Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Elibe has seven gods.

This is what anyone will tell you. It’s very ambiguous, of course, what the specific influence on Elibe the gods had, but everyone agrees that they existed in one form or another. The early Hepanists worshipped the gods as a pantheon of individuals, while the Sacae saw them as entities born of the union of Mother Earth and Father Sky, children of the universe that breathed life into a barren world. And there are others who think the gods walk among the people, others who think the gods were not gods but the schools of elemental magic given names and faces, and still others who say there are no gods and there never were. But no matter what you believe, it always leads back to them— the Seven Creators, the ones who created Elibe and all it holds. The world began with them. That’s what everyone agrees.

But there is an eighth. The eighth, the unwanted child-god born from the blissful, ignorant peace and cooperation between humans and dragons and gods. When she is born, knowing thus far only the love from which she was born and painfully, achingly innocent to anything else, the world is plunged into strife, and she is its only apparent cause.

She is Idunn, and when she is born, history begins.

Before the beginning, the world was alight with magic. The land was plentiful and its creatures were peaceful. There were quarrels, certainly— no land is without occasional disagreements— but fights were few and far between, and the idea of war hadn’t even been considered. In this ancient time, the gods walked among the mortals, dragon and human alike. They would talk to the mortals, ask occasional questions about what mortality was like, and sometimes they would dispense advice or perform miracles. They were divine, all-knowing, all-powerful. Not kind or loving, particularly, but benevolent. In the world the Seven created, magic was common and it was potent— the magic Elibe has now is merely a fraction of what it was when the gods walked the land. It was a time of magic and prosperity, a time of cooperation and understanding, of plenty, of wealth, of love.

Some say that Idunn’s birth must have been deliberate. She must be the child of one of the gods, they say. Why else would she be a goddess herself? But others argue that it was a fluke of creation, an accident, and still others say that she was the work of a sorcerer pursuing immortality. But whatever the case may be, Idunn is born four hundred and twenty-six years before the Scouring and the time of the Eight Legends, and she is born on a warm spring night in the wedding grove of a church of no particular consequence, as a little girl with pale hair and wide eyes, one red and one green.

For a very brief, blissful time, Idunn marvels at the world she’s been born into. She’s born surrounded by tiny white flowers, dotting the deep green grass and clover patches like tiny stars. The night is warm and clear. Little Idunn rises on short, unsteady legs. She stumbles, unused to her own size, but she is a goddess, even if she does not know the power she has, and she adapts to her form quickly. She sees the night sky above her, deep and wide, and around her, the fertile, peaceful land of ancient Elibe. She stands in the courtyard of the largest temple of the Seven, surrounded by flowers and shrubs and the swaying branches of a willow tree. Around her the temple walls are high, ringed with fenced walkways to let in the light. In the center there is a fountain with seven figures. The water cycles through the fountain and comes out of spouts, providing a constant trickle. Silver coins glimmer in the basin.

Idunn walks to the fountain. She wiggles up until she’s kneeling on the bench ledge running around the circumference of the pool and tilts her head at her reflection in the water. The reflection tilts it back. There’s grass in her hair and smudges of dirt on her soft baby cheeks. She reaches out and tries to touch it, and startles when the water ripples in response. She does it again, striking her hand through the surface of the water.

It’s cold, cold to the touch, cold like the stone she’s kneeling on. She leans in, one tiny hand gripping the ledge. Below the surface, she sees the shine of silver coins, and she, like a young child, immediately forgets what she had planned to do. She reaches in, shivering at the chill and learning the feeling of cold and the feeling of water, and reaches, reaches for the shiny coins.

Her arms are short. She sticks her tongue between her teeth and lunges, finally grabbing a coin in her tiny fist. But her victory is short-lived, as she tumbles into the fountain.

What a very unfair start to Idunn’s short life.

She sits up, coughing out the water from her little lungs. It soaks her short hair, plastering it to her head. The water reaches up to her chest, so it’s obviously not that deep. But it’s deep enough that a human child her size probably shouldn’t be there without supervision. She pulls herself to standing, using the rim of the fountain for support. Her clothing, a piece of cloth pinned around her waist, is soaked. Luckily, she doesn’t really care. What she does care about is the fact that she can’t quite climb over the ledge, and when she tries, she falls back into the water with a splash.

Naturally, this is quite upsetting to Idunn. The breeze is colder on wet skin, and she doesn’t like it. She feels the cold, the water. There are still silver coins on the bottom of the pool, and she reaches down and picks them up in her tiny hand. She can’t count them and can’t read the tiny words stamped into their faces, and she doesn’t know that the animal they bear is a horse.

“Oh,” someone says. Idunn looks up. There’s someone standing by the fountain. Her robes are green and cascade long past her ankles, and yet she never trips, and they bloom with flowers in red and orange and pink and yellow, and there is a crown of woven willow twigs perched upon her head. She is serene but distant, and yet she looks at Idunn with a wrinkle in her brow— perhaps the first time something has prompted such an expression.

“Gro-wa,” Idunn says. She smiles. She knows this is Gróa like she knows she is Idunn; it’s written somewhere in her mind, instinctive knowledge of the gods. A god will recognize their fellows, after all, and Idunn, strange circumstances or not, is a godling in her own right.

Gróa’s expression does not change. “Hello, tiny one,” she says. “What are you?”

“Idunn,” Idunn says. She holds her arms out to Gróa. “Up?”

Gróa’s face wrinkles just a tiny bit, almost in disgust. She does not pick Idunn up. “You are not one of us,” she says. “And yet, you are no dragon, and you are no human. What are you?”

“Idunn,” Idunn repeats. She puts her arms down. She really would like to get out of the fountain, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon.

“Mm-hmm,” Gróa says. “Hulda.”

Hulda appears, as if the shadows solidified and formed a door out from which she walked. She is tall and draped in deep violet and black, trimmed in glittering gold and silver. She appears with round spectacles on the end of her nose. Idunn knows that the gods can take any form they wish— they could appear as animals, or as trees, or as burning fires, or their true forms, incomprehensible and all-powerful and ever-changing and unknowable. But Idunn knows them. Idunn has never heard the word, but they are, by a loose definition of the word, her family.

Gróa jabs her chin in Idunn’s direction. “What is that?”

Hulda looks at Idunn and then back to Gróa. “Excuse me?”

Gróa looks at Hulda like she’s an idiot. “You know exactly what I mean. What is that thing in the fountain?”

“It appears to be a child, Gróa,” Hulda says.

Gróa rubs the bridge of her nose. “Yes, I can tell it’s a child. But what is it?”

“Idunn!” Idunn says helpfully.

Hulda nods to her. “Idunn, apparently.”

“Oh, that explains everything,” Gróa drawls.

“Well, Gróa, the child seems to be Aetherkind,” Hulda says, looking at Idunn through her glasses. “Fascinating! You know it’s nigh-unheard of that Aetherkind are born without the influence of one of their fellows.”

“You seem to have heard of it,” Gróa says flatly.

Hulda chuckles and adjusts her glasses. “Well, I’m somewhat of an expert in the unheard of.”

Gróa waves a hand. “Whatever. Get that child out of the blasted fountain and out of my sight. Aetherkind or not, she isn’t one of us. She was not one of the Aetherkind that created this world, and thus she is of no concern.”

Hulda frowns, but nods. “Of course, Gróa. But you know, the others…”

“They can do what they like about her, I well and truly do not care,” Gróa replies, walking off. “I have better things to do than worry about some infant taking up the space we made.”

Hulda looks from Gróa to Idunn. She shrugs, and picks Idunn up by the scruff of her neck. Idunn doesn’t like this very much, either, but at least it’s quick, and she’s unceremoniously dropped on the dry ground outside the fountain.

Gróa turns on a heel and leaves, back into the temple. Hulda frowns down at Idunn. Idunn smiles.

Hulda gestures as if to shoo her away like a fly. “Run along, cherub,” she says. “’Tis best to do what Gróa says and stay out of the way.”

“Gro-wa?” Idunn repeats. “Why?”

“Because,” Hulda repeats. “You’re not one of us.”

Hulda turns and takes another step, melting back into the shadows and vanishing as if she were never there at all. Idunn is alone in the courtyard once more, and the night is cold.

But Idunn is a goddess— Aetherkind, as the Seven call each other. She doesn’t know why she was born, but she knows that she was born of the unique magic woven of the invisible ties running between people the world over. She knows that she was born of love and hatred, of friendship and rivalry, of alliances and betrayals, of hands clasped with others in victory and camaraderie and hands that want to wrap around another’s throat. She was born of groups of children chasing each other in the streets, of mothers holding their newborns close and rocking them to sleep, of hatchlings nudging each other out of the nest, of rival business owners across the road from each other, of dragons fighting in the sky, of young couples stealing giggly moments behind hay carts and sheds, of mercenaries sparring to keep their skills sharp, of the dragons who sit by their mate as they return to the earth, of gossiping women in market squares exchanging gossip, of elderly widowers bringing flowers to their spouse’s grave. Where these exist, Idunn is, and so she wanders through towns and cities full of people who love and hate and laugh and cry, and she wanders through peaceful countryside all of fertile earth, land that has never once felt a scar.

There are some years after that. Not many, but nobody’s sure, and the time is long past living memory. But it’s time enough for Idunn to have wandered from one end of Elibe to the other, to have watched humans and dragons alike going about their daily lives. She is Aetherkind; she does not need to eat or sleep, but she does anyway. She eats when food comes her way in the form of berries on bushes and she frequently sleeps under trees and in meadows and on piles of hay farmers have yet to bale. She doesn’t grow, though she has the power to should she choose; she doesn’t know she has this power, and thus she stays as small as she was when she fell into the fountain.

The years are slow and languid. But as they pass they get sharper and darker, growing barbs and thorns that intrude upon the honeyed flow of the years before. They are thorns of grudges and strife on a larger scale than a scuffle between two swordsmen or two neighbors who just don’t get along. They are war, revenge, betrayal, exclusion, indifference, apathy, willful ignorance— the severing of relationships, the schisming of mortals, the sudden division between human and dragon.

The cause of the fighting is lost to history, buried in hearsay and grudges, but Idunn knows when it becomes a war because of how many young people stop by the shrine to Borghild, goddess of war and fire, praying for luck during the battle ahead. She sees Borghild herself, towering and magnificent, her armor gleaming and her beard braided with golden warrior’s beads, striding through the crowds of soldiers as if preparing to lead them into battle herself. But it bodes ill, even to the gods, that war has suddenly become part of Borghild’s domain when before all it meant was strength and martial prowess.

Idunn pays the war no mind. At least not until it starts to spread its fingers across the continent, tearing dragons and humans apart. The tension tears apart friendships and severs understanding, and Idunn knows, instinctively, that it happens. It upsets her— she’s too young to understand why it’s happening, but old enough to know that it’s bad.

The other gods cannot ignore this. In council, they sit and discuss what to do. They hold it on a mountaintop, and Idunn knows this because Idunn knows, by virtue of being Aetherkind, generally where the others are and what they’re doing, and so she finds a spot and sits down to listen. Borghild’s voice is the loudest; she sees the war firsthand, while the others do not.

“It’s humans against dragons,” she says. “They’re both getting slaughtered. There’s no honor in this.”

“What is there for us to do, Borghild?” Heidrun, god of light and home, replies. He too has a beard, but it’s long and wizened, and sticks out from his face in long strands instead of falling straight down or in the dignified braids in Borghild’s. “We don’t know how to stop a war, and even if we did, who’s to say it would work?”

“Well, it’s better than sitting on our hands as the mortals tear each other to shreds,” Hulda shrugs. “Come now, Heidrun, even a coward like yourself can see when one might need a little faith.”

“We’re gods to them,” Heidrun harrumphs. “If we need faith, then their world is truly lost.”

“I’m with Hulda,” Magni speaks up. He slouches in his seat, a sloshing tankard of mead in one hand. “Take a chance, old man. Roll the dice.” Magni is large and imposing like Borghild, but he lacks her impressive beard, instead sporting curly hair that sticks out from his head like he’d been struck by lighting— and given that he’s the god of thunder and chance, and electric-blue fractals arc their way up his bare arms in shifting, moving tattoos, that’s appropriate.

“Coming from you, that’s not an endorsement,” Orvar mutters. Orvar is the god of wind and traveling, and is (aside from Idunn, of course) the smallest and slightest of the gods. Magni glares at him and gives him a shove, bumping against the strings of Orvar’s lute and making it sound a dissonant twang.

“So, say we do roll the dice,” Borghild says. “Say we lose, and Elibe is gone. What do we do?”

Njord, god of ice and the ocean, shrugs. “We find somewhere new. That’s how things are.”

“I’m so glad at least one of you sees my side of the story,” Heidrun mumbled.

Hulda sighs. “But we’ll have let this entire world and all its secrets go to waste,” she protests. “Come now, isn’t it a shame that the mortals haven’t even figured out siege warfare or the internal combustion engine? I’ve so enjoyed watching them putter about thinking they’re innovating.”

“I would miss officiating those sailor weddings,” Njord admits.

“You’re still bothering with those?” Borghild snorts.

“I don’t judge you for what you do for fun—”

“Children,” Gróa interrupts. She’s been quiet the whole meeting, and Idunn soon realizes it’s because she’s staring across the circle, directly at Idunn, who’s sat herself between the benches to listen to the debate. “We have the answer right here.”

The gods all turn to look at Idunn. Idunn looks around, her hands on the hem of her skirt, sitting on the floor with her legs out in front of her.

Heidrun frowns. “Gróa,” he says. “What is… that?”

“Idunn!” Idunn says.

Hulda nods towards Idunn. “An infant Aetherkind,” she says. “Seems she still hasn’t figured out the tricks of our race. I suppose we can attribute that to that she was born of Elibe, rather than of the Aether.”

“She is not one of us,” Gróa says. “And I had thought that she would be of no concern, but it seems that has changed.”

“Why is she so small?” Borghild grunts, leaning down and poking at Idunn with the butt of her lance. Idunn grabs at it, gripping the pommel with her tiny hands. Borghild grimaces and tugs it out of her hands.

“Why is this our problem?” Magni asks. “So some cherub showed up. Why do we care?”

“Tiny one,” Gróa calls. Idunn looks up. “Come here.”

Idunn stands up and toddles to Gróa’s side, hooking a hand in her green robes. A petal detaches itself from one of the pink flowers blooming in Gróa’s robes and tickles Idunn’s nose as it falls. She sneezes. Gróa looks mildly disgusted, but doesn’t kick her away.

“Tell us,” Gróa says. “From what were you born?”

Idunn looks around. The other six gods look at her expectantly.

“Harmony,” she says. “I came from people loving each other and cooperating. Friends and spouses and parents and rivals. Where there is connection is where I am.” Which is not a sentence you would expect to hear from a human child her size and apparent age, but Idunn is not human.

“So her domain is, in essence, peace,” Gróa says. “Correct, tiny one?”

Idunn nods. She grabs at another falling petal and sticks it in her mouth.

“Peace and harmony and family and such,” Borghild sums up. “She sounds like she’d be one of your godlings, Gróa.”

Gróa’s nose wrinkles. “I think not.”

Magni snorts. “For the mortal’s goddess of family, you seem to really hate children.”

“That was their idea, not mine,” Gróa protests, her brow twitching in irritation. “Are we all quite finished? A new godling is born of peace, and not a moment later, war breaks out. It’s not out of the question that there may be a connection.”

Orvar frowns. “I don’t know, Gróa,” he says. “There didn’t cease to be wind because I’m here. There didn’t cease to be thunder because Magni is here.”

“We were not born of this world,” Gróa replies. “We merely created it. But this godling was born of the harmony and peace that existed between the mortals. And thus, I believe that her birth was what removed it.”

Idunn is young, but she knows what Gróa is getting at. She spits out the flower petal and lets go of Gróa’s robe, taking a step back. Idunn doesn’t like the way they’re all looking at her. It scares her. She wants to hide behind something that’ll protect her, something like the family she’s witnessed, but the only people resembling her family are the people she’s trying to hide from.

“So,” Borghild says. “We kill this cherub, we end the war?”

“Oh, must we?” Hulda frowns, almost pouting. “Gróa, think of what I could learn from her! If Elibe has the energy required to birth godlings, then surely there’s more where she came from.”

“It is what must be done,” Gróa says firmly. Her voice is loud and commanding. “It will be quick and merciful. I do not relish the killing of our own kind, but if it is to preserve the world we made, then so be it.”

Faster than Idunn can react, Gróa’s grabbed her wrist and lifted her up by it with no apparent effort. Her legs dangle in the air. Gróa looks at her with stoic disinterest.

“I didn’t mean to do anything wrong,” Idunn tries to say. “I’m—”

“This is what must be done,” Gróa cuts her off. “No words you say will sway me, cherub.”

The mountaintop is high and it cuts off into a cliff, a sheer drop that yawns beneath Idunn like the maw of a dragon. Fog obscures the bottom.

“Aetherkind cannot kill Aetherkind,” Gróa says. Wind whips at her hair, the clouds gathering behind her head and making her look, to Idunn, like an avatar of nightmares. “And so, you are no longer Aetherkind. Your divinity is forfeit. Your powers of the Aether are no more. You are, for all intents and purposes, mortal.”

The view of the cliff warps itself before Idunn’s vision. Her eyes sting. The wind is cold. Gróa’s hand around her wrist is locked like an iron manacle.

“Let history hear me,” Gróa announces. “This is a sacrifice for the greater good of Elibe. This is a sacrifice that will return peace to the hearts of the mortals. This is what must be done.”

Gróa lets go.

The wind is cold as she falls. She sees stone and sky and sky and stone and she sees the mist and the rock and the trees and then she sees the world grow very

very

dark.

.

.

.

Idunn wakes under rock and gravel. This seems odd, but it feels as if she shouldn’t have woken at all. Everything aches, even as she pushes the gravel away and squints in the light that seems blinding, despite the fact that it feels like she’s just seen it. But has she? The air is hot and sticky, and its humidity tells of late summertime and not the early spring that Idunn knew when Gróa dropped her from the cliff. But she can tell, immediately, that it has been years, not months.

She hears footsteps, harsh voices-- the voices of the gods. Idunn knows better than to make herself seen. She lies back down and prays they don’t notice.

“It didn’t work, Gróa,” Borghild hisses. “There’s still war! They’re still throwing my name at each other from opposing sides while they tear each other apart!”

“I have to agree,” Heidrun adds. “What do we do now? Getting rid of the child didn’t work. Elibe is going to fall to pieces!”

“This is less than ideal,” Hulda admits. “Gróa, what do we do?”

Gróa breathed. “We leave,” she says. “That was the plan from the beginning. Elibe is unsustainable. We need to move to a place untouched by this foul energy.”

“... And what of Elibe?” Njord asks.

“It dies, I suppose.” Gróa shrugs, as if all the life on a planet perishing in an apocalyptic war is a mere inconvenience to her.

Which, given that they’re literal gods, isn’t inaccurate.

And so the sky opens itself up and the Seven Creators of Elibe leave it behind, retreating into a rip in spacetime that seals itself with a scar and leaves Elibe godless, abandoned, and Idunn in the middle of it, half-buried in gravel at the base of a mountain.

Idunn pulls herself from the gravel and brushes the dust from her skin. It hurts, but she doesn’t care. The world is abandoned and so is Idunn, abandoned and forsaken by the only thing resembling family she’s ever known, and Idunn doesn’t even know what she did wrong.

And so it is here that the Dragon King, Aildrendroth, finds Idunn, the forgotten god-child, and sees an opportunity.

Chapter Text

The war between humans and dragons began four hundred years before the Scouring. History still doesn’t know the reason why— perhaps it began with the dragons deciding that the humans ought to be subservient to the dragons and their superior lifespans, or perhaps the humans thought the dragons ought to be considered beasts instead of people. Perhaps it was both of these things. Perhaps it was a personal feud that spiraled out of control, or an argument over something relatively small, such as territory borders or how a god ought to be depicted or worshipped. But regardless of the reason, this is when it began.

Four hundred years before the Scouring, the Queen of the Gods threw Idunn, godling born from harmony, from the peak of the mountain, and left Elibe behind when her apparent demise and new lack of divinity failed to return peace to the world. And there Idunn stays, feeling for the first time the loneliness that would come to define her.

She doesn’t understand. Everything hurts; she knows, somehow, that she should be dead, and yet she isn’t. She doesn’t know why there are tears falling from her eyes and making tracks in the dust on her face, only that they are all she can think about. She is crying at the base of the mountain and this is where the Dragon King finds her.

The king of the dragons is Aildrendroth. He is not strong or fast or powerful, particularly, and not even particularly big. Still, Aildrendroth is not without skill, and it’s his skill that made him king. He views the humans as upstart vermin, the way they make noises about how dragons are monsters. With the dragonkind’s king convinced of this, it’s no surprise that war broke out.

The humans are numerous and rapidly-breeding. Vermin, his generals agree. But their numbers are how they’ve managed to match the dragons in the war of the species, since in every other respect, the dragons are superior— bigger, stronger, longer-lived. For them, decades pass in the blink of an eye. And yet the humans persist, overwhelming the dragons’ raw strength with numbers and blades that slip between chinks in the dragons’ armor. It troubles Aildrendroth that the humans have been able to come so far. The dragons do not have the numbers the humans do, and thus every loss is notable. As a king, he searches for a solution, and unexpectedly to everyone involved, he finds it in Idunn.

Before Idunn, he is titanic, long and sinuous and coated in sleek feathers. His wings are folded, but surely must be massive in order to lift a creature of his size. He’s drawn in shades of dark gray like looming storm clouds, and, fittingly, the air hums with energy when he nears Idunn. Electricity arcs up his massive talons when he moves, slowly lowering himself until he’s curled up with his head on the ground, facing Idunn.

Idunn rubs her eyes, and dragon and girl regard each other. She’s not afraid— perhaps she’s too surprised to be. It’s not every day a dragon takes such an interest in you, after all.

“Hello, tiny one,” Aildrendroth says. “What upsets you so?”

Idunn sniffles. “The gods are gone,” she says. “I did a bad thing. I started the war. Now they’re gone. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry.”

There are quite a lot of blanks to fill for a full story, but Aildrendroth can assume enough to know that Idunn is neither human nor dragon, but she isn’t quite a god, either. But she brims with magical potential, unknown and untapped. Aildrendroth is not the strongest of the dragons, but his strength is not why he’s their king. He is the king because where another dragon in his position may just see an upset human child, magic notwithstanding, Aildrendroth sees an opportunity.

“How very horrible of them, blaming a nestling for a conflict of mortals,” Aildrendroth says. “Tell me, child, what is your name?”

Idunn rubs her eyes. “Idunn,” she says. “I didn’t mean to do it.”

“I know you didn’t,” Aildrendroth promises. “And you have no family?”

“I was one of them,” Idunn says. “But they said I’m not.”

“What a shame,” Aildrendroth says. “You’re all alone.”

Idunn nods. Her throat hurts. She feels more tears behind her eyes and rubs at them with her tiny fists, trying to keep them back.

“You know,” Aildrendroth says. “I know a place where you won’t be. Perhaps you lack wings and feathers, but there is a place for you with me, among the dragons.”

Idunn looks up. “Dragons?”

“Come,” Aildrendroth says, extending his wings. “You will be safe with me.”

He brings her to the homeland of the dragons— the mountains in the Western Isles. The mountains are filled with cavern homes, the air around them filled with dragon soldiers. Idunn feels very small, and it wasn’t like she was that big to begin with. She’s obviously different from the dragons. Anyone can see that. But the Dragon King says that doesn’t matter, that he’ll keep her safe.

Safety comes in the form of the Dragon’s Keep, a fortress built into the tallest of the mountains. And there Idunn stays, inside one of the deepest rooms in the heart of the mountain. It’s to keep her safe from the humans, Aildrendroth says. He says the humans will see her as just another monster. They’ll blame her just like the gods did. And as for the other dragons— they won’t hate her, of course, but they may not understand, and in their ignorance, may hurt her. He knows it to be true, he promises. If she does what he says, she’ll be safe.

Idunn is too young to question him. She trusts him, trusts every word he says. And so in the fortress she stays, learning magic from Aildrendroth and his fellow dragon sages and finding happiness, safety, warmth in the Dragon’s Keep.

She grows. It may be just a few years, or it may be decades; the dragons don’t keep records in years, and Idunn couldn’t count the days if she tried, sequestered away that deep in the mountain. The dragons teach her to read and count, show her their history and sciences, share with her their legends and stories. Aildrendroth himself teaches her magic. Colors explode from her hands, arcane energy with a power that thrums deep in her bones. He praises her for every spell she does right— though admittedly it’s harder to get them right the further along she goes.

She is still young, older than she had been but not quite adolescent, when the war begins to get worse. Aildrendroth grows tired and strained. He tells her that she’s to remain in her room, since the war is getting bad, and he would rest much easier if he knows she’s safe. Idunn agrees. She craves his approval more than anything, clings to his praise like precious gifts. The lessons continue, and they’re the only time she leaves her room. But, slowly, the years pass, and the lessons dwindle. Lessons fall by the wayside as the dragons sustain heavy losses from the war— this is a war that is bloody and unceasing on both sides, and at this point, no one is even sure what they’re fighting for.

“Tell me about how you were born,” Aildrendroth says to her during one of his rare visits. His feathers are ratty in places, new scars crossing his tough skin.

“I don’t remember, really,” she says honestly. “I woke in the wedding grove of a little church in the countryside. There is magic there, I think, that I grew from— the magic of connection and love, all kinds of love. The love that friends have. The love that families have. Spouses and parents and rivals and partners.”

“You would have been the goddess of harmony,” Aildrendroth says.

Idunn frowns. “I suppose,” she says. She looks down at her knees, clenching her hands in the fabric of her long, dragon-made gown. “Gróa said that the war happened because I was born from peace. She said there can be no peace while I’m alive. I’m not a goddess anymore.”

She pauses. “I should be dead,” she says. “Teacher, why did you save me?”

“Are you not grateful, little hatchling?” Aildrendroth asks.

“No! No, I am,” Idunn promises. “My life is your gift to me, and I cherish it. I’d be dead without you. I just… wonder, I suppose.”

Aildrendroth strokes a claw over her hair. “Don’t wonder,” he says. “I knew that the vile humans would hurt you, should they run across you. They fear and abhor things that they don’t understand. They’ll stop at nothing to eliminate the dragons, you know. And if I hadn’t come across you and taken you to the Keep, then they would have found you instead.”

Idunn shivers. “Thank you, teacher,” she says. “I’m sorry for questioning you.”

Aildrendroth chuckles. “I cannot fault you for being curious, little hatchling,” he says. “But I’m glad that I could put your mind at ease.”

As the war worsens, the time between Aildrendroth’s visits lengthens. Even the servants that bring her food falter in their routine, sometimes skipping days entirely. Idunn spends her time with the books for company, rereading old stories and going through the pages in hopes of finding new ones. She plays with her magic, forming nebulas in the palms of her hands and watching them shape themselves into stars, into galaxies. She watches them wane and die, sometimes in a fiery supernova and sometimes quiet and slow, fading until they’re nothing but black space. She shapes them into figures, dragons and humans and gods. It’s as easy to her as breathing, and it’s one of her pastimes in the long days between when she sees the Dragon King.

“Little hatchling,” he says, on one of his visits. Idunn sits close and hangs onto his every word, clinging to one of his talons like she would when she was small. “You’ve grown strong. Your magic is more powerful than any student I’ve had.”

Idunn preens. “Thank you, teacher.”

“I think that you’re ready,” he says. “To become what I always knew you could be. Come, little hatchling. Let me show you.”

Idunn frowns, but she follows Aildrendroth through the fortress. They leave it, and then descend down more pathways until they reach a temple nestled at the head of the valley, where the trickles of water from the mountain turn into waterfalls. Idunn didn’t know this existed until now. It’s dragon construction, so it’s big enough for even a gargantuan dragon. Aildrendroth leads her down the main hallway and down into a large chamber almost resembling an arena. The stone is all smooth and polished, and cold under Idunn’s feet. There are dragons in hoods lined up all along the perimeter. Aildrendroth sets her down in the center, on top of a large, circular platform.

“Teacher,” she says. “What is this?”

“Do you trust me, little hatchling?” Aildrendroth asks.

“Of course,” Idunn promises.

“Then believe me when I tell you,” he says. “That this is what I trained you for. You are powerful, little hatchling, more powerful than any dragon or human, even though you may not be a god anymore. You are the only one who can do this.”

Idunn looks around. There are runes carved into the surrounding stone in elaborate designs. “I am? What will I do?”

“You’ll become the host for a great power,” he says. “You’ll be able to make life rise from the ground and command them at your will. They’ll call you the Demon Dragon, and your powers will be feared and revered. But you and the dragon soldiers you create will turn the tide of the war.”

“Please, little hatchling,” he says. “I saved you when the gods threw you from the mountain. Now you can save all of dragonkind.”

Idunn swallows. “I’ll do it,” she says. “I’ll be the Demon Dragon.”

Aildrendroth curls his lips in a smile. “Thank you, little hatchling,” he says. “Now, don’t be afraid. This is what I trained you for. This is what you were meant to be.”

The hooded dragons rise, reciting incantations that make the runes glow at the edges. The glow spreads until the runes around the platform are glowing, too, and the stone grows hot beneath Idunn’s feet. Her breath sticks in her throat as she feels the magic lift her from the ground. She feels burning, burning in every muscle in her body, and instinctively, she struggles. The magic holds her tight.

“Trust me, little hatchling,” Aildrendroth says.

Idunn swallows. “I trust you,” she says.

The light swells and with it the burning. Idunn’s vision turns white, and then everything is still.

There is a ringing in her ears. Light shines in her eyes, and it’s blurry until Idunn blinks it into focus, and realizes that it’s the domed ceiling of a temple and the light is floating fireballs, like always. She feels heavy and dizzy, and sticky, so sticky.  

Something pushes her over. She rolls, heavier than she should be, bigger than she should be. Her teeth hurt. She tastes blood in her mouth. The night air stings and the stone stings worse than that. Her legs are unsteady— there are four of them. There are wings on her back. There are soft, brand-new claws in place of her fingernails. She has become a dragon.

“Little hatchling,” Aildrendroth says. “How do you feel?”

Idunn tries to speak, but her voice only comes out as a whine.

“You’re magnificent,” he says. “Your claws and fangs will harden with time, and your hide will grow. But your power is finally put to use. You are finally all that I knew you could be.”

“Teacher,” Idunn whines, her voice a high, slow wheeze. “It hurts.”

“It won’t hurt forever, little hatchling,” Aildrendroth says. “I need to ask one more thing of you. I need you to demonstrate what you can do. Make the War Dragons.”

Idunn shuts her eyes. She has no idea how to do that. But at the same time, she does— the magic comes as easily to her as it did when she was playing with magic stars in her room. She feels the stars move overhead, and the night weave itself into creatures— dragons, larger even than large dragons, with massive fangs and claws and huge wings and unblinking red eyes.

“Yes,” Aildrendroth says. “Yes, yes, good. Good, little hatchling. Now send them into the night.”

Idunn lifts her head and looks at her creations. They look at her expectantly, or at least they would be expectant if they weren’t essentially soulless puppets. “Go,” she says. Without a word, they leave the temple and fly off into the night.

Idunn lowers herself to the ground. Her breathing is heavy and everything hurts and the stone is sticky with blood. She feels herself shrinking again, all the power leaving her body until she’s Idunn again, small and human-shaped and very, very tired.

“You did well, little hatchling,” Aildrendroth says, gently lifting her up. “Rest now.”

Idunn sleeps for several days. When she wakes, she devours a dragon-sized portion of meat, then sleeps for another several days. This process repeats quite a few times, though she can keep herself awake for longer each time. When she finally wakes for good, Aildrendroth is there, waiting for her.

“Come, little hatchling,” he says. “The dragons you sent out won us a battle, but we need more to win the war.”

Idunn takes a breath and nods. “Alright, teacher,” she says. “I’ll win the war for you. I’ll save the dragons.”

Every time she changes into her dragon form, it gets a little easier, and her form feels a little tougher. Her teeth and claws harden. Her soft, lavender flesh grows tough and purple, covered in feathers like Aildrendroth’s. She stands straighter, and stays that way for a little longer each time. She sends her dragons out into the world on Aildrendroth’s command— when there comes the need for strategy, Idunn is present in the meetings and sends her dragons to specific places.

“The humans keep breeding,” General Frytos says, slamming his forefoot down onto the ground for emphasis. “No matter how many dragons we send, no matter how many villages we raze, they just keep coming back.”

General Chonnar’s lip curls in distaste. “Like flies.”

“It seems that there’s a large concentration of humans around here,” Aildrendroth hums, tapping his claw on the map. “One of the few human towns left up and running. They’re unfortunately too organized for the War Dragons to make particularly quick work of.”

General Yrvirth quirks her head. “What would you have us do, my king?”

Aildrendroth taps his claws thoughtfully. “We need to send the Demon Dragon,” he says, looking to Idunn, seated on the floor just to his right because they’re out of chairs. “Little hatchling, can you do that?”

Idunn’s eyes widen. “But… teacher, you said I had to stay in the fortress or the humans would hurt me,” she says.

“Ah, yes, but you’re stronger now,” Aildrendroth replies. “And I need you to command the dragons in person, as the battle unfolds.”

General Frytos scoffs. “My king, all due respect, but you overestimate the girl’s capabilities.”

“She is woefully undertrained in the field,” General Shendir comments. “I don’t know if we’ll have the time to teach her the tactics needed for this mission, my king.”

“Then I shall go as well,” Aildrendroth decides. “Surely I’m a good enough tactician for this, General Shendir?”

General Shendir coughs. “Of course, my king.”

“If that’s what you desire, my king, then it shall be done,” General Chonnar says. “Won’t it, Frytos?”

General Frytos grumbles. “It will, my king, if that’s what you order.”

“Then it’s settled,” Aildrendroth says. “We move at first light tomorrow.”

When first light comes, Idunn and Aildrendroth are in the sky. Idunn’s heart beats loud in her ears as she tries very, very hard not to look at the ground, even if they’re flying low, below the tree line. Aildrendroth’s generals fly in formation behind them. Elibe spreads out beneath them, ruined villages and torched fields and decaying corpses of dragon and human alike, scavengers feasting on the remains. The whole continent is a battlefield of a war with no winners. Idunn feels queasy and blames it on the altitude.

“We’re nearly there,” Aildrendroth says, nodding to the city in the distance. “Be prepared, little hatchling. I want you to stay out of harm’s way and let your War Dragons, myself, and the generals do the fighting.”

“Yes, teacher,” Idunn promises.

“Generals!” Aildrendroth orders. “Bring us cover fire! Give the Demon Dragon space to summon!”

The four dragon generals swoop down from the formation, breathing streams of elemental breath over the town— warning fire. Aildrendroth leads Idunn to a nearby cliff overlooking the city.

“Now, little hatchling,” he says. “Bring out the War Dragons.”

Idunn does. Dragons weave themselves into existence before her eyes, their wings already flapping, their jaws already prepared to feast. She sends them down into the city. From her position on the cliff, she sees tiny, tiny humans running frantically for safety. Some shoot arrows at Aildrendroth’s generals, throwing lines and trying to tug them down to the ground. They roar and breathe out fire and lightning. Idunn watches.

“They’re running away,” she notices. “Why? Couldn’t enough of them overwhelm a dragon?”

Aildrendroth snorts. “Cowardice,” he says. “Ah, look, there— they’re bringing out the ballista. Focus attacks there.”

A War Dragon lands on top of the battlements and tears into the ballistician with its teeth. Stones crack and crumble and fall to the ground, sharpened-log walls falling along with them. Alarm bells are ringing in the city, smoke rising from multiple houses. Something explodes, sending huge plumes of smoke into the air. From the smoke, projectiles come towards the cliff and miss, but just barely.

Aildrendroth curses in draconic. “Move,” he orders. “I’ll find that other ballista. Stay out of the battle. You’re too valuable to lose.”

“Yes, teacher,” Idunn says. And she’s in the air again, banking hard around the city walls, watching dragons wreak havoc and humans, little creatures in shiny metal armor with tiny pointy spears. It’s very strange to see them and know that they’re monsters, now, when before she could walk among them and barely be noticed. Aildrendroth tells her it’s because she had no value to them, like an ant. And, he’s also said, it’s been a long time since Idunn walked among the humans. People have changed.

Her War Dragons follow. She sees one take arrows through its wings, volleys of them, until it crashes to the ground, roaring and bellowing, crushing buildings beneath its bulk. She hears curses in draconic, clanging of the alarm bells, and when she gets closer, she hears screaming.

She stays near the edges of the conflict, but arrows come her way anyway, and she shrieks, frantically dropping to avoid them. She drops too far too fast, and hits the ground, skidding to a stop in a cornfield. She calls over one of her War Dragons to deal with the archers but then she stops, staring at the fires burning and the smoke rising and the people running.

Goats and sheep run frantically through the streets. Vultures circle overhead, heedless of the smoke. There are bodies, some crushed and broken and unrecognizable, but some— some she can see features; noses, chins, teeth. And she sees people running, still; parents carrying children or holding their hands as they run, lone adults holding pitchforks and sickles and hunting bows sprinting towards the fray, clergy holding up barrier staffs and shepherding groups of the old or young who can’t move that fast, brows cold and sweaty, their jaws clenched, wincing every time shrapnel or rubble thuds against the barrier. She sees children, alone, frantically looking around for families that may not be there anymore; she sees bodies in the streets that may have been their siblings, neighbors, friends.

She sees the terror in their faces and she feels sick, sick, not because of the height but because it’s wrong wrong wrong wrong wrong—

“What are you doing?” Aildrendroth snarls, startling Idunn from her nausea. “I told you to stay out of the way! Your dragons are doing nothing as they’re being slaughtered!”

“They’re just— they’re just people,” Idunn says frantically. “Teacher, they’re just people, families, widows, orphans. We can’t just kill them all!”

Aildrendroth looks at her with a very dangerous look in his eye. “Humans,” he says. “Are monsters. Did I not tell you that?”

“Y-yes, teacher, but,” Idunn protests.

“Are you doubting what I taught you?” he demands. “After all I did for you? After I took you in?”

“They’re just like dragons,” she blurts out. There are tears in her eyes. “I can feel their love. I can feel friendships and families and marriages. They love each other like dragons do. They sing and hug and tell stories and look at the sky. They’re just like dragons, just smaller.”

Aildrendroth looms before her. “Child,” he says coldly. “This is not what I taught you.”

“I can feel it,” Idunn insists. “Teacher, please— please, we have to stop. We’ve made our point.”

“‘We?’” he repeats. “‘We?’ You have the audacity to speak of ‘we’ now, when you’re denying all I ever taught you?”

“T-teacher—“ she starts.

“Enough!” he roars. “Do not speak to me as if you’ve seen this for yourself when all you are is what I’ve made you into! You were nothing without me! You would have died alone and forgotten on that mountain were it not for me!”

He grabs her by the jaw. “Your life,” he hisses. “Is my gift to you. And here you are, spitting in the face of all I’ve done to scrape together the pieces of your miserable existence.”

“I’m s-sorry,” Idunn whispers. “Teacher, I’m sorry, I—“

“Save it,” he says. “If you can’t do as I say, then I’ll have to resort to other methods. Generals! Fall back! We’re overextended!”

He releases Idunn’s jaw and takes off into the air. “And you, child,” he says coldly. “We will discuss this, in depth. Come.”

Idunn swallows. She does as he says.

He waits for her in the temple. Idunn lands, trembling from overexertion. She coughs, struggling to maintain her dragon form. Aildrendroth looms before her bigger than ever, cold and detached.

“In the center,” he orders. “Now.”

Idunn swallows and stands on the platform.

The dragon sages arrive at the temple. They gather around the platform. The chanting begins. The runes glow. And this time chains of hardened light erupt from the platform, holding Idunn down despite her struggles. She feels them sapping her energy until she collapses in her smaller form, and the chains shrink to fit. The magic lifts her again until she’s hovering as if gravity’s been turned off. Her head aches. There are tears in her eyes.

“Teacher,” she rasps. “It hurts.”

“Worry not, little hatchling,” Aildrendroth says. “When this is done, you’ll no longer feel any pain. Not physical, and not whatever that sorry display was back in the city.”

“I’m sorry,” she tries. “I’m sorry, I’m—“

“Save it,” he says, terrifyingly calm. “I did not want to do this, you see. But it seems you’ve given me no choice. I have no use for a Demon Dragon that is willful and rebellious and disobedient. Luckily, today is the last day you will feel any of those things.”

He nods to the sages. The chanting starts again, different, faster, louder, and it hurts it hurts it hurts, and all she hears is screaming without realizing that it’s coming from her own throat.

She is inside a temple. The stone is hard and cold. The ceiling is above her.

“Stand,” he orders.

She stands.

His lips curl into a smile. “Does it hurt now, little hatchling?”

“No,” she says.

“Good,” he decides. “Now, then. Where were we with your War Dragons?”

Elibe is a wasteland, all of burned fields and ruined villages and corpses everywhere one looks. Scavengers feast upon the remains. Across the whole of the continent, War Dragons rampage, destroying all in their path, human or dragon. Dragons retreat to their hideaways, humans reduced to scraping out survival in packs hidden in caves and mine shafts. And at the center of it all, there is Idunn in her temple, staring, barely blinking, straight ahead as the Dragon King gives her orders, and her dragons carry them out. Elibe is a wasteland, and it is because of her.