Chapter Text
There were times, in his line of work, that Miles found himself in unusual and dangerous situations, and shivering on a deserted North City street corner long before sunrise definitely qualified.
“You Miles?” Miles jumped at the gruff voice and turned to find himself face to face with a man built like a bear.
He nodded and the big man laughed. “You’re Buccaneer, then?” He certainly hoped so; any hope he had of defending himself vanished at the sight of the man.
“I am.” He extended a large metal hand. He gave Miles an appraising look. “You sure you’re up for this?”
Miles flushed brightly, knowing he looked ridiculous; On top of everything he’d been told he would need to survive a trek in the Briggs’ Mountains his own equipment weighed him down. He nodded sharply, hefting his rucksack higher.
“You got all the supplies Karley told you to, then?” Buccaneer asked, eyeing the bundles with a slight smirk. When Miles nodded again, he continued fiercely “and you understand that I don’t guide dragon hunters?”
“Yes, of course! Karley made that point quite clearly.” He hesitated and then added, because Buccaneer was mildly terrifying, “I’m a scholar, I only want to study the wyvern.”
Buccaneer nodded, then narrowed his eyes at him, “if I even suspect you have ideas of poaching-”
“Wyverns are incredibly rare!” Miles interjected, horrified, “there’s only one verified to even exist in Amestris, and-”
Buccaneer smiled suddenly and brightly. “Well, you seem alright, then. It’s about six hours to the first rest on the mountainside, so we should get going. Ready?”
“Er, shouldn’t we consult a map?”
The big man snorted, contemptuously. “You asked for a native guide, didn’t you? I was born and raised in these mountains, I know them better than any map.”
“Oh.” Miles nodded, “right.”
---
The hike up the mountain was bitterly cold and Miles was miserable. Buccaneer glanced over his shoulder periodically to make sure he was keeping up, but was not at all talkative. By the time they reached the cramped little cave that served as shelter for travelers, Miles was convinced he would die long before they reached the top.
“So,” Buccaneer asked as he kindled a fire, and Miles tried to rub some semblance of warmth back into his fingers, “why do you want to study the wyvern?”
“Huh?” Miles had so long been fascinated by dragons the idea of not wanting to study one was foreign to him.
“If you really don’t want to hunt her, you can’t be after any rewards, so why?”
“I’m writing an anthology.” Buccaneer nodded at his explanation and they sat, eating in companionable silence until, “her?”
“What?”
“You keep referring to the wyvern as her, how can you tell?”
“Oh, er,” Buccaneer, strangely, seemed to blush, “it’s not so much that I know, as I have a hunch. She or her is just easier to say.”
Miles narrowed his eyes behind his dark glasses, but let it go; if Buccaneer knew more than he was letting on, then he would just have to work to earn his trust.
By the second week of their search, Miles was convinced Buccaneer was deliberately leading him in circles. He had glimpsed the soaring figure of a dragon in the distance a few times, but each time he wanted to get closer, Buccaneer had a reason not to:
“She’s hunting--see how she keeps swooping?--you’ll get eaten.”
“That looks like a straight shot, but there’s actually a gorge, we’ll have to go the long way.”
“Do you have a death wish?! We can’t crowd her against those boulders like that!”
Shivering as they huddled around their campfire one night, Miles set down the book in which he’d been sketching the wyvern’s wings as he had seen them in flight, and finally asked, “why do you do this?”
Buccaneer glanced at him, “you mean, lead scrawny little city slickers like you around the mountain? You’re paying me.”
“Technically, I payed Karley to pay you,” Miles cleared his throat, “regardless, there are plenty of guides and you could make more money if you did lead dragon hunters. Why lead a scholar who swears not to poach, and not the ones who could afford to pay you more?”
Buccaneer scoffed, and Miles thought he wouldn’t answer, but he did. “How familiar are you with my people?”
Miles shook his head apologetically, “sorry, my area of research is more about dragons than people.”
Buccaneer waved away his apology, “I doubt there’s much written about us anyway.” He turned the meat over the fire, thoughtfully, “we believe in the life force of the mountain. All of the mountain’s creatures are sacred.”
“Is that meat from down the mountain then?” Miles cringed as soon as the words left his mouth, “er, I didn’t mean-”
Buccaneer laughed, “we do take the lives of animals, sometimes, yes. But, we honor their sacrifices; we use the fur for warmth, the meat to sustain our bodies, and the fat and the bones for light and heat.” Miles nodded, and Buccaneer continued, “to take the wyvern would serve no purpose; her meat would be lean and stringy, she has no fur for our warmth, and she has not enough fat for light or heat.”
“Ah,” Miles smiled slightly, “so you’re resourceful.”
“That and she’s a beautiful creature,” Buccaneer’s features softened a little, “to kill such a creature for greed would be unforgivable.”
Miles couldn’t help but smile in response, “I’m glad to hear that. Have you ever been close to her?”
Buccaneer’s face closed off almost immediately, but he didn’t look angry, merely guarded as if by habit, “not too close, no.”
“Really?” Miles raised his eyebrows. “Why don’t you want me to get close to her?”
“I’m trying to not get you killed.”
“She hasn’t killed you yet.”
“Because I’m not fool enough to put my nose in where it doesn’t belong!” Buccaneer snarled, “if you want to get yourself killed then hire another guide!”
Miles jumped at the harsh tone, “I’m sorry,” he managed after a minute, “I didn’t mean any offense, I just got carried away. I was able to get up close with the sand dragons right away, but they’re used to my people cohabiting with them.”
“Cohabiting?” There was an almost amused glint in Buccaneer’s eye, the anger gone as quickly as it had come.
“It means-”
Buccaneer snorted. “I’m not an idiot, I was just envisioning you marching into the wyvern’s cave and cohabiting.”
“So you have been in her cave.” Buccaneer made a noise not at all unlike the growl of a bear, and Miles held his hands up placatingly.
“I’ll take you as close as I think is safe, and after that it’ll be your own head. Got it?”
Miles nodded, and there was nothing more to be said.
---
Nearly a month into his foray and Miles had countless sketches of the wyvern in flight, and even a whole page and a half of writing about a particularly impressive hunting trip--she had taken out one of the infamously fierce Brigg’s bears, and Miles had watched in a kind of horrified awe as she flew away, carcass dangling from her blood-stained mouth--but no up close sightings. To make matters more complicated, they were constantly stumbling across hunting groups and Buccaneer’s mood had gone from bad to worse. The problem, as he pointed out, in colorful language that made Miles cringe, was that anyone willing to flout the poaching laws was not likely to be particularly trustworthy.
Miles was no fool; he noticed the way the groups had eyed them and he knew they would be entirely happy to slit his throat if they thought the leather-bound journal he guarded vigilantly would give them clues as how to find and, more importantly, kill the wyvern.
And then the wind shifted and the sky turned dark. They scrabbled towards shelter, Buccaneer physically grabbing Miles and forcing him to move faster, when they saw the lights of a hunting party nearby. Buccaneer stopped so abruptly Miles plowed into him.
“Listen to me,” Buccaneer turned and grabbed Miles’ tightly by the arms, “I’m going to go and herd them toward a cave system lower in the mountain. You keep going up that way and you’ll find a safe cave to wait out the storm in.”
“Wait-”
“There’s not time to argue!” The big man snapped, tugging the heavy fur wrap he usually wore around his shoulders off and wrapping it around Miles, “I know their types, as long as they think I’ll work for them, they’ll not bother me.” He tied the fastenings of the wrap securely. “You on the other hand, I’ve seen your eyes, you won’t last a day.”
Miles opened and shut his mouth pointlessly.
“Keep this on, you hear?” Buccaneer finished tying the wrap and gave him a shove, “go straight up and you’ll make it to a cave. Get in it and stay in it until the blizzard passes.” Without waiting for a response, he started down the other way, shouting “Go!” over his shoulder.
Miles ran up the steep incline, feeling the combined effects of the altitude and the cold stealing his breath. His chest ached, and with every step he feared he was veering off course. At last, just as the sting of the snow became unbearable he spotted the entrance to the cave. He scrambled in and leaned against a craggy rock wall, breathing heavily. He slumped with relief and waiting for the ringing in his ears to die down. His face, hands, and chest were stinging with cold and after the brightness of the storm, his vision swam with purple spots. A soft, deadly, rumbling and a wave of hot air chased the thoughts from his mind.
He swallowed nervously and turned. A pair of deep blue eyes were staring at him, mere feet from his face. The Wyvern.
The dragon gave another rumbling warning and Miles stared, transfixed. The eyes were set in a large, scaly face, golden horns glinting in the dim cave light.
“Oh, hello.” Miles said faintly, as the head moved closer to him. “I’m sorry to intrude.”
The wyvern snorted, and brought her face very close to his chest, sniffing at the fur Buccaneer had insisted he wear. She snorted again, and pulled back, blinking in an almost puzzled manner. With a little distance between them, Miles was able to take in the long sinewy body of the wyvern, white scales shimmering against the glittering background of a hoard.
Ishvala have mercy, Miles thought as he realized he had not so much as stumbled into the same cave the wyvern was sheltering in, but into her home. She was eyeing him warily, and he wasn’t sure what she was going to decide.
“I’m really sorry.” He wondered if he was crazy for talking to the wyvern like she could understand. He decided it wouldn’t matter if he became her snack. “Please let me wait in here until the storm passes.”
She sniffed the air again and then rubbed her face on Miles’ chest. “Um,” he reached a cautious hand up to touch her horn, but as soon as he moved she yanked her face back, hissing angrily.
“Sorry!” He held his hands up, “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She snorted again, the sound almost contemptuous. Miles held his breath while she regarded him, at last she sat back and he breathed a sigh of relief. He slid slowly down the wall to sit on the rock floor and continued slowly warming his hands and carefully taking in his surroundings.
The cave was larger than he had initially taken it for, with craggy offshoots, burrows, and ledges. Where he had come in was fairly bare, but a few feet further down, the floor and walls were lined with what he could only categorize as loot: things valuable enough for her to take and bring into her hoard, but not of any particular use or value to her. There were piles of furs and books (Miles’ fingers itched to get near them, some looked quite old), and assorted luggage, a saddle--Miles cringed to think what had happened to it’s horse and rider--and other random things he would expect to see a traveller carrying.
The larger part of the cave, however, glittered. Like all dragons, this wyvern had a magpie’s eye for treasure. She had made herself a bed of gold coins and jewelry, which she clawed at idly as she stared at him. In a place of honor on the back wall was a mound of weapons, of all types and makes, though, the elaborate arrangement of swords at the very top pointed to an obvious favorite.
When enough time had elapsed that Miles didn’t think she was going to suddenly pounce, he carefully shifted, and with slow movements picked up his bag. The wyvern straightened at that, leaning forward slightly, watching him with narrowed eyes.
In case she did understand him, he began narrating in a low, soothing, tone. “I want to get my journal,” he explained carefully, “it’s a book where I write observations and make sketches.” She tilted her head and he continued, encouraged, “I’m a scholar. I want to learn about you.”
He pulled the journal out carefully and untied the cord binding its leather covers, he turned the pages until he found a good sketch. “See?” He smoothed the pages and held them out for her inspection, “this is a sand dragon I studied in Ishval.”
She leaned forward and sniffed the paper experimentally. Her face, much more expressive than the sand dragon’s, crinkled in disdain and she pulled back, making little huffing sounds that he was pretty sure were sneezes.
He chuckled, “sorry, I guess it’s a bit sandy.”
She huffed and burrowed a little more into her trove. Miles jotted down a few notes, but as the blizzard raged outside it soon became too dark to see and he tucked the book back down into his rucksack.
He shivered and dug out more layers to put on, in the process dislodging the small knife he carried for protection. It clattered noisily on the rock floor and he jumped guiltily. The wyvern dove for it, sending sprays of gold across the cave.
“Sorry, sorry!” Miles apologized hastily, “I don’t mean any harm-”
She snatched it up with her talons and clutched it to herself. Her underbelly was gray and white, almost blue, camouflage for the Briggs’ sky. Moving with an awkward kind of grace, she clambered back onto her pile of gold, one wing outstretched for balance,using her tail to sweep it back into a mound. She set it carefully in an upside down helmet in her weapons pile. Then turned back to survey him. After a moment, she clambered off her gold pile and with a look he interpreted as a warning to stay still, moved toward the back of the cave.
As Miles curiously watched, she dug into a pile in the back and returned with a scroll clutched between her teeth. She dropped it carefully into his lap and sat back to watch him.
“What is-?” He hesitated and fidgeted with the ribbon holding it shut. “Oh! Is this a gift?” She snorted and clambered back onto her gold mound. “Is this common for you, then?” He wondered aloud, as he began unrolling it, “sand dragons exchange gifts sometimes.”
She dug deeper and settled in comfortably, he would have thought she was sleeping except for the way her narrowed eyes watched him over the top of the wing she had pulled around herself.
As she shifted, something caught his eye, she was holding her wing awkwardly and a long red line streaked angrily across it. “What’s happened to your wing?”
She snarled, folding her wing with a leathery snap.
Miles’ brows shot up. “You do understand me.” She hissed and turned her face away spitefully. He sighed, and slowly, carefully pushed himself up off the floor, “well, if it’s alright, I’m going to make myself comfortable.”
She turned back to watch him as he carefully stretched his aching limbs. He hauled his pack over to what appeared to be a pile of furs and prodded it experimentally. It looked as though someone, likely Buccaneer, had slept there, and it was easy enough to clamber into the middle and get comfortable.
He let out a groan of disgust as the stench hit him. “Don’t you ever air these out?”
She snorted and Miles could swear she was laughing at him.
“Of course,” he chuckled to himself, “you’re a dragon. Not very domestic.” She huffed again, and he murmured “well, goodnight I guess.”
He woke up quite suddenly, and for a moment he didn’t know why. Something, or someone, was crawling into the layers of fur beside him. He froze, completely at a loss. Nothing he had read or observed had suggested that dragons would keep prisoners. Certainly, small enough individuals had been mistaken for prey animals, but if they weren’t killed in the fight, they usually turned up in a few days.
The person pressed freezing hands and feet to his back and legs. They were small, larger than a child’s, but almost certainly belonged to a woman. He had never felt so uncomfortable in his life. Only the thought that she might be in danger kept him from crying out and potentially awakening the wyvern.
“Um, hello?” He received no answer and slowly began to push himself up on his arm to turn over.
“Don’t look at me!” The voice was rough as though unused for some time, but definitely female. She shoved him face-first back into the furs.
“Why?” It wasn’t the best response, perhaps, but he was a scholar, afterall and curiosity would always be his initial response.
“Tch!” She pushed away and the furs shifted as she made to climb out.
“Wait!”
“What?”
Miles swallowed at the deadly tone. “It’s freezing out there. Unless you have somewhere else to stay warm?”
There was a long silence while she deliberated and then she slid slowly underneath the covers to rest her back against his.
“Sleep well, then.” He certainly didn’t.