Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wind roared, nearly solid in its force, as the ground far below blurred together, turning from a cobbled together city to a patchwork quilt to a stomach-churning green mass.

Above, red leathery wings beat steadily, like a mockery of his heartbeat, of the frantic, stuttering, thing in the man’s chest.

Brutally sharp claws dug into his sides as he struggled blindly, paying no heed to the dizzying height, nor his own safety. His hands were bloody, nails ragged from prying at the creature’s diamond talons. If he once had a voice, he could no longer remember it. Screams and curses were stolen away by the unforgiving wind as soon as they left his mouth, and the prayers bled out of him with the last bits of his strength. The flight couldn’t have lasted more than an hour, but his mind had twisted it into an eternity.

He was no longer Grantaire, and the world below no longer his kingdom.

All there was in the universe was his wreck of a body, a neverending flight, and the dragon.

The air was thin and the last drop of his strength was torn away by the wind.

Soon, he lost even his consciousness.

When he awoke again, it was to the smell of brine, fish, and sulfur. Land met water in a great symphony of cliffs that rose starkly into the air, carrying with them a bone-white fortress. More reminiscent of coral than stone, it looked like a thing born not of human minds, but of something altogether alien.

Grantaire didn’t have time to dwell on that passing thought.

The world zoomed in, from a great expanse of blue sky and winedark waves to the ragged cliffs, smooth fortress walls, and finally, to a stifling pitch black tunnel.

The smell of sulfur and coal hit him like a cudgel and he gagged.

Ash obscured his vision, stuck to his skin, suffocated his senses.

Then, it let up, and suddenly he was falling. His sides and chest screamed with pain once more, remembering what it was like to not have those cruel claws pierce into them.

Still, there was no relief.

He hit cold, cracked, stone, barely managing to break his fall and not his bones. Chest heaving, he gasped -- greedily sucking in the sharp, dusty, sulfuric, air. A chill seeped into his flesh from the stone beneath. A single shaft of light came from above, illuminating him and cloaking the rest of the room in darkness

He was, Grantaire realized, half-sitting half-lying on some sort of obsidian bed. Or pedestal. Or altar. It was too smooth beneath his torn fingers.

The fear before was nothing compared with the absolute finality of what tore through his soul now. As his eyes adjusted, he could make out hints of intricate patterns on the looming walls: odd letters, battles, and reliefs of beasts long-gone. And not so long gone.

For a moment, everything was still. There was just his mangled body, the light above, and the faint sound of crashing waves, salt mixing with sulfur and stale air in his lungs.

Then, once again, the world moved too fast for him to get his bearings.

His kidnapper’s grand head pierced through the column of sunlight, sending dustmotes swirling away. A long snout, sharp teeth, bright and hollow eyes, crimson scales and a crown of bone piercing up through them, all of this struck Grantaire as if he was seeing it for the very first time.

His own head was too light, the rest of his body too heavy, and his breath came in short and sharp. As the world went black, he cursed himself for his weakness. The son of a king should at least be able to face death with dignity.

When consciousness returned to him, it came slowly. He was warm, comfortable. Safe, even, it seemed. The dragon flight had been but a dream. Another nonsensical nightmare.

After all, no one had seen a dragon in nearly two hundred years.

Grantaire shifted, stretched. Every bit of him hurt. He wasn’t in his bed, that much he could tell. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep in one of the library armchairs. Or, maybe, he’d had too much wine again and someone had finally taken pity on him and invited the embarrassment of all the land into their bed. Either way, there had been drink involved, of that much he was certain.

“You’re awake,” said an unfamiliar man’s voice.

It was a beautiful sound.

If Grantaire was prone to blasphemy (and he was), he’d say it was godly. Angelic. Steady, beautiful, powerful, flowing over him like a warm summer rain. And just a little hoarse, out of use.

Perhaps it was early morning. Perhaps this was the first thing this man had said all day. Perhaps-

Grantaire opened his eyes.

The walls loomed over him -- white, porous, and concave, coming together into a steep ceiling. He was curled up in a plush velvet chair. It was balding a little, possibly with age, but that made it no less comfortable. From his position tucked against the back of the chair he could see the end of the seat and the pelt-covered floor beyond and…

This wasn’t his home, nor was it the residence of any lord he knew of. Still it was far from a hovel, or one of the lavish city apartments. Further still from any palace he’d ever seen.

Across from him, in an identical chair, sat the most gorgeous man Grantaire had ever seen. He was dressed plainly, but neatly, in the sort of thing that never really went out of fashion (never having been in fashion to begin with). Long blond hair cascaded in loose curls onto his shoulders. Piercing blue eyes stared at Grantaire, the final touch on a perfectly aristocratic face.

The man leaned forward as if searching for something in Grantaire. In the way he sat, in the odd contractions of his face, his wide eyes, his wounds, his labored breathing.

“Where-” Grantaire cleared his throat. His throat itched and his sides ached. The screaming from his dreams, at least, seemed to have been real. “Where are we?”

The man gave him a sardonic look. There was a pause, too long to be comfortable and too short to be dramatic.

“In the dragon’s fortress,” the stranger said, finally.

Grantaire sat up. The events of the past day hit him hard, the knot of memories that sleep had so neatly hidden away was now unraveling and pumping his mind full of fear with every heartbeat. And with relief, just as powerful and dizzying.

“Y-you saved me,” Grantaire managed. “You saved me from the dragon. Sir, I promise you, whatever you want, whatever you need-”

“Who are you?”

Grantaire blinked, processing. The stranger’s steely gaze left no room for anything but a straightforward answer. “I’m Prince-”

“Why were you wearing that hat?” the stranger spat out, and tossed a crumpled hat into Grantaire’s lap.

Not sure where it had come from (but suspecting the billowy depths of the other man’s cloak), Grantaire picked up the elaborate contraption and turned it over in his hands. It was incredibly broad brimmed and, just this morning, it had been beautiful. Dark and pale blue silk swirled into each other, meeting in a charming facsimile of a sunset. Once, there had been a crystal sun and moon in the mix, and a scattering of twinkling stars. Once, there had been swaths of tulle hanging down all about the brim, and a train of white gauze and cotton, shaped into clouds, floated behind. Now ragged, torn, dirtied, and missing over half of its crystal decor, it was barely recognizable as a hat, let alone a thing that had inspired so much jealousy and awe among the rest of the festival attendees.

Grantaire swallowed audibly.

“My- my sister,” he said. “She thought the festival boring, so she gave th-the hat to me and disappeared off somewhere. She does that often.”

The stranger let out a snarl.

Grantaire’s hands curled into fists, but didn’t shrink back. He’d had enough of being a coward for one day. And there was simply no way he could push himself further into the back of the chair.

“My apologies,” he said evenly, “if you were expecting to rescue my sister. She is, I’m aware, not only a great deal more attractive, but perhaps a bit more your type. If, kind sir, you could just take me home, I’ll be sure to introduce you-”

“Rescue,” the stranger mocked. “Take you home. Who do you think I am?”

The most beautiful creature Grantaire ever had the honor of laying eyes upon, bright and striking even in his anger.

“A knight errant?” Grantaire guessed instead.

The stranger laughed.

It was a chilling thing that started low and soft, just a shadow of a chuckle in the back of his throat. He doubled over laughing, and bitter amusement slowly morphed into a desperate roar, losing more and more of its humanity with every passing moment.

The stranger seemed to grow in size, his shadow dancing wickedly across the walls. The seems on his clothes burst, his body contorted, his bones cracked.

Two red leathery wings unfurled, taking up the whole of the hall. A crown of horns scraped the ceiling.

Blue eyes had turned golden. Their gaze pierced through Grantaire’s body, through his soul, holding him in place just as well -- if not better -- than any shackles.

The beast’s jaws opened, and behind the leather facsimile of lips, yellowed fangs and a devilish tongue made themselves known.

Grantaire’s life flashed before his eyes. It was doing that a lot lately.

“Do I look like a knight errant to you?” the beast rasped out, its impossible mouth forming impossible words.

“No,” Grantaire whispered, and tried to pass out again.

It was all that hat, thought Enjolras, dragging his new prisoner through his castle’s meandering corridors, bare feet thudding across the smooth bone floors.

It was all that stupid fucking hat.

He’d needed the princess, the one he’d seen in the magic mirror. The delicate young girl who was sure to inspire pity, love, and loyalty in the hearts of the masses. One that was sure to have knights banging on his door. He’d needed a princess not-- not this.

He’d thought something was wrong when the human had struggled in his grasp, when surprisingly solid hands had beat against his claws with a single-minded determination. The prince’s strength was even clearer now as he tried to tear his arm out of Enjolras’s steel grip. Muscle tensed and flexed under tan skin, and Enjolras sunk his claws a little further into the soft flesh.

No amount of anger could change the fact that Enjolras could practically feel the royalty thrumming in the man’s veins. According to every natural law, there was little that distinguished royalty from nobility from the common folk, other than perhaps a healthier, easier life and a greater degree of inbreeding. How it was possible that something in the very blood welling up around his talons told him that this man was indeed a prince, he did not know. The beastly ghosts of his ancestors, the ones that were more scales and fire than flesh and blood, were governed far more by principles, traditions and rituals than they were by the laws of gravity or common sense.

Enjolras, the man, knew that the tyrants who called themselves kings had no more of a god given right to rule than any other man.

Enjolras, the dragon, agreed. Only a dragon was fit to rule. The world had forgotten, the dragon thought, and now it would be forced to remember.

His muscles jerked and spasmed. Scales rippled across pale skin and a thousand voices spoke to him as one, demanding blood, more blood, more flesh.

Tradition, however, kept them at bay. Kept him at bay.

Tradition and the fact that they’d reached the Eastern Tower. Millenia of fused bone gave way to stubborn, lifeless rock. The man-made structure was cobbled together by human servants, long before even Enjolras’ father’s time. Long before the world had forgotten.

The whispers quieted, growing quieter with every step, their ancient agonizing muffled. The steep staircase, considerably more fragile than dragon bone, was wobbly and cold beneath his feet.

“Stay here,” he barked, hurling the prince inside, sharp nails grazing delicate skin. “Don’t try to run. There’s nowhere to go.”

Enjolras slammed the door shut before the prince could scramble to his feet, and snapped out the single rhaspy word that locked it shut.

The prince’s cheeks, he thought, had looked even ruddier than before. It might have been anger, or pain, or fury or… Enjolras looked down.

Well then.

Maybe, he could have at least thrown a cloak on after his draconic fit in the main hall.

He thought of opening the door again, or of apologizing through it, but quickly threw the idea aside.

If no one came for the prince, he would have to kill him.

Better to keep his distance.

In something of a daze, Enjolras made his way back to his own quarters. For the first time in decades, the decrepit state of the castle truly caught his eye. The trip from the sitting room to the East Tower was illuminated by a blazing path of white cutting through centuries of dust and grime, marking Enjolras’s determined gait and the prince’s struggle.

He dragged the pads of his fingers along the walls, feeling the grooves where dragon bone had fused together, sturdier than any stone and far more judgemental.

Decades alone change a dragon as much as they change a man. Decades alone in a cursed castle do a great deal more. His ancestors’ voices grew louder at the touch, pouring all of their disappointment for the last of their noble bloodline into half-intelligible grumbling.

They knew he had found the loophole. It was their move now.

As if to show their power over him, the walls pulsed in tandem with his heart. His bones ached, foreshadowing a transformation as much against his will as this whole charade.

Enjolras shuddered and started running as the fire overtook him, searing his form into flame and ash, then into scales and instincts and little else.

Some things were better off dead. He just hoped he wasn’t one of them, even if his ancestors were.

He took to the air, shattering a filigree wall in one final, petty, jab against his lineage before all thought left him.

“Yeah, and stay away!” Grantaire shouted once he was sure the dragon was no longer on the other side of the door, and immediately turned his attention to the window.

The lock had clicked shut in such a sinister way that he didn’t even want to touch it. The window, however…

It was a far cry from the elegant arches and delicate murky glass of the rest of the castle. Reinforced with good old familiar stone and weilding an iron grate in place of a windowpane, it was

shockingly, reassuringly normal. The whole room was. Or rather. It was just to the side of normal. After all, one of the walls was simply the cliff face, with water trickling down it, pooling in spacious basin, and slowly draining off into… somewhere.

The aforementioned window seemed especially promising. The rusty grate on it had come slightly loose and squeezing out through it was a distinct possibility. Whether or not there was a ledge under that window was a problem for future Grantaire.

Getting under the grate took seconds.

Unfortunately, there was no ledge on the other side. Nothing but a sheer drop and a view. Under any other circumstances it would have been beautiful, but Grantaire had been fooled by beauty already today, and he’d promised himself he wouldn’t form any new bad habits.

As such, he could barely enjoy the endless waves and the humble crescent of a headland that jutted out from around the cliffs. Wide enough for a scattering of trees, some sand, and a narrowing road, it felt as purposeful and strange as the fortress itself.

Grantaire let out a string of curses and slammed his fist against the tower, setting pebbles tumbling down. Watching them hit the sea below with barely a whisper was more unsettling than the entire flight to his new prison. There was nothing to grab onto, and even if he did manage to get down the tower, the stone didn’t go far. A ways down, it blended firmly with the too-smooth veneer of the fortress itself. Taking one last breath of fresh air, he wriggled back inside.

Or at least, he tried.

Getting out from under the grate took a good while longer than getting stuck under it.

This, out of everything, was what sent panic coursing through him. As it revibrated through him, he wondered if he would die there. His mind danced and twirled as he tugged and pushed at iron bars.

Maybe in a decade or two, the dragon would remember he was here and come to check on him, only to find a skeleton hanging mournfully half in, half out, the window. Being the first person to get kidnapped by a dragon in over two centuries? That he could handle (or at least he could push the terror back and play pretend). Getting stuck in a window, however, was a product of nothing but his own stupidity, and that was more than he could take.

Looking wildly around, Grantaire briefly considered calling for the dragon. It- he had, after all, wanted him alive. For now. For whatever reason. Maybe he would sink low enough to help his prey.

Grantaire had almost mustered up the courage to open his mouth and scream, but the dragon beat him to it. A mighty roar, a shuddering crack, and the dragon broke through the walls of the fortress, a great deal below and to the left of the tower.

He could see the beast clearly now. Somehow, in the light of day, it was even more jarring. A mass like that had no right to twist through the air with such ease. A man as beautiful as the dragon’s human form had been had no right having teeth and talons that sharp.

The dragon caught his eye, snapped its jaws, and snarled, turning in midair.

Grantaire redoubled his efforts in a frantic scramble to get to safety.

Seconds later, he tumbled backwards into the tower.

Long, angry, red scratches made their presence clear, adding to his collection of aches and pains.

There were the deep, faintly bleeding claw marks on his sides, and bruising where he’d landed on the rock. There was the mess that was his left forearm, where the dragon had grabbed him like a sack of potatoes and where he, quite unlike a sack of potatoes, had tried his best to get free.

Grantaire groaned and collapsed on the bed, releasing a small cloud of dust into the air.

Dust or ash, he thought gloomily, of the prisoners before him.

He gave the spring another look. Groaning, he slid off the bed and half-limped half-crawled over to the basin, half-falling into it.

The water was icy on his wounds, washing away the dried blood and soothing his bruises. Grantaire watched the red tinge fade, thoughts swirling and clearing with the water. He plunged his head in and drank until he choked, throat turning numb, teeth screaming at the cold. Finally he surfaced, gasping, and wiped at his mouth with a torn sleeve. If his body was mangled, his shirt was beyond repair. Following the tears and bloodstains all the way down to the bottom hem, he sighed. His awkward scrubbing had reopened some of the gashes. Now that he was out of the water, blood oozed lethargically out of the worst of the cuts, mixing with the water that clung to his skin.

He sighed again, deliberately dramatic about it, the way he would be if the tears were small, the bloodstains spilled wine, and the emptiness of the tower the warmth of his favorite tavern.

Off went the shirt, ripped into strips with a firm hand, the dull tearing mixing with the bright gurgling of the spring. Securely bandaged and having quenched his thirst, Grantaire looked around the room once again.

The gods helped those who helped themselves.

His only escape options were either the window or the door, and the former had already proved futile.

Grantaire made a groaning, creaking, noise deep in his throat as he stretched and dragged himself to his feet. He limped over to the door, grabbed the handle, and pulled. Nothing. He pushed.

Again, nothing.

He crouched down and inspected the doorknob. His brow furrowed. Now that he thought about it, he was fairly certain that it wasn’t latches he’d heard the other side. No, there’d been something else: an odd crackle. There was no keyhole, either. Just a few squiggly lines etched into a complex pattern just below the handle.

A rune.

It was oddly familiar in its form, echoing a long-dead tongue so popular in ancient times. His education had been more all-encompassing than his father had bet on. Long nights cooped up in the library with a palace scribe that could almost be counted a friend, Grantaire had poured over tomes, scrolls, tablets, piecing together a beautiful script he was never supposed to know.

Unable to stop himself, Grantaire covered the tattoos on his abdomen -- runes so similar, yet foreign, to the one engraved on the doorknob.

The dragon had said (yelled) a gutteral word as he’d left. He recalled the gist of it, and that, combined with the symbol, was all he really needed.

A small smile crept onto Grantaire’s face.

This he could do.

Ten minutes later, the dragon’s word, but in reverse, left Grantaire’s lips and the door swung open.

He peaked out into the pale hallway and, finding it clear, creeped out.

If Enjolras wasn’t so exhausted, if he hadn’t simply flung himself first into the sky, and then into his room when he regained control, he would have noticed the prince padding quietly through the halls.

If he hadn’t pushed the Ancestors back into the dark depths of his subconsciousness, he would have heard the sour moans of dragons long gone as they complained of an intruder desecrating their ancient castle.

He would have felt Grantaire opening and closing doors, swearing, going down and down and down and losing all hope.

As it was, Enjolras felt none of that, lost in sleep’s merciful embrace.

Grantaire was tired, hungry, and, most of all, angry. The dragon had, in all appearances, fucked off, leaving him in this decrepit, empty, castle to… To what? Starve? As far as Grantaire could tell, there was no way out. Most of the doors he’d encountered were, in fact, locked with actual keys. The runes were few and far between, and in places Grantaire didn’t want to dawdle for long.

Still, the longer the dragon left him alone the bolder he became, leaving doors ajar, furniture disturbed, and letting himself tread louder.

He made his way down, hoping for a window he could dive into the ocean from, preferably closer to the beach.

As it was, he found nothing. Only grand echoing chambers steeped in darkness, with intricate carvings on the walls that he could only feel.

The only light down there came pouring down the long and narrow staircase, dimming to a trickle towards the bottom as it hit the final door.

Grantaire could almost taste freedom, and he quickened his pace.

Carefully, he clasped the doorknob in his hand and turned it.

To his surprise, it opened with only a small, quiet, creek.

Giddy, he flung it open the rest of the way, and then stopped dead.

In the fading light, he could see giant wooden barrels and beyond them, rows and columns of neatly stacked bottles, green glass dim with dust.

It was a wine cellar. A fucking wine cellar.

He ran a hand through his hair, clutching at it.

He was going to die here.

A hoarse laugh escaped him.

At least he wouldn’t have to remember it.

Chapter Text

When Enjolras woke up, the sky outside was dark, and he was more or less himself again.

For a few blissful moments, there was nothing in the world but the warmth of the blanket around him and the splash of stars beyond the window, made hazy by the last vestiges of sleep.

Then, everything came rushing back and he groaned.

He’d kidnapped a prince.

The dragons of the past whined from the floors and walls, and Enjolras resolutely ignored them.

He had to feed his… guest… and figure out a way out of this mess.

After dressing and scraping together a meager breakfast, Enjolras made his way up to the Eastern Tower, following the shameful furrow in the dust, keeping his eyes on his feet and his mind as far away as he could.

He reached the door, gathered up his courage, and looked up.

The door was ajar and beyond it, the room was empty.

Enjolras gently deposited the plate on the floor and, still crouching down next to it, dragged his hands over his face.

From around him, the Ancients whined louder, and once again, Enjolras tossed them aside. They’d brought him nothing but trouble. He could handle this on his own.

The prince was no where in the tower. Neither was he on the main floor.

Torch in hand, Enjolras scoured room after room. The only way into the castle was on dragonwing, and the fear that the prince had thrown himself out one of the windows grew as his search became more and more frantic.

Shadows danced.

Bones whispered.

Shaky hands flung doors open as room after room of stale air passed by, viewed as if through another’s eyes.

The torch burned out and Enjolras forced himself to fetch and light another. Even the easy and familiar gesture of changing his eyes, shifting something deep in their core, felt too close to admitting the pull of his ancestors.

By the time the faint strains of a drunken song had gotten to him, he figured the Ancestors had simply found another way to make him miserable. The realization that the singing was, in fact, the prince’s, was one that filled him with more relief than he’d felt in decades.

He followed the occasionally off key strains all the way down to the crypt, emotions swirling inside him and culminating in a great crest of anger.

It was the last place he wanted to be, and somehow the one place the prince had thought to go.

The door was wide open, and the pool of light revealed the prince, half naked, sprawled out, surrounded by defeated wine bottles— all centuries old— and attempting to uncork his latest victim with his teeth. A scattering of tattoos littered his body, runes and esoteric sigils done in an amateur’s hand mixed, in places, with more elegant patterns. All would have been hidden under any decent shirt, but now, wearing only pants, bandages, and wine, they were starkly visible.

Enjolras stood in the doorway, anger fading to something more complicated, but just as powerful. Long ago, he might have been able to put a name to those emotions. Now, he could barely tell them apart. Maybe it was confusion, or a grudging respect. No. Perhaps disgust. Either way, his stomach twisted itself in knots around it.

The barrels, shelves, and the viscous darkness hid the reliefs from his vision, but it still felt like too much. Somehow, even though the remnants of his anger, there was something like relief in seeing someone so human defiling such an ancient place.

The prince blinked at the bottle in his hands as if seeing it for the first time. He looked around, wine-addled brain attempting to piece something together, until his gaze landed on Enjolras. His expression cleared.

“A-hah!” he called triumphantly, sending his voice bouncing along the stone walls. “It’s the dragon! And with clothes on! I thought I had drunk myself blind when the pretty carvings started to fade, but it would seem the sun just set. Welcome, welcome!”

He attempted to stand up, failed, and collapsed again.

The anger returned. He’d never liked the crypt, and even standing in the doorway made him feel uneasy. He’d quite forgotten that his father had filled it with wine in his day, something that had annoyed his father to no end.

Fortunately, they were both dead. Now, he could barely pick his father’s voice apart from the rest of the grumbling stock.

Enjolras thrust the torch out further, trying to survey the full breadth of the havoc.

“What are you doing?” he asked through clenched teeth.

The prince stared at him. Watching the gears turning in his head was almost as painful, Enjolras suspected, as the thinking itself.
When everything fell into place, the prince’s eyes sparked and he nearly giggled.

“What- what am I doing? I’m getting ready!”

“For what?”

The prince shrieked with laughter, rolling over onto his side. “For what, he asks! For death!”

“Right,” says Enjolras, grinding his teeth. “Death. You escape the magic bound room and you decide to come and drink yourself to death? No wonder the Old Magic died out.”

The ruddy crooked face morphed into an expression that, on a more sober man, could be called guarded. Or perhaps confused. Suspicious.

“...the old magic?”

Now he was being deliberately obtuse. Or perhaps he was just that drunk.

“The Old Magic. Wizards. Sorcerers. Mages.”

This prompted another bout of screaming laughter.

“‘I thought the old magic died out,’ says the dragon,” the prince simpered.

Enjolras opened his mouth, then closed it. Arguing with a drunk was futile. Especially with a drunk mage. Who knew what he might do.

“Come on,” he said, instead of the thousands of things scratching at his tongue, “Back to the tower now.”

“I’ll get out again,” the prince said. “One way or another, I’ll get out!”

Enjolras didn’t dignify that with a response. Instead, he tried a different approach. “If you don’t get up here, I swear-”

“You’ll what? Kill me?”

Enjolras clamped his mouth shut.

“I’m no shrinking violet,” the prince said, stumbling to his feet. “I don’t need a knight. I- I’ve got training. And muscles. You come on now, dragon. Put ‘em up!”

Somehow managing to more or less end up in an upright position, the prince arranged himself into a fighting stance and raised his arms, hands curled into as tight of fists as the drink would allow.

A laugh bubbled up in Enjolras’s throat, then quickly died as he took in the condition of the prince’s body. His scarred torso was bandaged up with strips of what was once a beautiful dress shirt, bloodstains blooming against the white fabric. In places, faded runes peered through.

The fight didn’t leave Enjolras. Rather, he forced it out.

“You’ll catch your death in here,” he said quietly. “Come up.”

The prince stared at him for a very long time, his gaze drifting in and out of focus. Enjolras wanted nothing more than to scream and run. Maybe even let his ancestors loose and let the fire take him and turn skin to scales. Anything to get away from the mortifying ordeal of being seen.
Just when he was at the edge of his limit, the prince obeyed, and staggered towards Enjolras, dropping his head on the dragon’s shoulder.

Describing Grantaire’s headache in poetic terms would miss the point entirely. It would also be impossible. There were no words in any mortal tongue grotesque enough to describe the all consuming crackling, pulsing pain, and the weakness that radiated through his body and numbed his limbs.

Grantaire let out a groan, vocal chords creaking like rusty hinges in a hot wind.

Red spots sparked in the darkness behind his eyelids, forewarning of the cruel light beyond. Gathering up the energy, he flung his arm over his face like a jerky marionette, dislodging the blanket tucked firmly around him.

The good news was that he was alive.

The bad news was that he had to live through this.

Nausea welled in his throat and instinctively, he rolled over onto his side and leaned over the bed.

A basin was pushed towards him, and the rest warrants no description.

“You’re awake,” came a cutting voice, when his stomach finally let him rest.

Grantaire shoved his arm out and held up a finger in an insulting gesture.

“You got out of the room,” the voice — the dragon’s voice — continued, too curt to be conversational.

Grantaire rolled back over, hand and finger still extended. Death, at this point, would be a relief.

“I didn’t know you were a mage,” the dragon said, quieter. “I thought mages were...”

Grantaire groaned. It seemed like the conversation was going to happen no matter what.

“Does sewing a button onto your shirt make you a tailor?”

“What?”

“Does. Sewing. A button. On. To. Your. Shirt. Make you. A tailor.”

Silence. The faint rustle of fabric as arms crossed and uncrossed.

“Does reading a bawdy adventure teach you to swing a sword?”

The silence grew heavier, like a leaf bowing, gathering rain.

Perhaps that was a bad example.

“I’m no mage,” Grantaire spat out. “Now kill me or let me sleep.”

The leaf bent low, the gathered water slipped off in a fat shining drop and splashed down.

A chair screeched across the floor, and heavy, meaningful footsteps made their way out of the room.

The door slammed shut.

No words were spoken. No locks or bolts clicked.

Grantaire let out a strained breath.

After an eternity, Grantaire dragged himself upright. He was back in the fucking tower. The grate hung lopsided, splashing harsh sunlight across the room, mocking him.

He was shivering, or maybe just shaking, and another glance around served to locate a shirt. One rested, folded neatly, on the sturdy chair near the bed. It was black, overly large, and entirely out of fashion. Neither shirt nor chair had been there the day before, and he realized that he had no idea how they -- or he himself -- got there.

His memory had a fat, muddy, inksplat on it, starting at his seventh bottle and ending with, well, waking up.
With the same level of exertion that Atlas must use to keep the globe aloft, Grantaire struggled to his feet, donned the shirt, and drew the blanket tight around him again.

Then he lay back down and stayed there for a while, covers drawn up over his head, reveling in the darkness and the silence.

“Show me the prince,” commanded Enjolras.

The mirror in front of him did no such thing. Instead, the pastoral scenery on its surface grew crisper, until Enjolras could see every blade of grass, every hair on every cow, until he could nearly smell the manure. The idylic greenery and buttery sunlight hurt his eyes, too bright in contrast with the rest of his room.

He pounded on the sturdy frame with his fist, hoping against all odds that that would do anything at all.
It did.

The force of the hit knocked a few dust mites off the top of the mirror and the image faded, leaving him staring at his own reflection. Shirt collar askew, hair wild, eyes angry, pupils narrowing, heralding the coming of another transformation.

His ancestors whispered their support, sharp words rising from the surrounding bone. Though the ceilings here were low, they felt like they were towering madly over him, spearing his soul into eternity.

Enjolras took a deep breath, trying to make himself look more like a man.

The whispers intensified. He was no man, no mere mortal. He was-

He was stuck in a crumbling castle full of memories he didn’t want and advice he didn’t need, with a senile magic mirror, centuries of dust, and an unwilling guest that wanted no more part in all of this than he did.

Another breath and he could nearly ignore the ghostly protestations.

Another breath and he was nearly human.

For now, that would be enough.

If the mirror wouldn’t show him whether the prince had choked on his own vomit, he’d have to go check himself.

Just don’t get attached, he reminded himself. You still might have to kill him.

It was a while before he summoned up the courage to knock. The gentle sounds of life behind the door were as nerve wracking as they were reassuring. The prince’s continued existence — evident through the even breath billowing in his lungs and the heartbeat thumping away in his chest — was his concern now, whether he liked it or not.

The first knock was met with silence. The second, though more demanding, was also ignored. On the third, Enjolras found himself pounding at the door, shaking not just the thick wooden slab but the walls of the tower with every exasperated knock.

The prince’s breathing changed, catching, and finally he stirred.

Enjolras waited.

Nothing.

More than anything, he wanted to fling the door open, drag the stupid royal out of bed, and shake him until he listened.

He’d sat all through the night, memorizing the man’s face in the faint light of darkened heavens. Listened with half an ear to his drunken babbling in a rare moment of lucidity, all the while tracing the creases of his closed eyes with his own gaze, analyzing every flutter of the man’s lashes. It had been too long since he’d seen a human this close up. It was simple curiosity.

But curiosity would not be enough to protect the prince when Enjolras got his hands on him — not for his ancestors' sake, but because he wouldn’t open the damned door. Propriety (and a good measure of guilt) instilled so deep it was instinctual, prevented Enjolras from entering uninvited.

“I know you’re awake.” The words left his mouth before he could choke them back.

The prince’s only response was a sharp inhale.

There was no choice but to continue, then.

“And since you’re awake-“ The words squeezed themselves out of his throat, refusing the wait for his permission. “-you might as well listen.”

More silence.

“I don’t want to kill you-“

A gasp of a laugh that could have been hysterical if it wasn’t so exhausted.

“-but I will if I have to.” There was more conviction in those words than Enjolras felt. “Since you’re so sure of your ability to unlock any door, I won’t stop you from wandering. There’s no way out of the castle, so don’t think you’ll find one. Greater men than you — cleverer women, better people — have tried and failed. Now, I will feed you, clothe you, keep you from… further harm. All I ask is that if a door is locked, you leave it. I understand you have no reason to trust me, but you have to understand: there are things, artifacts, in these walls that could do worse to you than anything even I could imagine. And I’ve been alive long enough to develop quite the imagination.”

He swallowed, trying to push any moisture into his scratchy throat. That was more than he’d said at a time in years. Quite frankly, it was embarrassing. He’d been quite the orator once. Once.

“Soon, I’m sure, your king — or some other ruler, it matters little — will come to your aid. Send a few knights. Maybe-“ Certainly. “-one of them will even defeat me. Then you’ll be on your merry way. For now, just… don’t drink the whole cellar.”

“What’ll you do if no one comes?”

Enjolras blinked. The answer was too sudden. He let it lay for too long, scrambling to find any of the same quickness in himself.

“They have to,” he said matter of factly. “It’s tradition.”

“But what if they don’t?”

The prince’s voice was soft and hoarse. Something in it tugged at Enjolras’ heartstrings.

“It’s tradition,” he repeated, more for his own benefit than for the prince’s.

“Tradition, he says! Like tradition was ever-“

Abruptly, exhaustion rolled over Enjolras.

“There’s food by the hearth in the main hall,” he snapped, turned on his heels, and stormed away.

On the other side of the door Grantaire lay absolutely still, holding his breath until he could no longer hear the dragon’s angry steps. The ceiling above him was dotted with clumps of dust and cobwebs, and he focused on them instead of the tears forcing their way out.

Deep in his soul, he knew.

No one would come after him. Not even for half the kingdom, should his father be so generous.

It was just him, this oppressive castle, and the too-human dragon.

There was no way he was getting out of this alive.

Chapter Text

“You’re a dead man, Grantaire,” Grantaire said to himself, staring out over the waves to where sea met sky in an indifferent gray stripe.
He’d heard those words often enough. Or rather he’d heard hundreds of variations on them, shouted or hissed or barked in fits of anger. They’d always felt like a beginning to him, a rush. Usually, if someone was mad that meant he was on the right path with his scathing witticisms. Or that, at the very least, his composure was superior to theirs at that moment. Sometimes, it meant he was getting away with something he shouldn’t have.

This was the first time the words weighed on him, settling over his shoulders like the weight of the world. Then again, he’d never said them himself before.
He’d readied himself for death before, sure. He’d just never known death would be so boring. His heart beat, but that meant little. After all, a chicken could run around for a bit even after its head was cut off.

That first day he had eaten the modest meal the dragon had left out: overcooked venison and some sort of bland flatbread, grabbed a few more bottles from the cellar, and had been set on wandering through the castle, drinking and oggling the architecture. But as he meandered, from the very first step he took, the all too familiar feeling of being watched stuck to him like a burr. What was worse was that every time he turned around, he found himself entirely alone. No footsteps, no flashes of golden hair. It couldn’t have been servants, either; the state of the fortress presupposed a lack of staff.

He liked to think he would have taken it better had it not come with a heaviness of the air that was by turns hot enough to addle his mind and cold enough to chatter his teeth. So, he capitulated to his tower – the tower, rather – and there, he drank.

Days passed. He didn’t care to count how many. There was no point.

Grantaire was a man used to routine. His position in life demanded it. And yet, he was not used to boredom. He’d had his sparring, his books, his dubious duties to the court, an array of playhouses and taverns to sneak out to, and even a few friends. Or rather, people knit together by strife who politely tolerated his company.
This was a routine entirely different.

Twice a day, the dragon would call to him.

Twice a day, he would obediently descend to the dining hall with its crackling fire, fur rugs, plush chairs, and long wooden table. The morning meal (brunch, as Grantaire privately thought of it) consisted of cold flatbread and the last night’s leftover meat. Afterwards, Grantaire would make a quick trip to the basement and stock up on wine for the day, which he’d bring with him to supper. That usually entailed the results of the most recent hunt, and again the bread.
They would very carefully not look at each other while they ate. If he arrived looking especially disheveled, the dragon would furrow his brow, but say nothing.
Grantaire didn’t shrink away from the looks more out of exhaustion than bravery. He knew as well as the dragon: no one would want to rescue a dissheveled ugly wreck and fulfill whatever perverted murder dream the dragon held.

Unlike the dragon, Grantaire was painfully aware of how little it mattered. No one would come.

At that first brunch his captor presented Grantaire with a brush, a hunk of soap, and a small mirror.

That evening, there was a change of clothes and sheets waiting for him on the chair.

At least the dragon didn’t want him to live in filth, even as he silently signaled that he wouldn’t be the one cleaning up after Grantaire again, which was a relief as much as it was an embarrassment. After his hangover the first night, Grantaire made sure to not over-drink. Instead, he drank just the right amount to put himself in a pleasant, empty, haze.

Or rather, that was his state today. Before, he’d spent his time in tears and in a bottle, tearing at his hair and screaming ‘til he went hoarse, but no one had to know that. He preferred to retain some dignity, even if it was entirely imagined. He had never been one to go gently into that good night, but something in this place broke him, filled him with such a despair he could barely think.

It was a little better in the tower, though not by much.

Still, there was only so long he could rage or weep for. He had experienced for himself how strong the dragon was. No matter how human he seemed at times, inside that soft skin and beyond that aristocratic face lay a beast of the sort that felled whole armies in the olden days.

That dragon could have anything he wanted.

And he wanted Grantaire.

(Well, at least someone wanted him.)

He shook the images that sentence evoked from his head and took another swig of wine. That line of thought was never productive.

A seagull perched on the craggly outcrops of rock below.

He tried to focus on that, instead.

It flapped its slick striped wings and squacked.

Grantaire took another swig from the bottle

“Come, prince!”

The call rang through the air, to clear to be a roar and too loud to be anything else.

Grantaire groaned and pressed his forehead against the cold windowsill.

Being dead wasn’t just boring, it was frustrating.

Just like the day before, he clambered down the stairs, the chill intensifying as he left the gray stone for the white. It was down the hallway, then, which looked considerably cleaner than it had when he first arrived, then one turn, and another, until the dining hall opened up before him.

Just like the day before, the dragon sat at the opposite end of the long table, half-obscured in shadow.

Just like the day before, there were two plates at either end, filled with bread and meat.

He set his bottle down next to his plate.

If Grantaire never saw venison again in his life, he would be grateful.

“What?” said the dragon.

“What?” said Grantaire, unthinking.

“Is there something wrong with the food?” said the dragon, very slowly, words careful and measured.

Ah shit, thought Grantaire, and made sure not to say that part out loud.

“Nothing,” he said instead, and sat down, careful not to make eye contact.

The dragon stared, those blue eyes burrowing into him even as Grantaire focused on his plate and started eating.

Perhaps it was the wine, or Grantaire’s habit of throwing all decorum to the wind when he was under scrutiny (a spiteful habit he could never break), but when the stare

stretched on for too long, long enough for Grantaire to plod halfway through the steak, he simply couldn’t take it anymore.

He threw his knife down with a clang and looked up, meeting the dragon’s inscrutable gaze.

“You can’t possibly think I can keep living like this,” he snapped.

The dragon’s face remained smooth and unchanged. Grantaire’s stomach sank.

“Sir,” he added belatedly.

Now, the dragon’s brow furrowed.

“What I mean to say is, my lord-” Gods, he was about to start babbling. “-is that us mortals require a certain array of plant matter in their diet. Sailors get sick and waste away when stuck at sea for just that reason. I understand it’s specifics are a subject new to the scientific field, so you may not have heard of it, my lord. Even my father is skeptical of the matter, but forgive me if I don’t want to die a long and excruciating death, sir. But if that is your goal then go ahead, keep me here and let me-”

“What plants?”

Grantaire choked on the rest of his words. In the murky dusk that filled the room even during the day, in the haze of smoke and wine, the dragon shone like a gold-leafed statue of a young god trapped in a crumbling temple, illuminated by soft beams filtering through a cracked ceiling. The effect wouldn’t be so all-consuming if it wasn’t for his hair, perfectly coiffed with not a hair out of place, and the firelight casting its uncertain light.

The dragon spoke again. “What plants do you require?”

Grantaire realized he’d been staring.

“Herbs. Some fruit, lemons. Cider, maybe. It’s, uh, the official study has just started.”

The dragon’s jowls twitched. A telltale sign of someone grinding their teeth at Grantaire’s antics.

“What herbs.”

It was very clearly a demand, and the wine was singing too loudly in his veins for Grantaire to stop himself from throwing his hands up in frustration.

“Leeks? Lentils? Onions, potatoes maybe. I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.”

It was Grantaire’s turn to grit his teeth. “Forgive me if I don’t have the finer points of this memorized. A lot has happened since I read the proposal.”

The dragon raised his eyebrows. “A lot happened?”

As much as Grantaire was used to being mocked, he had never been able to grow fond of it. The measured words and economical movements only made it worse.

“You kidnapped me, my lord,” he said curtly.

The dragon, who had leaned forward at some point during the ordeal, now relaxed back into the chair, his fine chin tilted up and his alien gaze holding Grantaire in place.

“I did,” he said slowly.

Grantaire waited, but nothing else came. The dragon didn’t move again. Instead he sat, immovable as the cliffs themselves, one pale hand on the table, another in his lap, sprawled regally in his chair. The flickering flames and the dragon’s utter stillness transformed the sturdy, wooden seat with its plain armrests into a regal throne, the uneven lighting bringing out the secret ornament hidden in the wood grain.

The distance between them stretched all the further.

Grantaire shoveled the rest of the contents of the plate in his mouth, threw back his wine in one swift motion, and tried very hard to look like he wasn’t running away.

This whole affair was harder than it looked, thought Enjolras, as the prince disappeared past the hall’s great doors.
He’d expected the man to rage, throw things, complain about accommodations, maybe challenge him to a duel, but no. After the struggle during the flight, the prince seemed set on, if not wasting away, then passively drinking and atrophying. Even his defiance had been lackluster, no matter the tension in the room and frustration in his eyes.

Something plaintive and wistful squeezed Enjolras’s heart so tight his next breath came out in a short burst.

A thousand dead voices screeched their protestations.

Unnecessary.

Silly.

Stupid.

Soft.

Ghosts loved their sibilants.

Enjolras took a deep breath, blocking everything out, and whatever had taken root in his chest swelled, barely allowing him to fill his lungs.

Clutching on to that feeling like it was a lifeline and having no idea why, Enjolras cleared the table, washed the dishes, and retreated to his own quarters, the prince’s words and wild gesticulations seared into his mind.

Grantaire awoke to the sound of crashing, followed by targeted hammering. A single groggy thought bloomed in his mind: the palace didn’t need any more renovation. Then, he opened his eyes and the grim stone ceiling swam into focus. The thought packed it’s bags and fled.

More hammering.

A crash.

The tower shook.

Grantaire closed his eyes.

“This is it,” he muttered, “He’s going to kill me. Creatively.”

Fear twitched lazily in the pit of his stomach, sending vibrations of something too weak to be terror coursing through him. The potent mix of exhaustion and a demure hangover kept him calm, and after another bout of hammering, curiosity won out, as always.

Clambering out of bed and tugging the blanket after him, Grantaire padded over to the door and nudged it open a crack.

The dragon was in the hallway, fitting a door into a fresh hole in the wall, small pieces of rubble scattered on the small landing.

He got it in one fluid motion and stepped back, dusting his hands off and then settling them on his hips, admiring the door that somehow, managed to stand straight. Replacing doors was never something Grantaire was good at, no matter how many times he’d seen the palace repairsmen do it.

“What’s that for?” he asked before he could stop himself.

The dragon turned his head a fraction, presenting a mockery of a profile. Grantaire could just make out the tip of his nose, and an eye shining through the curtain of hair.

Not saying a word, the dragon gestured to the door, stepping back.

“I’m not jumping,” Grantaire said, as quickly as he could. “You’ll have to throw me off.”

The dragon took a deep breath, and turned to Grantaire.

“I don’t want to kill you,” he said, voice hoarse and even.

Doubtful, thought Grantaire.

“Then what’s behind the door?”

The dragon’s eyes twitched in what could have been an eye roll in a less controlled man, and pushed the door open.

The ocean wind burst in, a surprising briny burst that chilled Grantaire to the bone, even through the blanket. He took one cautious step forward.

A small platform jutted out of the side of the tower, positioned at such an awkward angle that Grantaire hadn’t noticed it the one time he’d nearly fallen out of the window.

“What is this?”

The dragon gestured again, and took another step back, his hand perfectly still as it stayed extended towards the doorway. It wasn’t necessarily a threat or a command, but all Grantaire had to do was think of the way those smooth fingers turned to talons, and the way they felt digging into his own flesh, and he found himself stumbling forward.

There was a modest barrier surrounding it, and it led to a rickety staircase that clung to the wall, winding around the cliff-facing side of the tower.

“Was this always here?”

“Yes,” said the dragon, and nodded to the stairs.

Muttering to himself, Grantaire ascended, clinging to the wall. The dragon followed. Grantaire paused for a moment, clutching at an outcrop of stone and adjusting his makeshift cape and his bearings. His face was assailed by the wind, hair whipped wildly around, but his back remained warm.

Gingerly, Grantaire half-turned and found his nose not even a breath away from the dragon’s golden locks.

“Gods, could you get any closer?!” Grantaire snapped, eyes darting down to the dragon’s face.

The dragon’s jaw twitched, eyes flashing gold. His brow nearly furrowed.

“I’m making sure you don’t fall,” he grit out.

“What, waiting ‘til we get to the top before tossing me down?”

Another flash of gold, accompanied by half a scowl and a curt, growled: “Just climb. Princeling.”

Grantaire climbed, all too conscious of the heat at his back as they wound up the tower.

What awaited him at the top of the tower was nearly more surprising than the rest of this endeavor.

“What the fuck,” muttered Grantaire, as his foot hit dirt instead of rock.

Nestled between the teeth of the tower, in the flat of the roof, was a garden. A clot of dirt, broiling with greenery, and a tree towering in the middle of it.

“What-”

“You were concerned about scurvy,” said the dragon, and pushed him forward.

The point of contact seared through Grantaire as he tumbled into a patch of vines and leaves. He dug his fingers into the mess and gently rustled, revealing an assortment of small, green bulbs and delicate blooms.

The smell of life, of rich, damp soil and dew-laden plants cast its net around him, and for a moment, Grantaire’s eyes drifted shut. He hadn’t realized just how musty and stifling the fortress was. It wasn’t decay that haunted its filigree halls, but emptiness. Nothingness mixed with ash and stale air.

Grantaire sat up just as careful footfalls passed him and stopped.

He opened his eyes.

The dragon stood, arms crossed, leaning against the tree.

Grantaire looked around. The green and black and gray were hazy in the dim, even, light of the early morning, overcast and dull. Details hid in monotonous masses, and even the dragon, usually bright, seemed almost human. There was little hope of making anything out.

As if on cue, the sun peaked out from between the low clouds, its clear rays splashing against the tower teeth, the corona of the tree, and the dragon, setting his hair ablaze, suffusing marble skin with a warm glow, and bringing some warmth to his glassy blue eyes.

It coaxed out the intricacies of fluffy carrot tops, illuminated the delicate fashion in which the beanstalk clung to its support, lit up the clumps of mysterious green spears, and glanced off of the bumpy gloss of plump lemons hiding amidst the tree leaves.

“I never said it was scurvy,” said Grantaire belatedly, clinging to the one constant in his life: pedantic arguing. “Could have been something else.”

“I’ve been alive for three-hundred odd years,” said the dragon dryly, something akin to humor coloring his face. “I can read between the lines.”

Grantaire looked around again, if only to buy himself some time.

Somewhere, a seagull screamed.

“Was the garden up here the whole time?”

The dragon looked away to where the sun sparkled in the water. “I… acquired it last night.”

“You acquired it,” Grantaire said flatly.

“The former owners were properly compensated.”

Gods, thought Grantaire. He killed some poor farmer.

There was little weight behind that thought, just as there was little force behind Grantaire’s fear. There was, however, a growing anxiety clutching at his core.

No matter the dragon’s murderous tendencies, he hadn’t killed him yet.

The dragon had even gotten him a garden.

What in the world did he want?

“So, what, I’m supposed to turn gardener now?” Grantaire asked instead.

The dragon jerked a shoulder in a facsimile of a shrug.

“Fantastic idea, my lord. You realize I don’t know the first thing about gardening, right? A little too busy with oh, diplomacy, and-”

The dragon looked side-long at him, and Grantaire choked down half-a-dozen sardonic replies. Usually, his captor’s gaze was simply neutral. This time, however, the expression on his face was a shadow of the frustrated fury Grantaire had seen when they met. It was enough for the healthy dose of fear he’d been missing to come rushing back.

The dragon took a step forward.

Grantaire moved back. Any faster, and he would have been scuttling crab-like through the cabbages.

“How typical,” said the dragon, his tone a mockery of Grantaire’s sarcastic outrage, “of a prince. Asking for something and knowing not what to do with it.”

Another step. The dragon leaned forward, leveling his face with Grantaire, and even across the distance between them, Grantaire could see a faint impression of scales trying to break free of that soft, chiseled face.

“You want to live, princeling? Figure it out.”

With that, the dragon strode past Grantaire, brushing past his shoulder in disdain.

“At least get me a book on it or something! Anything!” Grantaire yelled, turning around all too late, as clothes tore at the seams and the great red beast burst into the sky, the force of its wings tearing the blanket from Grantaire’s shoulders and knocking Grantaire even further down.

He sprawled back, crushing a promising young pumpkin, and didn’t care enough to get up until the flapping had entirely subsided.

Crawling through the path the dragon had left behind, Grantaire peaked over the crown of the tower.

Just sea, sky, and forest stretching even beyond the cliffs.

Not a man, knight, or dragon in sight.

The stairs sticking out of the tower wall, no railing between their edge and a deadly drop onto the jagged outcrops and murky water far beneath.

I’m making sure you don’t fall.

Grantaire groaned.

Somehow, he hadn’t thought he’d have to make his way back down the tower.

In a small city miles away, a beautiful young man in outdated dress slipped into an expensive bookshop. Voice rusty, he politely asked to buy a book on gardening and, hefty volume obtained, left as quickly and quietly as he came. He was never seen again.

Rumors of dragon sightings, however, persisted for quite some time after.

Chapter Text

The dead dragons didn’t like the rooftop garden.

They liked the book Enjolras left for the prince even less.

In fact, there was very little about this situation that they liked.

The castle creaked, groaned, swayed with every step, nosy relatives trying to break free of their bonds, envying the ones that had fallen too far away to ever see what their great and noble bloodline had become.

Enjolras ignored them.

A week went by and quietly grew into a month.

The prince tended the garden. With clumsy hands and uncertain eyes, he dove into weeding, watering, trimming the plants, fussing over them with unbelievable care.

No knights came.

The prince began asking questions, saying things. The fear in his eyes began to drain away.

“Do you do this often? Kidnap people. My lord.”

“Is there a kitchen?”

“Ever so sorry to bother you, but how much water do you think these potatoes require?”

“Have you had any of the wine? You have quite the vintage collection, and-”

“How much upkeep does this place require?”

“Have you ever tried a carrot?”

The month meandered on, collecting days. It became harder and harder to stay silent, and something akin to panic began building up in Enjolras.

No knights came.

As another week drew to a close, Enjolras managed to tear himself away from making sure the prince didn’t do anything stupid and turn to the matter at hand. A month was more than enough for any self-respecting knight to make his way across the fields, through the fairly tame forest, or over the seas.

Perhaps his flight path hadn’t been obvious enough. Perhaps his lengthy hunting trips were subtler than he thought. Or perhaps the humans had gotten worse at tracking.

The fortress wanted to be found. Enjolras could feel that in his own bones. His core sang in harmony with the walls, and his ancestors screeched, demanding blood. Any blood. He had kidnapped a royal, issued the challenge. Now, it was only fair to give the humans a chance.

The dragon wanted the knights to come for the sport, for the glory, for the dashes of royal blood in their veins.

Enjolras simply needed this prince as far away from him as possible.

Even with a solid solid wingspan between him and the human, along with the heavy table, his sensibilities were muddled. He was either going to snap and let his fingers turn to claws, blunt teeth to talons, flesh to fire, or he was going to give in to conversation.

He wasn’t sure which one was worse.

“It rained today,” said the prince.

Enjolras looked up.

He looked perfectly poised, crooked face barely flushed as he casually poked around in the plate in front of him. The prince’s heart, however, was pounding considerably faster than usual, and the slight tremor in his hand either spoke of too little alcohol (unlikely, considering the glass in front of him) or of great nerves. That, however, was true of every time the man spoke.

“Made the garden work easier. I thought it was hard to tell where the waters end and the sky begins on a cloudy day, but this? My lord, it was like there was nothing out there. I couldn’t even see the gulls flying below, though...”

Enjolras’s hand twitched.

The prince kept talking.

“...nothing is leaking, either, which is a small mercy. I don’t know how you fix a castle like this. I don’t even know if it snows in the winter here-”

“It doesn’t.”

The prince froze.

Enjolras clenched his teeth. The last thing he needed was a month of no knights and a conversation with a man he might have to kill. With every passing dinner, every “my lord,” the lack of any attempt to bargain for his life, it was harder and harder to keep in mind that this man was royalty. That for him, thousands had suffered, died, been extorted to fill the castle’s coffers, and that it was likely he cared little about this. After all, the siren song of power was stronger than decency.
But as the prince stared at him in shock, wine-dark eyes clear for once, his spine rigid yet his posture improperly relaxed, Enjolras’s resolve weakened.

A familiar rush of adrenaline – an all too human response to attention – jolted through him.

If I’d been more careful that first night, Enjolras thought, this wouldn’t be happening.

“There’s magic here,” he found himself saying, as the prince sat, enraptured, or perhaps terrified, not realizing his little game would get him anywhere. “In the bay. It gets cold, but it… is manageable.”

There was a pause as Enjolras let go of the utensil he’d come to grip too tight and leaned into the straight back of the chair, trying to put some distance between himself and the conversation.

“Thank the gods,” said the prince shakily. “I was wondering how the garden – and I – would fare in the colder months.”

“You won’t be here in the colder months.”

The prince opened his mouth, thought the better of whatever he was going to say, and closed it. With a rocking nod that wasn’t agreement at all, he took a bite of his food.

His heart had sped up, and whatever bit of openness had crept onto his face was swept away.

“We’ll see,” he breathed into his cup, and Enjolras pretended not to hear.

Later, when he was sure the prince was safely drunk in the tower, Enjolras retreated to his quarters and turned, once again, to his mirror. Its tarnished surface shone faintly in the dim light, and Enjolras was forced to watch his reflection slam its hand against the wall in tandem with him. Fragments of bone walls, dust and powder, rained down. Wild eyed, breathing heavily, his reflection leaned in, scowling, as he nearly pressed his nose to the silver. Disheveled, flushed and red-lipped, his appearance was, for a creature like him, disgraceful. Anger, at times, suited him. Desperation, he’d always thought, didn’t.

“Show me the pr- The court. Show me what they’re planning.”

His reflection wavered.

He snarled.

An image of the prince floated into view. The mirror focused on a close up of that expressive face as he took a swig from a bottle. Slowly, the view moved down, highlighting the way his throat bobbed when he swallowed, the flex of muscle and pull of flesh in that low cut shirt, and further down-

“The court!” Enjolras begged. “Show me the court.”

If he’d allowed himself contact with humans, this wouldn’t be happening. His mind wouldn’t be wandering and the mirror would behave.

He needed to get that prince new clothes.

Claws pricked at his fingers and fangs at his gums.

The walls sang their protestations.

The mirror tilted lower, and just when Enjolras was about to hit it, tossed the scene aside in a kaleidoscopic whirlwind.

The throne room unfolded, clear as day.

He was in luck.

The mirror had a shred of mercy left somewhere within its polished depths. Court was in full session. The king – old, but still handsome – sat on his throne. To his left, at a tiny foldable table, sat a scribe, hunched low, glasses slipping down his nose.

Someone was complaining. A rich merchant, it seemed, had gotten into an argument with another of his kind.

Common, trite, irrelevant.

It was the right king, the right court, of that Enjolras was certain. He’d spent too much time observing the minutiae of it in preparation for stealing away the princess.

Clearly, he hadn’t been watching closely enough.

This, however, was either another sign of the mirror’s senility or there was something else at play. Enjolras had always assumed it was, on some level, conscious. It had to, at the very least, be aware of the delicate thread keeping his temper reined in.

Enjolras searched the scene. Nobles, servants, rich array, trays with tasty morsels, complaint after complaint after complaint. Stolen kisses, whispered words, a guard with a flask, and there, in the back, a side door, hidden away. In the shadowy alcove, two humans trying to get past another one, smaller and wearing a dress. Enjolras tapped at it with a claw. The mirror took the hint and closed in just a little. Just enough.

In the darkness, out of sight, one of the men, Enjolras supposed, taller and bald, was gesticulating wildly. The other, slightly smaller and scrawnier, but more richly dressed, was stubbornly trying to push on through, cane shivering under one hand.

The woman held them both back, one calloused hand pushing them from the court room. Her face was hidden, the mirror cruelly refusing to show any more than it had to.

The bald one changed tactics and gripped her hand, holding it tightly in his own. He spoke quick enough that Enjolras couldn’t parse all that fell from his lips. The image was silent as a grave, but he could make out what might have been the words “dragon” and “rescue” and “dead.”

The woman said something, too. That much Enjolras could tell from the way the bald one drooped, and the scrawnier fellow made a last-ditch effort to force his way past, failed, and slammed his cane on the floor in a frustration that shook Enjolras, too.

The image shifted, panned across the back wall. One burly knight leaned closer to another. Both had quickly averted their gazes from the hidden door.

“You know,” Enjolras read, “There hasn’t even been a reward put out.”

“Of course not,” said the other, sardonic grin tugging at his lips. “It’s not big enough of a problem. His majesty is swamped. So many surplus duties...”

“Oh, I’m sure his mistresses are helping plenty.”

With that, the mirror focused, once again, on the center of the courtroom and the scene there.

Enjolras rested his forehead against the warmed silver.

Where had the world gotten to, that a dragon showing up wasn’t a big enough problem?

The dragons past agreed. Before, it was annoying. Embarrassing. Now, it was personal.

They were enraged.

Enjolras was just tired.

Nevertheless, he dragged himself away from the mirror, out into the hall, methodically shedding clothes as he went.

Not even sleep would give him the solace he desired, and none of that mattered.

The humans had forgotten.

On his way down, wind tearing through him, he cursed himself for the quiet life he’d led. The humans hadn’t simply forgotten on their own. He’d let them forget, locked himself up and set himself to waste away, a thousand generations of rather vocal relatives jerking him around like a marionette nipping any alternatives in the bud.

Then, the fire overtook him. He had a kingdom or two to terrify, and nothing else mattered.

The elders rejoiced.

Finally, an act worthy of a dragon.

“And stay away,” Grantaire muttered, empty bottle clinking on cold stone. “With- with your eyes. And scales. And your short fuckin’ sentences.”

He wished he hadn’t put the bottle down. Smashing it or tossing it would have been much more dramatic.

But then he’d have to clean it up.

Grantaire closed his eyes. Maybe he’d throw it onto the cliff later. From the top of the tower. Or the stairs.

Right now, he was out of wine.

The air in the fortress lacked its usual pressing stillness in the air. Limbs wine-loose, Grantaire half-sauntered through the pale hallways, humming tunelessly. An old lantern – a rusty thing he’d grabbed from the dining hall, and which the dragon still hadn’t realized was gone – swung from his hand, spooking the gathering shadows. As high-strung and tense as the conversation had been, the thrill of getting a response made up for any shred of fear, and a newfound confidence carried him through the fortress..

“It doesn’t,” Grantaire growled in the poorest approximation of the dragon, swinging over a bannister and landing clumsily on the steps shortly beneath. “There’s magic here.”

He turned the conversation over in his head, on his tongue, polishing it with the things he could’ve said. Maybe he could’ve kept talking about the weather, or asked something else about the garden. Perhaps something about the tree. And maybe there would’ve been a response, something terse and annoyed, but it would have been something.

Was talking to a dragon a bad decision? Yes.

But Grantaire had always been weak for a pretty face and had never fared well alone. And, since he was going to die anyway, he might as well make the most of it. His life belonged to the dragon after all. Might as well get to know him.

Carpe diem, memento mori, and all rest.

“Carpe vinum,” Grantaire muttered against the back wall of cellar. “No, that can’t be right. Vinum, vini, vino...”

He was, perhaps, drunker than intended (he was always drunker than intended). He leaned his head against a tall bottle rack, squinting at a bottle. The cool metal felt good against his skin, and he pressed further into it, trying to find relief for a headache he could already feel building.

The rack swayed.

Grantaire swore and grabbed at it. A few of the bottles higher up slipped out and crashed to the floor, the shattering of glass reverberating throughout the room.

Even wine-addled as he was, the thought still took hold in Grantaire’s mind.
The wall by no means ended there. There was something beyond.

“Alright,” he said decisively, setting his lantern down. “We’re gonna move you.”

He’d always thought the back wall was solid, nothing but stone on the other side. It was one of the few rooms not in any way made of the white, unplaceable rock, but rather carved into the side of the cliff.

“You’re a heavy bastard aren’t ya,” Grantaire grunted, trying to, as gently as he could, drag the section of shelving aside without any more casualties.

After millennia, he succeeded.

“Old and wizened,” he rasped, forming fingers into claws as he bent down for the lantern. “I go on. My kingdom? Fallen. The dragon? Gone. Everyone I knew? Dead. Ah, shit.”

Standing there, hunched over, face contorted in a grimace, he froze before the small gap he’d created. A draft slithered past him, phlegmatic and cold, and as he stared into the darkness he felt, truly, that no one was watching.

Not the dragon, not the fortress, not his father, nor the courtiers or common folk.

Just him, the pitch black, and the wavering circle of light about him.

And the smell of wine, the glint of shattered glass, the siren song of drink and oblivion.

But there were no eyes on him.

Grantaire straightened out and dragged a hand over his face in time with a deep sigh.

With a lingering look back over his shoulder, Grantaire stepped forward as nothing but himself.

Two provinces away, Enjolras was very carefully burning out an empty field to the absolute terror of the locals.