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Once upon a time, there was a village.
This village was poor, and cold, and surrounded by mountains and woodland. Danger lurked - it was too dangerous for any travellers to enter the village, and too dangerous for any of the villagers to leave. Monsters lurked in the shadows of the forest, and those who wandered too far were never seen again.
The biggest monster of all didn't live in the forest. It lived a few miles out and a few miles up - it was a dragon, whose home was somewhere in the cavernous mountains. Every so often the villagers would see it soar way up in the sky, it's great scaled wings glistening like amythests in the sunlight as it circled the settlement like a vulture. It never bothered the village - it didn't need to. It's prescence was threat enough.
Over the years, the villagers had, of course, tried to slay it. Just one of those huge legs would be enough to sustain the townsfolk for months - and that's not to mention the armor that could be made from the dragon's tough, fireproof hide. It was a risk, but it was worth it; if they could only slay the dragon, then they could leave this miserable village and find somewhere new.
-
Once upon a time, there was a boy.
He wasn't all that remarkable. He was shorter than the other boys his age, and less physically gifted - the others spent their time cutting firewood and getting into fights. This boy could barely lift an axe.
Instead, he passed the time sitting at the border of the settlement, where the barren fields met dark woodland, his eyes to the dirt and insects. He was fascinated by their small-ness. How they crawled about with such urgency, their tiny limbs scurrying, driven by an innate sense of survival. The sounds he heard from the woods intrigued him. Howls and growls and other, indistinguisahble animalistic noises, echoing through the trees. What went on in there? He had heard stories, of course, of werewolves and of the Grim and of tricky Fae. How far would he need to wander before he was caught unawares? Before his body was ripped limb from limb, his screams unheard? He would become another cautionary tale. They would all know what happened to him. Nobody would miss him, he doesn't think. They might even laugh. Might even be glad.
There are whispers in the village about this boy. They don't trust him. He talks to bugs, invites them into his home. He comes back with strange remedies - witch hazel bark and nettles - and they work, which only makes it all that more suspicious. It isn't long until the word witch is being passed around in hushed voices, and people start avoiding him even more than before.
Winter fast approaches. The nights grow bitterly cold, sunlight fading far too quick. Food is bound to be a struggle. Each extra mouth to feed is a drain on resources.
"He doesn't exactly contribute, does he? He brings back no firewood, he refuses to hunt." This seems to be the common consensus, one that ignores how the boy helped to heal many of their children with his knowledge of the earth.
A decision is made, eventually. By unanimous vote.
"Slay this dragon for us," they tell the boy, placing a sword in his small, weak hands. "Come back, and you shall be a hero."
The boy is not stupid - far from it, in fact. He knows that nobody has ever returned from slaying the dragon. He knows they do not expect him to survive.
Still. He has no choice.
The sword feels unnatural in his hand - metal and industrious. He much prefers the wet, soft grit of soil. The mulch of leaves under his fingernails. He tucks the sword into his scabbard, his pockets full of healing herbs and berries, and wraps his cloak tighter around his shoulders as he heads up the mountain.
He has a dragon to slay.
-
The climb up the mountain is perilous. It's cold, windy, and the boy has never been all that athletic. He stops regularly to sit down and catch his breath, pulling down his scarf from his face to watch his breath turn into little clouds in the frosty air. It reminds him of when he was little, and he used to pretend to be a fierce dragon when it was cold, puffing clouds of air with almighty roars on his way to class. The irony makes him chuckle now.
Eventually, he stumbles across a small cave-like gap in the side of the mountain, a hollowed-out enclosure that provides shelter from the wind. It's not huge, but it's enough for him to curl up in for the night, wrapping his cloak as tight as he possibly can and shivering as he snacks on a few of his berries. The hilt of his unwanted sword digs into the side of his hip.
It's too cold for him to waste any energy on tears. He shivers himself to sleep, dreams of dragons and shadow monsters plaguing his mind.
When he wakes (and he finds the fact that he does wake a miracle in itself), snow is falling lightly from the sky, dusting the rocky path like icing sugar. It's not too heavy, which the boy is grateful for, and despite the fact that he knows it's going to make his journey all that more difficult, he finds it rather pretty. He continues his ascent, even slower this time, as to not slip on the now-wet stone. It's miserable. He's miserable. He sings to keep himself sane - his voice is muffled by his scarf and croaky from underuse, but he sings all the same, old working songs and poems, the kind that you never really get taught nor do you remember learning, they just exist in your conciousness, passed down through the generations.
He's so focussed on his singing, on trudging his way through the slowly setting snow, that he almost doesn't hear it. It being a desperate sort of caw-ing, the panicked, pained noise almost hidden by the howling wind.
Never one to leave something in pain if he can help it, the boy follows the noise, and eventually finds the source - a flash of black against the white snow, cowering behind a rock. It's a raven - the boy knows this, knows the difference between each type of corvid - and one of his inky wings is clearly hurt, bent at an unnatural angle.
It would be so easy to kill this bird. The boy is so, so hungry - berries are not all that satiating - and he knows how to butcher a bird, how to use the entire carcass so no part is wasted. He's never done it in practice, but he was taught as all boys in the village are taught - food is scarce, down there. They make do with what they have.
When the raven looks up at him with dark, panicked eyes, the boy knows there and then he is not going to kill this bird.
He crouches down, leaving a little space between them, and raises his hands placatingly as the raven stumbles back, his broken wing dragging uselessly behind him.
"I'm not going to hurt you," promises the boy, his voice soft. "It's alright."
Slowly, he fishes some berries from his pocket and holds them out. An offering. The raven eyes them suspiciously.
"They're fine, I promise." The boy chuckles lightly, before pulling his scarf down from his face and eating one himself. He shows the raven his empty mouth once he's finished. "See? Just berries."
This must work, or the raven must be even more desperate than he appears, because he hops forwards cautiously and pecks at a berry. It tickles the boy's palm, and he places the rest on the ground in front of the raven.
"You enjoy those," he says. "I have some herbs, in here, that might help with the pain… if I can find some sticks I might be able to fashion you a splint, maybe? But for now all I have is willow bark. I'm sorry."
The bird doesn't seem to mind. It finishes the berries and hops closer to the boy, pecking his hand gently in what the boy assumes is gratitude.
"Oh, you're welcome," he says with a smile, and offers over the willow bark.
The two of them sit for a while. At some point, the bird sat situated itself next to the boy, leaning it's feathered body next to the boy's thigh, and the slight warmth is comforting. It's the closest thing to a hug that the boy has had in a long time.
"I was sent up here to slay a dragon," the boy tells the raven. "But I think they just wanted me gone. I don't want to slay anything, really. Which… probably doesn't matter, as I'll probably freeze to death long before I find any sort of reptile up here."
He sighs, and the raven caws softly.
"I can bring you with me, if you like? I don't want to just leave you here whilst you're injured." And at least when I do freeze to death, I can be useful. You can feast on my corpse. The raven caws in agreement, and when the boy next sets off, it's with a large corvid bundled in his arms.
The journey becomes almost pleasant with a companion. The boy has someone to talk to - albeit that someone can only reply in caws but it's still nice - and it's a lot less lonely. He thinks the raven might enjoy the company too - the more the boy talks, the more the raven snuggles in closer, pecking lightly at the boy's arm and looking up at him with those dark void-like eyes.
They walk and walk. The boy's legs ache and burn - they're short, with underdeveloped, almost malnourished muscles, unused to working this hard. He stops talking after a while. His lungs hurt. He can't feel his hands, his feet. He wants to lie down, let the snow bury him, but every so often the raven will peck at him or caw gently, and the boy finds some sort of renewed vigour, a small burst of inspiration to keep going.
He's glad he does. They come across another cave - this one far bigger than the shelter the boy had found before. This one is big enough to walk in, and as soon as he does so, the boy lets out a sigh of relief. There's no snow in here, no wind howling loud enough to rattle his bones. The raven seems to relax slightly, also. The boy places him gently on the ground and he hops around happily, making the boy smile. The two of them delve further into the cave, stopping just before the light from outside completely disappears, and settle down to rest. The raven makes himself comfy in the boy's lap, and the two of them fall asleep as the boy peacefully strokes the feathers along the bird's back.
-
The boy wakes to the smell of ash and with empty arms. He sits up hurriedly, immediately assuming the worst, and blinks at the sight in front of him. Where there was empty space before is now a small campfire, and the almost weeps when he feels the heat thaw his bones. Sitting close to the campfire is a figure - a boy-like creature, who looks around the same age as the boy but not quite as human. The boy-like creature has pointed ears and darker skin than anyone in the boy's village. It has long, dark hair, and it's bare arms are scaled, glistening the light of the fire. It is sitting cross-legged, with the raven on it's knee, and it seems to be smiling. The boy notices the glint of a fang from the corner of the creature's mouth.
The boy thinks that this creature might be the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
"Um," says the boy. "Hello?"
The creature looks up, his glowing eyes soft and kind.
"Hello," it says. It speaks like it's not used to speaking aloud. "It's awful cold in these mountains. Not to mention dangerous. You really shouldn't be out here alone."
The boy blinks.
"I wasn't alone," he grins at the raven. The raven caws approvingly in return.
The creature smiles.
"Ah, yes. Montresor said you were rather kind to him. Thank you."
"Montresor? Is that his name?" The boy sits up, shuffling closer. The raven - Montresor - hops off the creatures knee towards him, and the boy reaches out, petting his head.
"Yes. Monty, for short."
"Hello, Monty," says the boy. "My name is Edward."
Edward looks up at the creature.
"And what's your name?"
The creature blinks. It has not been asked such a question in a long time.
"I - Elliot," it says eventually. "My name is Elliot."
Edward beams.
"Nice to meet you, Elliot."
-
The three of them sit there, sharing Edward's berries and letting the heat from the fire seep through their skin.
"Why were you out here alone, Edward?" Elliot asks. The berries have stained his bottom lip a dark purple, matching the ends of his hair, the scales on his arms. Edward shrugs.
"I - they sent me to slay the dragon," he says, staring into the flickering flames that don't seem to be going down, despite the fact that it has not been stoked once. He doesn't notice Elliot stiffen next to him. "I. I don't want to. The dragon has done nothing wrong. I don't think they really expected me to succeed."
There is a long, long moment of silence.
"I see," Elliot says eventually.
"How about you?" Edward asks. "Were you sent to slay the dragon, too?"
Elliot barks out a laugh - it's short, loud, and slightly mean.
"Something like that," he says. Edward hums.
There is a long moment of silence again, until Elliot says:
"Come with me."
Elliot gets up, and starts walking further into the cave. As he leaves, the fire dies out in a flash, and the sudden absence of warmth makes Edward flinch. Montresor caws, and hops into Edward's arms. Edward sighs. He supposes he has nothing to lose, so he stands up and follows the strange boy.
-
Edward follows Elliot through the twisting cave system - it seems to go on forever, and Edward really hopes that this is a good idea, because there is no way that he'll be able to find his way back out of this labyrinth. It's dark, and cold, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't quite catch up to Elliot, walking several paces in front.
After what seems like years, the cavernous tunnels spit them out in a clearing. It's dark and then it's not, flames lighting up the cave and illuminating it's contents. In the centre of the clearing is a pile - a large, shimmering pile, made up of gold and silver and flashes of colour, shiny items poached from God knows where. Edward stares up at it in awe, his grip on Monty tightening.
"Woah," he whispers, breathless. "Is this - is this the dragon's hoard?"
Elliot doesn't answer. Instead, he is further in the cave, digging through a chest of drawers. He clearly finds what he's looking for because he makes a triumphant noise before heading back over.
"Montresor," he says, holding out his hand. There is a berry in it - unlike any berry Edward has ever seen. "Here."
Montresor eats it hurriedly, and in a blink, his wing has straightened and he's off like a flash - nothing but a smudge of ink as he soars above the boy and the creature. Edward watches with a grin, before turning to Elliot.
"That was magic," he says.
"Yes," agrees Elliot.
"You're magic," says Edward.
"Yes," agrees Elliot.
"And… you live here." Ed's grin falters. "You're magic, and you live in a dragon's hoard…"
"Yes," agrees Elliot.
Edward swallows. He looks at Elliot - looks at his scales, his pointed ears, his pointed teeth…
"You're the dragon."
"Yes," says the dragon.
Edward gets the distinct feeling he's fucked up. He remembers learning about the fight or flight response - right now he finds himself unable to do either; instead, he is frozen. Frozen moreso than he was outside, his feet glued to the spot as he watches Elliot - the dragon, the fucking dragon - walk further into his lair. He walks behind the piles of stolen treasure and when he reappears, he is no longer a boy-like creature but instead is a dragon. The same dragon Edward has seen soar across his village, the same dragon he was sent here to slay. He can feel his sword, heavy on his hip. He doesn't reach for it.
The dragon approaches. It's huge. That's the only thing Edward can think. It's head is almost as big as Edward is, his dark, purple body stretching out behind him, leading into his long, long tail. The dragon breathes, and Edward tries not to flinch at the warmth of it, the deep smell of sulfur that wafts in his direction.
"Many have come to slay me, Edward," The dragon hisses, and somehow, Edward knows that this is different to Elliot. It sounds like it's laughing. Edward gulps and nods.
"And none have survived," the dragon continues, and it turns it's immense head. Edward follows where it looks, and can't help but let out a whimper at the sight of skeletons, piled haphazardly, clearly having met their end by being fried.
"I - I know," Edward stutters out. The dragon makes a noise.
"Why did they send you, Edward?" The dragon gets closer, baring it's sharp, white teeth. "You're weak. You're a child. Why you?"
Edward wants to cry. He wants to run. He does neither.
"Because - because they don't trust me. They think I'm a witch. All I've ever done is help people, but they - they don't like my methods. They don't like that I don't hunt. They sent me here to get rid of me."
The dragon huffs again, that smell of sulfur making Edward's nose wrinkle.
"They sent you here to die," the dragon growls. "They sent a child here to die."
Edward swallows. He nods. The dragon growls; it turns it's great snout and flame shoots out into the cave, so hot that Edward swears he can feel his skin melt.
"You will not die today, child," says the dragon. Monty has landed on it's giant, scaled scalp, pecking intermittently. "You have done Montresor a kindness. You seek no glory. You will not die."
Edward doesn't dare breathe. He blinks, his eyes still stinging from the heat of the flame.
"So - so I can go? I can leave?"
The dragon growls.
"That is not what I said, Edward. You will not die. But you will stay." Before Edward can respond to this, the dragon threads a sharp talon through the back of Edward's cloak, lifting him into the air and onto it's back. Monty glides down to join him, perching on his shoulder and nuzzling his face even as Edward yelps with fear as the dragon moves. It brings him to a corner of the cave that is clearly more lived in. Soft blankets and cushions are piled haphazardly in a nest-like configuration, cloaks and items of clothing folded in neat piles near by. There are piles of books and art supplies all around. Edward is placed ever so carefully in the soft blanket nest, and then the dragon is looking at him again with those large, unblinking eyes.
"This is the safest place for us," says the dragon, "But Elliot gets lonely. He is not happy. You will stay here and make him happy."
The dragon lifts one of it's front legs, and one of those long, sharp talons trace a line down Edward's face. Edward knows that that talon could skewer him in an instant, but he doesn't even flinch. He thinks of Elliot, of those glowing eyes, that soft, kind smile. He decides that he's really rather okay with being a prisoner here.
He lifts a hand and strokes the talon gently. The dragon bares it's teeth again - this time, Edward swears it's meant to be a grin.
He grins right back.