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The stone whizzed only inches past his ear and Feuilly doubled back again, running now towards the dense woods to his right. His eyes burnt from tears he was afraid to shed while his stomach churned from hunger.
The abusive calls of the farmer and his hands were following his hasty flight to the woods while dry sobs seemed to throttle the boy as he dashed into the soft darkness of the trees. His heart was racing and his back hurting from where one of the farm hands had managed to set a punch with his flail.
If just the girl had kept her mouth shut when she had seen him stretch for the loaf of bread that was resting on the window sill to cool out. If she had just thought for one moment, if she had just seen his haggard face, the saucer-wide children's eyes that were begging for her companionship in his little robbery.
There had been three more loafs of fresh, still steaming wholemeal bread on the window sill and the girl, her parents and all of the farmhands would have survived loosing one loaf. But Feuilly would maybe not survive not being able to take the loaf with him.
It had been a harsh week so far and Feuilly had not been able to find any work in the small villages he had passed on his journey. Normally he would work on a farm as a hand during the harvest, but the season was not for harvesting, so he had tried to find other work. First he had cleaned shoes on the street but it had soon not paid out anymore and he had moved to other occupations: delivering messages and small parcels from store to store or cleaning out the drains on the streets after particularly bad weather. He had worked in a coal mine once but had been dismissed because he had been too weak to push the cart out of the narrow shafts.
In recent years, it had been harder and harder for the scrawny orphan to find work. Feuilly was a bright boy, clever and skilled, but he was also well mannered and quiet, which put him at a disadvanteg when it came to competeing for a job. The new rules and laws that the king had passed in the last years – along with the laws on dragons – made it nearly impossible to employ unlearned workers so Feuilly ended more often than not on the streets.
The only work he had liked very much and had actually cried when he had been asked to leave was the work in the fan workshop. He had been helping the artists, had fetched tins for the colours, had mixed colours, had cleaned brushes and had watched amazed how the men in the small room had painted the most colourful and detailed scenes on the feuilles of the fans. But he had never been able to find work in a fan workshop again even if he had been able to prove that he was somehow a learnt worker – people were suspicious against orphans these days.
Back then, working at the studio of Monsieur Charitable had been the first proper job Feuilly had done and after he could not tell the owner of the shop his name for he himself did not know it as no one on the farm he had grown up had known it, the man had smiled and said that he could go and sit next to the pile of unpainted feuilles and if he was lucky, he could one day paint one of them. The workingmen had proceeded to call out for unpainted feuilles and Feuilly brought them to them in the following days. And so that cry somehow stuck with Feuilly and had become his name.
But those happy days in the shop were four years away now and Feuilly was eight, alone, hungry and afraid. The tears ran freely now and Feuilly wiped his runny nose with his dirty sleeve while his lungs still stung from the flight.
The woods enveloped him now and the muffled sounds of animals in the undergrowth were for once not soothing. Feuilly was used to the woods, had spent most of his childhood sleeping in the open or wandering the woods, but today it had a threatening quality to them, Feuilly was afraid.
After a few more steps he changed his direction and slunk into the undergrowth, searching around for berries, herbs or roots he could eat. But the season was changing faster with every day and sometimes in the mornings, dew had frozen on the plants, a sure sign that the late autumn was now changing into early winter.
While Feuilly rummaged for something to eat – his belly growling from hunger and his fingers shaking from the cold that seeped through his thin linen clothes – he was constantly sniffing and wondering if this would be his last winter. Feuilly had been an optimistic and happy child, despite everything that had happened to him, but with the years he had lost that optimism and hope and had become hard and sometimes bitter.
People who saw him in the streets or talked to him briefly – and God knew how few those were – would sometimes not believe that he was only eight years old, going at nine, because he was so reserved, serious and sometimes even rigid. But in order to live, Feuilly had had to become hard. The shell sometimes broke, of course, and then Feuilly was doubting himself, was wondering if he could ever be enough to be loved because why had his parents left him on the doorstep of the farmer's house he had lived for the first four years before the old farmer had died and he had been cast out if they would have loved him? Was there something odd about Feuilly that would never make anyone love him?
Groaning desperate and sad, Feuilly threw a small stone against a distant tree and crouched down, hugging his legs to his chest and weeping into his knees, only covered by thin and scraped off trousers. He knew he should built a fire and keep searching for food, but Feuilly was tired and alone and wondered why he was not just lying down to sleep until everything was over. He had seen countless other street urchins freeze to death in winter or the early spring, death was a constant part of living on the streets and had lost its horrors for Feuilly.
What was gnawing more at his heart was the crippling loneliness he sometimes felt. During some nights, he would wake from a deep slumber and think he had lost something, had forgotten one of his most valuable possessions at a place he could not remember and would never get it back. Sometimes he would see a child playing with their parents and would feel a longing in his chest that he could not dampen down for days to come.
A rustling in the bushes to his left caught his attention and he nearly jumped out of his skin when a badger tumbled past him, followed by another dark shadow – way quicker than the badger. The pursuer jumped at the badger and Feuilly watched horrified how it squeaked in anguish when sharp, white fangs got buried in the badgers neck. The predator yanked its head to the side and a snapping sound echoed through the woods – followed by the badger going completely limp and quiet – that Feuilly was actually happy to have an empty stomach because otherwise he would have thrown up now.
When the commotion subsided and the animal stilled, Feuilly froze. In the light of the early evening, Feuilly finally saw what kind of predator he was watching. What he had thought was a wildcat was in fact something far more dangerous: black, glossy scales covered a body that was very much alike the prey it had just killed, white scales drawing two fine lines from the forehead to the back. Muscular claws ripped fur, flesh and tendons apart while a wedge-shaped head dove into the carcass to feed.
Feuilly could not stop the frightened whimper that escaped his constricted throat and crawled away from the dragon. The animal had heard him though and raised its head out of the carcass, blood dripping from its fangs. The large, orange eyes fixed on Feuilly and the dragon curled up, hissing vile at the frightened boy who was crying from fear by now.
Feuilly's vision went blurry when the tears flowed over and he felt the cool dirt between his half-frozen fingers while the beast clawed through the air at him, hissing and growling at him. This could be his last moment on earth, this could be the end – killed by one of the most dangerous animals in existence.
His heart beat overtime and his breath came in mere hiccups from crying while he backed away, hoped that the animal wouldn't follow, that he could flee. His hand sunk into the dirt again while the other reached behind him, searching for support. The stone-hard bark of a tree cut into his palm and when he lowered his weight on the hand, a twig snapped with a crack that shot like an explosion through the silence of the woods.
The dragon jumped and filled its lungs with fire, breathing out through the nostrils. Feuilly watched the fireball fly towards him and thought what cruel irony it was to die of fire in a frozen wood. He closed his eyes and waited for the pain, the suffering, the death.
Something warm enveloped him. It was similar to the feeling of the blanket that the fan-maker's wife had always slung around his shoulders when he had been too cold in the draughty workshop. The smell of paint, of wood-fires and of the stew they were having for lunch on special occasions filled Feuilly's nose and he exhaled slowly while opening his eyes.
The flames were dancing around him, licking up his bare arms and dancing over the legs of his trousers, curled around his hair and caressed his face. On the outer side of the warm glow he could still see the dragon, watching in amazement and fear and when they made eye contact, Feuilly gasped.
Images surfaced in his mind: a gloomy earth-cave, narrow but deep. The large form of a dragon huddled over smaller dragons, babies. Dragons that looked exactly like the one in front of him. A meadow, suffused with the light of an early summer, little dragons jumping around, learning to fly, the large dragon – their mother – watching thoughtfully over them. A wood, dense undergrowth, their mother leading them, their mother showing them how to hunt. Suddenly – a trap snapping, their mother howling. The hooves of horses, men shouting, light glinting on swords and spears. The panic, the fear, the flight.
Feuilly closed his eyes and pressed his hands to his ears. But the images still whirled through his head, the images and the emotions. Dark woods, the cave, empty and cold. The fear, the sadness, the confusion while he – no, the dragon, not Feuilly – tumbled through the woods, crying for her mother and siblings but never finding them again. Smelling blood and death on the clearing they had been surprised on, feeling the loss of her family.
“Enough!”, gasped Feuilly, tears staining his cheeks again, “Please!”
Opening his eyes, he found that the fire had gone. But the dragon was still there, sitting on her hind legs and staring at him through wide eyes, the head cocked, an inquisitive look on her features. Feuilly was wondering whether he was going crazy but he thought to feel the curiosity, the surprise and the worries she felt for him.
“Who are you?!”, asked Feuilly, slowly taking his hands off his ears, wondering if this dragon could speak.
The dragon snorted and got up, pacing a few steps, then slowly coming towards him. Feuilly sat completely still, eyeing the dangerous animal that acted more like a cat now than an actual dragon. She sniffed the air around him, tense and jumpy and rounded him time and again. Finally she drew closer and sniffed at his copper curls, huffing and blowing warm air into Feuilly's collar that made him shiver.
And all the while he felt her questions: who he was, why he had not burnt, why his fur was the colour of fire and if that made him something special. Where his herd was, why he was alone in this woods, smelling of hunger and sadness.
“My name is Feuilly.”, said Feuilly quietly while the dragon had sat down in front of him again, eyeing him with the cocked head and the wide eyes, like before, “Do you have a name?”
The dragon made a noise between a snort and a gurgle and cocked her head to the other side. Feuilly – who was finally loosing his fear of the animal – smiled and scratched his forehead before saying: “Sorry, I don't speak dragon.”
A huff from the dragon and he thought to see her roll her eyes at him before she carefully poked his shoulder with her snout, wondering if he was as hungry as she was. He sighed deeply and put a hand to his stomach, nodding. The dragon chirped and sprang to her feet, dashing over to the carcass, sinking her teeth into the still warm meat and dragged the dead badger over.
Feuilly watched her amazed and wondered what she was doing.
Getting feed for both of them, that was what she was doing.
“Sorry... but I can't eat raw meat.”, responded Feuilly to her suggestion and looked at the carcass in front of him while she huffed again, pawing at his knee.
She had no idea what the pups of humans ate, but if he wanted, he could have the fur if he did not eat raw meat.
Feuilly laughed and shook his head while the dragon nearly looked a little hurt. He quickly added: “No, no fur, thanks. But if you could... you know... spare me a bit of that meat and I could get a fire going, I could grill myself something. I've never eaten badger before, but I guess I will be alright.”
The dragon wondered if he was kidding, why he had never at least tried the most delicious food in the whole world and started immediately to remove the fur from the left hind leg of the badger, surprisingly efficient with her long claws and quick movements. When she yanked the leg out of the joint, Feuilly had to suppress the urge to retch and nodded when she came over to him, dropping the skinned leg in his lap.
“I need wood first.”, he told her while she watched him get up and gather small twigs and bits of bark for his fire.
She wanted to know if all humans stuck their feed into the fire first or if that was just some kind of sick liking of his. At least he was ruining the delicious blood-taste of fresh killed meat.
“You're gross.”, commented Feuilly with a smile and built a small stack of wood for the fire.
And he was a scrawny little human with no taste in good food, she let him know and dove her head back into the carcass, munching on bones and cartilage as she was slurping and gulping. Feuilly made a disgusted noise and threw a bit of bark at her. She jumped and let him know that if he did not stop bothering her, she would try again to roast him and would not stop until she succeeded.
“Would you mind setting that wood ablaze?”, asked Feuilly after a moment and watched her lick her lips while she was bestowing an incredulous look at the pile of wood Feuilly had created. She obliged through and not a few minutes later, the piece of meat she had spared for him roasted over the fire.
She had quit her meal and sat next to Feuilly, her side pressed against his, both watching the fat drizzle into the flames and hiss in the quiet of the night.
“So you're alone too?”, asked Feuilly after a moment in a half-whisper, not looking at the dragon girl who huffed sadly next to him.
At least she knew who her mother was, she told him and sent a pitying look towards him. She let him know that she could not imagine what it must been like to grow up all alone, never belonging anywhere, having no one to show him things, to teach him and guide him.
Feuilly wondered if she had seen pictures of his life in her mind when he had seen what had happened to her. She nudged him and told him that it was unfair to rummage in other's thoughts and memories. He rolled his eyes and informed her that she had done the same.
He should not try to distract her, she had asked him something first.
“At least I had my freedom.”, said Feuilly a little sad and drew his knees up to his chest, hugging them with both arms and resting his chin on his right knee.
The dragon did not know what freedom was. Feuilly looked over at her and felt her curiosity curse through his own veins like it was his own emotion. He wondered where this bond came from and whether she felt everything he felt just as intense. The look in her eyes made it clear for him that she did.
“Freedom is...”, tried Feuilly to explain but got stuck after the first two words. He wondered how to explain to an animal what freedom was. For him it was not worrying where he would get the next money from, where to get a meal from, to stay in the sun all day, not to care where he would have to go next, running through a sunflower field and playing with a dog on a clearing in the woods.
Doing what one loved. The thought struck him and the animal at his side dug her nose into the warmth beneath his collar, sniffing at his chilled skin. She had understood the essence while following Feuilly's thoughts. He nodded and reached up, scratching his fingers over the short and stout neck of the dragon.
She wanted to have a name, she let him know after a short silence and drew her head out of his collar. Feuilly watched her in the darkness of the upcoming night and wondered what to call a dragon.
He knew that he would not leave her. He couldn't, not after seeing what had happened to her. They would not be able to go back to a city or village together, that much was for sure. But they could stay in these woods. This nimble little dragon was a skilled hunter so they would not have to suffer from hunger anymore. Feuilly could erect himself a little hut, maybe even grow some vegetables – surely he would be able to nick some seeds out of the rich people's gardens in spring – and provide for them. Without being alone all the time, with someone who would watch out for him and be there for him – as well as Feuilly would be there for her –, Feuilly dared to live in freedom once again and not let society dictate him what to do.
“I think I'll call you Swoboda.”, said Feuilly and scratched her nose a little, thinking back to the salesman who had taught him a few important words in his own tongue when he had stopped at the fan-workshop, “That means freedom.”