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Illya had never thought he would fall in love with anyone. And even if he had, he would certainly never have expected it to be a dragon.
But the feeling he gets when Solo is near, of his warmth and cool scales, is unlike anything he has ever felt before.
Illya had never known love when he was a child. He had been abandoned as a baby, raised by a shepherd and his wife who had found him, starving. They had done their best... but it had not been the warm embraces he yearned for his whole life. It had not been the coal of contact or the fire that settles deep within one’s eyes when leaning in for a kiss. The brush of blazing skin on skin, liberating him from the chill of the night.
Gaby always said that Illya was different.
And she was right. People tended to avoid him- he had a way of making them uneasy. Not on purpose, but it was as if he had a spell cast over him- charging the air.
He was tall, hair a golden blonde far brighter than anyone else who bore the color, his eyes flashing blue ice. Even his voice refused to conform. It was deep, laced with a faint rumble that vibrated through his chest. Solo would often lie curled beside him, letting the sound tremble through his body as Illya spoke. The dragon seemed to like it.
All in all, life was good. With their forces decimated, the Vinceguerras had withdrawn their aggression and gone back to the fiefdom to lick their wounds.
And Solo had stayed.
Illya still cannot believe it sometimes, waking up to the other man’s warmth beside him in bed. Or laughing with him under the glow of the waning moon, his scales shimmering in the silver light.
Illya had always felt that something was missing from his life... that there was a tear in him which refused to heal. It faded after he met Solo. Ceased troubling him.
Until Yule’s Eve, when everything changed.
He is helping Gaby stoke the fires in the great hall when he hears the high roar of pain.
It is faint, echoing though the silvered twilight, a trembling timbre laden with anger and agony.
The cry of a dragon.
Gaby drops the poker at the same time Waverly enters the room, face grave. His grey-streaked hair is ruffled, brow lined with concern. He darts a gaze to Illya, eyes weighted with something Illya cannot place. “Mr. Solo had a bit of an accident,” he says, calm but urgent. “Kuryakin, the healers need your help. He won’t calm down.”
Illya doesn’t think he’s ever run so fast in his life. He ignores the raised voice of Gaby questioning her adoptive father for details, the low sound of Waverly’s response, and sprints. His boots thump against the hardwood floors, coat flaring about his knees. Another bellow of agony forces him to vault out an open window and take a shortcut across the grounds. Grass whips at his knees, dandelion tufts shaken loose in clouds.
Solo is sprawled across the back lawn in his true form, wicked claws tearing great rents in the green. His head lashes, teeth bared at the man shouting up at him. His beautiful eyes are glazed, flanks heaving.
Illya traced his form with his gaze, looking for the problem.
It’s one of his wings.
The joint looks wrong- angled up away from his back. A dislocation. No wonder Solo is so tetchy.
Illya takes in a long, slow breath. The stirring sensation in his bones abates slightly. It is not life threatening. Painful, yes. But Solo will recover. They just need to get it back in place.
He hurries forwards, but another roar from Solo has his body prickling again. It is not a pleasant feeling, a faint tearing sensation deep in his being. As though something wants to get free. To get out.
Illya tries to ignore it, like he always does. It only happens when he’s near Solo. Only the dragon manages to bring this out in him.
Why, exactly, is beyond him.
“Solo, ifpesp vhira!” Illya shouts, reaching the animated form. He catches hold of the dragon’s snout and tries to make eye-contact. He has been working on his draconic, but if Illya is being honest with himself, he does not really need the lessons- it seems to take ahold of him, the words spilling fluidly from his tongue. They taste of fire and sparks, primal and hot.
Solo wrenches away, sending Illya toppling onto his arse in the dirt. He throws back his majestic head and sends a gout of shimmering silver fire shooting into the sky.
Illya’s jaw aches. His skin feels too tight again, like a wallpaper that he could rip off if he scratches too hard. A strange sound escapes his throat, tearing free with the taste of blood. If one were to ask him what he had said, Illya would not have been able to tell you.
He is not sure when everything changes, only that Solo is now no longer shooting fire; instead, the dragon is eyeing him closely, sniffing as if he can scent a foreign smell.
Illya breaths a sigh of relief. Now they can try and fix the wing. Good.
Then Solo peels his lips back from his teeth and thrums out a note so deep that it takes Illya a moment to realise he is singing in base draconic.
It starts low, almost more of a feeling than a sound. Then it grows. And as it does, so does the aching inside of Illya. This is... it has never been this bad before.
A grunt of discomfort leaves him, sending beads of sweat down his brow as Solo hums on. Then a cry of pain follows it. Illya staggers, trying to get back onto his feet. “Solo! Solo, stop!”
The dragon does not. His wing still dragging as he snakes his head closer. The note pitches, as if in question, and Illya screams along with it as he feels his skin tear like the seams of a coat, hot points of something hard forcing their way out of his skin, his spine cracking under the force of the two... of the two... two...
The guardsmen are suddenly faced by two dragons, instead of one.
But this newcomer is large- far larger than Solo, muscled and gleaming with pebbled golden scales. Its tail is a thick whip, ending in a trident-like prong. The wings arch, seeming to blot out the sky, their movement causing gusts of wind. Its spine bristles with spikes, legs tipped with talons like cleavers.
And when it snarls, its voice is like thunder.
Solo does not move, only watches out of his reptilian eyes.
And then the golden dragon collapses, and, quite suddenly, it’s Illya again, lying there. Unconscious.
His fair skin riddled by shining scales.
When he comes to, it is to warm sheets and his skin on fire with tingling. Dim light gilds the inside of his eyelids, voices a soft ambiance around him.
“He’s one of the Hidden Kin,” says Solo’s voice. Illya can recognise it so easily by now. The inhuman tone, smooth and cunning. He is speaking softly. “It... I haven’t seen one in years. His mother would have hid his egg somewhere near a human home, the spell already cast.”
“So... he’s...”
That is Gaby. He thinks.
“A Greater Golden, yes.”
“How the fuck did we miss that?”
Waverly speaks next. “He’ll be alright?”
“Yes.” Solo’s voice sounds certain, if a little hoarse. “I’ll... have to teach him a few things, but the worst is over.”
Illya suddenly becomes aware of the heat that fans to life in his chest when Solo speaks. He feels drawn to him. Bound to him. He tries to speak, but all that emerges is a strangled stutter of sound.
Then someone is there, and he knows it is Solo without having to open his aching eyes. Fingers brush his forehead, soothing and so warm. They feel like embers on his skin. “Shhh. Lapiet mahhn.”
He cracks one eye open to squint up at Solo. His vision is different- clearer and a bit more... muted. The skin on his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose feel different too... heavier. Colder.
Solo’s scales glitter as he offers a small smile. He looks a mess, one arm held as if it is causing him pain. There are livid bruises blooming around his pale throat, the shape of hands. Illya feels a low snarl rumble in his throat- who dared to hurt Solo? He will...
Oh.
Oh he remembers now.
It was him.
He had been scared, overwhelmed... had lashed out.
“I... I am sorry,” he rasps. Then winces. His throat feels like sandpaper.
Solo waves one hand. “Don’t worry. There’s no lasting harm done.”
Gaby appears in his line of sight, peering down at him. She offers a tiny grin. “How are you, liebling?”
Illya manages a shaky nod. He feels... he feels...
He feels as if for the first time in his life, the world makes sense. Why he had never felt at home with the couple who had raised him. Why he had always longed for heat. Why he had been drawn to Solo.
Speaking of Solo, Illya realises he can smell the dragon’s scent. It is something... floral? Is that right?
Solo flashes his teeth in a crooked smile. “Do you remember anything?”
Illya blinks. He feels so tired. But... “I... changed?”
“Yes.” Solo’s expression softens. “You are what we call one of the Houpetor Kol, Illya. The Hidden Kin.” Solo settles himself by Illya’s side, the bed dipping under his weight. “Sometimes, when a she-drake is in grave danger, she will hide her egg away near a settlement of humans. There is a spell that she will cast on her egg, one of concealment and old magic. It shape-changes the hatchling. Makes them look human.”
Illya swallows. He suddenly feels as if something is choking him. “So... my mother... she did not abandon me?”
“She would have done it to save you.” Solo tenderly brushes Illya’s hair from his eyes. Then his expression darkens. “I bet the Coven had something to do with it...”
Waverly has joined them now, not saying anything. He does not look displeased, however so Illya says, “Sir?”
“Hmm?” The older man shakes himself, before offering a wry look of amusement. “I’m not entirely surprised, Kuryakin. You always did like the warmth too much.”
Solo rumbles deep in his throat, and Illya cannot help but think again just how beautiful he is in this light.
No one troubles them. Certainly not after the news that there are a mated pair of Greater Dragons who call the small fiefdom home.
Sometimes, if one is lucky enough, you might see them, swooping shapes of crystal and gemstones, glimmering like a mirage up in the sky.
Or, at the equinox ball, you might have seen the young woman with the dark hair flanked by two men; one with dark curls and scales like sapphire; the other tall and blonde, gold scales gleaming like coins.
They have been made part of the household, Lord Waverly’s protection defending them from those who would wish them harm. Such as General Sanders and his Coven. And in return, they keep the little fiefdom safe. Not that anyone would be stupid enough to launch an attack on dragons. You might as well just walk into a fire and save yourself the trouble.
That winter is a harsh one. Snow arriving in a driving sleet. Wind that howls like a lonely drake.
Solo and Illya, however, are warm. Curled up in each other in their room that lies across the hall from Gaby’s. Illya feels the world cant into something familiar and safe, Solo’s head on his chest where his heart is thrumming slowly. The dark-haired man is snuffling softly in slumber, and Illya puts his arms around him. A small smile ghosts his lips, embers warming his heart. The golden scales on his face dance in the firelight as he closes his ice-blue eyes in contentment.
Finally.
Finally, he has found his home.
Hi everyone :)
art for Illya's dragon form can be found HERE
so sorry for the wait!