Archive of Our Own ^beta

It must take a surprising amount of courage to reach up and peck the statue of Caldarus on the snout. 

He feels curious confusion almost immediately. Stepping back from his form, a nervous smile creeps onto your lips. You wait.

“A kiss?” Comes his question.

You nod, shy teeth reaching out to bite your lower lip. “For good l-luck,” you stumble over your words. 

It has only been two weeks since Caldarus awoke, declaring himself the ancient guardian of Mistria and only that, as far as his memory goes. The spring air is cool on his stone, petals from flowering fruit trees wafting down, some into your hair. 

Caldarus pauses, then says, “I have no memory of ever receiving one before.” He muses a moment. Then, “How would a kiss bring good luck?”

Your shoulders bunch up then down. “A lot of travellers rub statues on their toes or bellies for good luck or prosperity. I figured a kiss on the nose would be a bit more…mm…respectful, since you’re alive.”

His hum reverberates in your mind. “I see.”

Suddenly, you wave a hand to him. “I’ll see you later,” and you trot away before he can say anything more.

Despite your obvious nerves, you do it again the next day.

“Another?” His curiosity is piqued. “Did the one yesterday not bring luck?”

“Actually, it did!” You dig in your pocket and bring out a small, uncut ruby. It glistens dully in the sunlight. You wipe a bit of fuzz from it. “Found this in the mines, maybe an hour before I came back! This will buy me a few bags of seeds, I’m sure.”

“Hmm. Good. I have noticed your crops are growing remarkably well. Adding more will bring you good fortune, I am sure.”

A grin. “Kissing a living dragon statue also seems to bring good fortune.” Again, you wave your hand at him, calling out a goodbye before going about your day.

A week passes like this: you, wading through the thick, overgrown grass surrounding his shrine in the morning and pressing your lips to his snout. It is the barest of warmth he feels when you do, like distant sunlight in a cave. And at the end of each day, you come back to report on what luck he brought you: an extra bass caught on the same hook, an overgrown berry bush discovered at the edge of your farm, more rubies and forage from the mines you can sell to bolster your ventures.

“I believe,” he says one day, weeks later and the press of your kiss fading from his snout, “that it is your own doings that give you luck.”

Your head tilts. “What makes you say that?”

Caldarus takes a moment to think. “You are a remarkably determined individual. You carry through what you put your mind to. It is…admirable. And so may have nothing to do with me whatsoever.”

Your hands slap your hips. “Caldarus, are you saying you don’t enjoy my kisses?”

Something in him coils, like a shy snake being uncovered from a rock. His voice sounds a bit lighter and quieter than normal when he says, “On the contrary.”

Your laughter is bells and bird song to his ears.

And so it goes for days and weeks and months. Your farm grows, as does your friendship with Caldarus. Each day brings your soft or chapped or worn or bruised lips to his snout, claiming “good luck.” And he offers what wisdom he can in return. 

Until one winter day, you call out to him. One cold day, he cannot offer simple wisdom, and you a simple smile, to break the ancient, forbidden chains that hold you down outside the Fire Seal. One stark day, he breaks his own chains, desperate, clawing, trying and succeeding in saving you from a folly no one could foresee.

And now, Caldarus sits in his new body, his robes tracing the breeze that blows through the temple grounds. He feels weak. Tired, all the time. These new limbs are much smaller and more frail than he anticipated. Worn. He is also ravenously hungry all the time - a problem you often remedy by bringing by one good meal a day. Here you come now, dismounting your horse at the steps of the temple grounds. Caldarus has the sweetly sour taste of bell berries on his tongue, and he watches you walk up the temple steps to the right, eyes scanning for him. He calls your name, and your smile dazzles him.

“I brought curry and rice today,” you announce, hefting your backpack round your side and sitting next to him on the bench. Caldarus feels the heat of your leg against his. It is comforting. He wants to nestle into it, sap up the warmth for himself. The spring days are still cool, not yet turning over into summer. He is distracted by the clay bowl you bring out. A tight knot of twine keeps the lid firmly on. You undo it and take the lid off.

He is assaulted by the pungent smell of butter and cumin and garlic and onions. Immediately, his stomach growls, far fiercer than any dragon could utter himself. Your smile is telling, and you hand him the bowl. He takes it gently. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

As he eats, you stretch your calves, tell him about your day so far. You don’t use the dragon statue as much as you probably could, preferring still to ride your mount into Mistria and start your day there. Caldarus suspects his old statue makes you a trite uncomfortable without him in it anymore, but he has yet to ask. 

There is also the matter of your broken habit.

Again, he isn’t sure what you do in the mornings. Perhaps you still kiss the snout of that old statue for good luck. But, lately, as Caldarus regains his wits and strength, he has felt…he isn’t sure. It is a new emotion that spins like broken yarn in his chest whenever he thinks of it. Do you still kiss the statue, even though the true Caldarus sits next to you every day? Do you still believe in the good luck it brings?

“ - and I tripped over two rocks today. Not in the mines, just on the way to the mill!” Your huffy sigh brings him out of his thoughts, and he looks up. You’re pouting, examining your skidded knee, patched over with a few bandages. There is the faint brown splotch of dried blood underneath. “You’d think I’d be better at walking, having done it so long,” you laugh.

Caldarus swallows his food and says, “I think you have done remarkably well for how young you are.”

Your brows raise, and he finds himself smiling. He isn’t sure why. “How ‘young’ I am? I’m not a toddler, Cal.”

He blinks. “To someone as old as I, you may as well be.”

You bark out a laugh. “Right, I forget you’re a grandpa.”

He’s learned this is meant to be a ‘joking jab’ between friends. He smiles more. “Perhaps you could bring me a carved cane tomorrow. It would suit my ‘grandfatherly’ age.”

Your elbow lifts to nudge him gently in the ribs. There is that warmth again. He scoots closer to you, tail subtly wrapping around the leg of the bench, just behind your feet. You look at him and lean on his shoulder. “Have you been keeping warm at night?”

“Warm enough,” he answers. 

“Hm. I’ll see if my sheep can give me some more wool and make another blanket for you.”

He’d appreciate that. This body is much, much cooler than his dragon self. He is often wracked by shivers on even warm spring days. He wonders how summer will fair. 

Looking back at you, he sees you have retreated into your own thoughts. Your eyes are distant, and there is a small frown on your lips. Briefly, he flits through what you’ve told him: one of your peach trees is blooming late leaves, Balor’s prices have gone up, a cow of yours hasn’t given milk in three days, and you tripped twice today. Worries crease your brow. He wants to reach out and smooth the crease out with his thumb.

He places the bowl of mostly-eaten curry to the side, and places a hand to your cheek. It is warm and smooth, and suddenly very twitchy under his fingers. You’re out of your thoughts immediately, looking at him. Alert, like a warrior should be. “What are you doing?” you ask.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to the tip of your nose - before he can back out, before he can take offense (embarrassment?) to the bewildered look on your face. It is shaky, and he knows his lips are cold. He feels quick heat under the palm of his hand from your cheek. 

You blink. “What was that for?” Your voice is shaky, like you want to laugh.

Caldarus leans back, but keeps his hand at your skin. Then, he intones the same phrase you’ve said every morning for the past year: “For good luck,” his rumbly, deep voice murmurs.

Recognition sparks in your eyes. A true laugh bursts out, and you reach up to take his hand in yours. “I thought you didn’t…well, I don’t know!”

His own smile reaches his eyes. Didn’t remember? Didn’t like it? Both untrue. “It is a good tradition to start your day, is it not? And it seems you need more luck.”

“That I do,” you say, and peck his nose in return. Caldarus feels a fire rush to his own cheeks; a curious, new sensation. His tail curls meekly around his feet. Far less ‘grandfatherly’ and more ‘shy adolescent’ now.

Still, you chuckle and lay your head on his shoulder, looping your arm through his. Another new sensation: he’s heard you describe it as ‘butterflies in the stomach.’ An apt description, he decides. You both continue to sit there for a while yet, watching the new birds fly through the air, the blossoms of fruit trees tangling in both of your hair.