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Chapter Text

In the weeks and months following his coronation, Charmont was beset by an unending list of problems, his inheritance courtesy of his uncle, and whenever he thought he had a handle on his new duties as sovereign of Kyrria, more was piled onto his lap. Edgar had not prepared him for this in the slightest, but then again, Char was never meant to be king, was he? His thoughts these days were constantly swirling, bouncing between the small steps of progress they were making and all the things that still must be done, but the one thought in particular that dominated Charmont’s mind… was that his crown was damned itchy. 

It was the fur, he suspected, brushing along his forehead whenever he shifted on the throne. He did his best to keep his irritation off his face as he listened to his advisers and the petitions of his subjects who traveled to the castle in droves upon hearing of their new, more amenable king - one who was willing to listen to their concerns. 

Fresh into his reign - and with his uncle’s betrayal still paining his heart - Char knew he needed as much support from all corners of his kingdom and the neighboring lands as he could muster. Most of the giants were onside, being a forgiving sort - and word of his presence at that wedding had spread quickly - but the elves and ogres were less inclined to trust him. Slannen’s and Nish’s word alone weren’t enough to sway them, no matter how many decrees in their favor he issued. 

The ogres’ reluctance he could understand; while his uncle was in power, they were slaughtered en masse… and he had never spoken up against it. It would take time, probably years, to repair the damage that had been done to their people. He would likely spend the rest of his life trying to make amends for it. 

The elves were… less reasonable, but Char couldn’t find it in himself to be annoyed. Freed of the legal shackles to be cheery and dancing all the time, they’d turned downright surly as a whole, years of humiliation and long-fermented anger all bubbling to the surface at once. In their place, he’d likely feel much the same. He could be annoyed with Ella’s friend, Slannen, who wasn’t being subtle every time he whispered things like “restitution” or “pain and suffering compensation” into the ears of his fellow elves. 

Usually right in front of Char. 

Speaking of Ella… Char glanced at her, and she was giving him that look again, eyes wide and lips thinned to a small line, like she was attempting to whack him over the head with a club made of sheer mental frustration.

“What?” he mouthed at her. He shifted again on the throne and felt his nose involuntarily twitch. 

“Pay attention,” she hissed back from her place on the dais. Ella turned back to the line of petitioners and gave them a strained smile that still somehow managed to hold some genuine warmth for the people. 

Not for the first time and likely not for the last, Char thought she would’ve made an amazing queen. But Ella held no desire for power, nor for him in the end, and they’d comfortably settled into a wonderful friendship. Thankfully for Char, she’d also accepted the role of his chief adviser once he’d ousted every single member of his Uncle Edgar’s staff and household. Only those who had also served under his father were allowed to remain, though they were watched closely for any signs of treachery. 

Contrary to what Ella assumed, however, Char was paying attention. The bulk of the petitioners today had the same grievances as the ones from yesterday and the day before. They needed more labor for their farms now that the giants were released from their servitude - labor they emphatically did not want to pay for. Their husband, daughter, brother, cousin’s best friend’s niece, or grandmother had been arrested for assaulting an ogre that had wandered too close to their town. Why, they argued, King Charmont couldn’t have actually been serious about making the killing of an ogre a capital crime! 

The noble lady currently huffing away at Char, pointed chin held high and heavy skirts bunched together in her shaking fists as she shoved past the guards, was mad that no elves were available to perform for her precious son’s birthday party. Apparently, she expected her king to order a whole troupe of them to sing and dance for a three-year-old who likely couldn’t have cared less, but according to his mother, King Charmont has broken the fragile heart of a toddler this day. 

Once she was gone, Ella announced a small break. Char took the opportunity to whip the crown off as soon as the hall was emptied of all but his personal guard and his advisers. 

He was idly scratching at his forehead, lamenting the hours to come with the damned itchy thing back in place, when Ella marched up to the throne. 

“What are you doing?”

Char’s hand stilled, and he slowly lowered it to his lap. He peered up at Ella under his lashes and asked in a guileless tone, “Whatever do you mean?” 

“Don’t do that,” Ella said, punctuating her words with a swift smack to the back of his head with the heavy, heavy clipboard she held in her hands - the very urge he was sure he’d seen in her eyes earlier. 

“Ow! Don’t do what? I haven’t done anything.” In a low, urgent whisper, he added, “They behead people in other countries for assaulting the king, you know?” 

Not that it mattered much; the guards had wandered into a corner to play cards. The story of Ella sort-of-but-not-really trying to kill him and then saving his life in a public and competent display had spread throughout the kingdom like wildfire. Hardly anyone in the court was more trusted with his person than Ella.

Char ruefully rubbed the top of his head and mused that it meant she felt free to take certain liberties with said person.

“Until recently, they would’ve done that in this country too. And usually for a lot less than giving the king a little tap.” 

“Tap? That wasn’t a tap!”

“That’s not the point,” Ella huffed.

Char snorted. “Must’ve missed that then, what with the sudden head trauma.” 

Ignoring him, Ella plowed ahead. “You have to stay focused. The people need you to listen to them, really listen to them. That’s the only way we’re ever going to move forward and make progress.” 

“I’m focused!”

Ella narrowed a look at him. “You’re fidgeting. Constantly. And making little faces. If I can see it, they can too. It’s clear your attention is elsewhere.” 

With a barely suppressed growl of irritation, Char surged to his feet. Ella took a startled step back, but before she could get far, Char plopped the heavy, itchy, thrice-damned crown on her head and gently - for no matter his mood he’d never touched Ella otherwise - moved her to sit on the large, uncomfortable throne. 

She yelped at the sudden relocation. 

Moving a few paces back, he said, “You try not fidgeting, I dare you.” 

He watched as she sighed and put her clipboard to the side, adjusting to sit prim and straight, hands folded on her knees. “I don’t see what’s so difficult.” 

“No?” 

Ella’s brows furrowed briefly in thought. “I suppose we could get you a cushion. The seat’s a bit hard.” 

“Is that all?” Char crossed his arms and waited patiently. It was coming. 

“It’s not even that hard, honestly. I don’t know what you’re complaining about.” 

What a shrug, Char dropped down onto the dais to recline at her feet, leaning back on his elbows. The wooden floor was honestly no more uncomfortable than where Ella was currently sitting. A bit hard, she’d said. Char inwardly rolled his eyes - not outwardly, of course. That clipboard was still close at hand. 

Ella, of course, as holder of the clipboard, felt perfectly free to openly roll her own eyes at him. She sat even taller in her seat, squaring her shoulders and giving her chin a regal tilt. 

Even while obviously mocking him, she looked like she belonged there, and Char just smiled looking at her. Maybe, if she couldn’t - wouldn’t - be his queen, she could still be the queen if he named her as his successor. It was never too early to plan for the future. He had no heirs as of yet and may never. The kingdom would be in good hands with Ella and her descendants. 

As a bonus, she wouldn’t be able to fight with him about his decision if he were already dead when she found out. And surely she wouldn’t leave the people she clearly loved so much without a leader. 

Perhaps that was a morbid line of thought, but he had them often these days. With half the kingdom not trusting the new changes will last and most of the other half advocating a return to the way things were, Charmont spent more of his time fighting off a headache - and a sneeze - than actually ruling. He desperately needed a break from it all - and soon. 

And just as he was thinking that, Char saw what he’d been waiting for: a little nose wiggle. Her arms tensed with the no doubt nigh irresistible urge to bat at the fur constantly brushing low on her forehead. Ella grimaces and angled her head slightly, trying to knock the crown back and away from her face. 

It sunk lower, fur now directly in her eyes, which crossed to look at it. She blew a heavy breath to get it out of her face, but it would only return a second later to bother her further. 

Char pressed his knuckles to his mouth to hold in his amusement, until finally he could take it no longer. 

“Stop fidgeting,” he mock-chided her. 

With a loud huff of annoyance, Ella yanked the crown off her head and looked ready to chuck it at Char’s. Luckily, she merely dropped it - rather insolently, if Char was one to care much about that - on the floor by their feet. “That thing is awful,” she declared at last. 

“It is,” Char easily agreed. “Some days I’d almost rather have the one my uncle poisoned than put up with this one much longer.” 

Ella sat down to join where Char was lounging on the ground and stretched her legs out on the wooden floor, long skirts tucked neatly around her. “How could you stand that for hours at a time? I didn’t even last five minutes.”

“I noticed.”

Char got a swat on the arm for that, but Ella’s ringing laugh made it worth it. 

“If it’s so unbearable, why haven’t you just had it replaced?” 

“Honestly, if it hadn’t been the same crown my father wore when he was alive…” Char trailed off, looking down his body at the bothersome thing. It had looked far more splendid and congruent on his father’s head, but it fit and suited him no better than it had on Ella. 

Her eyes softened at that, and she placed a gentle hand on his. “I understand. It’s a piece of him,” she said, her other hand going to the necklace she always wore. 

Char could only nod as Ella looked from him to stare at the crown in question, eyes narrowed in thought. 

“You know,” she finally said after some time, “King Florian was a good king. A great king, even,” she hastened to add with briefly widened eyes. “But - and I say this with love - you’re not him. None of us, for good or bad, are our parents exactly. We’re something new, something different. Some of what we’re doing here, undoing Edgar’s wrongs, is restoring the kingdom to what it was when your father was still around. But not all of it. Some of the rights we’re pushing for, demolishing the inequality between the species, a lot of that is totally revolutionary. We’re making something new here, a new sort of kingdom. You’ve got to be a new kind of king to go with it, one the world hasn’t seen before.” 

Ella stood in a rush of energy and held out her hands to help him up. He took them gladly, finding himself infected with her sudden giddy mood. She beamed at him with a wide, bright smile, still holding onto his hands in a tight grip, and Char, for just a moment, felt like the king he was supposed to be. 

“And I say,” she continued, “that calls for a new kind of crown, don’t you?”

In the end, they decided on erecting a pedestal in the throne room, one with a place of honor for his father’s crown, carefully preserved under some glass - perhaps with some stasis magic from one of the fairies to keep it pristine for generations to come. 

Unfortunately, their excited plotting made the rest of the break fly by, and it was time for Char to don the itchy headpiece once again. Somehow, after his conversation with Ella, it felt an easier burden to bear. 

Of course, now that he was not as distracted, the endless parade of petitioners was proportionally more difficult. Especially since this second group was more cantankerous than usual, heavy-laden with complaints about beasts of all sorts encroaching on their territories: rude elves, pests leading to low crop yields, and enormous dragons terrorizing their villages. 

Wait… Char sat a little straighter at that last one. Dragons?!

“Oh, it’s been absolutely dreadful, Your Majesty. We live in terror every night that it’ll come for us, burn down our homes, and eat our babes!” the robust woman standing before him cried, wringing her roughened hands as she finished her tale. Two small children huddled behind her skirts, occasionally peeping up at Char before retreating behind the fabric again. Further back was the rest of the frightened villagers, all with wide, nervous eyes. 

“A dragon? You’re sure?” Char pressed. There had never been a dragon in the lands of Kyrria for as long as the kingdom had existed. The last dragon king had died centuries ago, and his people scattered throughout the lands before disappearing not long after. Rumor was they’d gone extinct. 

“Oh, yes Sire. There was no mistaking it! Nothing else could have cast a shadow so large that the whole village goes dark!” 

“Did you see it?” 

“Hard to miss a great, big bloody beast blocking out the moon! Gave everyone quite the fright, even the babes, the poor things. Started crying so loud nobody got sleep that night.” 

Char resisted frowning and thought about a great many things that could’ve been flying around during a moonlit night that were far more plausible than a dragon. “Yes, certainly,” he said. “But did anyone actually see it?” 

The woman huffed, less nervous now, at least. Or perhaps realizing her shivering, hand-wringing act wasn’t convincing him as fast as she’d like. She clicked her tongue and waved at one of the men standing back with the rest of the village - who immediately tried to duck down behind some of the others when she gestured for him. It didn’t work, as the others hurried to push him to the front.

“Ernest, c’mere. Tell His Majesty what you told all of us.” 

Ernest was a gangly fellow, all knobby elbows and knees, bald head on display as he gripped his hat tightly in his hands. He stepped forward tentatively - too much so for the village’s designated speaker, who reached for him quicker than a striking viper and pulled him to stand before Char. 

“Go on, then,” she snapped. 

Char gave the man an encouraging smile - ignoring the obnoxious swooning noises from the assemblage of younger women of the village - and waited patiently for him to speak. 

“Well, I don’t know… well, that is to say, I can’t be-” Ernest was cut short by the woman behind him grabbing his shoulder and giving him a sharp, unnecessary shake. 

“None of that, now. You couldn’t wait to tell the whole village, scarin’ the children, so now you can tell His Majesty. I’d do it for you, but he needs to hear it from your own fool mouth.” 

The trembling and fearful woman that he’d spoken to before was truly gone. Unfortunately, her brusque nature was doing no favor for Ernest’s nerves, and he did not look like he was going to be able to speak any time soon and was beginning to wilt before Char’s very eyes. 

Char cleared his throat loudly and sat forward on the throne, hands clasped in front of him. When his eyes landed and narrowed on where the woman had Ernest in a harsh grip, her hands flew off of him and disappeared behind her back, like if he couldn’t see them, Char would simply forget their offenses. 

Char gave her a tight smile and said, “I believe I can handle things from here, Miss…?” 

“Oh! I never did say, did I? Name’s Blair, Your Majesty! And can I just-”

“That will be all for now, Miss Blair. You can go back with the others and wait in the other room.” 

Feathers clearly ruffled, Blair squared her shoulders to argue, puffing up like an angry, brooding hen. The rest of her neighbors, however, knew a displeased king when they saw one. Several of the other women rushed forward, grabbing Blair’s arms and tugging her back toward the group. Even the little children, using Blair’s body as a shield against the horrors of a new environment and strangers, pulled at her skirts to drag her away. 

Char didn’t pay any attention to her loudly whispered protestations as she and the entirety of the village, save for Ernest, went to wait in a receiving room. Instead, he waved to one of his staff standing off to the side and requested a chair be brought in. 

Ernest, looking more confused and alarmed by the second, only took the proffered seat after much urging - and Char taking the man gently by the shoulders and pushing him down. 

“Now, I’ve heard, quite loudly, that you have something to tell me?” Char asked. He kept his body language open and friendly, his mind so focused on putting Ernest at ease he’d momentarily forgotten about the constant nuisance that was his crown.

That pulled a small, startled laugh out of Ernest, which pleased Char immensely. 

“I’m, uh, sorry about her, m’lord. Er, Your… Highness? Sir. Sire. Sorry, I-”

Char held up a hand to head off whatever stuttering fit Ernest was about to work himself into. “In private, Char is just fine,” he said kindly. He could barely stand all the formalities from members of the court and nobility; coming from jittery, nervous Ernest, it almost felt obscene. 

Of course, Ernest’s response to his request was a raised eyebrow as he looked around pointedly at each of the four guards in the room, the chair-fetcher, and Ella. 

“When you’re king, this is as close to privacy as one gets,” Char admitted with a long, drawn-out sigh. “Can’t even order them to leave me alone.” He leaned closer to Ernest and stage-whispered in a low, conspiratorial tone, “Believe me. I’ve tried.” 

While Ernest laughed again, a great deal of tension leaving his shoulders at the genial, almost familiar behavior of his king, Ella scoffed and tapped her clipboard in an unsubtle warning to move things along. 

“So,” Char said, now that Ernest finally seemed somewhat settled, “What can you tell me of the dragon?” 

Ernest gave his own weary sigh, this one as genuine as can be. “I was trying to say, before my sister got impatient-”

“Good lord, that woman is your sister?” 

Ernest grimaced. “Little sister, too, if you can believe it, my-your…” Ernest rubbed a weathered hand over his mouth before forcing out, “Char.”

Pleased with the concession, Char merely nodded. “I very well can.” 

“She used to say she was the only one in the family born with a spine… or any balls,” Ernest grumbled, the last words muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else in the room. 

Unfortunately for Ernest, both Char and Ella had heard and failed to conceal their snorts of amusement, causing the man’s face to turn a bright, vivid red, all the way to the tips of his ears. 

“Anyway,” Ernest said quickly, clearing his throat, “Like I was trying to say before… I haven’t seen any dragon, no matter what my sister said. I didn’t see the shadow, neither, but enough of the others did that I don’t doubt it happened.” 

“So what have you seen?”

The nervous demeanor returned, Ernest’s hands busying themselves trying to twist his hat in half. “There’s something in the woods. Something big. I’ve seen the branches and bark stripped from trees, like something was squeezin’ between them. Our woods aren’t dense, Sire - er, Char. There’s room enough for 3, 4 men to walk abreast and not have to part once. Then there’s the firepits. Something dug them deep into the ground and not with no shovel. Claws, I’d say. And they’re filled with… filled with bones.” 

Well… as far as circumstantial evidence went, it certainly sounded convincing enough to Char that there was a dragon - or something draconian in nature, anyway - in his kingdom. Before his thoughts went any further, he had to ask, “The bones… were they human?” 

“Oh, no. Big animals, things with hooves and horns and such.” 

“Your livestock?” 

Ernest shook his head. “None of ours. If it’s snatching cattle, it’s going somewhere else. But mostly it looked like game. Deers and elk, some boar maybe.” 

Char sat back in his throne, chin propped on his fist. So, there was a dragon - or something like it - living close enough to one of his villages that its people could observe its shadow on a full moon. But no one had laid eyes on it, meaning either the creature could turn invisible or it was taking special care not to be seen. It wasn’t going out in the day. It wasn’t raiding the village. It hunted in the woods, choosing to walk along the ground and scraping up against the trees instead of flying, which would’ve been more comfortable and convenient for it. Perhaps it had even heard the frightened villagers’ screams and never took to the air after, not even at night. 

Why, rather than a fearsome, beastly baby-eater, it rather sounded like just another creature trying to get by and live peacefully. If even half of what Char had read about the dragons and draconian society of old was true, it could likely be reasoned with. Negotiated with. 

There was plenty of land in the kingdom currently being divvied up following his uncle’s death and the rousting of his allies and co-conspirators. Many of the estates had hundreds of acres and attractive features like game-filled forests, cave systems, rivers, and a few were located near the mountain range in the west. 

Surely, if this dragon was of the sort of disposition he suspected, a bargain could be struck. Land of its own, far away from any skittish humans, in exchange for whatever services it would be willing to provide, whether that would be the benefit of its presumably long years and accumulated knowledge or the lending of its flame to some of the royal blacksmiths. Blades forged via dragonfire were the stuff of legend. 

Char glanced at Ella out of the corner of his eye and found a serious look on her face. He wondered if her mind went in the same direction that his had. It’d make what he was about to do much easier if that was the case. 

“I’ve heard enough,” Char declared and rose from his seat. 

Clearly confused, Ernest stood too. His words were echoed by Ella when he asked, “You have?”

Holding back a laugh, Char nodded and signaled to his guards to bring the rest of the village back to the throne room. “Yes. If what you say is true - and you seem an honorable man to me - then I believe there’s sufficient cause to say you do indeed have a dragon occupying your woods.” 

“And, uh, what… what are you going to do? If, that is, if you’re going to do anything about it, your - Char.” 

Ella stepped closer, eyes narrowed as she clutched her clipboard of notes, record keeping, and secret doodles when she thought no one was looking. Her voice held an ominous quality as she chimed in, “I’d like to know that too.” 

He turned to her, brandishing a charming smile, and said, “You were the one who wanted me to forge a new kind of kingdom.” 

“Are you out of your mind?!”

Despite knowing she’d been following him since he strode out of the throne room to a chorus of sobbingly grateful villagers, Char still jumped a near foot in the air at Ella’s shout and let out a small yelp. A manly yelp. Dignified, even. Why, he barely even flinched when the door slammed shut right after. 

He pressed a hand to his heart and set his crown down on a nearby table. He’d retreated to one of the smaller libraries in the castle which held a few of the maps and records that would be useful for the upcoming negotiations. 

At least, that’s how he was opting to think of this expedition. How the others chose to interpret his promise to take care of the dragon was none of his concern. 

Clearing his throat, Char turned to Ella and smiled brightly at her. “Not any more than usual, I think.”

“Just what were you trying to accomplish out there?” Ella demanded. 

“I was hoping to calm the fears of my subjects,” Char answered honestly. “Perhaps instill a bit of confidence that I can handle whatever challenges this kingdom faces.” 

Ella approached in a quick, heavy-footed stride, stopping a few feet away from him. Her hands were firmly planted on her hips, a dubious eyebrow raised. “Oh? And you think you can handle a dragon, do you?” 

“Well, I certainly hope so!”

“You hope so!” Ella shouted. “He hopes so, he says. Hope isn’t going to keep you from being royally fried! What on earth-”

Seeing that she was getting good and riled up - and that would certainly keep her busy for a few moments - Char wandered away toward the bookshelf, looking for the records he needed to consult. He just needed to find the perfect parcel of land to offer. Perhaps even a few, ones with different terrain and creatures comforts that would be appealing. He couldn’t very well know the needs of this particular dragon before meeting it. Best be prepared for all scenarios. Access to water, deep underground caverns and caves, thick forests with plenty of game… Wasn’t there some hot springs on the far end of the kingdom? Who owned that land? He thought maybe -

“Oh my god! Are you even listening to me?” 

“Hmm?” Char looked over his shoulder at an incredulous Ella, who had advanced closer. “Sorry, I was just thinking. I assume you were saying something about my untimely demise?” 

“Yes! I was! This would be suicide. Back when they were at their height of power, it took entire armies to fell a single dragon! What could you and your retinue possibly do? And not only that, you cannot seriously mean to march out there to slaughter a sentient creature, one who may be the last of its kind, whose only crime as far as we know is spooking some village folk.” 

Char would feel a little slighted that she so doubted him… if she wasn’t also completely and totally correct in her assessment. Thus, Char merely smoothed down that small hurt as well as the front of his doublet, nodding absentmindedly as he turned his attention back to the various ledgers stacked before him. 

“I can’t disagree with anything you’ve said.” 

Ella sputtered behind him, likely not expecting that response. “But then - why? Why did you agree to this foolishness? If you know you can’t do it, if you claim to know it’s wrong, then why-”

“Ella,” Char interrupted her softly, pulling out some maps for the outer edges of the kingdom. It seemed a good place to start. “I said I’d take care of the dragon and that the village would have nothing to fear.” 

“And I’m trying to figure out why you’d say such a thing! This is against everything we’ve been working toward, and after our talk, I just can’t understand-”

“I said I’d take care of it, Ella.” 

Ella threw her hands up and let out a short, frustrated growl. “I heard you! I-” 

“I said,” Char repeated with careful slowness, “I’d take care of it.” 

“Yes, yes, we’ve established that. You…” She stopped, brows furrowing as her head lowered in thought, long, dark hair falling over her shoulder. “You didn’t say you were going to kill it.” Her head whipped up, and her face was a wonderful mix of delighted shock and mischievousness. 

“Correct once again,” Char praised with a little bow. He pulled another ledger, this one detailing some logging done near the mountains, and handed it to Ella. “I don’t suppose you have any thoughts about what would be at the top of a dragon’s Must-Have list when looking for a new home?” 

The ledger was snapped out of his hand, Ella eagerly flipping through its pages. “You’re going to offer it sanctuary? People might not like that. Individual dragons have razed entire kingdoms before. Who knows if it’s even alone?” 

As his most trusted adviser, it was of course Ella’s duty to bring up such concerns. 

Char sat at the table and started to spread his collected resources out in front of him, setting aside some parchment and quills to begin taking notes. “If it was going to attack, it would have already. It’s been within our borders for at least a month, possibly longer. And I would be surprised if there were multiple of them, based on the accounts we heard today. I feel comfortably sure we’re only dealing with a single dragon.” 

“Assuming that is what is in those woods,” Ella added, pulling a few more books from the shelves and dropping them on the table. A large puff of dust exploded in both of their faces, making them cough. 

“Yes, well, we can only go off the information we’ve been given. There are only so many creatures that fit the description.” 

“If they were accurate.” 

Char narrowed his eyes at her and flipped over the cover of his first ledger. “Yes.”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” she huffed, and for a moment Char felt mixed up about who was the royalty in the room. “Someone has to consider these things. There’s a lot of uncertainty here, and we have to look at it from all angles. What if this is some sort of assassination attempt? Trying to lure you out to the far regions of the kingdom where you’ll be more vulnerable?” 

“Rather convoluted, don’t you think?” 

Ella raised a contemptuous brow at him, and… alright, he supposed he deserved that. He held up a hand, yielding to her point. 

“If someone wanted to use my now well-known sympathy for non-human creatures in order to lure me out of the castle, they wouldn’t have approached in the form of frightened villagers looking for an exterminator, would they?” 

She slumped a bit in her seat and idly blew more dust off a book, careful not to choke them this time. “I suppose not.” 

Char reached out to take hold of her hand. “I will always appreciate your concern and efforts to keep me safe. No one’s ever done a better job of it than you.”

That made her smile, and she turned to the work with renewed vigor. “So, where do we start?” 

Flipping to the appropriate page, he pushed the ledger toward Ella and pointed. “I was thinking… hot springs.” 

Chapter Text

The humans were gone.

Not permanently, of course, but almost the entire village had loaded up their horses and wagons and set off toward the capitol city a sennight ago. When they eventually returned, Ásmundr knew they wouldn’t be alone. They’d come back with soldiers following behind, as many as the king could spare. 

If the king was smart - and Ásmundr especially unlucky - he’d send more than just men. With them, they’d bring machines, things to shoot him out of the sky, to bludgeon his hide and rip holes in his wings. Crossbows to shoot out his other eye, if their aim was true enough. 

That wouldn’t be the end of it either, since Ásmundr had survived all of that and more before. Reinforcements from neighboring lands would come pouring in, as there had never been a shortage of kings and lords longing for a draconian skull to display amongst their treasures and trophies. 

If Ásmundr wanted any peace in his future, there couldn’t be a single sign of a dragon anywhere near this part of the kingdom. He couldn’t travel far, nor quickly. His best hope could only come from erasing any evidence of his presence and painting a picture of the villagers as having a collective, overexcited imagination. 

Not fair to them, of course, but… he had little choice now. 

Hours after the villagers had left, Ásmundr went to work. First was purging the forest of any trace of him. The trees along the paths he frequented were easy enough to fell, and Ásmundr collected them all in a wide clearing deep in the woods. As he piled the trunks together, an idea started to form in his mind. After, he destroyed his firepits, spreading out the ashes and burying the bones so far under the earth, they’d never resurface. 

He spent the next several days shaping the paths in the forest and putting together his project in the clearing, using the nights to slip into the quiet, nigh-abandoned village to steal various, essential items, most of which lay about outside in plain sight or within easy reach of the windows. 

The thefts sat uneasily with him, so he was careful to only take a little bit from each home and favor the most wealthy amongst them. It wouldn’t appear too unusual, he hoped, for things to have gone missing with so much of the populace gone at once. 

To be on the safe side, he risked venturing to nearby villages to round out the rest of what he needed, knowing if he took entirely from this one, it would draw far too much unwanted attention. 

He had been a fool before, to think the late hour would protect him. He’d heard the gasps as he’d been spotted. Ásmundr would not make such a mistake again. He swore he would not… Ásmundr sighed, stretching his long body out on the soft grasses of the clearing. Oaths mattered little when the only witness to them was himself and the surrounding quiet. 

There were the gods, he supposed, if they still listened. In his heart, he doubted it. His people had been well and truly abandoned centuries ago, from what he’d heard. Their civilization fell, and their people scattered. The last, true dragon king’s head mounted above the throne of some honorless human monarch. Or of his equally disgraceful descendant. An image that had been used to taunt Ásmundr over and over again. 

Had he no other duties, Ásmundr would be sorely tempted to track down the land of his sovereign’s murderer and exact revenge. 

For a final act, Ásmundr could think of little that would be more fitting - other than his current life’s purpose. Ultimately, it would achieve nothing aside from his own dark satisfaction as he ripped apart the humans’ castle walls, boiling their warriors inside of their flimsy metal armor. He would not live long enough to give his king a proper funeral by burning his last remains to ash, and that would be the only reason to undertake such a quest. 

With the local villagers gone, Ásmundr took advantage of his new solitude to stretch his wings. He didn’t dare fly above the treetops, not after what happened last time, but it felt wondrous to simply run around the large, empty space he’d claimed as his own with his wings fully extended. His time cloistered away in the woods was making the muscles in his back and shoulders grow stiff and cramp up the longer he stayed in such close quarters. 

It will be worse later, so he relishes the moments he had now to unfold himself in his entirety, sprinting in circles with his long, red wings spread out to his sides, catching the wind as he ran along with every drop of sunlight that the afternoon had to offer. 

The taste of freedom was still so new, so sweet, that some days Ásmundr felt like he was in danger of glutting himself on it, of becoming fat and complacent. Ásmundr growled under his breath and slowed to a trot, his thoughts wandering in bleak circles, bringing down his mood as he lapped the clearing. 

He already was complacent. He’d been seen; he’d incited enough concern in the village that they’d run like startled cats to yowl at their king. Never mind that he hadn’t so much as huffed a breath of smoke in their direction. He hadn’t terrorized or threatened their hunters - stayed well clear of them, in fact. Never ate their livestock, no matter how tantalizing all that meat was, already rounded up for his convenience. Instead, he tracked down his meals in the woods, even going so far as to choose older, less healthy game that would hardly be missed by the humans in these current months of excess. 

He doubted a single one of them stopped to consider any of that. His presence alone was enough to be a threat, as it always has been, always will be. Ásmundr wondered if any from the village had ever actually heard stories, true stories passed down from parent to child, about the days of the dragons. Or if all this fear and fretting was born from sensationalist fairy tales, spread by those who had never seen a dragon for themselves but recognized an easy way to make quick coin by spouting frightening lies in ignorant countries far from the dragons’ lands. Far from anyone who could or would set the record straight. 

Ásmundr leaned against a large tree bordering the clearing, one of the few able to support his weight. For a few moments, he breathed deeply, puffing out plumes of steam as he tried to slow his racing mind. It was no use. He couldn’t seem to force any sort of calm, constantly going over the same problems, the same worries, the same old grievances again and again. 

During the dark times, he somehow had found a means to shut off his mind completely. Months and years of thinking nothing, being nothing, because to do, to be, otherwise was more pain than he could stand. Worse still, worse than dwelling on his situation back then, was to dream of the future. Of clear skies and clean water, of eating as much charred meat as he could stomach and then eating even more the next day. 

Now that he had it, had the very thing that wishing for nearly drove him to madness in those early days, his mind just wouldn’t shut up about anything, like it was making up for all the grief and anger and distressing thoughts he’d denied it for years. 

Add on his new responsibilities and he had no shortage of things to worry about every second of the day and during the few moments he tried to rest. 

It was exhausting.

Ásmundr pushed off the tree and ambled over to his project. He’d done all he could in his current form, trimming, carving, and shaping the wood with his claws. It was nearly impossible to angle his head to be able to see, but he was even able to nail some of the logs and boards together. 

But there was much of the interior work he couldn’t manage, considering he barely fit inside. Time constraints necessitated a small structure, one that couldn’t possibly accommodate him as he preferred to be. 

That was fine. Ásmundr had grown used to living in small quarters a long time ago, despite how much he and his body hated it. 

Before deciding whether he had time for one last hunt, he quickly scaled one of the thicker, studier trees, using his grip to climb upwards rather than digging his claws in the bark. Carefully, he poked the top of his head out over the woods’ canopy, looking out toward the road that led to the capital city. 

Ásmundr’s stomach tightened and burned as he made out a mass of faint, black specs in the distance. 

In just a few days, the village would return. 

For the briefest of moments, Ásmundr froze, eye wide open as he tried to discern more details out of the tiny dots. His eyesight, though vastly superior to a human’s, had its limitations. He could make out nothing else other than a mass advancing down the road. There was little between here and the city - farmland and plains and more farmland. There could be no other destination for such a group but here. 

They were coming back. They were -

Ásmundr’s descent down the tree wasn’t so much a smooth drop as it was an ungraceful tumble. He shook some errant branches and leaves he’d broken on the way down off his back and paced the clearing in agitation. His mind needed to be empty to prepare for what he must do - not an easy task for him at any point since gaining freedom. Worse still when it came to this.

It had been years since he’d assumed his other form. The last time… the only time he could ever recall was when he was first captured, or shortly thereafter, and had the foolish idea that perhaps a smaller body would be more adept at escaping his prison. 

He had been wrong. 

Not only that, his captors had then taken the opportunity to show him how taking on a smaller, weaker form was not in his best interest. 

After, they did not treat the dragon with any more kindness than they had the man, but the threat of fire, claws, and fangs did wonders to dissuade any further attempts at mutilation. 

Ásmundr lowered himself to the ground, lying flat on his belly as every inch of his hide trembled. He cursed himself for how his wings shook at the thought of changing, but he must. He must. 

The process was easy enough to remember - that first time, the change had been instinctual. He had the thought one moment and the next, it had happened. Upon reflection, he realized it had been a manifestation of his will more than anything, one of the last vestiges of his kind’s magic. Back then, he’d wanted to be smaller to slip through the bars, and so he was. He had no such desire this time and had to focus on why he so desperately needed to shift. 

When the village returned, when the inevitable soldiers searched him out, there could not be a dragon in these woods, only a man.

There could not be a dragon in these woods. 

There could only be a man. A fragile, scarred man in search of peace and solitude. 

Ásmundr was not a dragon, there was no dragon, there was only… there was…

There was only a man. 

Ásmundr gasped and drew his short, soft limbs closer to his body, curling into a ball on the ground. He shivered, not from the cold but from the feeling of wind and individual blades of grass tickling his bare skin, so much more sensitive than his thick, leathery dragonhide. 

He missed it already.

But he had much to do, too much, and could not take the time he probably needed to become habituated with this body. Slowly, he climbed to his feet, and his legs, although as unsteady as a newborn fawn’s, miraculously had the strength in them to hold him up. 

The shocks continued as he was able to take one wobbly step, followed by another and another, feeling unbalanced as he tottered around on two feet while somehow staying upright. He made his way over to the pile of clothing he’d assembled, hoping they’d fit well enough. Ásmundr had hardly remembered the size of his man body when he’d been stealing the garments, but as he pulled on a tunic and trousers, he must have guessed close enough. Aside from the trouser legs being a tad short, everything fit, even the stockings and boots. 

Boots he was especially glad for. Soon he needed to go inside the partially completed cabin, and he hardly needed the soles of his newly delicate feet full of splinters within the first five minutes of being human. Human-shaped, anyway. 

Clothed, Ásmundr took a few deep breaths and tried not to be annoyed with the cool air that left his lips. Everything about this form felt wrong, but until he was somewhere safer, far from prying eyes, it would have to do. 

Stepping inside the cabin, Ásmundr was momentarily surprised by how not-small it really was. Now that he was man-sized, it felt far more spacious than it had looked. He had to jump for his fingers to brush against the rafters supporting the loft overhead.

The front half of the bottom floor was mostly empty aside from the large fireplace he’d been working on before closing off the cabin with its last wall. The smooth, multicolored stones were carefully shaped by his claws and the spines on his tail to neatly fit together. On top was the mantle, an enormous hunk of dark wood that must’ve come from a recently felled tree, as there were hardly any rot or insects to clear away. Ásmundr had shaped it over many days, soaking it in the nearby river and warming it with his breath, before flattening out the top and bottom. It made an attractive curve, reminiscent of his wings when changing direction mid-flight. When it was finished, he sealed it with a mixture of oil and vinegar from his pilfered stores. 

In the back of the cabin, he’d sectioned off an area for an as-yet empty bedroom and some storage. There was a wedge cut out of one of the interior walls where he needed to place a few false boards - hidden behind them will be the rope ladder leading to the loft, a dark, windowless space precisely sized to fit his true form should he lay down curled up. 

Down below, he’d cut out many windows, with not a dark corner in sight. Had he access to sand, he would have filled them with glass. For now, shutters would serve well enough. 

All in all, Ásmundr was pleased with how well put together it looked, if not a bit disturbed. 

Had this been something he’d done before? He couldn’t be sure. The times before his captivity was lost to him, even his true name was long gone. Ásmundr was a name he took for himself upon gaining his freedom. In his own mind, he deserved to be called something that didn’t allude to his mutilation. 

Choosing not to dwell on it, Ásmundr focused on his next tasks. The most important thing he needed to accomplish in the next few days was to make the cabin look lived in. He needed a pallet and furs to sleep in, someplace to eat and prepare food, somewhere to wash and dispose of waste, and to finish the hearth. So many more considerations to be had as a man than a dragon. He slept just fine on rocks or the ground before. Now, comfort was both something he needed to think about for appearance’s sake, assuming his new home was ever found, and something he needed to genuinely take into account for the future. 

He got to work moving most of his ill-gotten possessions inside, dropping them off in whatever general area felt appropriate. When that was done, he was annoyed at how empty all the space looked. That was something he’d have to work on later.

Now, he turned his attention to the hearth, before which lay several loose boards he hadn’t nailed into place, easily pried up with human fingers and claws alike. A small tunnel had been dug underneath, done when he had been putting together the foundation, which led to a small cavern lined with heated rocks. Ásmundr dropped to his human knees, tearing the boards off and reaching inside. He could just barely touch it, but it was enough to confirm his most precious treasure was still there. 

The stones had cooled, but the hearth would keep the space underneath warm, something direly needed now that he wouldn’t have consistent access to his dragonfire. 

All that was still left outside was his mish-mash of tools and various hunks of wood and planks he had leftover from construction. The rest of that day, night, and the next morning was spent putting together various bits and pieces of furniture. A dining table and chair, a sleeping pallet, a spectacularly ugly and misshapen clothes chest, various smaller tables for preparing food, and shelves to display his few possessions. He’d spied into enough human homes lately to have a general idea of what was expected inside of one. 

In the end, he had just enough of the larger planks left to make a ramshackle privy. The rest of the smaller pieces he could either use for firewood or try his hands at whittling during the many long, boring hours stuck on the ground he had in his future. 

Ásmundr’s body was covered in sweat by the time he was done late in the afternoon; his new - to him - clothes were filthy, their damp state making the sawdust in the air stick all the more readily to them. He’d been working for nearly twenty-four hours straight and likely looked it. 

Now that he was out of his more laborious tasks, all he wanted to do was run to the river and get a good wash. 

He hesitated at the clearing border and wondered if it was worth it to climb the tree again and get another look. After pondering for a moment, he shook his head, wet hair whipping back and forth. No, it wasn’t worth it at all. His eyesight was far worse now; doubtful he’d be able to see anything of note at that distance. 

Grabbing some fresh clothes - and a board that he knew was used for scrubbing dirty ones - Ásmundr headed for the river, already dreading, just a bit, how damn cold the water was going to be. 

The blistering heat of the sun, the chill of the river, hardness of the ground, constriction of these clothes… none were sensations he especially enjoyed, nor did he look forward to experiencing them for endless future days. 

Ásmundr was familiar with sacrifices, though. Had experienced enough discomfort and suffering that it stretched through time in a blur where there was no difference between night and day, winter and summer. By comparison, feeling more heat or cold than he was used to, becoming accustomed to wearing clothing no matter how he may dislike it, that was nothing. Such burdens and irritations were easily shouldered and carried for as long as needed. 

For the rest of his life, if need be. 

Though, Gods, he hoped not. 

That resolve to brave the sacrifices to come did nothing to stop him from yelping like a frightened pup when he finally stripped and stepped into the freezing, flowing water. He nearly jumped back to land and called the whole thing off before realizing that if anyone did wander into the woods and stumble across him, he needed to be as respectable and clean-looking as possible. 

As much as he could, anyway, with a mangled hide such as his. He made the mistake of looking down into the water below him. A brief glimpse of his ruined eye and the slash across his throat was enough for him to stiffly keep his gaze skyward for the duration of his harsh scrub-down. 

The sweat, dirt, and sawdust made especially vexing grime to rid himself of, and he was growling softly under his breath getting the bulk of it out of his hair - which was now far longer than he remembered it being that other time, going from above his shoulders to nearly the middle of his back. Once the strands were clean, he held them out on his fingers to catch a ray of sunlight, where they shone like burnished gold with veins of silver throughout. 

Finished with his body, Ásmundr gave a brief scrubbing to the filthy clothes, glad to be done with this tedious task. After this, he was going to lay down on the soft grass outside his cabin and nap in the sun for as long as he could, until his grumbling stomach demanded he go out into the woods again and hunt. He’d carved a few spears while he’d been working earlier; those, along with the hatchet and small knives he’d taken for himself, should be plenty to bring down a deer and clean it. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Ásmundr was certain he knew how to do that, too. He wasn’t too sure yet whether this plethora of unknown skills was a boon to him or really just an annoyance. Tease after tease that before the dark times, he was something. Did something. Was someone. How much time had he spent in this skin for its muscles to hoard so many memories? Would there be someone out that might even recognize it…? 

No. No. Those thoughts did him no good now. He had no concept of how long he was captive. It could well have been centuries for all he knew. Everyone that might have known him before was likely dead. Dwelling on the black void of his past would only serve to disturb and upset him. Best to let it go. He had other things to focus on now. Things that mattered far more than an old, battered, and forgetful dragon. 

Ásmundr slapped the water bearing his face with a snarl, wanting to rid himself of this line of thinking. He would have moved his attention elsewhere after that had there not been a small, quiet gasp on the other side of the river a few moments later. 

Ásmundr whipped his head around and his eye instantly locked on a startled, bright blue pair.  

When he had decided to pursue negotiations with the dragon, Char sent the village home, promising a quick response. If he left within a few days of them, he’d very likely beat them there. Such a large traveling group would have many delays and require far more rest and resupplying than a single rider. 

Although that had been a volatile point of contention with Ella, who insisted, quite vehemently, that he have a guard accompaniment. 

But Char stood his ground. He could not approach the dragon with a whole troop of warriors at his side. What kind of message would that send? Even if he claimed he came in peace until he was purple in the face, there was no way the dragon would believe him. He and a good dozen of his best men would be noble briquettes before he could so much as say hello. 

Ella wasn’t easily swayed by that logic, and she took to following him around the castle, describing various ways he could die horrifically on his journey - and not just from the dragon. Brigands and bandits and even stray agents of his uncle were apparently lurking on every road, behind each bush, just waiting to catch King Charmont alone and unaware. 

Char didn’t share those concerns. He’d been traveling on his own with no guards since he’d been of age. Edgar had never been especially fussed about his safety, and at the time, Char had thought he’d had his uncle’s full trust in handling any trouble that came his way. That there’d been no need for bloody babysitters to dog his every move. 

Of course, he knew better now. Perhaps for all these years, Edgar had harbored a secret hope that Char would be cut down on the road or run afoul of the ogres who would’ve had a very good reason to hold a grudge against the young prince. 

In a way, it was nice to have someone so focused on his well-being for once for reasons beyond his station or his appearance. 

The novelty of it was quickly wearing off, though. Char dodged around a statue when he heard the quick slaps of Ella’s shoes down the corridor. He held his breath, waiting for her to pass, before hurrying toward their War Room. Or, more accurately, the small library they’d commandeered for their negotiation planning. 

Technically, the whole castle was his to do with as he pleased, but that somehow didn’t stop determined academics from scowling when they were turned away. They were usually appeased and frightened in equal measures when Ella would slap whatever book they’d come in search for against their chest with orders to find elsewhere to read. He’d never seen so many old men scurry away so quickly in his life. 

Reaching the room, Char quickly slipped inside and found the bag he’d stashed in there earlier. With furtive glances toward the door, he shoved all their documents and research into the bag, including maps of the various plots of land they’d found that could be suitable. The last thing he grabbed was the various formal offers for employment of just about every task or job he, Ella, and Slannen could think of for a dragon. 

Slannen had joined in as the non-human representative to ensure no exploitation was taking place. 

How he even found out about the project, he and Ella weren’t entirely sure. Slannen would only say he was ever vigilant about the rights of magical creatures. 

Char gathered up the last of the papers and stuck his head out the door, checking both ends of the corridor before hurrying away and to the stables. His horse was already saddled and packed with the supplies he needed to reach the village. All he had to do was get there, then he could slip out the southern gate, which hardly anyone used. 

And the guards would be changing shifts any minute now. 

It was, perhaps, not very kingly to be sneaking out of his own castle like a lowly thief, but these were desperate times. 

His arguments with Ella were getting nowhere, and if he wanted to reach the village before the residents did, he had to leave now. He felt a little bad about disappearing on Ella, but it wasn’t like she wouldn’t know where he’d gone and why. 

She’d understand, he thought, as he pushed the stable door open and headed for his horse’s stall. Once she had a moment to cool down and read the letter he’d arranged to be delivered to her at supper tonight, she’d know he’d done the only thing he could do. 

She… she was petting his horse. 

Char’s entire body froze as he pushed open the door to the stall, wide eyes glued on where Ella stood with false calm next to Bertrum, Char’s raven-black palfrey. 

Ella eyed the stuffed bag hanging on Char’s shoulder, then the bags already attached to Bertrum. The horse nudged Ella when the petting stopped, and she quickly acquiesced, rubbing Bertrum’s muzzle where he liked it best. 

“So,” she said after a moment, the glare in her eyes at direct odds with the soft, gentle way she stroked the horse. “Going somewhere?” 

Char rubbed the back of his neck, a sheepish look on his face. “Listen-”

“No! No, you listen!” She stepped away from the horse, marching up to Char to sharply poke him in the chest. Ow. “You can’t just go off whenever you feel like it! I know adjusting to your new role has been difficult-”

“Hey, wait a minute-” Char raised his hands to get Ella to slow down for a second- “This has nothing to do with that. I’m not skipping off for a laugh. You told me this was a significant moment for our kingdom, a turning point for how other countries will see Kyrria for generations to come. Were those not your words?” 

“Don’t throw that back at me! It’s not just about how important the dragon could be for us. It’s how important you are! You can’t go with no warning, and you certainly can’t go without any protection! You’re king now. That means something.”  

Char stepped around Ella, ignoring her furious, hurt eyes following his every move, and rubbed a soothing hand along Bertrum’s flank. The horse had been stomping his hoof and shaking his head at the raised voices. 

“This is hardly with no warning, is it?” Char finally said as he checked all of his loaded gear and tightened a few straps, his movements a bit more brusque than they normally would be. “And I don’t know how many times I have to tell you, I can protect myself just fine. I’ve been doing it all my adult life.”

“A real bang-up job you’ve done of it, considering I had to save your life. Twice.” 

“I believe I can say the same for you, so we’re even in that regard.” 

Ella huffed a breath, her cheeks puffing out in irritation. “Fine. Fine, you want to do it this way? Let me come with you, then.” 

“No,” Char insisted, softly enough so he sounded more like Ella’s friend than her sovereign with the edict. “I’m king now, like you said. So if I am going to be out of the castle for a time, it’s my job to make sure there’s someone capable to guard and guide the kingdom in my absence.” 

“What-”

Char placed a firm hand on Ella’s shoulder, earnest eyes boring into hers. “The only person I’d trust with that duty is you, Ella of Frell. No one else.” 

Ella twisted her hands, mind obviously warring between her need to protect her friend and her need to serve the kingdom. There was also a light in her eyes, one of excitement for the possibilities ahead. Not for the power, no, but the increased ability to do the good work that had become her life’s passion these last few months. 

“Are you sure?” she finally asked, voice quiet. 

Char smiled, his chest feeling warm and light. “I’ve never been surer than anything in my life.”

Stepping out from under his hand, Ella took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. A different woman stood before him. “Very well. You will send a messenger once you arrive,” she ordered, chin lifted as she clasped her hands in front of her. Something in Char’s spine tingled at the sight, but he squashed the feeling down. Ella continued, “After that, I expect word of your well-being once every four days. If you miss two check-ins in a row, I will be sending a regiment of your elite guard to locate and drag you back to the castle, dragon be damned. Do you understand?” 

Char nearly sprained something with how quickly he swept into a low bow, the tips of his hair nearly brushing the straw of Bertrum’s stall. “Yes, Your Majesty, as you say.”

Ella gave a sharp bark of amusement, and Char peeked up at her through his bangs. She covered her mouth as her laughter devolved into a snorting giggle. 

When she spotted him watching her, she attempted to sober up but failed spectacularly. “Stand up, for gods’ sake!” Ella grabbed and pushed at his shoulders until he finally relented, grinning unabashedly at her. “Stop that! This is all your fault.” 

“I know.” 

They shared a few more seconds of laughter until Ella’s hands tightened roughly on his shoulders. “You better come home alive and whole,” she said, tone equal amounts concern and threat. 

“I will.” Char was still smiling. 

“I’m serious,” Ella stressed, smacking him lightly. “Things are just starting to go well. If you go and get yourself eaten by a giant lizard, everything is going to fall apart.” Her voice broke ever so slightly. 

I’m going to fall apart, went unsaid. 

“I swear on my kingdom, I-” will come home to you- “will do my best to not get mangled, trampled, stabbed, slashed, shot, butchered, decapitated, munched, or set ablaze by a dragon.” 

Ella’s face contorted in an adorable mix of annoyance and amusement, like she couldn’t decide which she was feeling. Eventually, annoyance won out. “Do your best?” 

“Now, now,” Char playfully admonished as he took Bertrum’s reins and led him out of the stall. Ella followed in a huff. “A ruler does not demand the impossible of their subjects. I cannot make you any promises for things out of my control. What I can promise is that I’ll avoid dangerous situations when and where I can.” 

“And when you can’t?” 

Char shrugged and mounted Bertrum as soon as they were out in the sunlight. “Then I shall fight.” 

Ella looked like she had something to say about that but refrained and instead reached up to grab for Char’s hand like he was going to bolt at any second without a proper goodbye. 

Never mind that he was originally planning to do that…

“I’ll see you soon,” she said, another order, as kindly spoken as it was. “Good luck.” 

Char had no more woods for her, none he was willing to say, at any rate, so he only nodded and rode off, risking looking back only as he was reaching the southern gate. 

She was gone, off to do her duty rather than seeking one last glance at him. 

The ride toward the village was so uneventful, Char almost wished he had been set upon by bandits or assassins just for something to do. He had taken a longer way around than he’d liked, wanting to avoid crossing paths with the villagers themselves as they trouped home. As he rode in silence with only his horse and his own thoughts for company, he couldn’t help but worry that choice had been the wrong one. He’d spent too long arguing to go alone and putting off the conversation about his true plans for the dragon. 

Now he ran the risk of perhaps not arriving first. He was plagued by waking nightmares where one of the villagers gained newfound confidence following their meeting and decided to seek out the dragon themselves or, gods forbid, confront it. Not only would that ruin all the work he, Ella, and Slannen put into these negotiations, but the potential bloodshed… Nothing was gained by dwelling on such thoughts, however. He just had to push harder to reach the village. 

Unfortunately, his palfrey was not an especially swift creature these days. Bertrum preferred ambling along at a comfortable, slow gait, and it took a considerable amount of encouragement - let’s be honest: begging and bribery - on Char’s part to get the old boy moving at a faster pace. 

As he got closer, Char decided to skip roads altogether and started to cut directly through farmland and grazing pastures until he reached the large woods that surrounded many villages, including the one with a dragon visitor. 

Sure now that he’d beat the group by at least a day, Char allowed Bertrum to slow down as he picked his way through the trees, terrain the horse was used to since Char was no stranger to hunting and always opted to bring along his favorite horse, even if he wasn’t always well suited for the task.

Like now, Char thought, as the old beast breathed heavily and gave the occasional shudder. Feeling a horrible pang of guilt, Char ran a hand down Bertrum’s side, patting him affectionately as he babbled a great many apologies. 

Thankfully, Char soon heard the sound of running water nearby and directed Bertrum toward it. From what he remembered of the maps of the area, he needed to cross the river to get within the village-in-question’s territory. He was very close now. 

The river came within sight, wonderfully clear and twenty feet wide, and Char hurried to hop off of Bertrum, quickly relieving him of all the weight bogging him down. He deserved some respite, and honestly, so did Char. The last leg of the trip hadn’t only been hard on the horse. 

He tied Bertrum’s lead to a thick tree branch, giving him plenty of room to drink, graze, or lay down as he desired. 

Char himself stripped off nearly all of his layers until he stood in only his trousers, legs rolled up to his knees and bare toes digging into the river bed. The water felt beyond heavenly where he stood in the shade, and Char stooped to cup some of it in his hands to splash on his face and chest, cooling down his sweaty, heated skin. 

He was just about to dunk his head entirely in the river, knowing he’d look like a drowned cat but not caring, when a loud noise on the other river bank startled him. 

Light from the afternoon sun glared harshly along the center of the river where the trees overhead didn’t reach, and Char had to shield his eyes and wait for them to adjust to get a proper look. 

There was a man on the other side. Char swallowed heavily as he quickly realized it was a naked man, giving Char a full few of the side of his ample arse and scarred, muscular back. To Char’s horror, he must have made some kind of sound of his own, because the nude stranger in question was turning toward him. 

Suddenly, Char’s chest squeezed tight as he found himself staring into a dark, one-eyed gaze. 

Chapter Text

A wide-eyed human was staring at Ásmundr. They both froze on opposite sides of the river, the only signs that the world still moved forward being the water droplets dripping from each of their bodies. The freshly cleaned tunic slipped slightly in Ásmundr’s grip, startling him into action. 

He made the mistake of taking a hasty step backward, toward his shore, his mind overrun with the need to get away, return to his den, return to-

Stepping back meant more of his soft, humanized body being exposed above the water, something Ásmundr hadn’t taken into consideration until he saw the eyes of the man across the river go impossibly wider, face reddening nearly to the shade of Ásmundr’s true hide before the stranger swiftly turned away. 

“Sorry!” the human shouted as he sprung to his feet, waving his hands in Ásmundr’s general direction. “So, so sorry. I’ve been traveling for a bit, you see, too tired to even have a proper look around!” he continued, somehow managing to be both loud and courteous at the same time. “I hadn’t meant to… It certainly wasn’t my intention to spy or-or… I’m not some sort of peeping tom, I assure you!”

Ásmundr tilted his head at the babbling human, whose speech accelerated with every word. His accent was different from those from the village, sounding far more crisp and sophisticated to Ásmundr’s ears. Was he from the capitol? Tearing his eyes away from the expanse of pale back - and twitching, moving muscles and shoulders as the man emphatically emphasized his points - Ásmundr scanned the other side of the river, spotting a weary-looking, black horse, its saddlebags dumped nearby on the ground. 

Along with most of the human’s clothes and his sword, carelessly tossed half into a bush. 

Having concluded that this person posed no threat - his presence merely a coincidence, nothing more - Ásmundr briefly considered if he should do something about his nudity. He knew humans stayed clothed more often than not and that he would be doing a poor job of being inconspicuous if he was already discarding cultural norms, but… 

Watching this human redden and sputter at the sight of him was the most amusing thing Ásmundr had ever seen. 

So, while the man’s increasingly nonsensical apologies took on a frantic edge the longer he went without a response, Ásmundr moved closer to the river’s bank, tossing the washboard onto mostly-dry ground, and started wringing out his clothes. 

The noise must have prompted a curious turn, and the man squawked upon realizing Ásmundr had made no effort to cover himself. 

He ignored the resurgence of speech - though he could not help the small quirk of his mouth at the sound - and continued squeezing the water out of his tunic, taking his merry time with it. 

Being this rude was perhaps not the wisest course of action, but it wasn’t like he could just shout across the water that all was fine, could he? The slash across his neck saw to that. 

Pushing the thought out of his mind, Ásmundr finally finished with his task and trudged out of the water, not caring that the stranger would have a completely unimpeded view of his naked back and arse. He dressed and then balanced his still rather damp clothes on the washboard, knowing he forgot to put up a line at the clearing. Likely he forgot a great many things, and there would no end to the tedious, minuscule tasks that will require his attention in the coming days and weeks - or however long it was he needed to keep this charade of humanity up. 

Ásmundr inwardly groaned at the idea that he could be stuck like this for years and turned to set off at once for his cabin. Perhaps one day he could rebuild it larger, big enough that his true form wouldn’t be confined to only the cramped loft space. 

It was when Ásmundr’s mood was thus ruined - by his own mental efforts, of course - that the human decided to make a bother of himself. 

“Wait! Wait a moment, I really am sorry! Are you not going to say anything? Not a word?” 

Ásmundr had turned to see what he wanted, only to immediately roll his eye. He turned back and headed toward home - his temporary home, at any rate. 

“Wait just a minute, will you! I need - are you a local? I might - oh, sod it. Bertrum! Stay put!”

Behind him, Ásmundr heard a harried series of splashes and tensed, shoulders coming up around his ears. His pathetic excuses for claws and fangs were hardly suitable weapons should this stranger prove to be a danger after all. He felt foolish for leaving his axe back at the cabin. 

The splashes and panted breaths got closer, and Ásmundr stopped walking. The stranger was just going to chase him down if he continued. He put his washboard down at the base of a tree and waited. 

“Now will you just wa- oh, you’ve stopped. Thank gods,” the man wheezed, bending over to grip the wet knees of his trousers. When he’d finally caught his breath, he straightened, tugging the loose tunic he’d thrown on to sit on his lithe frame better and swiping his damp, brown curls out of his eyes. “Honestly, you needn’t have run off like that, I only wanted to ask you a few questions. I’m investigating a matter that some of the locals brought to my attention. Perhaps you already know what I speak of?” 

Ásmundr clenched his jaw and folded his arms across his chest to remove the temptation to splay his hooked fingers out. Not only to avoid looking aggressive but because the gesture was meaningless without claws. 

He debated on how to answer. Obviously, the man was here because word of the terrible dragon had reached him. So of course Ásmundr knew what he was talking about. 

But Ásmundr, like this, had never been seen by any of the villagers. If the stranger were to mention him to any of them, he’d get a conflicting story. The man Ásmundr was pretending to be would likely know nothing at all of the dragon sighting. 

So he shook his head, lifting a brow in feigned curiosity. 

“Ah, that’s alright then. But I believe I’ve gotten ahead of myself, and my mother would’ve been most ashamed of my poor manners.” Here the human offered both his hand and a crooked smile, and Ásmundr was temporarily distracted by how very white his teeth were. “My name is Charmont, but please, call me Char.” 

The man, Char, waited a moment, watching Ásmundr’s reaction to his name. Should he recognize it? He didn’t make a habit of learning humans’ names. Either they were dangerous and in his way, soon to be disposed of, or they were inconsequential, not worth paying attention to. 

This one clearly thought he was due some attention. 

Perhaps he was the village’s liege lord? Maybe he was the one they went to instead of the king.

Either way, Ásmundr didn’t want to presume to have knowledge he did not and thus look like a fool or a liar, so he shrugged. Upon seeing the disappointed expression on Char’s face that his hand had gone unshaken, Ásmundr looked out toward the river and waited for the babbling to continue. This was mostly for Char’s benefit. Now someone was actually watching out for his horse, who he’d left nibbling grass on the other riverbank, as well as the fact that Char was no longer subjected to looking at Ásmundr’s ruined eye. 

The benefit for Ásmundr was he did not have to notice every time Char’s own, whole, bright blue eyes darted over to it. 

“Listen, I understand that you’re annoyed with me, and rightly so. I disturbed your bath, and I imagine I made you quite uncomfortable. I cannot state enough how sorry I am, but if you’d just speak with me, I could-”

Ásmundr could not help it: he snorted. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Char bristle. Time to put his amusement and vexation both at an end. Char would be on his way after this. 

He turned back to face Char full-on, stepping forward into the sunlight, and felt something akin to satisfaction when the man flinched at the ghastly sight. Moving his arm slowly, to ensure there could be no misunderstanding, Ásmundr drew a finger across his throat, head tilted back to show off the scar there, then opened and closed his mouth several times before shaking his head no. 

To his credit, it took Char no time at all to reach the correct conclusion. He looked even more horrified at this nigh-invisible disfigurement than the one that was impossible to miss. 

“Oh,” he said softly, the shock quickly smoothing away. “Oh, I’ve been an arse, haven’t I? I won’t say sorry again, that must be getting on your nerves. I…” Char looked away toward the river, brows pinched together in thought, and licked his lips. 

Ásmundr didn’t understand why the action drew his attention once more to the man’s mouth. He waited, not very patiently, for this Charmont to declare he must be going and get on with his very official and important dragon business. 

“I don’t mean to take up more of your time, but I am more than able to compensate you. My horse is exhausted, and I could do with some direction toward the village. I know it’s nearby, and I’m hoping to meet with the populace as soon as they arrive home.” 

Blinking in surprise, Ásmundr shifted to also gaze at the horse, which wavered where it stood. He wasn’t very knowledgeable about the beasts, but to his untrained eye, it looked dead on its feet.

He could say no. He should say no. No human should be anywhere near his den - his cabin. But the man posed no danger as far as Ásmundr could tell. He seemed earnest, with his guileless face, bright blue eyes, and that damned mouth.

It did not bode well for Ásmundr’s future that he was unable to resist the pleas of the first moderately pleasant human he managed to run across.

Not well at all.

He glanced at the human, who was taking his lack of answer as far closer to a yes than a no, because he could see the beginning of a grin on his face like the peak of sunrise over the mountains. Char pushed his wet, dark hair out of his face again and bounced up and down a few times on his bare feet. “Well?” 

The gold would be useful, he reasoned, eye focused on the ground. He could pay back some of the debt he now owed the village. Perhaps if he requested an exorbitant amount, that would do the job of chasing Char away. 

He risked another look up and felt his resolve dissolve away like spun sugar dropped into the sea. Char’s eyes stared back, wide and imploring, and Ásmundr was helplessly transfixed as he watched a plump lip get caught between pearly teeth. 

He could give no other answer. 

With a growl, Ásmundr unfolded his arms and threw them out in an emphatic - and universally understood - fine! 

Char knew he was pushing his luck, but he couldn’t help letting out a small whoop of triumph and clapping the strange, one-eyed man on the shoulder. 

“Thank you,” he said, grinning wide when he wasn’t violently pushed away. “You’re a lifesaver, truly.” 

The man harrumphed and gestured toward the river, large, roughened hand held open, before bringing it back toward them in a fist. After a moment of Char not understanding, he glowered and repeated the movement a second time, the motion sharp and sudden. Clearly, he wasn’t someone in possession of a great deal of patience - and what little he had was fast running out. 

Thankfully, it only took the second time for Char to get the idea. 

“Oh! You want me to go get my things!” While he was relatively certain he’d gotten it right, seeing the curt nod in response was still a relief. “Right, I’ll go do that, then. Just give me a moment to get Bertrum over. I pushed my old friend far too hard today, so it might take a bit to get him going.” 

The man grunted in response and leaned back against the tree behind him, closing his eye. Char supposed he was perfectly content to continue drying off in the afternoon sun while he waited. 

Char also knew a clear dismissal when he saw one, so he wasted no time crossing the river once again. Bertrum was less than enthused about being reburdened with the saddlebags, but he allowed it until Char led him to the water. He fought against Char’s hold on him, not enough to knock Char away, but plenty fierce to make his displeasure known. 

“I know, I’m sorry, Bert, but you need to get across. Come on now.” 

He ran loving hands along Bertrum’s neck and head, calming the horse as he huffed and stomped his hoof. Eventually, his tantrum ceased, and he took a tentative step into the water. 

Char encouraged him with soft words step after step, only hitting a snag when the water reached high enough that the occasional wave brushed Bertrum’s belly, a sensation he clearly did not care for, and Char had to tug hard on his lead to keep him from turning back. 

When they finally made it to the other side, Char could’ve collapsed in relief, but he worked to get all the bags off of the horse as quickly as possible. He wouldn’t strain Bertrum any further today, no matter how long it took to reach the village. 

Of course, then came the question of how in the world he was going to carry all of this. He started with the important document satchel, something he planned on keeping close to his person at all times. Then he grabbed one of the heavier bags and began trying to strap it to his back, reasoning that it’d be easier than trying to carry it in his arms. 

Just as he was working out the logistics of it, the one-eyed man moved forward and took it from him, affixing it to his own back with ease. He grabbed the rest of Char’s things as well, looping all the straps over his arms and tucking his washboard and wet clothes into the crook of his elbow. 

Char’s face heated. Partly from a familiar, old shame bubbling up in him whenever others took up the onerous, menial tasks around him without a word and partly from some unknown emotion that made his guts flip to see how easily the stranger had borne all of those heavy bags as if they were filled with nothing more than feathers. 

He lurched forward, reaching for the nearest bag. “No, no, I couldn’t possibly ask you to carry everything! Why don’t you hand me-”

Char was quickly shut up with a slash of a hand right in front of his nose. His eyes went a little cross trying to look at it. 

The one-eyed man’s hands were shockingly free to gesture, with only one slightly impeded holding the washboard in place. He held one palm up and with the other hand gestured toward Char’s person and back to the palm, miming something being dropped in it. Many somethings. 

For a moment, Char puzzled over what that meant until it hit him. “Coin?” he asked. 

A nod. 

“Yes, yes of course! I’ll pay you for all your assistance, but you needn’t carry all my things for that. I just need your help navigating these woods, perhaps also some information about the area, that’s all. You don’t have to-” 

Another shut up, and Char mentally grumbled at how effective that was. 

The man repeated the coin gesture, coupled with a new, stormy scowl. He must think Char was trying to get away with paying him less! 

With a huff, Char was tempted to argue he’d do no such thing, but it was easier to just acquiesce. “Alright, alright. You win.” 

For only as long as a blink of an eye, the man smiled. Granted, it was a smug, gleeful little thing, but it was lovely to see on his bow-shaped mouth all the same. 

Char cleared his throat and took a step back to rub a hand along Bertrum’s flank. He was still quivering a bit, whether from his exhaustion or the chill of the river water, Char couldn’t be certain. 

“Lead the way, if you would.” 

Without another word - or… well, without any kind of response, anyway - the one-eyed man turned his back to Char and started marching into the woods. 

Char followed behind, coaxing a reluctant Bertrum forward. He hoped the village wasn’t far so they both could have a proper rest soon. 

As they walked, Char’s eyes searched all around them, from the ground to every tree that they passed, looking for any sign of this supposed dragon. The likelihood he’d see any tacks or evidence right this moment, just as soon as he’d arrived, was so slim as to be impossible, but it felt negligent not to at least be on the lookout. He’d feel a fool if he found out later that he’d walked right past one of those firepits without noticing it. 

But as the minutes dragged on, Char saw not one hint of anything in these woods beside the occasional squirrel. Occasionally he saw signs of logging and some well-worn paths, but none of the stripped trees Ernest had spoken of. Maybe there hadn’t been any in these parts of the woods? 

He sighed and suddenly all the weariness and fatigue from his travels were hitting him at once. 

“How far would you estimate we have to go? Less than an hour, perhaps?” Char tried to keep in mind the man was limited in his responses. 

He looked back at Char for a long, intense second - and Char felt his breath catching in his chest - and gave one of his brusque nods. 

The relief distracted Char enough from whatever that look had been, and he exhaled loudly. “I’m glad to hear that. I think I need to rest and recuperate nearly as much as Bertrum does.” 

The man made some sort of noise, an acknowledgment that Char had spoken, but otherwise gave no further response. 

With nothing else to be said - or otherwise communicated - by either of them, Char fell into silence. As he stared at the man’s back, he found his quiet mind wandering, bringing recent memories to the forefront - most insistently, those of said back, sans tunic or bag. It was so broad and sculpted. Scarred. What did one even do to develop shoulders like that? What caused such heavy scarring? And those arms… Such thoughts were ignoble of him, vulgar even, yet the image of this stranger’s back lingered in Char’s mind’s eye. Miles of bare, tanned skin, with water droplets racing down the planes of those frankly impressive muscles, down and down to the tapered waist and the swell of…

Before Char’s depraved mind could go any further - of what else he’d gotten a glimpse of - Char cleared his throat, hoping his face didn’t look as hot as it felt. 

“So-” he said, cringing at his own awkwardness but nonetheless barreling ahead without waiting for his companion to make a sound of acknowledgment- “You have me at a bit of a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.” 

The man paused and his hand that had been reaching up to move a branch out of his way froze mid-air. He looked back at Char, head tilted and a single brow raised. The thinness of his lips and his squinted eyes could not more clearly say are you kidding me than if the man had held an elaborately painted sign overhead. 

“I mean, I realize you can’t… well, surely there’s something I can call you? I feel odd having no name for you at all, unless you’d like to be That Kind Stranger That Took Pity On Poor Char for the rest of your life. Bit of a mouthful, that one.” 

Char had hoped for something of a laugh, maybe even another one of those fleeting smiles, but the man merely sighed. 

After a long moment, and what appeared to be a great deal of annoyance, he held up a single finger and then pointed to his one good eye. 

He repeated the motion a few times, emphasizing the finger first, until Char finally sputtered in disbelief. “One… eye? Surely you don’t actually want to be called that.” 

He shrugged and gestured toward the woods. Or perhaps the world? 

“Is that really what people call you?” 

A nod. 

“Is there truly nothing else you’d prefer? Isn’t there… oh!” Char knelt on the ground and dug through the one bag he’d been allowed to carry. The question of how to communicate with a dragon had been a hotly contested issue between the three of them in the War Room. None of them knew whether dragons could understand human language, much less speak it. On the off-hand that the dragon could do the former but not the latter, Ella had included an essential tool in his provisions. 

“Here, I have a slate! I should have thought of this sooner, I’m sorry, but here, you could-” 

The stranger gently pushed the slate away when Char tried to hand it to him. He pointed to Char, slapped his own chest, and once more repeated the sign for his name. 

That’s what you’ll call me, he was saying. 

Char supposed he’d just have to accept that. “Well… alright then, if you insist. Please remember I have this, though, if there’s anything you feel the need to write to me. It’s available for your use whenever.” 

The man - One-Eye - nodded in agreement and resumed his trek through the woods, not even pausing to see if Char was following behind. 

He was, of course. What else was he to do? This was going to be a long afternoon. 

The turn of the river where Ásmundr had the misfortune of running into this Char was quite a distance from the village. After the awkward conversation concerning his name, he’d resolutely marched forward through the woods, refusing to give in to the urge to glance over his shoulder and check on his unwanted charges. But he didn’t need his sharp dragon senses to hear the terrible wheezing of that horse. The old thing was exhausted to the point of collapse. 

Ásmundr sighed and looked up at the sky. The hour was growing late, closer to the evening than afternoon now. Many things still needed to be done at the cabin, so many projects left unfinished. There’d hardly be any daylight left if he led Char all the way to the village. There likely wouldn’t be a horse left, either. 

He didn’t even pause as he walked, merely adjusted his heading slightly. 

Char followed behind, carefully guiding the horse over roots and around the bushes Ásmundr casually stomped over and through. 

Ásmundr would grouse that this wasn’t how he planned his day going, but to be honest, he wasn’t much for plans. Before this new complication, the last bright idea he had… had been his first escape attempt. He never made another, never thought past the next moment, or hour, or meal. Each day was a repeat of the last and a preview of the next. The same horrors, the same pain, the same boredom from staring at the cracks in the surrounding walls of stone. 

When he’d finally made it out - something so spontaneous and damn near instinctual on his part, Ásmundr could barely credit himself with the feat - it wasn’t much different at first. Instead of boredom, he was plagued by worry and panic. He was certainly still in pain, arms strained from the treasure he carried and his wings aching in protest as he pushed himself to fly further, faster, putting leagues and nations between himself and the hole in the ground that used to be his entire existence. 

After days of a freezing flight above the clouds, exhaustion finally made him land in a sea of green. From there, the focus was on food and safety and finding somewhere comfortable in this strange land to roost. 

Every second was a new novelty instead of a horror, but the effect was the same. Moment to moment. Get through today and maybe see tomorrow. 

Until now, anyway. Now, Ásmundr was apparently a dragon with grand plans, spanning days, weeks at a time. They mostly involved shoddy carpentry, but they were still plans that took it for granted he’d survive the night.

Plans that had been severely derailed by the odd man following him home. 

Perhaps Ásmundr should reconsider that. Something in his guts was insisting he should never allow an outsider near his den, especially not a human. But it was too late now. Not only would Char notice if they suddenly changed direction, but they’d arrived. 

“Oh,” Char said quietly behind him once Ásmundr had entered the clearing and marched straight for his cabin. He wasted no time dumping all of Char’s belongings - and the few of his own he had with him - on the porch. Before Char had caught up, he slunk inside to the cool interior. 

He heard Char cautiously approach, dragging along the weary horse, and call out to him, “Uh, One… One-Eye? Do you live here?” 

Ásmundr paused rummaging through his leftover building supplies and leaned backwards to stick his head through the open entryway. He hoped the look on his face was answer enough. 

“Okay, stupid question,” Char admitted with a chuckle. He took a moment to then step back and get a proper look at the cabin itself. Ásmundr left him to it, sure the human was racking his brain to find some sincere-sounding, flattering thing to say about the ramshackle building Ásmundr had put together in a hurry without having to lie too obviously. 

“You have a lovely home.”

And there it was. 

Ásmundr sighed and decided he had stalled long enough, quickly gathering the items he needed. 

Char’s face when he finally emerged carrying wooden poles, rope, and a hammer set Ásmundr’s shoulders to shaking with barely repressed laughter, nearly causing him to drop his armload. The poor boy’s color and eyebrows seemed to have fled his face entirely. 

Ásmundr ignored the quiet stammering that followed behind him and dumped his supplies off on the side of the cabin facing the river. Before getting started, though, he approached Char, who backed away awkwardly, nearly tripping on air. Ignoring him, and without asking for permission he was in no mood to pantomime for, Ásmundr took the horse’s lead and tied it to one of the covered porch’s support beams. Granted, if the beast truly wanted to escape, Ásmundr didn’t trust enough in his craftsmanship to stop him, but it was better than nothing. 

Char was still watching him when he fetched the water he’d gathered earlier in the week for drinking. He worried, briefly, when he placed the bucket in front of the horse that it would detect some lingering traces of his dragon form. There were times when the winds would suddenly shift while he was hunting in the woods, bringing his scent toward the game and setting them running in a panic. Following in pursuit within the tight confines of the trees had always been a bit of a challenge.

But his moment of worry was for naught. Either the horse was too tired to care about the scent of a predator or none remained because the beast immediately set to drinking with gusto. 

Another trip to the river would be needed, but Ásmundr could deal with that later. Perhaps it’d be a good chore to send Char on when he inevitably needed space from the human.

Speaking of which…

“Thank you for taking care of him,” Char said, voice far more sincere than Ásmundr expected or knew what to do with. He nodded in what passably counted as a you’re welcome and spun away on his heel, hurrying over to where he’d dumped his supplies.  

Unfortunately, setting up the clothing line would be quick business. Ásmundr tried to stretch his task out, taking his time hanging up his half-dried clothing once he was finished. He wiggled one of the poles to make sure it was secure, ran a hand along the line, smoothed out some wrinkles on the tunic… 

He was just being silly now and knew it. With a heavy exhale, he turned back toward the human, expecting to be assaulted with more questions. But Char wasn’t looking at him. He had relieved his horse of its saddle and was brushing him down, soothingly stroking the animal’s neck and sides as he whispered quietly - likely more of those soft, kind words like he had during their short trip from the river. 

Ásmundr wasn’t sure how long he stood there watching, amazed at the ease at which the human calmed and settled his steed, the gentle way he dealt with it. The animal appeared past his prime, and even so, most of the humans Ásmundr had encountered in the past would have been irritated with the horse for growing so tired. They wouldn’t have apologized to it for pushing too hard, would not have held any regret for causing a non-human any sort of distress. 

His staring didn’t go unnoticed. Char cleared his throat awkwardly and set down the brush. “So… I didn’t expect you to bring us back to your home. This is rather far from the village still, isn’t it?”

Ásmundr nodded and leaned against the pole at his back. He crossed his arms, letting the hammer dangle from his fingertips. 

“I appreciate the chance for some rest, especially for Bertrum. I worry about him.” At this, he turned back to the beast in question and patted him with a small, sad smile. “I suppose I’d forgotten just how long it’s been since I’ve taken him out for anything but a casual afternoon ride. But I’d left in a bit of a hurry, you see. There wasn’t time to wait around for another horse to be available. I’d wanted to arrive before the villagers did. That’s not likely now, though.” 

The villagers were at least a day away still, if Ásmundr’s estimation was correct. Char had made it to the surrounding woods with plenty of time to spare. But why would the human be trying to race them home? Ásmundr tilted his head in consideration, eying the man in front of him. More and more, Ásmundr was beginning to doubt his assumption that he was the village’s liege lord. Who was he really?  

Char squirmed under his gaze and continued petting the horse, seemingly for his own comfort this time. “Have you any idea how long they’ve been back for? I really-”

Ásmundr had been idly twirling his hammer, the hint of a smile twitching at the corner of his lips for only a moment, gone between one blink and the next. But Char must’ve seen it. 

“Wait…” He took a step closer, hope slowly spreading across his features. “Are they back?” 

It was tempting to play around with him a little, like a cat batting a field mouse between his paws, but the game had already been given away. Ásmundr shook his head. 

“Truly? I made it in time?” 

Did Ásmundr not answer this already? He nodded very slowly, the scowl on his face making it clear he didn’t care for having to repeat himself. 

Char bounded toward him in only a few long strides, arms raised like he was going to grab Ásmundr’s arms. He thought better of it at the very last second upon noticing the displeasure on Ásmundr’s face. With a cough, he took a respectful step back, but his unbridled excitement was evident in his bright eyes and brighter smile. “How long do you think until they’re here? Hours? Days?” 

Ásmundr twisted his mouth up and shrugged. How should I know? Knowing this answer wouldn’t be sufficient, though, he pointed at the large tree he’d climbed before, then shielded his eye and scanned the clearing left to right. 

“Oh! You saw them?” Char took two steps toward the tree before forcing himself to stop. He held an arm out tentatively toward it. “Could I…?” 

Ásmundr was temporarily bewildered that the man would even ask but decided he didn’t care. He waved a disinterested hand in Char’s direction and set about tidying up the space outside his cabin. 

Taking that as the permission it was, Char scrambled over to the tree and started hoisting himself up. Ásmundr headed inside, pausing where he was hanging up his tools near one of the windows to watch the way Char clambered up, hoisting himself from branch to branch until he could see out over the treetops. 

The speed at which he ascended was almost impressive. Granted, the same feat took Ásmundr only a matter of seconds as a dragon, considering he was nearly as tall as the tree trunk if he stood on his hind legs, but he doubted he could manage it with anywhere near the same amount of ease as Char with his awkward, human limbs. They were far too long, and without his wings and tail to use as leverage, Ásmundr was certain he’d fall.

This human, though, moved amongst the branches like he belonged there. The strange proportion of his limbs hampered him not at all. From where he sat at the top of the tree, he shielded his eyes against the sun, twisting around to find the road that led from the capitol. 

After a few moments of searching, he let out a small cheer. “There they are! They might ride in by tomorrow afternoon, don’t you think?” He turned toward where he’d last seen Ásmundr and his wild grin dimmed. “Hey, One-Eye? Where’d you go?” 

Ásmundr leaned out, elbows on the windowsill and head resting on his fist. He gave a mocking wave. 

“Oh.” Clearly, Char had not noticed him going inside. “So? What do you say? About a little over half a day out?”

Again, how should he know? Ásmundr could only shrug. He leaned further out the window to glance at the horse, who had decided it was prime time for a nap and had curled up on the ground next to the porch. 

He looked up at Char with a raised brow. 

The human’s shoulders rose and fell in a deep sigh. “I don’t suppose Bertrum could stay here for a little while, could he? Just until he’s rested up and I can stable him in the village.” 

It wasn’t like the horse was much of a burden. All it’d done was drink some of his water and flatten his grass. 

Ásmundr made a sure gesture and left the window, looking about his haphazard little home. He hadn’t been gone long, but paranoia drew him to the hearth and the treasure hidden beneath. 

He’d only just finished checking that all was well and was replacing the last board when the human outside had begun to call for him in a panic. 

Going up was always so much easier than getting down. Char clung to the tree’s thick trunk, fingers digging into the bark, and tried very hard not to look down again. His initial attempts at returning to the ground had been met with a sudden, intense bout of dizziness. 

He hadn’t realized he was quite so high up until then. 

“One-Eye! Uh, One-Eye could you come out here?” Char called out. The man in question had disappeared inside the house. Maybe he couldn’t hear him? Char drew in a large breath and shouted, “One-Eye!” 

His voice must have relayed some of his panic, because one second, the front of the cabin was empty save for a tired Bertrum, and in the next, One-Eye was skidding out onto the grass, nearly falling over in his hurry as he wildly looked around the clearing for danger. 

When he found none and finally spotted Char, nervously straddling a branch, he only glared, arms flung out to his sides. What is your problem? he demanded. 

“Uh… I can’t…” Char made the mistake of looking down again and couldn’t help the small whimper that escaped him. 

He was so unspeakably glad that One-Eye had no idea who he was. This was not very kingly of him, and he dreaded Ella ever finding out. 

He’d never hear the end of it. 

To his credit, and Char’s relief, it didn’t take One-Eye long to figure out what the matter was. He gave an exaggerated sigh, like Char really needed the emphasis to know how much of a troublesome nuisance he was turning out to be. 

He expected One-Eye to disappear back into the cabin and come out with a ladder of some sort. Surely he had needed one to construct his home? 

But no, instead the man approached, stopping at the base of the tree and looking up at Char with what he could only describe as mocking disdain. 

He held his arms out underneath where Char was perched. Just what was One-Eye getting at? 

Char shot him with a glare of his own, although he was skeptical of its effectiveness, since his sweaty hair was in his eyes and he could not use either of his arms to brush it away. 

And was One-Eye laughing at him again? 

“I don’t know what you expect me to do. You can’t very well catch me!”

One-Eye lifted a brow. Can’t I? 

“No! You bloody well can’t. I’m far too heavy.” Char might not be as broad as One-Eye, but he was still a grown man of a decent height, with the weight to match. One-Eye would be flattened in an instant. 

But One-Eye did not seem particularly concerned and simply raised his arms higher, fingers wiggling in invitation. 

“You’ll break something,” Char insisted. “Worse, I’ll break something. We’ll both be in terrible shape, and it’ll be all your fault.” 

One-Eye pointed quite smugly at Char, then at the tree. 

“Well yes, I know it’s my fault I’m in the tree in the first place. You don’t need to rub it in,” Char huffed, shifting uneasily on his branch. “Hardly my fault it’s so damn tall, though. How’d you manage it without a ladder?” 

Head tilted in thought, One-Eye looked up and down the tree for a moment before coming to a conclusion. He pointed at Char and held a hand flat, palm side down, in front of his chest. Then he pointed at himself and held his hand higher, at the crown of his head. 

He demonstrated the difference in height a few times before grinning widely, the largest smile he’d seen on the man yet. 

It was oddly endearing, all those sharp, crooked teeth. That was, until Char caught up to what One-Eye was saying. 

“Oi! You are not that much taller than me!” 

One-Eye offered no further argument, merely shrugged as was his fashion and continued grinning, his arms once again up in offer. 

Char couldn’t muster all that much annoyance while being smiled at like that. Perhaps One-Eye was only teasing, anyway. 

He took a big, shaky breath and clung a little tighter to the tree, mind made up. He squeezed his eyes shut and asked, “You swear you’ll catch me?” 

What sort of king was frightened of heights? he asked himself.

Apparently, the sort that was foolish enough to climb a monstrous tree like an overexcited child. Or a bored house cat. 

Also the sort that asked a mute man a question with his eyes closed. Char cracked a lid open and peered down.

One-Eye was nodding, perhaps had been for several seconds, and his expression was far less amused than before - more earnest. 

Char took another long breath and let it out slowly. He maneuvered around the branch so that his legs were hanging over one side, facing One-Eye. 

He focused on looking at the man and his open, welcoming arms, not the ground. 

Char jumped. 

Chapter Text

In the heartbeat between Char leaving the safety of the branches and landing in his arms, Ásmundr had the unbidden thought that perhaps Char’s concerns should have been taken more seriously. 

Not because they were true, of course, but because it might look suspicious if they were not. Even a human of Ásmundr’s build would struggle with such a sudden weight coming down on him. 

The fact that Ásmundr was far stronger than he looked was… not something he should draw attention to. Bad enough his maiming made his face memorable, but it would be better, safer, if he was unexceptional in all other ways. 

So, as much as it pained him, as little as he was looking forward to the little human crowing about having been right, the moment Char’s body connected with his, Ásmundr carefully brought them tumbling to the ground. 

They landed in a heap on the soft grass, Ásmundr flat on his back with Char sprawled across his chest, having knocked the air out of Ásmundr’s lungs. When they’d begun to fall, Char had yelped and thrown his arms around Ásmundr’s shoulders, clinging tight to him with a surprising amount of strength. 

He was still holding on, even as they lay safely on the ground, dappled in shadows from the branches overhead. After a few moments, Ásmundr got his breath back and waited patiently for the human to get up. 

But he remained motionless, save for the harsh rise and fall of his chest as he stared up at Ásmundr, who had reared up on an elbow to see what was taking so long. 

“I thought you were supposed to catch me,” Char said, voice suddenly low and unsteady - probably from all that earlier shouting.

Ásmundr lifted a brow in question and patted himself high on the chest, above Char’s head, then rested his hand on Char’s lower back, pressing down to hold him securely. See? You’re caught. Unconsciously, one of his fingers toyed with the hem of the human’s tunic, made of some fine material Ásmundr had never touched before. 

Char cleared his throat, eyes darting away briefly as his cheeks pinked. “Yes, well, I thought you were going to catch me in your arms, not with your body. You could’ve - we could’ve been hurt.” 

Removing his hand from where it lay on Char, Ásmundr reached around on his blind side until he found a stick. He looked at Char with a raised brow as he snapped it one-handedly. He pointed a broken half at Char. 

When Char didn’t immediately answer him, he poked him with it.

“Ow! Hey! Oh, no. I’m not hurt. Nothing’s broken,” Char laughed, taking the sticks from Ásmundr to prevent further prodding. “Are you alright, though? I mean, it felt like you went down pretty hard. Er… oh!”

In a flurry of movement, Char scrambled off of Ásmundr, just barely managing not to knee or elbow anything too vital. Ásmundr’s chest and stomach suddenly felt oddly bereft without the warm weight on him as he lay on the cool ground. Deciding to ignore the strange feeling, Ásmundr rocked high onto his back before springing to his feet in one smooth motion, grateful that some of his natural agility translated to this form. He brushed the dirt off his trousers and made a show of inspecting both arms and legs and all ten of his fingers. 

“Yes, yes, I get it. You’re just fine.” 

For some reason, Char’s face turned an even deeper shade of red than before. He stood a few feet away, fidgeting and alternating between staring at his boots scuffing the ground and briefly glancing at Ásmundr, eyes never fixing on one point for long. 

After a moment, during which Ásmundr wondered what had the human so nervous now, Char loudly cleared his throat again. “So, since Bertrum’s spent for the time being and has made himself quite comfortable right where he is, would it be alright if he stayed here for the night?” 

What harm could an old horse do? Ásmundr nodded his consent to host the animal for the evening without further thought. 

“That’s wonderful, thank you so much. I’ll just get the things I’ll need until morning, then, and come for the rest of it tomorrow. Do you think we could depart for the village soon? I’m sure there’s someone still there that could rent me a room.” 

Ásmundr felt his blood freeze at the thought of heading even deeper into human territory. He was uncomfortably close as it was. And then there was whether he really wanted the villagers to learn of his presence so soon. They were already aware of course, but not of this form… He supposed they’d know he was here eventually, and it reflected on him better if he took the initiative to properly introduce himself. He would have to do that at some point if he wanted to be seen as a respectable citizen. 

Which was crucial. He needed to be trusted. One day soon, his word had to be accepted as truth. There could be no room for doubt when he said that there was no dragon in the woods. 

But he couldn’t hope to get to that point using only gestures like he did with Char. The man was patient and compassionate. Ásmundr did not expect that other humans would be the same. This one… was more than likely exceptional, as he’d surpassed Ásmundr’s expectations at every turn. 

Ásmundr’s mind lingered on the puzzle of Char’s patience, of his gentleness with his beast, of his easy, reassuring nature, which was unlike anything Ásmundr could recall encountering in his miserable life. It made him pause and consider what the truth of humanity really was: that aeon of pain and suffering he’d known before or… this.

He shook his head, trying to dispel that silly, pointless line of thinking - what did Char’s evident qualities matter? They weren’t the issue at hand here. Nevertheless, they seemed to only dig deeper into his mind and take root.

Ignoring all of that for now, Ásmundr took in Char’s nervous stance, the way his teeth burrowed into his plush bottom lip as he waited for an answer. 

Knowing there was no other option available to him, not if he wanted to succeed in his goals, Ásmundr held out the flat of his hand and traced his finger across his palm in a random pattern. 

“What are you…” Char’s eyes narrowed as he watched the gesture for a few moments before flying wide open. “The slate!” 

Ásmundr nodded. Unfortunately, he needed the slate. 

He could read - it was how he knew he was in the kingdom of Kyrria, for example - but could he write? 

He and Char were about to find out. 

Char dug the slate and some chalk out of his bag, eager that at least someone was going to get some use out of it, if he never managed to find the dragon. One-Eye had yet to even hint that there was something out of the ordinary in the woods, and if anyone was going to have a chance encounter or a real glimpse of the creature, surely it would be someone living out here full time? 

Or maybe not. One-Eye seemed the solitary sort. Perhaps he’d just been too focused on getting settled in - Char had noticed the abundance of fresh sawdust littering the ground around the cabin and all the tools scattered around - that he hadn’t been exploring the woods enough to notice. 

Granted, Char would think it’d be awfully hard not to notice an enormous dragon stomping around in your backyard, but… he didn’t have any room to judge others on being oblivious, considering the kinds of things he had failed to see in the past. 

Mood soured a little, Char forced a smile on his face and hurried over with the slate and chalk to One-Eye. He handed the items over gladly and grasped his wrists behind his back to curtail any fidgeting as he waited for One-Eye’s first message. Maybe now he’d grace Char with his actual name so he’d no longer have to use that abysmal nickname. 

Char mentally scolded himself. He shouldn’t disparage the name; it was what One-Eye explicitly said to call him, but… it made Char uncomfortable for reasons he couldn’t quite articulate. 

One-Eye held the slate carefully, like he was worried he could break the hunk of rock with his bare hands with the subtlest flex of his fingers. The chalk he eyed with suspicion, and it suddenly occurred to Char that One-Eye might be illiterate. 

That begged the question: why would One-Eye ask for something to write with if he was incapable? 

Char was probably just jumping to conclusions, though. He cleared his mind and patiently waited some more, watching as One-Eye took a shaking hand, chalk gripped in his fist like he meant to stab the slate through. He drew a shaky line. 

Char waited through a few more scratches on the slate before intervening. He reached for One-Eye’s hand, which drew back with a possessive jerk. One-Eye’s surprisingly sharp teeth were briefly bared in a silent snarl before he regained his composure and simmered down to a glare. 

“Sorry. May I? It’s just- it might be easier if…” Char didn’t want to say if you hold it right, knowing that wouldn’t come across as very kind. Instead, he just held his hand out beseechingly, face devoid of any judgment or pity. 

Prideful men rarely appreciated another’s pity. 

Though he still looked wary, One-Eye brought his hand forward and allowed Char to touch him. 

With slow, gentle movements, Char manipulated One-Eye’s long fingers until he was holding the chalk properly. 

He wasn’t sure if he should add this last part, if it might be one thing too far, and risk offending One-Eye. Or, even worse, caught a fist to the face. But in the end, Char wanted to be helpful more than he wanted to avoid a black eye. “Do you need me to write the alphabet down at the bottom? Just for reference.” 

One-Eye growled and twisted his hand out of Char’s grip - he hadn’t realized he was still holding on - but no further recrimination or reaction came. One-Eye backed away a step, like a starved, wild animal after being given a scrap of food. He crouched in a bit of shade and hunched over the slate, scratching away. His attempts at writing seemed more confident now, though, and each letter was formed fast, so Char decided he’d done enough. 

Rather than stand there and stare, likely making One-Eye uncomfortable, Char turned to watch Bertrum napping in the sun, the horse having strangely decided to pillow his head on the front step of the porch. How could that possibly be comfortable? Surely the grass would be softer. 

He contemplated whether it was worth it to go over there and adjust him - and whether he was even capable of shifting the horse’s head at all, if he wasn’t inclined to be moved. Probably not. 

Something suddenly nudging his shoulder jolted him out of his thoughts, and he spun around to see One-Eye prodding him with the slate. 

Char accepted it with a smile and pretended not to notice the way One-Eye avoided his gaze, focusing instead on the cabin and horse beyond Char’s shoulder. 

He prepared himself to keep a neutral expression, in case the writing was illegible or simplistic, but instead had to fight to keep the look of surprise off his face. 

The letters themselves were wobbly and uneven, which confirmed Char’s suspicions that One-Eye had not written much in his life, but the man was clearly literate. 

Village tomorrow. Need supplies, meet people. No one there when I arrive, the slate read, the words starting too large and getting smaller as One-Eye adjusted the size of his writing to comfortably fit across the space. If you help with talking, horse + you can stay. Build roof for him. No need to pay in village. 

“Help with talking?” Char asked, once he’d reread the message a few times. “Do you mean with making your introductions or with bartering? Both?” At the last, One-Eye nodded. “Alright,” Char said after some thought. He didn’t mind serving as a mouthpiece for a day or two. He handed the slate back, which One-Eye at first refused to take. Char cut him with a serious look and pointedly pressed the slate into his chest. “I can do that for you, but… first, we need to discuss a few things.”

One-Eye paled. 

Ásmundr swallowed heavily and took hold of the slate with numb fingers. He had a means of communicating now. He couldn’t avoid questions anymore without drawing suspicion. What did they even need to discuss? Char seemed like a bright, charming young man. Surely he could come up with something to say that didn’t need Ásmundr’s input. This is One-Eye. He lives in the woods. He’s not much of a conversationalist. Please let him buy human things from you. 

Char’s face softened at the distress radiating off of Ásmundr, which was not helping matters. He was not the little fool’s ancient horse, and he was not about to be calmed with some soft words and gentle touches. In fact, because he worried about that very thing, Ásmundr took a few steps back, putting a healthy distance between them and placing Ásmundr firmly out of arm’s reach. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” Char said in that same gods’ damned voice he used for the horse. 

Unintentionally, Ásmundr snarled again, which shut him up at least. 

“I get it,” Char said, hands held up in the universal gesture of peace. “You already have some idea of what I’m going to ask, but I need something to tell people. You don’t have to answer, or even give me the truth, but we should agree on whatever it is you want to be known about you in the village, right?” 

Ásmundr’s nerves eased slightly. That made sense. Agree to the story beforehand. Consistency was good; consistency would make him trustworthy. He nodded and tried to slow his breathing. While he focused on that, he absentmindedly used the sleeve of his tunic to wipe the slate clean. 

“Okay,” Char said once that was done. He was smiling again, and Ásmundr was both relieved and annoyed at the sight. “Do you want to be known as One-Eye in the village too?” 

Want to be known? No. Why would he? But he had no other name to give that he was willing to share. Names had power, a sentiment Ásmundr could feel in his very bones, both true and man-shaped. He couldn’t say where he learned such a thing, or how, but he wasn’t planning on giving up his name any time soon. It was his, one of the very first things he claimed for himself. 

So in response, Ásmundr nodded, pointing at his eye for reference. 

He didn’t miss Char’s cringe. The man disliked the name probably as much as Ásmundr did. 

“Okay, we’ll go with that. You said when you arrived that no one was there? When was that exactly? How long have you lived in the woods? Where did you come from? What do you do for work, and what skills do you have? And - I realize this is going to be insensitive, but people will ask - how did…” Char’s face twisted a bit in displeasure at saying the words as he gestured toward Ásmundr’s head in general. “How did that happen?” 

Ásmundr huffed. That was a lot of questions. He had to think about how he was going to address each one. He plopped down on the grass and balanced the slate on his knees, chalk clutched in his fist. 

Char sat down in front of him, like he was willing to wait as long as Ásmundr’s answers took to form. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he really was as patient as he appeared. 

Some of the questions were easier to answer than others - and some required outright falsities. 

When did he arrive? Couldn’t say it was nearly two moons ago. That would be too large of a coincidence. So he arrived the day after the village left. He’s lived in the woods for the same amount of time. 

Where did he come from? Ásmundr couldn’t even say. What was the name of the land he had been held in? Shockingly, Ásmundr never thought to ask. And before that… well, it hardly mattered anymore, did it? 

The last two especially gave him pause, but he scribbled something out as best he could. 

He finally gave the slate over to Char, feeling inadequate in nearly every way. A man - or close enough to one, anyway - without a real name, with half a face, no history, no livelihood… Hardly anything at all to call his own. 

It made this new, soft skin of his itch uncomfortably, to lay himself so bare to a virtual stranger, even if he was only giving partial truths. 

“Alright,” Char said as he started to read. “You’ve been here about a week and built this whole cabin in that time?”

Ásmundr tensed. Was that too fast? He didn’t sleep most nights, didn’t need to, and could work without many breaks at all. Char was looking at him with some surprise, but it didn’t look like he was overly shocked. So Ásmundr nodded, trying to appear unconcerned and confident in his answer. 

“That’s rather impressive! I wish some of the carpenters I’ve employed worked half as quick. Hell, some days I’d take a quarter,” Char said with a wink that made Ásmundr’s stomach twist on itself. He didn’t even know how to describe the sensation, only that it was deeply unpleasant. Thankfully, Char quickly moved on. “Next we have… You don’t know? Like the official name or…?”

Ásmundr shrugged. He’d need the slate back to fully explain, not that he really wanted to. He waved his hand for Char to move along. 

While confused, the man obliged, though Ásmundr could see the way his brows furrowed and lips thinned in concern. “For work, you wrote… huntsman, woodsman, tracker, farmhand,” Char’s brows rose, voice pitching higher as he continued to read out the various jobs, “carpenter, laborer, guard, soldier, watchman… ex… executioner?” 

Now Char seemed exceedingly shocked, mouth hanging open slightly and eyes huge in his head, and all Ásmundr could think about at that moment was how those eyes were as blue, or perhaps even more so, as the flowing river where they’d met. It wasn’t until some moments later that Ásmundr considered he might’ve really gone too far with this one. 

To his credit, Char recovered quickly yet again, fighting down an awkward laugh as he stammered for something to say. “That’s a… I mean- well… It’s an extensive list. I imagine you’ve lived quite an interesting life, to claim all of these.” Char’s eyes lingered on the slate, and without being able to see, Ásmundr knew it was on the word executioner. 

It was the only one written on the slate that was completely and utterly true. 

“I think-” Char cleared his throat and finally tore his gaze away from that damning word to look at Ásmundr straight on. “I think we can stick with woodsman and general laborer, and that you’re available for various odd jobs, if that interests you? I can mention that you’re a capable warrior, should the village have such a need.” 

Ásmundr quickly nodded his assent. That was the wisest choice, though Ásmundr felt the need to amend something immediately. He motioned for the slate to be handed over, which Char did readily enough, and hastened to add his correction. 

Soldier: only if DIRE need. Don’t want to fight. Don’t want to kill. Not unless necessary. 

“I understand, I do,” Char said once he’d taken the slate back and read the stipulation. “I’ll make sure to stress that this is important to you. As for the final thing… You wrote you need to wipe clean? The - oh! The slate! Here, why don’t I-”

Char shuffled over on his knees to sit directly beside Ásmundr, using his own sleeve just as Ásmundr had to clear the slate. Ásmundr was a little baffled by that, to be honest. Early on, he’d recognized Char as someone of means, his clothing much finer than almost anything Ásmundr had seen before, both in the dark place and here, at the village. But he had had no hesitation at all to wade across a river, climb a tree - however ill-advised that was - and stain his clothing with grass and chalk. It didn’t make sense. The one wealthy human Ásmundr had known would never let dirt touch him or sully his things. Most of his things, anyway. 

It hadn’t mattered when Ásmundr was filthy, unless he was being shown off. 

Once Char was settled next to him - their shoulders brushing in what Ásmundr thought was an unnecessary bit of closeness - and the clean slate in his hands, Ásmundr began to write. 

He tried to ignore how Char leaned ever closer to read along. 

Captured. Don’t know who or why. Forced to fight. Forced to kill. Tried to escape once. Caught again. Scarred. Lost eye and voice. 

He hadn’t lost his fire, though, and for that Ásmundr had always been sickeningly grateful. 

When he paused for a moment, thinking of what else needed to be said, Char spoke up, his voice quiet, a near whisper, like they weren’t completely alone and ran the risk of others lurking around to overhear such a delicate conversation. “How long were you there?” 

Ásmundr wasn’t expecting that question, at least, not at first. He expected… he didn’t know what. Words he could be angry at, maybe. Something flat and pitying, in an attempt to be sympathetic. Something meaningless. 

Caught off guard, he answered simply. Don’t know. Long time, years. My guards grew old and were replaced. New guards didn’t pay as much attention. 

Char actually laughed then, the sound sudden and startling. “I imagine you took eager advantage of that.”

Ásmundr wouldn’t say eager. There were still many years suffered under the new guards, but if Char wanted to think something flattering about him, who was Ásmundr to stop him? 

I did. 

Not necessary to write when a nod would’ve sufficed but… Char grinned at him, something sly and admiring. He tilted his head slightly, moving further into Ásmundr’s space, and spoke low, like they were sharing a secret. “Good.”

Ásmundr shivered in the late afternoon sun, and he didn’t know why. 

Char knew he hadn’t gotten the whole story out of One-Eye. How could he have, with barely ninety square inches of space to write it out? Char had the distinct feeling that One-Eye’s life would fill volumes upon volumes, and he found himself hungry to read it all.

But not only was there no time for that, Char also wouldn’t dare ask it of him. One-Eye had shared all he was comfortable with, and that was more than enough. Char had what he needed to smooth things over with the villagers, some of which would likely be annoyed that a stranger had moved himself in during their absence. 

The tale of a fighter slave - for that was surely what One-Eye had been, even if he never wrote it like that - finally spreading his wings to make a new life for himself with his recent freedom was not one Char thought his subjects would dismiss out of hand. And with as many skills as One-Eye professed to have, he would undoubtedly find himself a well-liked man in the village, called upon for any number of things that needed doing. He was strong, Char had seen that for himself, and smallfolk life could never have too many strong, able-bodied men around to keep things running smoothly. 

All Char needed to do was tell his story and make the connections. He could do that, easily. 

Things, of course, were complicated by who he was. Something One-Eye still did not know, but Char would deal with that later. Soon, though. Very soon. For now, he was enjoying just being Char, the man with the pitiful horse to whom One-Eye gave aid. 

“One more thing…” Though it pained him to do so - One-Eye had likely written more in the last thirty minutes than he had in his whole life - Char had something else to ask. He had the decency to look contrite and offered a strained smile as he hastily wiped the slate clean once again. “Nothing more about your past,” he said quickly, noting the look on One-Eye’s face, something approaching betrayed but even more so, he appeared terribly, terribly tired. “I wasn’t able to speak with you earlier, concerning the reason I’m here. You see, the villagers approached me with an incredible story a few days ago. Claimed there’d been signs of a dragon in the area.”

Char paid careful attention to his companion and saw his eye gradually widen as he spoke. Interestingly enough, One-Eye didn’t look surprised or frightened. Merely curious. 

“You’ve been living here for a while now,” Char stated, the words coming out in an excited tumble. “Have you seen anything?” 

One-Eye made no move to write. Didn’t nod or shake his head. He just stared at Char like he expected him to have more to say on the matter. 

With a hasty swallow, Char launched into an explanation. “The village asked me for soldiers, wanted men to hunt it down like a rabid beast, which would be horrid. If it’s even here, it would be the first dragon seen by men in generations. How could anyone’s first instinct be to destroy it?”

Char sighed, leaning back on his heels as he rubbed a hand over his barely-there stubble. One-Eye looked no closer to responding, so Char continued, “Maybe it’s been too long and people have forgotten, but dragons were far more like us than they were common beasts like wolves or bears. The old records, before the whole race disappeared, is proof they had their own society. They were sentient - with a monarchy, even! The dragon king was more than myth and legend, though I’m sure all those tales of heroes making pacts with the dragon king for things like immortality or their own kingdoms were heavily embellished if not outright fabrications but…” Char paused to take a breath and smiled up at One-Eye. “He existed.” 

In his document bag, Char had even brought along a few duplicates that Ella and Slannen had meticulously copied from those delicate records. It had taken hours to track them down, and the record keeper in charge of that section had watched the trio with nothing but contempt and suspicion for even asking to look at them.

Char being king hadn’t mattered one whit to that man, who had harrumphed and tutted and gasped with outrage whenever they so much as breathed near the old books. 

Granted, they hadn’t long been in that dusty room before they all realized he had a bit of a point. Every turn of a page had been a harrowing event, the paper so brittle and fragile with age it was like they were handling sheets of sawdust held together with rapidly fading magic. 

Char hadn’t wanted them touching the books any more than absolutely necessary, and when they’d finished making the copies they needed, he took the clerk aside to commend him on his service and dedication to the preservation of their kingdom’s history and that if there was anything he or his colleagues needed for the records’ office, he need only ask. If it weren’t for the fact that salty liquid could potentially damage the nearby tomes, Char suspected the stern man would’ve been in tears. 

The whole precarious endeavor had been so very worth it, though. He not only had hard evidence that the dragon king - and thus, the dragon kingdom and society - existed but learned that Kyrria had formed a treaty with him centuries ago.

Or with… one of them. It wasn’t known just how long-lived dragons were, precisely, and the dragon king himself was never named beyond his title. It could have been the same one for millennia or generations of kings. Another detail lost to history, gone along with the last of the dragons. 

Or maybe not. Char rose up on his knees next to One-Eye, the ramifications of this potential meeting swirling in his mind. 

“I’m hoping… Well, I don’t know if you’ve heard or not, but Kyrria has been going through a lot of change recently. The former regent, he set us back considerably when it came to non-humans in the kingdom. It’s been a lot of work undoing the damage he managed to wrought for the last decade and a half - it’ll be a lifetime of work, probably. But this dragon, if it really is here, might be just what we need to move forward. I want - we want to show that this is truly a kingdom of equals, that all sentient beings have as much worth and right to exist and thrive as any other. What better way to show how serious we are as a people and a kingdom toward that purpose than to fully accept a dragon as a citizen?” 

Char settled back on his heels as he realized, in his enthusiasm, he had surged forward and grabbed One-Eye’s arm. He let go and gave a small, nervous smile. “But I’m probably getting… way ahead of myself. I haven’t even ascertained whether the villagers were right about there being a dragon at all. There may be another explanation.” 

In fact, it was incredibly likely. Char had let himself get far too worked up over the fanciful imaginings of his subjects. 

Still, it was too wonderful not to let himself hold onto a little hope. And the longer One-Eye let him ramble on without laughing or using the slate to chastise him for being a fool, the more hope Char felt bloom in his chest. 

“One-Eye,” he exhaled in a joyful breath. “Have you seen the dragon?” 

Something in his voice must have finally snapped One-Eye out of his stillness. He shook his head, but it seemed more like he was clearing his thoughts than giving an answer just yet. 

Char was proven right when One-Eye reached for the slate, abandoned in the grass when Char had begun to speak at length. Like before, Char leaned over to read as One-Eye wrote. 

No, he jotted down at first. Char wilted slightly before realizing One-Eye wasn’t done. But I can help you find it. 

Char didn’t even have a moment to cheer, to be excited that this unexpected companionship might continue beyond the next day, when the succeeding words written froze the breath in his lungs, dousing him with a chill far worse than if he’d just submerged himself in the nearby river.

Before that, you must tell me why the villagers asked you for soldiers.