Chapter 3
The cottage is dusty, but not as dusty as I am.
Then Zan turns on the lights, and the whole tableau changes. I blink in surprise.
“The lights here are set up to be powered by the magic of my scales, rather than spells, given the proximity to the temple,” Zan explains.
That is not what surprised me—I had not actually spared much thought to how lights worked in my time, I am embarrassed to admit, and what this implies to the level of destruction I brought about—but this explanation is surprising in its own right.
For one, that dragon scales can power spells the way priests can—I never would have guessed our magic was so compatible.
But also the notion of a dragon, known for hoarding the power that they inherit from birth, giving up scales freely for the benefit of others.
Zan has a guest room here, so I suppose he does benefit.
Still.
What surprised me first, though, was how much cozier the cottage feels bathed in light.
We’re in an open space, with a sitting area at the front and a kitchen behind, a round table with four chairs marking the line between them.
In the light, everything looks soft, almost faintly glowing.
The couch is worn but plush. The chairs have cushions. Light streams through windows all around. A fireplace is ready to warm; pots and pans hang on the wall ready to nourish.
This cottage looks like it was designed for comfort in a way that I don’t know how to reconcile.
I want it, I think. But I don’t know what to do with it.
Zan cuts into my thoughts. “Let me show you the washroom.”
Damn. I was quiet too long, and he probably thinks I don’t like it. But if I insist otherwise now he won’t believe me, and in any case my feelings are too jumbled to make that convincing, so I just follow him to one of the doors on either side of the room.
The washroom startles me all over again with the size of the tub. Two people could fit in there.
Zan tests the sink faucet first, which comes to life with a gurgle and then a steady stream.
“I can show you how to use the tub, so you can soak—”
I shake my head abruptly. Too much, too fast. “The sink is enough for now.”
Zan pauses; looks at me. “You don’t want to take a bath?”
I try to respond lightly. “I wouldn’t say no to a dip in the lake—”
Zan’s eyes brighten for a moment, then dim.
“—but I think I’m... not ready for a bath,” I finish.
Not ready to wash away my past.
Not ready to accept the warmth.
“Understood,” Zan says softly. “Let me find a towel for you.”
Maybe he does understand.
I don’t wait for his return, though, for yet another shock.
I need to move.
For a moment, though, I’m arrested by the sight of myself in the mirror.
My features are the same. Waist-length sun-blonde hair, bright magenta eyes. I look as though I haven’t aged past my early twenties. I’m even paler than I remember, but that might be because I’m covered in a layer of stone dust.
I still look like myself, even after everything.
What gets me again, though, is that I’m still wearing the sage robes from centuries ago. Even when I turned against the Order, I kept them on, because I am a sage, no matter how much I hate what that means.
So peeling them off now is a strange feeling, the sudden lack of their literal and metaphorical weight.
I can’t cast off being a sage so easily, but maybe I can stop carrying around some of the weight the Order gave me.
I’m staring at the robes pooled at my feet when Zan returns, sees me naked, and freezes.
I glance up at him.
He stares at me wide-eyed, then thrusts a pile of towels at me.
They’re warm and feel clean. Did he heat them with his magic?
How much magic is he spending on my comfort?
“Do you need me for anything?” Zan asks in a slightly strangled voice, and then I watch his cheeks warm.
Sudden amusement as my brain catches up, breaking through my stupor. “Are dragons typically embarrassed about showing their bodies?”
His gaze flickers. “No. But humans usually are.”
I shrug.
Zan tracks the movement.
“My apologies for shocking you,” I say, taking a towel and wetting it in the sink. “Sages are not permitted the luxury of modesty. Our bodies belong to the people.”
“Not anymore,” Zan says quietly. “Not yours.”
“No,” I agree, then consider. “I think I will not adopt more shame, however.”
Zan watches me as I wipe the dust off my arms and body, my comfort with his presence apparently freeing him from the habitual reaction he’s acquired from living among humans for so long.
I’ve never heard of a dragon living for so long among humans.
Zan probably knows what normal humans are like better than I do.
The silence between us is easy, at first.
But then I realize there is a kind of intimacy in being witnessed by someone who is not a priest, who is not here because it’s their job to mind me.
There is a difference in being seen this way.
There is a difference in a person who sees more of me, of what’s inside of me, watching this human ritual as I slough off lifetimes from my skin.
And there is a difference in a person who sees the outside of me as a person, rather than simply a vessel.
That surprised blush in his cheeks, unacknowledged, with the weight of his gaze now... increases my awareness of my body in other ways, too.
Do I need him for something?
I think maybe I do.
Not just as an anchor in a world that will be unfamiliar to me.
But to make me feel like maybe I am a person after all.
A person who is more than what being a sage made me.
A person who wants more.
Perhaps, I think as I meet his gaze, which has gone intent, his blue eyes glowing—mine may be too, in fact—I want more than I had ever realized.
Dangerous thoughts. I’m not sure I will ever be able to reach for so much. But—
“May I borrow your spare clothing?” I ask.
And Zan realizes what kind of step this is for me, perhaps not so much forward as sideways but a step nevertheless, and he nods. “Of course.”
But rather than leaving right away, he dampens another cloth and then runs it over my hair. Not enough to really get it wet, just to wipe the dust off.
The intimacy of that simple motion stirs something within me, and now my eyes are definitely glowing.
Zan meets them without hesitation.
A man who isn’t afraid of what my power means.
And then he says, “This way.”
This time, he does hold out a hand.
And I take it.
The spare clothes are a large black sweater and flowing pale pink pants with a drawstring to tighten. I think I pull them as tight as they can go while Zan valiantly does not laugh.
I find myself wishing he would actually feel safe to laugh with me.
Instead, he crouches down to roll up the cuffs of the pants so they’re not dragging on the floor, only to discover that they don’t stay rolled, which causes me to shake silently with laughter.
Zan scowls, but his eyes are dancing. “Hang on.”
Zan disappears into another room while I regard the image I present of drowning in his clothes, and then he returns with a bolt of blue cloth.
He reaches for me and then hesitates. “May I?” he asks.
I have no idea what’s happening anymore, but I nod.
Then he touches me.
I feel that strange surge of feelings again—warmth, but also a rush—gone before I can place it.
But I’m more conscious this time of the experience, so I file away the sensation for later examination.
In the meantime Zan has hoisted the pants much higher and wrapped the blue cloth around my waist like a sash to hold everything in place. The oversized black sweater is big enough that it mostly covers it.
“Why do you have such big clothes?” I ask him. “You’re not this big.”
His black shirt is a little loose, but not like this, and his pants are fitted. He wears a blue sleeveless collared robe over it, belted at the waist with a rope that shows how slender he is. I’m smaller than him, but not that much smaller.
“Some Kameyans are.” Zan sounds exasperated at us. “Better too big than too small.”
Endlessly vigilant, prepared to help a sage escape without warning.
Like he didn’t do for me all those years ago.
I wonder if the fact that the pants are a pink that perfectly coordinates with my eye color has anything to do with that.
“And I’ll have you know you look fashionable,” Zan tells me. Is he... teasing me?
“Drowning in clothes?”
He shrugs. “I don’t make the rules. Roll up your sleeve cuffs, though, so you don’t have to pull on them constantly.”
I would have just let them hang uselessly.
I’m used to simply accepting whatever is given to me and not making a fuss about it, because if I make a fuss...
That’s my past.
I roll up the cuffs.
All the sensations are new. These are the first clothes I can remember wearing that the priests didn’t give me.
Maybe someday I’ll choose some for myself.
“There,” Zan says. “Let me show you the rest of the cottage, and we’ll see what we need to get.”
He’s closed himself off again with a veneer of practical logistics. I’m surprised how bothered I am by it.
But I don’t have the right to make demands of him, certainly not for my own... I don’t even know. Peace of mind, maybe?
Zan takes me to the other side of the cottage and points. “That door is my room.”
Where the stray blue cloth had come from—does he make his own clothes?
Zan opens the other one and says, “This one is a spare room. It changes based on what the people living here need, so it’s pretty empty right now. You can do what you want with it.”
It is indeed empty. Table, chair, shelves.
One wall, though, is painted with a mural of a dragon flying beyond a cottage on a mountain.
I look at Zan. He does that shrug again. “Kovan and Tasa made it a nursery. People repaint it occasionally.”
A wealth of information in two such short statements.
Kovan and Tasa made a space for Zan here, in their family, with the most vulnerable part of it.
That painting has been here for five hundred years, and the sages who’ve come since have felt it was important to keep it, this monument to Zan’s guardianship of their sanctuary.