her to her tower room and let her cry it out while I continue to tend her.
Once she's asleep, I return to Marton, the day worn down in the sky while we thought of other things.
I show him to shelter where he can sleep, in the depths of the castle's ruined entry hall, and offer him what supplies I can.
He has a bedroll, flint and stone for starting fires, and some dried meat and hard bread.
To be nice—and show off a little—I start his fire for him with a breath of flame while in my human form, which he goggles at.
To be nicer still, I offer him fresh fruit from my most recent scavenging trip down the mountain.
With his fire going, stomach full, and bedroll spread out, there's not much more for me to offer him, but I tarry in the ruins, unwilling to return yet to the dark and silent bedchamber where Cherry lies.
Marton rescues me from the need to leave by speaking, "Can I ask you a question?
" The shadows dance on his face where he sits next to the fire, his hair gilded an orangey gold in the firelight.
"Alright." I take a step closer to the fireside, and then making a decision, I walk over to him and take a seat beside him.
Marton stares into the fire, not meeting my eyes.
The light and dark play of the flames is such that I can't tell if he's blushing, but he seems uncomfortable.
"How—how old were you when you first shifted?
"
Oh. I'm almost disappointed by the easiness of the question, though I can't say why.
"I don't remember," I tell him truthfully, hands grasping knees as I, too, gaze into the fire.
"My dragon form is as familiar to me as my human one.
It seems as if have always been able to do it.
"
Marton's face is tense with concentration.
"Then you never hid what you were?"
"No.
Though it frightened many people, it was always a delight to me, to be able to shift.
To fly." Thinking of that simplistic time makes me sad.
I was so young then, so glad to be what I was.
Then the king's men showed up, and I became a monster.
I became this. The horrific beast killing innocent men, all of us acting on the whims of a selfish king.
"I wonder why tales of a dragon in Ithyma never reached Philostia before," Marton murmurs.
"It is always surprising to me," I say, "what people will try not to believe.
Unless wonder stares them directly in the face, they will write it off as rumor and nonsense.
Superstition. Tales of a dragon," my voice goes hoarse, "do not spread until that dragon has slaughtered scores of innocents.
"
"You did not know what you were doing," says Marton quietly.
"You were lied to. Manipulated. You thought you were protecting her.
" His hand rises as if to touch my shoulder, but drops just as quickly.
And I am...disappointed.
But of course he will not touch me.
I am not some soft girl, to be cossetted and comforted.
I am a beast, a brutal killer.
Wouldn't it be nice, just once, to be the one being supported—the one borne up on another's strength—instead of being the strong one?
I curl my shoulders in tight, cringing from the thought.
That is not for me. That is a weakness. I wouldn't want it, even if it were on offer.
"I never even tried to find out why the men came here," I confess, shamed.
"I just...killed them. Ran them off. I acted like the beast they've said I am.
"
"You did not know what you did," Marton repeats.
"You are not the monster in this tale."
My eyes flit to him in surprise, and he is looking back at me, face intense, half cast in darkness, half in light.
His hazel eyes shine like candles.
"Why did you come looking for a dragon?
" I ask. "Why did you really come? Who would travel so far, to solve a mystery, when the answer might be nothing at all, or the answer might be death?
"
Marton's smile is sheepish, and he tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, eyes darting away.
"I have always," he ducks his head, hiding his face as his hair falls loose once more, "always wanted to see something wonderful.
To see magic. To know that it was real. I suppose that makes me no better than the people you talked of before," he becomes solemner, glancing up at me from beneath his golden locks, "who do not believe in wonderous tales unless they stare them in the face.
"
"But you must have believed," I disagree.
My fingers itch to touch him, and after a brief debate, I allow them to move, rising up to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear as he did a moment ago.
I feel the heat of his blush under my fingertips and curl my fingers away quickly, tucking them against my thigh.
"Or you would not have come so far. You would not have tried to speak to me, when I was in my dragon form.
Not if you didn't believe."
"Yes.
" His laugh is self-deprecating, and he swallows convulsively.
"My peers at the Academy have always teased me for a starry-eyed fool, believing any old legend that falls in my way.
Dreaming of magic all the time."
"Then you are wiser by far than any of them, because your dreams were true.
" My voice is gentle, as it is when I comfort Cherry, without my working to make it that way.
"Yes," Marton breathes, his eyes intent on my face.
I'm enraptured for a moment, looking at him looking at me like that.
Looking at his strong and handsome face, so golden and good.
Something bright and warm reverberates between us, and Marton leans closer.
I pull back at once, blinking rapidly.
It is almost like waking from a dream.
I had forgotten, for a twinkling moment, that I am horrid and strange and shadowy.
I do not get the attention of pretty golden boys with gentle dreams.
I get the swords and pitchforks.
And letting him near me would only bring violence down on him as well.
Marton stammers out an apology, moving away, but I stare past him, at the devouring heat of the fire.
At the smoky clouds and sparks rising upward from the flames.
I trace their path all the way up to the ruined ceiling, where the stars peak through gaps in glittering patches, bright and impossible.
So impossible to reach, even for one with wings.
I should remember that some things will always be impossible, even in a world with magic.
Stars and sparks may look similar, but one is for dreamers, and one if for fools who burn their hands by reaching where they shouldn't.
"You should return to your Academy," I tell Marton without looking at him.
"You should set out in the morning, and leave Cherry and I to resolve our troubles alone.
"
Marton says nothing for a long stretch, and I allow myself to imagine both scenarios.
The one where he leaves without complaint, and the one where he nobly demands to stay and help.
Neither satisfies me.
But when Marton speaks it is in a whisper, "What will you do?
On the morrow, or the day after that? What will you do to resolve these troubles?
"
"I don't know," I admit, my fingernails curling into claws.
I hide them in my frayed skirts. "We must find out the truth—if we are correct about the king's plans.
His intentions. And I suppose we must find a way to.
.. I don't know," I exhale. "Cherry. She might want to return to her father still, or she might want me to take her far away.
"
"What do you want?"
No one has ever asked me that.
A laugh bubbles up in my chest at the question, but I swallow it down.
What do I want? I want for the last eight years of my life not to have been a lie.
I want for the world not to hate me. I want to return from my long duty as a hero, not a villain.
But those are starry eyed wishes and dreams, and I'm the living flame.
"I want to find a way to fix this.
To change the king's mind. So that I don't have to die for a lie.
" I feel it when my claws shred through the material of my skirt, and I jerk them away, inadvertently revealing them, shining darkly in the firelight.
A low gasp slips out of Marton's lips, and I look at him anxiously.
But of course his eyes are bright with wonder, and his fingers twitch against his thigh, almost like he wants to touch me.
Watching him carefully, I extend one of my clawed hands in challenge, palm up.
It waits in the air between us, and after a delay, Marton's hand rises.
Fingers trembling, he brushes the edge of one of my claws with a fingertip, skims his flesh against my flesh.
My breathing grows uneven in a way I don't fully understand, and I squeeze my eyes shut.
Trying to understand, or to combat the sensation that I'm falling apart.
"Everything about you is so.
..magical," Marton says unsteadily. "So impossible. "
I open my eyes when he drops his hand. There is pain in his eyes that I can't comprehend.
"Did I hurt you?"
"What?
" He glances down at his own hand, strong and broad and human.
"No." He looks at me. "You haven't hurt me at all.
" But his voice is tight, eyes shadowed, and my brain infers the yet. I haven't hurt him yet.