Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Before Balduran became more myth than man; before Balduran was the demonym for the denizens of his city; before Balduran—the gate’s eponym—built walls around a port town; before all of this, unaware of his legacy yet striving for it constantly, Balduran was nought but an ambitious adventurer.

There stood he, on the bow of that ship—an entirely unadvisable place to stand, yet standing yet with cat-like grace—and standing with the pose of a grin, you know the sort, so animated as to spread from wide smile to outstretched arms and braced legs, chest heaving with the effort of weathering the dragonstorm. He was, in truth, overzealous: this crew (despite being warned) had not been expecting the storm, so violent, when not one hour ago the skies had gleamed azure; this vessel, sturdily built, nevertheless was not truly meant to sail the open Sea of Swords, not built to weather the worst that the blade-edge waves had to offer. Balduran, despite appearances, knew this. And most importantly, he was quite sure that Ansur knew this too.

“Anchorome,” he’d joked, to the fishermen asking for his destination. And though plainly-spoken untruth, his joke possessed yet a truth to its beginning—in the first two of its letters—that he did not elucidate to any in his crew until they had left Grey Harbour the morn before last. This would, he hoped, discourage the wrong sort of men from either applying or (upon rejection) seeking to beat him to his destination. Do you know of the sort I speak of? Likely is it that you do: those men (whom Balduran unerringly detests) whose avarice would have them reaching for their arms—at very first glint—to bring down that shining bronze in the sky, for access, yes, to that shining gold below. 

But I can see in your eyes, it is not the gold that shines for you. Thus: 

It was said, that in a rocky isle halfway ‘twixt Candlekeep and Alaron, there lived a dragon named Ansur. It’s been so long since he’s seen civilised lands, said those who spoke of him, yet he has not lost his affinity for them, though he dare not take part. Aye, he resides yet in that isle, his lair’s entrance below the sea, but I tell you, lad, he’ll come n’ greet you if you stray too near, and I don’t mean with a cuppa. Yet Balduran heard that which was to be said about Ansur, purportedly fearsome, purportedly deadly, and only asked, “What colour is he?” Most could not answer—one sailor could. Said: well, lad, I could hardly make out the colour through the storm (but upon pleading insistence): bronze. 

That was, in the end, all which Balduran needed to know. He was, after all, equipped with the knowledge that tragically few sailors deigned to learn: the moral alignments of each dragon type. Bronze, Balduran knew, meant lawful good by nature. A preference for benevolence (and importantly, for cities) aligned well with his needs, indeed—he set sail soon after. 

He, Balduran, legend-to-be, sought Ansur, dragon, hard-to-believe tale, with dreams in his mind, I tell you, dreams purer than his clothing implied—a city near the sea, where all may come when in need; welcoming and protecting; a refuge for those like him. He would not, alone, have the necessary funds; he would not be alone.

A silhouette against the sky that sparkled—from the corner of one’s eye, like a tossed gold piece—as lightning lit the world for an instant—

Here begins our tale:

“Ansur!” Cried Balduran, eyes squinted against the waiting storm, deafened a moment later by the belated sharp crack of thunder. When he shouted again, his voice was further away, on the other side of the ship, perhaps, somewhere reasonable, perhaps—not on the bow, certainly, rising and falling with each surging wave, yet standing yet; here, again, that cat-like grace. “Ansur! I mean you no harm! I wish only to make an offer. Hear it, this is all I ask; turn me away, strike me down, if it bears no interest to you!”

The storm did not die, no, but it lost its fury, its warning edge, that which bade them turn back. That shadow in the sky which sparked, sometimes, with distant lightning—it descended in swooping hooks that cut the air so cleanly, so quietly, it was almost a surprise, despite his close observation, when Balduran found Ansur before him.

He reached his hand out, bridging half the gap, supplicant, unarmed, honest.

Ansur hesitated for only a moment. Then, with a twist and flap of his powerful wings; with a manœuvring of his muscular neck, he pressed his crest against Balduran’s palm.

And right there, in that instant: the eye of the storm. 

In the next, Balduran was flying—and screaming—sent bodily into the air by the flick of a broad snout. But in the instant before he landed, ready, on Ansur’s surprisingly steady back, his scream belied his rapture, and he

Held on tight— (they rose)

Held on tight— (they flew)

Held his breath (they plunged).

Chapter Text

Interact with an adventurer, and it is likely you may know: within them lies an intrinsic charisma, which follows where they go—indeed augments as they go—for it is in their bravery and storied past (alongside typically, their charm) from which their magnetism draws all in, and beckons them to listen. Imagine then, I implore, the charm of one who’d explored so far and wide through empires you know not; who, then, in spite of Ansur’s efforts (in weather so inclement), rode the heaving bow of a ship; called out the raging dragon’s name—and indeed so boldly proposed a deal, as if betwixt established equals. It is, surely, what had spurred Ansur—dragon though he be—into bowing his great head, presenting his great crest, as if in quaint submission.

Ansur surfaced in his cavernous lair, shooting from the water like a trident; fanning his wings wide as he landed. He was quick to discover, as Balduran dismounted, that his charm had not washed away with the entrance to his lair: the man pushed his hair from his still-striking face, and processed his surroundings with an oddly childlike awe. It evoked a base pride in the dragon, and he dared not interrupt—watched as Balduran took in his treasures not with greed but gladness, saw him turn his grin on Ansur, disarming and guileless; heard:

“My friend, I see you live in splendour.”

“What you see are treasures gathered across many a century. And unless I am sorely mistaken, they are what you’ve come to see.”

“Sorely mistaken you are not; a beautiful sight they are indeed. Where, if I may ask, did you gather them from?”

“Shipwrecks, pirates, and miscellaneous others with no need or right to it. I would have your assurance that you have not come to purloin it from me.”

“Then be assured, for as a man of my word, a deal we would have or your gold I’ll have not—and even if a deal we had, I’d ask not close to all of it. Verify, pray I, that I am neither equipped with harmful arm nor accompanied by those who are—never mind accompanied at all. The power, Ansur, is here yours, and the humble plea is mine.” With this, Balduran bowed, low, and awaited Ansur’s move.

His move when it came was thus: he stepped forward and lowered his head, then pushed his snout at Balduran’s chest, ‘til he rose from his bow with a startled blink. “Make your humble plea then, but I would first hear your name,” came Ansur’s seismic rumble.

“Thank you, Ansur,” said Balduran, recovering from the gesture with what might have been—Ansur noted helplessly—an almost awestruck smile. “You are a dragon more generous than I ever thought to imagine. It is heartening, in truth.” He clasped his hands behind his back, and beamed up at the dragon. “I am honoured, then, to give you my name: please, call me Balduran.”

A barely-there tilt of the head; a barely audible hum. Then, almost as if to himself, Ansur murmured “Balduran,” which the name’s proprietor felt more as a vibration than an utterance. Louder, next, at normal volume, which from a dragon could be felt through the ground: “Reveal to me this deal of yours which requires a dragon to work.”

And so he began. “Your cavernous lair plays host to treasures, immeasurable in quantity and beauty. It is clear to me that you enjoy, at least, my appreciation of them. Yet the nearest permanent pair of eyes is hundreds of miles to the east or west—and not to mention the impossible entrance. You hide your trove, for on open display, you rightly suspect it might be stolen away. Am I mistaken?”

There was a hesitancy, undoubtedly, to the words that followed: “No.”

“But if you could protect people, provide shelter, offer refuge, and in so doing, display unstealable wealth, would you?”

Eyes narrowed in healthy suspicion, cautiously toned: “Continue.”

“A wall is imposing and impressive, invaluable as a sum of its parts, yet worthless to steal per component; and it protects, yes, but crucially for cities, so too does it attract. A wall encircling a village turns that village into a town. A town, through proper leadership, is bound to become a city. And for the sponsor of that original wall… well then this priorly-village becomes his city. It is an investment that begets returns, if not within decades, then a century—well within your lifespan.”

“And yet not nearly within yours.”

Balduran flicked a dismissive wave, “That matters little to me.”

“Tell me then, if that is so, what do you stand to gain from this deal?”

“My friend, I stand to gain a legacy. Legacies long outlast lifespans. ”

“A legacy—and yet assumedly, without your name attached to it?”

“They need not remember me. My name holds little import—it is the results of my actions that shall bring to me an untroubled final sleep.”

Ansur was silent a moment, and when he spoke it was thus: “This is assuming my interest, of course. What use have I for a city?”

But Balduran—keen-eyed adventurer that he was—saw the signs; noted the hints; that the dragon was not, indeed, as unaffected as he seemed. He said: “It is said by some—though they say not why they say so—that you have an affinity for cities, and I wonder if it’s true.”

Ansur tensed minutely. “Such is the truth amongst most bronze dragons, though of my very own kind, I have met few.”

“But be it the truth with you, my friend?”

“Why ask a question whose answer you know?”

“Is that a yes?”

“You know it is.”

“And yet your lair is lonely in the rarely-sailed Sea of Swords. Perhaps this setting was not your first choice?”

A very slight grimace, very slightly pained. Balduran played vaguely dangerously. “Perhaps.”

And perhaps he felt that danger (in fact he likely did), for veneers dropped and parrhesia reigned as he responded with: “In villages, you are ‘other’; in towns, a bothersome stranger—it seems wherever you go that you are perceived as but a danger. And in cities, where hope ought to concentrate, men look at you and reduce you to: your strength, your size, your use. What affinity, what love, even, could weather such hostility, for so many centuries? Where else, does that leave you then, but here: far from those who see in you nought but threat or profit?” Balduran stepped forward several paces, placed a hand on Ansur’s foreleg, spake with sombre sympathy: “I may not know or understand your pain, but know I understand this: people can be shockingly cruel, sometimes.”

Ansur paused, narrowed his eyes at Balduran, “The capacity for cruelty lies within everybody. It is a question, rather, of tendency, but people are complicated.”

“Complicated, yes,” Balduran said, then allowed a slow, sly smile to spread. “And ever so shaped by their environment.” Then Balduran—bold-tongued adventurer that he was—stepped backwards, arms wide, asked: “Have you a preferred bipedal form?”

For a moment, Ansur only tilted his head at the perceived non-sequitur. Nevertheless, it is the nature of an adventurer’s charm (and remember this was Balduran’s; ever more so with his) to inspire this curious curiosity, this queerest alacrity for following lead, and so his lead did Ansur follow: he reared back on his hind legs, rose to an astonishing height—then with a bright white flash of light, stood, now dragonborn, before Balduran. 

He was, objectively, beautiful: like a maple tree in late transition to bronze autumnal leaves, his scales held a hidden sheen (upon slanted light) of teal. And if his crest was the jagged crown of this old maple tree, then his torso was the trunk; and if his scales did seek to conceal the rippling muscles beneath, then they concealed little else. Yes, Balduran confirmed, daring a glance so slightly down—and ever so slightly it was indeed; herein Ansur’s stately stature—the dragonborn was just as nude as the dragon theretofore.

Nevertheless, Balduran was an adventurer—keen-eyed and bold-tongued, yes, but being Balduran above adventurer, considerate in his spirit. And so he lowered to a single knee before the dragonborn, and so too did he lower his eyes. Carefully, and careful more so not to seem insistent, he pulled Ansur’s hand towards himself, and sandwiched it betwixt his palms. The scales, he found, were softer here, ensuring a full range of movement—he squeezed them gently, then finally met with Ansur’s piercing gaze. 

He smiled, “My friend, let us make a city that would—dragonborn or dragon form—welcome you with open arms.”

There was a moment in which thin slits, serpentine, widened in surprise, and there was a slight twitch in the hand betwixt his (or were they wide with want)? Just as quick as it had come, that countenance fell away, but in its place lay not the stoic demeanour from before—which you and Balduran now realise had been put on for show. No, instead, what could be found then on his visage, was an echo of what could not be found, yet occupied his heart: a yearning, cautious, damaged hope, that he’d dared not before to harbour.

Yet it is the dictate of animal instinct that pain is to be avoided, and pain was indeed promised by this vulnerability. One last defence, one final attempt to resist this adventurer’s charms: “I stand to gain within a century—but for you, the wait is paltry. The wall and the city are our respective rewards, yet you should sooner die, than I should receive mine. What reason have I to agree, Balduran, without reward in the interim?”

The human swallowed, grinned crookedly: “Well, firstly, Ansur, if you agreed to this deal, you would certainly have me.”

“Oh?” Ansur’s hand pulled back, and Balduran let it go. It returned in the form of a crook of a finger hooked under his chin, and pulled such that their gazes met in angled parallel. “Pray, in whatever fashion do you speak?”

“I know quite well, my friend, that I seem arrogant, but I know too that I ask too much. My debt to you I could never repay, not with the equivalent of your trove, and for this I swear to you you’d have me in whichever way you chose. Hear this said upon my honour, Ansur—be the price my every earthly possession, or undying servitude.”

Ansur did not speak. With his finger yet beneath his chin, the dragonborn hummed coolly. 

…And secondly? Balduran waited for the prompt to come.

But the arctic blaze in those fiery eyes simply continued, steadily, to burn into his soul.

Chapter Text

The ship sailed slower on the return to Grey Harbour. Weighed down as it was by tonnes of gold, Balduran was glad it did not sink—sturdily indeed was this vessel built, but with water lapping a foot above safe (the conservative judgement, not Balduran’s) its speed left much to be craved.

This became evident when a ruckus on the deck, with shouts of surprise and squeals of startle, preceded a collective gasp aboard, and an audible thud right afterwards. For a moment equally long and short, silence reigned in the air—and then: 

Blubbering exclamations of indignation as the only warning Balduran received, before the door to his captain’s quarters was flung forcefully open. 

There stood he, leant heavily with one hand over an annotated nautical atlas, an ink-dipped quill poised uncertainly in the other over a similarly annotated journal. Lips pulled taught in mild vexation, he was performing those complex calculations requiring knots and time (with the first being difficult to accurately measure, and the second being in essence speculation, without aid from a notably accomplished mage); latitude already recently measured, now longitude remained. 

This explained his undisguised glee for Ansur’s interruption. “Friend, you are a fair sight indeed to my eyes so tired by imprecise maths,” spoke he over his shoulder, then turned in full and swallowed, when his sight alighted on Ansur. The cause of the indignant shouting, thought he: “Though, of course, your precise natural fairness is now quite understood by every man on deck.”

A cool, unreadable look: “Does my uncouth nudity fluster you?”

What an entirely unanswerable question. “You are, of course, welcome to dress—or equally, decide against—however you please in my company, and the company of my men. If I may be so bold as to ask, however, that you don clothing, upon harbouring…?”

“If you may be so bold,” he intoned, but Balduran swore—swore, I assure you—that there in that tone, hid something like humour.

“On the subject of boldness, so too may I ask if you perchance happen to know our longitude?” And if indeed, in asking this, Balduran sounded flustered, then it had nought to do with childish shock (and less to do with adult want) but rather entirely captainly chagrin to be requesting aid at sea. A responding flicker of mild annoyance passed over the dragon’s countenance. “Is that why progress has been so slow? Are you lost at sea, oh captain mine?”

Balduran quickly raised his hands in gently placating surrender; “Calculating longitude’s a challenging feat, for even the most accomplished of sailors at sea; distance is tough, after all, to ascertain, sans landmark more solid than the shape of a cloud.”

“We have travelled ten miles since setting off after noon,” said Ansur, such that neither his opinion on this difficulty, nor their travelled miles’ quantity, could be any bit less than clear.

Balduran discerned this opinion, yes, but it was not what had caught his attention. “Ten miles,” he murmured, contemplative, and louder, then: “Is that exact?”

“The exact mileage is ten and a half, though a great improvement that is not.”

Balduran verified their prevailing direction, then (with a compass’s mark and a ruler’s line) circled the point ten and a half miles east-northeast from Ansur’s lair. “My friend,” he whispered, the words worshipful on his lips, “do your wonders ever cease?”

When he turned to face the silent dragon, he found his face unreadable—yet nevertheless intense. Just as soon as he’d processed it, though, that expression neatly fell away—replaced by flat exasperation. “Have sailing ships gotten slower since the start of my self-isolation? It is difficult to remain aloft at a pace so blatantly glacial, and maintaining patience more difficult yet.”

“Alas, I expect,” Balduran said, “‘tis nought but the thankful by-product of your valued munificence.”

“It is the gold that slows our progress?”

“Yes. And yet, I am finding it challenging to regret such a hindrance.”

Again, he swore—and again do I assure—a flicker there of something like humour. “That challenge is not so great for me.”

“Then join us, friend,” pled Balduran. “There is little need to expend such effort. Be at ease upon (relatively) solid ground, and relax with the pleasures of men.”

“Give me an example of these pleasures you speak of then.”

“Well,” Balduran cleared his throat, “I have heard my conversation can be pleasant company.”

“Oh? Entertaining, are you?”

A grin and a wink: “Most assuredly. As your servant of undying service—though undying servant I cannot be—you could throw me in a cage, feed me some treats, and go decades sans ennui. Such is the famous and salient charm which precedes an adventurer.”

A scowl: “Charm being feeble or famous, I possess nevertheless a moral compass. Believe you truly I would do such a thing?”

“My friend,” Balduran chuckled, “I would not have offered myself so simply, were that truly my belief.”

Ansur paused, then tilted his head, finding himself re-evaluating. “Some semblance of a survival instinct?”

“I would not go so far.”

✵

Irresponsible though some townsfolk had fondly claimed him be, Balduran, as captain, did not neglect his duties. It was not long then ‘til it came their conversation truncated, whereat captain turned thus to dragon apologetically: “Alas, my duty calls—I hope you understand. Perhaps you’d like to try your hand at playing my men meanwhile? They’d gladly teach you all the card games that they know by now.”

Ansur tilted his head, cocked a leery brow: “And provide them ammunition, to boast with afterwards?”

“They did not join to slay a dragon; they aren’t the boasting sort.”

Heedless, “No. My gut tells me that you would be best suited for the job.”

“Yet I find I must now lead my men, for the day’s remainder at least—herein does lie our impasse. My focus split would satisfy neither you, nor the ship.”

“And the gold would lose its usefulness if the boat it’s stored on sinks—this I know, worry not; that is not for what I ask. Go, Balduran, captain your ship, but I would sooner ask you this: allow me, throughout, to observe you doing so.”

A tilt of the head. “You’d sooner watch me captaining this humble sailing ship, than find elsewhere some other entertainment for this evening?”

“‘Twas from your very lips that I heard you entertaining. And it shall be from mine own that I tell you I concur. Go forth, captain; let me observe, thus do I assure that I would be satisfied.”

“Then I shall not disagree—though I might indeed inquire, as to what you wish to find.”

And so following was a pause, long; the sort that spoke through silence, and throughout did the dragon observe him, and ensnared was Balduran. In the sharp cyan of Ansur’s eyes—blue, he assumed, in the shade he’d heard described, by those few who’d sailed up north, to the sea of moving ice—it was far too easy to forget: one of his crew stood yet aside, patiently (bemusedly) awaiting resolution. When Ansur finally spoke, so were his words: 

“I wish to find what I observe.”

“And what is that?”

“...You.”

You may wonder why it is that Ansur spake so plainly. But remember now, as Balduran then, the effects of isolation: centuries in dragon form, what use has one for clothes? Centuries sans dialogue, what use in subtleties? To Ansur, here was a man who finally seemed worth it—it would not hurt to imply, surely, the fact of his intrigue. And this fascinating specimen, who’d reached out for his crest, could nonetheless be brought to heel, by simple nudity. Why not observe? Why not fluster? Thus did Ansur wonder.

And so did Ansur dutifully allow Balduran his duties, and so did Balduran follow through and invite Ansur observe him during. Quickly did he discover, however, an unforeseen issue: under such deep observation (unyielding throughout the day), Balduran was unable to concentrate. He’d tried at first to position himself, such that—whithersoever his focus be—Ansur could not be seen. He told himself that out of sight meant out of mind; that in this way, he’d concentrate. He’d quickly learnt, however, that that resulted in one thing solely: the physical weight of Ansur’s regard growing heavier upon his back. It felt, strangely, like fingers on his skin, dragging so lightly as to elicit gooseflesh. He’d look back, often enough, when it grew unbearable, or a shudder wracked his frame, and Ansur would be staring—perhaps with arms crossed, perhaps with ankles—an apex predator. It was in his gaze, so intense, the neutral line of his lips, and above all, that flagrancy, in vulnerable nudity (like bright colours in nature; I am gorgeous therefore lethal).

He did not wait ‘til he could no longer, to consign himself to his instincts; his base reptilian brain: placing Ansur within eyesight and just behind his focus. Positioned so, intermittently, his eyes would flit to him, but at least like this he could think, could hear the phrases spake to him, under the rushing of blood in his ears. Why now? he scolded himself, Why now should I feel this fear? —for that is what he assumed it was (and to an extent was he correct). Why now flinch at gazes met, when an hour ago I’d joked with him? Et cetera, so on, so forth. Alas were they both—undoubtedly—creatures of contradiction, which may explain then, later, how they came to depend on each other; their contradictions could be said to have smoothed the other’s out. Here, perhaps, can we ascribe the fear to unfamiliarity, though even then I use the term somewhat hesitantly. How truly unfamiliar, in the end and after all, can a fated pair really be?

Perhaps you do not believe in fate. Normally, I would agree. (What else, then, is dragonsight, but seeing fate and bucking it?)

And yet, in all the hundreds (thousands (hundreds of thousands)) of dragonsight visions that Ansur shall see—and call this, if you will, projection on his part—the vast majority of the future have Balduran in his heart.

Let us return to the pair on the ship (who were as of yet unpaired), who were then returning to Grey Harbour; the day had finally come to an end, and captain entered captain’s quarters—unlike every day preceding, Ansur followed behind. Balduran only made it some few steps into the room, before something about its furnishings had him stopping still. Ansur glided up behind him, stopping an inch from his back, ruffled his locks with a soft exhale: “Does there seem to be a problem?”

“Of a sort,” said he, “though it can easily be remedied. I shall have a hammock be presently brought up.” Balduran turned as if to exit, through the door filled with Ansur’s imposing volume—with a muffled noise did he step back, allowing the dragon to enter the room. Upon said dragon’s doing so, Balduran cleared his throat, then jerked his head to the moderate bed: “This room had clearly not been designed to sleep any more than one.” The bed was large enough for Balduran; with some manœuvring, for Ansur. Never, however, for both of them concurrently—or at least, not concurrently with any sort of decency.

“Do not concern yourself,” Ansur assured smoothly, “I do not yet require sleep—I can usually fly a tenday straight; today has not exhausted me.”

“And I can hold my breath for more than two minutes at a time, yet see me now avoiding it in simple comfort’s name. Allow my patron sleepless nights whilst I slumber in luxury—who do you take me for, Ansur?—nay, this bed is yours.”

Ansur furrowed his brow. “If your here bed is hereby mine, then where would you find rest?”

“I would find rest where the rest find theirs: on the humble hammock, friend.”

Those brows furrowed further. “Let me sleep there, keep your bed.”

“A guest such as yourself may require a bed to properly rest on waves like these. I, however, am well-accustomed to the swinging rhythms of hammocks on ships; I feel no nausea whatsoever. Come, friend—allow me to offer you this at least, when I have so little else to give. What value is a servant whom you do not allow to serve you?”

“You are mine to have in any fashion I require—such were your words, were they not?”

“My words as they were, spoke more of desire—but in essence, yes, were along those lines.”

“Then I struggle to find, oh Balduran mine, when I’d asked you to be my servant.”

A thin silence fell upon them. “Of course,” Balduran said, swallowing nervously. “My apologies.” Another moment, then their gazes remet: “But on this matter I will not surrender; I shall have you have the bed. Take it in the spirit, then, in which it had been meant: friendly concern, and hostly decency. Go now, my friend: enjoy the bed—I shall return before you know it.” With that did he swiftly turn away, denying the chance to sway him—thus did he miss the little thing, which twitched, hidden, on Ansur’s lips.

What Balduran had failed to contemplate, as he’d easily offered his captain’s bed, was that this was the first time in centuries, that Ansur would enjoy such luxuries. He would need a moment to reacquaint himself with plush material beneath his thighs, or a cotton pillow ‘gainst his fingers (careful, of course, of his claws). In what neither of them would think to consider—future voyages like this together—Balduran never failed, no, to leave the bed to Ansur, when he failed, instead, to procure a second bed. 

(That was, of course, before the point, in which they slept together.)

When Balduran returned with hammock in hand, Ansur was sat upon the bed. That burning gaze flamed within him, yet—in that valiant fashion for which he is famed—Balduran thought not (or very little) of naked flesh so close to his pillow. Instead, he tied both ends fastidiously to two hooks to hold the hammock, then blew out all the oil lamps’ flames and climbed in fully clothed.

It occurred to him, some minutes later as he struggled to quiet his thoughts, that a dragon’s perfect darkvision could of darkness strip its privacy. He stared at the ceiling, eyes wide, mouth dry with trepidation. There’ll be nothing to see, he told himself, when I turn my head to Ansur. He, unlike me, would be readily asleep, and in so seeing would I more easily join. I will now look (but he did not). I will now look (but he did not). 

…I must not look (and now he did):

There was a window in this room, which did allow scant light of moon to pierce through in small amounts—illuminating blearily each object’s blurry silhouette. He could make out the lines of Ansur lying sideways in his bed, though formless under quilt and dim; thus warranting uncertainty as to which way he faced.

Then, as if by humoured providence, from the moon maiden herself; Selûne’s jest at middle night; a wave did rise to angle the ship, and so with it the room, to allow a deeper penetration of silver beams of moon. They glinted bronze against the lamps; they glinted bronze against his scales; they glinted twice for just a moment, passing Ansur’s face. 

Twice, yes; twice did they glint—in two, cool, artic blue slits.

Chapter Text

“Rouse, my friend,” came Balduran’s voice, “Your city awaits you impatiently.”

Ansur’s eyes opened: unfatigued, unsurprised, unhesitating. They quickly found Balduran’s pair, and, for a languishing moment, rested there. Presently, a single, wordless nod; his slow, elegant rise from the bed; he moved like a wave (unstoppable/gentle) and came before Balduran like the surf at the berm. Then he spoke, “Lead the way and I shall follow.”

Balduran did not move, though: his gaze shot down to that which flustered him so and back up with embarrassed guilt. “Perhaps,” he tried, then cleared his throat, “perhaps it’s time you don those clothes? The harbour is so near by now; we should arrive ere middle day.”

“If such is your insistence,” Ansur said insouciantly, “then by all means proceed—which clothes would you have me wear?” A tilt of the head and a gauging stare, “Or… perhaps more aptly, whose?”

Balduran laughed—somewhat from mirth, and somewhat from nerves. “There would be little enough use in seeking a sailor whose size might match; there are none on this ship who will, but… my most billowy breeches may just about fit. They are clean and should be the most comfortable option. Just a moment,” he said, then turned to the wardrobe and plucked that pair (so big were they on him, that he rarely wore them), returning to Ansur, the pair on his arms; “Here you are,” and held them up.

Ansur looked down at the proffered trousers, inspecting them as he accepted them. His eyes roved over the seams and laces, finally distracted from the human ‘fore him. The weight that was lifted from Balduran was disproportionate to the weight of the breeches. His eyes had not left me ere now; they’d not strayed since his time of arousal. Thus did Balduran find himself thinking—though with the moments he’d spent turned away, he possessed no empirical proof, save for the weighty heat of Ansur’s gaze—but thus he thought, and thus was truth. 

“You have worn breeches before, I take it?” he asked slowly, stepping backwards. Ansur’s eyes repierced him. (Nigh marble-esque were they, all told, in their smooth, unyielding cold.) 

“I have. It has been many a century, but I certainly have, indeed.” In calculated movements, he slid into the breeches, pulling them to his waist even as the hem caught on his knees. He tied the belt in silence, ‘fore flatly saying presently: “These breeches restrict my legs. What if I am to run?”

“I should have foreseen that,” Balduran allowed. He sunk to his knees, then deftly untied the laces which were cinching the hems of the breeches. The hems reach below mid-shin when it is I who wears this pair, he thought, and could think of little else even as he stepped back to assess. “Is that better, now, my friend? Looser around the knees?”

When Balduran glanced up to check with Ansur, he was not looking at his breeches. It was only with a reluctant lethargy, that Ansur at last looked down, bending his legs and testing angles for each their respective ease. Recentring his focus on Balduran, he stepped forward the foot the brunet had stepped back, slashing the distance between them, and after a moment, hummed. 

Pinned by Ansur’s stare, it took Balduran a moment to realise: the dragon’s gaze was expectant; this was all the approval he’d get. “Good,” he said, belatedly, and turned towards the door. “Follow me now, o Ansur, and witness your city-to-be.”

Balduran did not hesitate, upon stepping out onto the deck, to begin climbing the ratlines and ascending to the crow’s nest—unflinchingly did Ansur follow. When they reached it and looked beyond, the sky was a stunning, cloudless blue (that shade and vibrancy which defied belief), and under the gleaming rays of sun which saturated the landscape, Grey Harbour became a misnomer. 

A bay—if one could call it such, so far from the Chionthar’s mouth—whose titanic scale could fit tens, perhaps several scores of galleons, end-to-end across its length, which Balduran saw already (sans any need for dragonsight) teaming with life in the centuries that would follow after his death; stone and wood and water; their confluence in this city, which presumably shan’t remember him, but instead do him a greater service: welcome those who needed it, when they came upon its gate.

Balduran turned to Ansur, who looked no longer at him, for now he looked at the vista, and perhaps he saw the same thing. Perhaps he saw exactly that which it was destined to become—though you’ll come to understand, soon, that most destinies are fickle—in the moment between breaths as would next happen near our end; in the darkness of a blink; and perhaps when he turned back around, to see Balduran as he was now, he saw him too at his best. 

(I simply do not know—or perhaps I will not tell—but this at least you may yet guess:)

“Do you see it?” Balduran asked. “Do you see Grey Harbour’s potential?”

“I want you to tell me,” Ansur replied.

(He’d not seen him at his worst.)

“Then tell you I shall,” he said, and swept his hand ‘cross the bay. “Look upon the river there; that rock which bifurcates it.”

Ansur did.

“It is a bridge’s pier, in truth, in wait to support a crossing; the final stretch ‘fore the sea at which the Chionthar may be traversed; the lowest crossing point on the Sword Coast’s most important river. Often enough, one notices: it is the city that gives best passage—for trade both seabound and grounded—that tends to grow most prosperous. But hearken now, I precipitate. Turn back, I pray, to the bay.”

Ansur did.

“Magnificent. Tremendous, even, and sheltered from storms twice over: from perilous waves by the inlet, and unwieldy winds by the hills. Those hills, too, are sheltering, and sheltering once more twice over, though not from storms but an invading force, in the size of the hills and their composition. In their size, which is suited to no known army, whose peaks and valleys are defensible. Composition, for rising from the ground in granite, a stone well-suited to wall construction.  And just beyond these protective hills: rolling fields of arable land, miles upon miles of fertile soil, that may feed a population of thousands. And finally—so important that one may even almost forget about it—let us gaze unto the might of the Chionthar.”

Ansur did.

“Its breadth invites many merchant ships better than any port; its tidally fresh waters may quench a country’s thirst; and its wealth of fish may supplement a besieged city’s diet. And sat amongst these treasure troves unrealised thanks to negligence: the unassuming settlement whose harbour we now approach, where it waits with patience for that day it’s long anticipated, where benevolence and ambition and means do meet—a day such as today.  And,” he spake, returning to Ansur, “a confluence such as you.”

Ansur, he found, without great startle, was already looking at him; having awaited precisely this moment; whose eyes he met, for the first time today, sans slightest discomfort or shame. 

“A confluence such as me,” Ansur said, “of benevolence and ambition and means?”

“Certainly,” he smiled wider. “And a meeting such as ours.”

Ansur would look back on this moment, but far more would look diagonally: those other Ansurs, from parallel pasts, or sometimes from parallel futures.

Eventually, our Ansur turned away, focusing on the middle distance. “It gladdens me to hear the consideration you’ve invested.”

“You assume I would have faced a dragon wholly unprepared?”

“You assume ‘twas an assumption—you entered my lair, unarmed.”

“And yet our standing on this nest is proof I left unharmed.”

“Unharmed, yes, and with my gold to boot,” though there was no malign in his tone.

“Who cares about the gold?” Balduran asked, “I left your lair with you.”

Ansur sent a look his way, though it lacked any clear reproach. “You knew I’d not attack.”

“Correct—” “How come?”

“I knew you were bronze.”

“Before you set sail? On whose authority?”

“A sailor who’d met you before.”

“He couldn’t have gotten a very good look; why did you take the risk?”

“Good look or blind, it hardly mattered—if you’d wanted him dead, he’d not be alive. I came prepared, o Ansur, when I came without a sword.”

Ansur’s look was long, this time, and when he turned away he said: “Prepared; unarmed; you risked your life. Do not pretend ‘twas otherwise.”

“The thrill in adventure’s the risk, my friend.”

“And you like adventure,” he sighed.

“Well. ‘Like’ is quite the weak word for it.”

“I am presently trying to decide whether you are more reckless or mature.”

Balduran laughed, full and disarming. “That’s not the first time that I’ve heard that. It’s all just part of my charm.”

“‘Part of your charm’, is that it—shall I assume that you’ve charmed many?”

“Oh, many upon many—countless, even.”

“And what do they call you, those who you’ve charmed?”

A pause. Here is a question, thought Balduran, that offers far more than it asks for.

“Many call me Baldur,” Baldur said.

“...Is that so,” Ansur mused. He turned then to the north to face Grey Harbour. The silence that stretched thence was tense with calm, and Balduran held his breath. For a moment, he almost thought that that would be all; that the question had been that simple. The sun had crested the hill to starboard, and glinted bronze ‘gainst Ansur’s scales. 

“Baldur,” he spake at last, as if testing the taste of the name on his tongue.

Baldur exhaled the fire from his lungs. “Ansur,” he replied.

Chapter Text

Perhaps Balduran had grown accustomed to the burning heat of Ansur’s gaze, or perhaps he’d learnt to appreciate the warmth it afforded him. For in contrast now to that very first day, where he could barely turn his back sans losing focus, his focus lay now without disturbance on the map of Grey Harbour before him. 

Once more he measured the lines he’d drawn; once more he turned to his ledger. Once more he checked his calculations; once more he suppressed a groan. This was alright—he’d figure it out, as he’d learnt to always do. Yet the lines on the map said otherwise, and taunted him with each new try: this isn’t enough, you’re still not enough, is this what you’d dreamed about?

Ansur’s voice rumbled behind him: “Tell me what troubles you.”

Balduran flinched, and masked it with a cough. (Ansur was far from fooled.) “It is the wall’s location,” he settled on, which was—on parchment—true, “Come closer, my friend, and look at this map—I would certainly value your input.”

A predator’s approach of silent steps, then electric breath caressed his neck. If those jaws of teeth were to open now—if that tongue did crave the taste of flesh—Baldur tamped down his instinctive reaction, though could not prevent the heat. 

“I have conceived of three options,” said he, after swallowing down his wordlessness. “The first is to encircle the village, as we had previously discussed. This option is my favourite, but necessitates compromise. Our budget does not quite permit a best-practice wall—at least not one of the length implied in encircling Grey Harbour. A more modest one would certainly repel those mensual, mundane threats—goblins, bandits, fauna; the like—but an army possessing sufficient magick may make of the wall like a storm might to dykes. It may thus require upgrading, some century or two down the line, but ‘til then shall it certainly serve its purpose.” Ansur frowned, so he blustered onwards, “The second option—”

“—Has, I notice, a shorter perimetre.”

“…Yes,” said he, with a nervous smile, “that one would be studier.”

“At the expense, I see, of any living in its path.”

“At expense, also generally.”

“And option three?”

“—Is the line you see here—”

“Which currently encircles a beach?”

“Well—” Baldur said, now floundering, this sudden intensity intimidating, “that could be the port, in the future, or at least where it expands to.”

Ansur hummed indecipherably. “And if Grey Harbour’s to grow into a city, in which directions would it expand?”

Balduran hesitated for but a moment, before pointing to each side of the village: “To the west and east; along the waterfront. Into option three, if that’s what’s built, though it will doubtlessly outgrow it. And one day, perhaps, along the road, which shall lead to the river’s crossing.”

The flames of Ansur’s gaze now laved lava ‘gainst his nape, and he swore he heard the thunder rumble under Ansur’s words: “In my lair those days ago, I remember what you told me—that the protected town becomes a city. Yet none of these options would protect a town, let alone a city.”

Perspiration tingled at the border of his brow, and Baldur’s eyes were wide but unperceiving of the map. He could not fail, he must not fail, yet failure seemed to loom. ‘Twas in the doubt in the dragon’s voice, and in his quick and dry retorts. Ansur’s gold wasn’t charity, Balduran reminded himself, it was simply one half of a deal, and the deal’s other half was a city. (A city, and himself.) So following was that reality which burnt the back of his throat: Ansur was right, none would work—yet they were all he could afford.

Images—nightmares, really—flashed in his mind’s eye: Ansur returning with his gold to his lair, starkly disappointed—and Baldur left on the shores of Grey Harbour, bankrupted and broken. Suddenly could he acutely feel: how the dragon at his back did box him in, how trapped he was in this situation, how careful he needed to be.

Run, instinct pleaded, run and don’t look back. But he’d already done that once before, and he'd been running towards this. He did not know with confidence, if he’d find with success a new raison d’être.

But he would not let it come to that; he would salvage Ansur’s trust and respect; he would have their city built. But by the gods, he couldn’t think. Where’s your wit, you stumbling fool, which served you so well hitherto? Speak!  

“Ansur, my friend, you’re fully correct, and I fear that makes this harder. ‘Twas foolish of me to endeavour to find a solution without you—I fancy us a team, if you’d pardon the boldness, and I’d value your help on this problem.”

Ansur stood yet less than a wrist’s breadth behind him; he nary could meet those blue eyes when he spake: “I take it our problem is budgetary? The gold that we brought not being enough?”

“‘Twas my mistake in underestimating; I simply wished not to take more than I ought. This does not, however, imply an impasse; I have ere been known to make budgets stretch.”

“Do you think,” asked Ansur mildly, snout tilted so Baldur could peek white teeth (hidden betwixt draconic lips like daggers half drawn from their scabbards), and feel the air of warm words on his ears, “that what paltry sums that we brought back are where my means do end?”

“I saw your trove; of course I don’t,” Baldur rushed to assure Ansur. “It is simply that I dare not ask for more.”

“Then do not bother yourself with asking.” Ansur stepped away from his back, and turned to the balcony. “I have heard enough from your words already.”

Balduran bit his lip to forestall his apology, instead quietly observing the flexing planes of Ansur’s muscular back, as he calmly walked into the gentle breeze outside on the balcony.

A harrowing few seconds of silence passed. “How long would preparations take?”

“Preparations?” “To set sail.”

The vertigo of impotent failure nearly brought bile to the back of his throat. “Back to your lair, that is?”

A frown, “Where else would we get more gold?”

His heart stopped falling so suddenly that he felt knocked from his very own body. “More?” he whispered, awestruck.

Ansur’s frown deepened. “You have just made it quite clear to me that we do not yet have enough. You will find it a characteristic of mine is that I do not commit by halves. If walls do indeed a city make, then I shall not underinvest.”

“Oh,” Balduran said, “oh, my friend, I thank you. Oh, Ansur, dearest friend, I cannot thank you enough. Preparations—yes—a tenday or two, though it’ll be far less than two if I at all have any say. Yes,” he said, and laughed with relief, “I’ll begin preparations right away.”

Ansur’s look turned scrutinising, his head tilting then to the side. When realisation dawned upon him, his icy eyes grew slightly wide: “You thought I would rescind our deal.”

“I… admit that’s what I feared.” Balduran responded hesitantly, as if voicing the fear would realise it.

“You need not have,” Ansur replied. And that, really, was that.

Chapter Text

With the deadline Baldur set himself, there simply wasn’t time to buy a bigger ship. There were limits, in fact, to Balduran’s charm, and flagging down a passing ship navigating the Chionthar, likely with deadlines of its own and full up with cargo already, to kindly ask they lend its hold in its entirety for a day or three—no amount of gold or smiles, or for that matter, sly enchantments, would convince a lucid captain.

So, instead, they put aside a relatively paltry sum, for the pay of the next trip’s crew, and the rest paid for excavation works to begin in the local quarry. Baldur worked his non-magical magic, at the village square and in the only tavern, boasting of how easy, safe, and simple the following journey would be; easy gold for any sailor even halfway decent, really. Notice, pray, that he never mentioned the dragon’s lair, or indeed, the dragon himself; once again he aimed to discourage those avaricious sorts. It would not do to have even one of them in a boat weighed down by gold.

The boat was ready early, seven days after Ansur had stood on Balduran’s balcony; they departed by the eighth. The boat was lighter on the journey there, and the wind was in their favour. With a cruising speed of near eight knots, Ansur would not have even needed to circle too much to fly at pace. 

I say ‘would’, however, because he did not fly at all.

“I think I prefer the ocean from this humanoid point of view,” Ansur explained, upon Balduran’s enquiry. They stood together on the bow, overlooking the endless waves, stirred up by the wind and silvered by the sun. Baldur turned to his dragon companion, whose scales sparkled similarly, though more akin, for their part, to how gold might under torchlight.

“Why so?” asked Balduran, wondering (somewhat enviously) how the sea looked from high above.

“It is more—more,” Ansur said, with a furrow at his brow. “More infinite,” he spake, “when you cannot see land from further away; more powerful,” he spake, “when the waves rock the boat like a maid might a babe; more challenging,” he spake, as he turned to Balduran.

Balduran, who was grinning. “I used to think,” he said, “that we could not be more unalike.”

“And now?”

Baldur hummed.

“Is that, in part, why you sought me out?”

“You certainly didn’t disappoint.”

“I’d hate were that to be the case,” he said, too softly to seem sarcastic.

Balduran was nominally facing the sea, but his gaze was askance and his lips upturned. His eyes, indeed, seemed appraising; pleased, in a way; evaluating.

“I feel your mischief like a physical force,” Ansur spoke in monotone.

Baldur turned to lean back against the balustrade, head hanging loosely to face Ansur. “When was it last, o dearest friend, that you found yourself being challenged?”

Ansur turned bodily towards Baldur. “Before or since having met you?”

Balduran laughed, sincerely. “Physically, I mean.”

Ansur thought back as far as he could. “It has not happened recently.”

“Perhaps you’d like to change that?” Balduran asked, and pushed off the balustrade.

“What do you propose?” Ansur asked coolly. 

Balduran smiled, bowed, then—with a flick of his wrist—sent a dagger spinning straight up into the air. “A spar!” he said, then caught it with a flourish, and offered it handle-first to Ansur. 

“I would not hurt you,” Ansur frowned.

“You certainly wouldn’t,” Baldur winked, with a humorous glint in his eye. “But if you insist, I brought practice swords for this exact possibility.”

Ansur’s frown didn’t disappear; instead, it seemed to lose its reproach, and gain a new curiosity. His piercing gaze lingered silently a second too long for comfort. “Alright, then. Let us spar.”

Balduran pocketed his dagger again and took a brisk step backwards towards captain’s quarters. “I shan’t be a moment,” he grinned.

He had not specified that when he’d return, he’d throw one practice sword at Ansur. Yet it was not an overly heavy item, and true to its purpose, had no sharp edges. Ansur stepped back, reached out, and caught it out of the air. He dropped into a defensive stance, “Has the spar begun?” he asked.

“Hah!” Balduran laughed, delighted. He jogged the last few steps to Ansur. “Not yet, though I see now that challenging you may indeed prove challenging.”

“You’re off to a good start,” Ansur said, accommodating. “What will be the rules?”

“The basic sort,” Baldur shrugged. “Would you be interested, perhaps, in sparring magic-free?”

Ansur swung the practice sword, twice in a criss-cross move, then fell once more into a defensive stance. “Alright.”

Baldur did not hesitate. He jumped in, quick as a hare, feinting right then striking left. Ansur was quick to parry. He did not riposte. 

Balduran lunged backwards, and evaluated Ansur. “You show forbearance.”

“I am challenged,” Ansur responded.

“Do not humour me,” Balduran laughed, jumping in again for a strike, then pressing in for another when the first was parried. “You do not strike back.”

“I am overwhelmed,” Ansur responded. “I cannot find the time to do so.”

“You evidently find the time to jest,” Balduran grinned, and began striking repeatedly. Again, and again, each time a different angle, each time parried; “strike back!”

Ansur did. Baldur nearly did not dodge in time, and found himself caught on the back foot. He raised his sword to block the follow-through, but it was not forthcoming; Ansur had stepped back, allowing Baldur to recover.

The adventurer quickly jumped back into the fray: “Damn you, Ansur,” he laughed, “I will not shatter once struck!”

This, apparently, was the necessary assurance; Balduran’s following strike met a parry, and he barely caught the riposte on his quillon, then jumped back to avoid a follow-up. Ansur pressed his advantage, and Balduran felt his heart thump wildly. 

He faked a stumble, lips already moving in fervent whisper—

Ansur lunged forwards with sword outstretched—

“Et alibi!” 

—its blade met thin air. Baldur’s body had flashed a blinding white, and for just a moment, Ansur stumbled. It was the noise of rematerialisation behind him, and the slightest whoosh of air, that pushed him to dodge the blow from behind. 

He whipped around to face Baldur, who grinned at the mix of focus and surprise on the dragonborn’s visage. 

“I never said I would forego magic,” he shrugged unapologetically.

Ansur resettled himself slightly, a slow smile spreading on his lips. “Come to think of it,” he replied, “I don’t believe you did, no.”

Baldur grinned wider. “How curious. You do not strike me as vexed.”

“Do I strike you as challenged?” Ansur asked.

“You haven’t struck me yet,” Balduran laughed, “let us see if you strike me at all.” Thus proclaimed he theatrically, “Evanesco!” and so vanished.

Ansur’s smile broadened into a grin, which showed the daggers he had for teeth.

✵

Ansur would harbour several helpless wishes in the hours that would follow: that they’d been warned sooner, that their crew were battle-ready—even, hells, that the attack had come on the outward journey, instead of the return. 

Guiltily, he wished that their ship’s rigging had survived the fires better.

“Captain!” came the panicked voice which jolted them both awake. It was the first mate, Ansur noted, his eyelids parting, though he did not remember his name. “Pirates!”

Balduran swore, jumping out of bed, as Ansur rose from the hammock—which, at that moment, Ansur thought nought of. (The light of dawn peaked through the windows in parallel rays of sun.)

“We thought they were merchants,” explained the first mate, as they hurried onto the deck, “we tried to avoid them, of course, but their ship is faster, and ours is slower, what with the gold weighing us down, now, and then they raised the Jolly Roger, and, and bloody fuck, captain—it’s too late, we’re fucked!” 

Indeed, Ansur could see the sails of the approaching ship, which neared them so quickly, crowned by that black flag—familiar, to Ansur, for he used to target pirates (for those centuries ‘fore his enthrallment by one charming adventurer), a convenient way to grow his hoard whilst serving preemptive justice.

There was no preempting this justice, Ansur knew, even as he sprinted across the deck and threw himself off the bowsprit. The pirates were already here. 

The radiant light that engulfed Ansur was the pirates’ only warning, ‘fore a dragon flew up from the fore of the ship, glistering and furious. His roar sent lightning unto hostile sails, which could not resist the searing heat, and caught fire instantly.

He climbed then to the apex of the pirate ship’s mast, and clung on with his wings spread wide—trying, of a sort, to replace the sails which licked flames against his tail, and redirect the ship elsewhere, or slow its steady course, or do anything which would prevent these caitiffs, these monsters thirsty for blood, from boarding Balduran’s ship—

But indeed was it too late. 

The grappling hooks had caught on their ship, and the pirates were pulling it in, and when Ansur swooped in with claws out to sever the ropes before the ships could meet, he felt the piercing pain of a bolt puncturing his wing. His roar of electricity sent flaming men down screaming, but it wasn’t enough, there were always more. In the time he’d been distracted, more hooks had caught the ship, replacing the lines he’d severed, and another crossbow bolt shot through his other wing. 

He roared, in fury, in pain, in bone-deep mortal fear he did not hold for himself. He let his roars electrocute, and shock and put stop to beating hearts, and burn and crisp and char to the sound of guttural screams of agony, and only stopped when the third bolt pierced through his neck. 

He was a dragon— this was far from lethal, he would survive, but staying aloft burned, and breathing lightning burned, and the pirates were boarding—he had failed—

He heaved himself onto the deck of their ship, and transformed back into dragonborn form. Balduran was quick to reach him, with a fearful cry of “Ansur!” 

His hands roved lightly over the puncture wounds. For each, he breathed power through that ancient tongue, “Te curo”; and each time the burning flared then faded. 

Ansur stood up then, his three wounds only aching now, before unsheathing his sword and slaying the pirate who sought to sneak up on Balduran. His scowl mimicked the vicious things on the pirates’ hideous faces.

“I have told the crew to lodge below deck and improvise weapons,” Baldur said, only wishing they had time for gratitude. “If we die and they surrender, most will likely be tortured to death.”

“You will not die,” Ansur growled, plunging his sword into enemies as he breathed bursts of lightning, mindful not to set their ship aflame, whilst Balduran fought with the grace of a cat facing charging rabid hounds.

A good number of the pirates were dead, but it seemed like hordes remained, and having correctly identified Ansur as the greater threat amongst the two, they were trying to encircle him. He was outnumbered, two to one, then three to one, and for each excuse of a man he culled, two more seemed to sprout. 

Ansur did not know how Baldur was faring anymore, having gone from fighting back-to-back to different sides of the deck. He had not seen him for perhaps a minute—perhaps even minutes—and though he’d heard no indication that Balduran had been hurt, over the roars and screams of vicious battle, he was not sure he would have heard had Baldur screamed, anyway. 

And then he was sure he would have, because precisely that occurred.

It was a shout of pain that plunged fear through Ansur’s heart just as sure as any blade, and instinct took over. He roared, carelessly spitting lightning at anything that moved, letting those surrounding him burst aflame, alongside some loose rope on the deck.

All at once, Ansur was not under attack, and before he knew it, he was across the deck, hilt-deep in Baldur’s attacker, heaving breaths of static and sparks, his eyes wide with icy fire. A slash cut into his side, but he dodged the worst of it, let lightning overflow from his muzzle like searing execration, and the final upright bodies on the deck joined those many collapsed and spilling red.

Ansur dropped, then, to his knees, dropped his sword somewhere within his reach, but pointed away from—

Balduran sat propped against the mast, breathing shallowly and scowling in pain. He clutched a dark red gash on his belly, which seemed to be flowing still.

One of Ansur’s hands covered Balduran’s on the wound, and the other tipped his chin upwards to make their gazes meet. “Te curo,” Ansur rumbled urgently. “Te curo.”

Baldur’s eyes trailed to Ansur’s wound, obvious with no tunic to cover it, and lifted a hand to reach out to it.

“For yourself, you selfless fool!” Ansur hissed. He caught that reaching hand and put it back ‘gainst Baldur’s wound. “Te curo,” he said again, and wished so desperately he had that healing magic that Baldur made look easy. 

“Te curo,” Balduran hissed, then hissed again at the burn of parted flesh restitching back together. 

“Again,” Ansur ordered, thumbing over Baldur’s cheek to get him to open his eyes. He was spreading blood on Baldur’s face. “Say it again.”

Baldur’s gaze did not stray from his as he whispered again, “Te curo.”

The bleeding was slowing—perhaps it had even stopped.

“Again,” Ansur ordered, and Baldur did. 

“Again.” He did.

“Again.” Balduran shook his head. 

“Why not?” 

“I have… only one left in me,” Balduran breathed, and Ansur noticed that his breathing came more easily. Balduran attempted again to reach out to Ansur’s wound.

“Save it,” Ansur barked, swatting away the hand. “I am a dragon, I heal faster than you. Keep your final spell for yourself, in case you need it again.”

Balduran hesitated, glancing between Ansur’s face and wound, then froze, visage twisted in horror as he glimpsed the flames behind Ansur. “Fuck!” he exclaimed. “The rigging’s ablaze! Fuck!”

Ansur’s head whipped around to confirm the verity of this statement. The fire had spread from the deck’s loose ropes—and via the grappling lines, from the pirate ship—to the rigging, and was climbing the tarred hemp alarmingly quickly. If it reached the oiled canvas of the sails—

“Fire! All hands on deck, form a bucket chain!” cried Balduran towards the hatch. Some terrified scrambling ensued—which Ansur paid no mind to, as he hastily jumped to his feet.

“I—” he said, then rushed to push Balduran back against the mast, from where he was attempting to stand as well. “No,” he growled, then softened slightly. “No, stay there. I’ll fix this,” he said.

“Ansur!” called Balduran, reaching out a hand, but Ansur was already flapping his mighty wings, flying at those greedy flames, claws stretched out in readiness to cut the whole lot away, heedless of the blistering heat that licked against his underbelly.

It was only when all ablaze on their ship had been doused or cut away, and when Ansur had pulled their ship far enough from the blazing wreck of the pirates’, that he landed back on the now-wet deck in his dragonborn form. His countenance may have seemed unfazed, but he stilled as Baldur marched towards him with an unreadable expression.

Ansur’s captain stopped before him, surveying the burns that blemished his body. His mouth twisted unhappily, and he brushed his fingertips lightly against Ansur’s motionless chest.

“Te curo,” he finally, miserably breathed. 

Ansur stiffened more a moment, then sagged lightly into his touch. Under Balduran’s gentle fingers, he felt he could breathe again.