Freud hated everything.
There wasn't really a singular reason for this annoyance. It was just that everything was so infuriatingly mundane. The bore and frustration from having to wake at the same time, and undertake the same meaningless rituals, day in and out with no respite, was too much to bear.
His days were simple enough. Too simple, in fact. He was expected to wake at the crack of dawn, regardless of rain or shine, whether he slept well or fitfully. Attendance of his peers was taken in the courtyard shortly later, after which he'd head over to the pantry to consume his morning meal of porridge and oats and weak tea. They'd then move to the classrooms to be talked at by the head tutor until lunch, which was guaranteed to be as disappointing as breakfast. Then they'd be made to go back to class again until exercise session just before dinner. After that, they'd do whatever homework was assigned to them until it was finally time to retire to bed.
That was the original plan. When he first arrived, he had always been the earliest down at the courtyard, eager to start the day. He'd attacked his meals with gusto and his lessons with even more. Sleep was more than anything a hindrance, and often he spent the nights beside a melting wick, pouring over old books.
But that was a blue moon ago. Now Freud had other ideas. He slept in when he could get away with it and when he couldn't, he would run down to the courtyard to hide up in one of the cherry blossom trees, or in the nook of one of the rocks in the rock garden. There was once he'd gone and submerged himself in the koi pond at the far edge of the monastery to avoid being caught.
He was always found. After all, the monastery was small, with only so many hiding places, and soon the monks knew where to look for him. The punishment for running was the same - the task of scrubbing whatever floors needed scrubbing, but using a painfully small brush. The humiliation of such menial work was always worth it, he felt, to see the monks exasperated and frustrated out of their minds.
'You'll understand when you're older,' they always said, with that air of finality and condescending adults reserved for children. 'You're still just a boy.'
'But there's so much out there and I'm stuck in here,' he always protested, when handed the now-familiar wooden bucket and the wooden brush with its worn bristles.
'Then you can learn about them instead.' That was the same reply he received from them, every time, used in every circumstance. What was learning if it wasn't going to be put to good use?
They were right. Freud couldn't understand them. He hated their lack of curiosity and he hated the way they always implied, children are not ready. Then when would they be ready? When would he? And ready for what?
He slept through classes and never did his assignments, never completed the readings and never heeded the words of his tutors. The words of 'Respect others as you would yourself' fell on deaf ears and a very disgruntled Freud. He never saw the value in listening to anything that was this meaningless. After all they had submerged him in this myopic haze for absolutely no reason and simply assumed he would conform to their banal ways. For that he despised them and made sure to let everyone know the extent of his hate.
The first time he'd laid a fist on someone, he'd knocked him cleanly into unconsciousness. That night he had just finished wiping all the shelves in the old monastery library, had books fall on his head and his feet, and was in a foul mood. He was dragging the big bucket back to the toilet when one of the other boys came up to him.
Freud couldn't remember what the boy had said but he remembered being so angry. This was the monk's most smiled-on boy, gloating at the monastery's nightmare. So much for being the role model, right – so much for respect. Couple that with his long-time frustration and he couldn't stop himself. Out flew his fist and connected with the boy's face. The thud that emanated from the boy's crushed nose was so satisfying it rang in his ears for nights.
Since then he found an affection for bruises and scratches. Sure he had to spend the next few days being counselled but it was worth it to see the monk's pet walking around with a patch on his face. He enjoyed the way the cowardly boy kept to the other side of the corridor as he passed. And he especially enjoyed how the other children would look at him with fear and trepidation. Even the older ones kept their distance. Size meant nothing when he was so incredibly tired of conforming, to stereotypes, to routines, to instructions. He collected bloodied knuckles and broken teeth – to be slipped into the pot of gruel and rediscovered during mealtime – and a growing reputation.
The monks tried to punish him, tried to reason with him, tried to threaten, joke, and cajole. He saw through all of it, and watched their futile attempts with a knowing, contemptuous smirk. Completely apathetic to their efforts, he paraded his wounds like medals, and took pride in his downward spiral from model student to bad influence.
Freud the bully. He liked the label very much.
Nobody knew what to do with him, and for that he was proud. He had nobody to answer to since this monastery was, after all, where he had been dropped off as a toddler. His parents were just two shadowy figures in the background, two people whom he blamed for leaving him in this accursed place when he could have been outside exploring what the world had to offer. He was nobody's, and while other children had to answer to someone, he was the nomad of the group, the odd one out who could do as he pleased.
Once this thought occurred to him, he couldn't get it out. He was nobody's. The consequences of his actions were his alone. So why was he still here, when he could simply get up and leave? He saw no reason to stay, and so he tried to run. The walls were too high for him but he didn't let that stop him from trying. He practiced, in the dead of night, running towards the concrete and taking one leap against it to give him the momentum to scale the wall. He remembered his second attempt vividly; he'd lost his centre of balance and was sent reeling across the grass. He hadn't cried out when his ankle snapped nor when he grazed the skin of his entire arm against the unyielding concrete. Morning found him back in his room, calm and stoic, with a scab-covered arm and a mauled leg. He was sent to the infirmary and he had no comments or words to offer by way of explanation. But the monks they placed outside his room to monitor him didn't even miss him when he slipped out the window instead of the door, to run across the grass on his healed feet, to attempt to break out.
It was a night like any other, when everyone thought Freud to be in his room 'sleeping' while he slipped out the window, shimmied down a pipe two windowsills away, and headed for the backyard. He was about to launch himself towards the wall when he heard the rustle and the snapping of twigs.
Knowing better than to call out, he snuck towards the noise, feeling horribly exposed in the simple monastery habit he wore, without even a stick for underhanded self-defense. Under the new moon it was almost near impossible to see anything, except the towering walls that ran the perimeter of the monastery, and the trunks of trees, thick like pillars. He treaded softly, his many attempts of sneaking out teaching him to travel light and quietly so he could avoid detection, if not from ear-sharp monks then from a danger he wasn't yet able to see.
There was a small form in the grass, half hidden in the bushes. Freud tried to make out the silhouette but it was unlike anything he'd ever seen, not human but too big to be a cat. A dog? It was impossible for it to have landed in the middle of the yard so far away from the walls.
The thing let out a quiet mew and shifted. It was injured. Even from where he was standing, leaning out from behind a tree, he could see it favouring its left as it tried to get up. But what business did it have here, or him trying to interfere? For all he knew it was hostile and aggressive and would take off his head with one movement.
Logically he ought to run. Tell the monks what he'd seen. No, then he'd have to explain what he was doing out there, and he knew they'd have such a fit that they'd forget about the injured thing he'd found. Forget it, he'd just try his best and see what he could do.
Surely death would be better than this horrible monastery anyway.
Freud edged out from behind the tree. Now he felt strangely calm, detached, and oddly so given how little he knew about the risk he was putting himself into. As if the creature registered his willingness to help, it shifted its weight and turned.
Two eyes, golden yellow like liquid fire, shined in the darkness. Freud stopped in his tracks, shock flaring in his mind. These were no feline eyes, nor canine ones. No animal's eyes shone like this.
It waited for him, those orbs of gold boring into the essence of his being, reading him and all he had to offer. If he'd felt unprotected before, now he felt completely bare. The eyes saw all, and the way its presence permeated his mind made him feel uncomfortably like it was reading his very memories. And there was a constant but almost imperceptible thought floating at the back of his mind: walk forward.
Freud blinked in confusion. Every fibre of him was rearing to turn tail but yet the thought was there, tantalizing, goading him onward, towards a certain death. Did he really want to approach it? Or was the thought not actually his? Before he realised that he was walking he was in front of it. Heart pounding and mind now numb from the stress, he slid to kneel – in something almost like reverence!, he realised – and then he finally made it out. A long snout, two horns, and wings. This creature was a dragon.
Another thought flickered in his mind, pulling him out of his disbelief. It was more of an impression than anything else but it was definitely there, the pain in its wing and in its hind leg. The dragon whined in unhidden anguish and Freud felt his heart tear into two.
'I'm going to bring you back,' he murmured to the dragon. He wasn't sure if it understood English or if it could even hear, but he continued talking anyway. 'I'll fix your leg and wing.'
He stood up, expecting the dragon to follow him, and then realised it couldn't walk, or fly. It just lay there in a helpless muddle, looking at him beseechingly as he contemplated his next move. Leaving out here in the open was not a good idea. Sure there were walls but what'd happen if the monks found it? He remembered some old text they were reading that condemned the dragon as a monster of evil, and who actually knew what they subscribed to? Would they kill it, or help? For the first time in a long time he regretted not paying more attention to his lessons.
'I'm going to pick you up, okay?' he finally found his voice.
The dragon blinked tiredly. He could only hope it was in consent. Though there was no way of knowing, he wasn't going to simply reach around and pick it off the ground, not when he wasn't sure what it was likely to do. Dragons were supposed to have fangs, and teeth, and eat meat. He wasn't ready to die, not like this. But the way it begged him wordlessly, with those sincere and doleful eyes... He couldn't just leave it. He sighed inwardly - it was up to him, then. Slowly, he knelt down again and very, very tentatively held out his hand.
When the dragon raised its muzzle and pushed it into his palm, Freud felt something warm and electric buzz up his arm. It was unlike anything he'd felt before. It was almost addictive, as if it completed him somehow, in some weird way, filling a pit of emptiness he always knew he had but hadn't a slightest clue how to fill.
With his newfound courage, he reached around the dragon and it shifted as best as it could to give him better grip. One hand around its hips and another supporting its neck he cradled it stomach-up like a cat, mesmerised by its glowing eyes and the way it looked to understand a hidden, greater truth in the world.
'Just what have you seen out there?' he murmured enviously to the creature in his arms, who could only stare back wordlessly.
Somehow he got the dragon to clutch on his shoulders as he clambered back up the pipe. It rested its head on his shoulder as he climbed, and its wounded leg it held outwards so he wouldn't bump into it. The added weight to Freud's shoulders made him perspire but he gritted on anyway. From head to tip of tail it was as long as he was tall, though the two horns on its head made it look far bigger than that. It was probably just a baby, or very young adolescent at best, and with a certain amazement he wondered just how big an adult one could be.
The skies were definitely big enough for hundreds of these majestic creatures.
He nearly missed his footing as he leaped from the last windowsill to his own, barely managing to hold on with the tips of his fingers. Biting down a gasp of relief, he slid back into his room, and helped the dragon curl up on the thin mattress. Only now did he realise that the dragon wasn't black but a soft blue, its horns slightly more blunted in the light... and its wing, and its leg, twisted into a horrible shape.
'Wait here and please be quiet, okay?' he whispered. A glance towards the bottom of his door saw the silhouette of the monk they'd put on sentry duty, but it was unmoving. Probably dozing on the chair just outside. But a single noise would wake him, since all monks did sleep very lightly. He could only hope that the dragon stayed absolutely silent.
Out the window he went for the second time that night, this time with unbearable urgency. He clambered into that pet's room but didn't mess up the room like he usually did, instead hurrying out the door and into the corridors. The monastery looked deserted in the night but he was used to it by now, and felt his way confidently to the infirmary. Thankfully at this time there wasn't a soul awake to see or hear him as he tried the lock until it gave.
What now? Freud had no experience treating wounds - he was the one giving them. The only thing he knew to use were band-aids. And he wasn't going to subject the poor dragon to that horrible brown liquid... Adine, was it? Or Iodine? … not when it burned like salt. But he had to do something. He dug in the drawers and upended boxes, pulling out bandages, and two boxes of plasters, and gauze (all of which he'd seen his victims wear).
The box in his hands was horrifically empty and his spoils suddenly didn't seem adequate to treat the dragon in its condition. He had never seen someone's bones broken, never saw how such injuries ought to be dealt with... but he knew who did. The monks. After all, they knew everything, didn't they? They always talked as if they did. The thought of approaching them for help was against everything he'd told himself to be. Independent - to not need them at all. But the mere thought of the creature hobbling like that, unable to recover, sent a sick wave through his guts. He looked down at the box and sighed. No matter what, he knew that they knew better, far better than he did.
So it was settled. At least, on his end. He would bite his tongue and swallow his pride for that poor dragon. Whatever they'd ask, he'd do, at least until the dragon could fly and go home. As long as it got better, he told himself, steeling his nerves, as long as it got better, it'd be worth it.
He turned to leave, heart heavy for the knowledge of what he had to do. Then he jumped so high and so violently that everything cluttered out of the box in his hands and onto the floor.
A middle-aged man stood in the doorway, watching him as he flustered to hide the now-empty box behind him. In his eyes was a look of utter emotionlessness that had settled ever since he started wreaking havoc in the monastery.
They stood for a moment, Freud trying to calm his breathing and the man studying the startled boy, neither uttering a word.
'Not you,' Freud breathed.
Only after a bottle of saline rolled against the man's shoe did he bend to pick it up. 'I knew I heard the sound of the infirmary door opening,' he said calmly as he set the bottle on a table. And then he stopped talking.
Freud ground his teeth so hard he felt the man would hear him. Many a time when he'd gotten into trouble the two of them would end up in a quiet room, both unwilling to give way to the other. The silence that would ensue, now way too awfully familiar to the young boy, could stretch on for hours until one of them cracked and confessed and apologised - and it was always Freud who gave in first, because what did the monk have to gain from breaking the silence? It drove him insane the way these tense moments made him on edge although he knew that the man, unlike the other monks, would never berate him.
What made Father Rene stand out from the other monks was the way he always squeezed the truth out of Freud. His stare was unwavering and his patience even more so, to the point that Freud would rather clean the entire monastery seven times than be sent to Rene's study, to face that soul-haunting silence, to face that unflinching gaze. And in every single one of the accursed times when he had no choice, he would always swear that it was this time that he wouldn't apologise, this time that he wouldn't confess, this time that he wouldn't crack. And in every single time, he would walk away, head low, full of disgust at himself for doing exactly what he swore he wouldn't do.
And tonight, out of all nights, Rene had to catch him in the act. Here was Rene and his infinite patience, and here he was trapped in the infirmary, with a mess to account for and a dragon awaiting urgent treatment. Freud could kick himself. He knew what he had to do and he knew he would do it. That he'd simply tell Rene everything so the dragon could get what it needed, without putting up any fight at all.
'Look, I can -'
'I'm surprised, Freud,' the abbot interrupted. Freud waited in impatient silence as the man circled him and sat at the edge of a counter, watching him. 'You're not even bothering to try and test me tonight.'
'I can't,' he gasped, after some hesitation. With every muscle screaming in protest he slowly put the box on a nearby table. 'I would if I could, okay? But I can't.'
The man raised an eyebrow.
'Not today,' Freud felt impelled to clarify.
'So... why would you sneak out of your room in the dead of night to the infirmary, of all places?'
These were the questions he hated the most. Father Rene was the most established monk in the monastery and he was, clear to everyone, the smartest. Though his tongue was as sharp as his wit he never had a stinging word for anybody, not even Freud. And though he was always on the top of everything, and though he could read Freud like an open book, he always shaped his questions so Freud was the one answering, always pushed back into the corner with nowhere to go.
Obviously he was in the infirmary for only one reason. He'd been caught walking out with bandages and plasters, so obviously something was hurt. Ignoring the fact that he was breaking a bunch of rules, by his being awake at this inhumanly hour, it was obviously something very important. And considering how he was about ready to spill the beans so quickly, it definitely was something urgent.
'Don't scold me okay,' Freud pleaded, as he always did, though he knew Rene would never do so. 'I found this dragon in the grass and it was hurt and I was just trying to help...'
Rene nodded slowly. Curse this man. And curse himself, the way he was read so easily. Did it really show on his face that he had something else to say?
He tried to avoid the question. 'I think it broke its wing. And its leg.'
'And you are going to use these...' Rene held up a limp band-aid. '... to fix broken limbs?'
'I was going to ask for help, okay?' Freud snapped. And then he turned away, and imperceptibly mumbled, 'Iwasgonnafindyoualready.'
Although he had slurred all the words and though his voice was soft even in the still night air, Freud knew the monk had heard him. Without a doubt. The man could hear the footsteps of mischievous boys from five rooms away, and hear the slightest of creaks from the infirmary door.
Rene stood up. With little hesitation Freud made for the door. It took all his self-control to stop him sprinting back to his room, but he set a brisk pace and didn't glance back to see if the Father was following him. The monk who was guarding the door to his room jerked upright, completely horrified to see Freud with the Father Rene in tow. Despite himself, Freud allowed a small smirk as the monk moved aside sheepishly, silently acknowledging his failure to guard an eight year old boy.
The monk was waved away before Father Rene gestured that it was safe for Freud to open the door. With trepidation and trembling fingers, the boy fitted his fingers around the knob and turned it.
The dragon looked up at the sound, slightly alarmed that its small human companion was suddenly leading a big-sized adult behind it. Sensing its imminent distress Freud held up his hand and Rene stopped behind him.
'It's okay,' he murmured reassuringly as the dragon bared its fangs. So many teeth, he found himself thinking. 'He's a...' Slightly embarrassed he caught himself almost saying the word friend and a backward glance at the silent monk told him that Rene also knew. 'He won't hurt you. I promise.'
The dragon's growling subsided but it curled tighter into itself. Still its ruined leg hung crookedly off the bed and its wing was draped limply across the sheets.
Anxiously, the young boy turned as Rene stepped forward, registering no emotion across his calm face. 'I need to see how badly you are hurt,' the man said to the dragon, who whimpered, unable to resist. With experienced hands Rene shifted the limb and the broken wing until he got a better idea of the damage, talking soothingly to the dragon when it hissed in pain. Inwardly Freud marvelled at the deftness of his fingers and wondered if Rene learned all this from those books of his or whether there was a completely different side to the silent and patient Father he wasn't aware of.
After what seemed like eternity, Father Rene got to his feet. His face was emotionless, a stark contrast to the concerned boy and to the agonized creature on the bed.
'Your dragon has fractured the bones in his thigh once, and the wing twice,' Rene pulled the boy's chair to the bed and eased himself on it, laying a gentle hand on the head of the dragon. It mewed again and allowed its eyelids to flutter closed, breathing laboriously through bared fangs. 'It's a very painful injury but it isn't anything a splint and rest cannot fix.'
So many unspoken words hung in the air that Freud could feel them coalescing and settling heavily on his shoulders. He decided to save everyone the trouble and jumped headfirst into the Father's bait.
'I'll do anything.' Freud growled. 'Just help it.'
'I want you to go to the library... yes, Freud. I want you to go now.' Father Rene wasn't even looking at him as he spoke. Freud felt the helplessness bubble up inside him but forced himself to say nothing. Rene continued without missing a beat. 'Find and bring me a book written by Kyla Reid.'
'What's the title?'
Rene glanced at him. 'Look for the author Kyla Reid. Now go. The little one's depending on you.' The brevity of the action reminded Freud of someone looking to the window to check the weather and nothing more.
One more look at the pained dragon was enough to send him tearing out the door, biting back anger and swears. Wasn't the man going to help? So why was he being sent to the library to look for an accursed book? Father Rene, experienced or not, was not going to use paper and parchment to treat a wound, was he?
Or perhaps it was magic. He'd heard from one of the other monks that Father Rene was capable of performing amazing healing spells, to heal searing burns or close bloodied gashes in midriffs. The book had to be one with an incantation, to set bones straight and help them heal. The realisation lent speed to his feet and he pounded down the hallways, caring less if someone woke and berated him. He had the authority of the abbot now, with a creature's fate in his hands. Nothing else mattered more.
The library was pitch black. Of course it would be. Freud smacked himself on the head and stumbled over to the storage room to fetch a candle. Nights spent here a long, long time ago helped him remember how many steps to take, and the shelf with the matches. It took three attempts before he got a candle lit but soon he was hurrying down the shelves, careful not to run so the flame wouldn't go out.
It wasn't as large as he remembered, nor the shelves as tall. How short was he when he last came here? He couldn't remember. All he remembered now was how the shelves were ordered and that was all he cared about.
O... P... Q...
When Freud reached the shelf he was looking for, he nearly dropped the candle in fright. Kyla Reid's books spanned the entirety of two shelves. R was the largest section of the library owing to this very fact.
Which book did that abbot want?
In the darkness Freud let out a frustrated cry and barely managed to set the candle down on a nearby table before launching himself at the books. Books, books, books, useless books, with answers but all convoluted into riddles, fancy words and sentences that meant nothing. Useless monks, a useless abbot who was apathetic to the plight of that dragon. A frustratingly calm abbot who drove him out of his mind and sent him on inane errands with no start or end in sight. An abbot who almost seemed to enjoy seeing him so vexed all the time and made him admit that he was wrong, always bad, always the problem child like they all said he was.
Why didn't anyone just accept him for who he was?
Panting, and all the anger taken out of him, Freud stared at the books on the ground he'd ripped from the shelves in his rage. Numbly he scanned the titles as best as he could, mechanically tugging books into a pile which he thought Rene wanted him to retrieve. This Kyla Reid, whomever he or she was, had written so many books on so many different topics, it was almost comical to Freud. The jack of all trades, master of none.
Everything related to medicine, magic, first-aid, incantations, spells. Everything else he pushed away. But he only was tasked to find one book. Books on summoning he removed, on therapy he removed. Slowly and deliberately Freud the bully looked through the summaries and leafed through the books where there were none, finally finalising his search to three books.
With the candle almost eaten away, he had to hurry. A study on Anatomy of Reptiles, was the title of one book. Treating and Diagnosing Limbic Fractures, the second, and the third Healing, Mending and Reforming. All three sounded incredibly dry and while the book on reptile anatomy didn't seem pressing to the task at hand, he wasn't sure if the Abbot had ever seen or even treated a dragon before. As to the other two books, Freud could only hope that Rene would be using the book on magic rather than physical treatment.
By the time he burst back in his room he'd already collected three other monks shouting for him to stop, and all the sleeping ones he'd passed by were definitely roused. But one word from the Abbot was enough to send them back to their rooms, most unwillingly and still suspicious of the panting boy with tousled auburn hair and desperate blue eyes.
Father Rene stepped aside to let Freud into the room, but lay a hand on his shoulder in warning. The dragon had passed out from the pain and for that Freud felt the anger bubble in him anew. Medical supplies, many Freud had seen but didn't know the name of, sat in a case beside the dragon.
'The book?' asked Father Rene.
Freud thrust the book on magic out. 'Here, Father Reen. It's stupid to ask for one when you need bandage inste -'
'Wrong book,' interrupted the monk, pushing the volume away. 'Go back.'
The boy threw the book on the ground in frustration. 'No. I have another one.'
Father Rene watched impassively as Freud tugged the rear end of his shirt from his pants and let the other book fall to the ground. The boy picked it up. 'Here. The book on bones.'
'Well? Open it then. Page three hundred and two.'
For the dragon for the dragon for the dragon, Freud had to keep muttering under his breath. He didn't care if the abbot heard it anymore. Did Father Rene really memorise the pages... and read every single book in the library?
The abbot held up his finger as Freud opened his mouth. 'Now. I want you to read whatever is in the book and explain what I should do.'
Freud gaped in astonishment. He knew the man was deranged, but today it had reached a new high. Of all times, of all the times he could choose to teach Freud the value of reading, why now?
'Freud. What is this called?' The abbot held up the short and thick wooden slab.
Offering his apologies to the dragon, Freud scanned the page. 'A splint.'
'Good. And this?'
'I know it's a bandage without reading, Reen...'
'Before we go on. How should someone pronounce my name?'
Freud glowered. The answer was one he knew, and was forced to say very often, but how could he not jump at the opportunity to snide the old man while he could? '... It's Re-Nay.'
'Instead of?'
'Reen.'
'And how should you address me?'
'Father Re-Nay.'
'Good. Now tell me why I need to use the splint...'
The rest of the next few hours Freud spent standing, eyes scanning the faded lines on the page for answers to the Abbot's incessant questions. He watched as the Abbot fitted the splint to the crooked bone, winced as he shifted the two fragments back into place, and bound it with the bandage. The same he did for the wing, instead fitting it onto a thin wooden board he'd prepared beforehand, fixing the numerous bones in place with surgical tape and soft thread. It was done sooner than he expected, and he only realised that the dragon would be fine when the Abbot repacked his tools and stood to leave.
Freud stared at the dragon, looking strangely small with the splints on its limbs. Though it had slept through the entire ordeal, he couldn't help but wonder if the pain was so intense that it drove the dragon unconscious. 'Re - Father Rene, how... did the dragon faint from the pain... or did you...?'
'I gave it some medicine and it fell asleep.' The abbot wore the collected look he'd bore throughout the procedure and it didn't seem to be going away anytime soon. 'Read page fifty seven and tell me what I used.'
Freud berated himself for asking, but he did as the abbot asked. 'Anesthesia.' Briefly he glanced through the rest of the text in preparation for another question.
'Correct. It will sleep until midday tomorrow so don't worry for it. With plenty of rest, it'll heal.'
The boy nodded dumbly, finally feeling the vestiges of tiredness clouding his mind. What time was it? How long had that dragon suffered already?
'Tomorrow I will speak to you again and we shall discuss how to care for this dragon. In the meanwhile get some shuteye.'
Freud stumbled past the Abbot, his mind growing sluggish from the night's events. It was so surreal, the abbot, the books, the dragon, everything. He wasn't sure if he'd wake up in bed and find out it was all a dream.
'Oh yes.' The Abbot stopped at the door and turned, an unreadable expression on his face. 'Before you go down for lunch tomorrow be sure to tidy up the library. I want every book reshelved where they each ought to be, the exception being those two books, which you will bring to my study.'
And then Father Rene was gone. Freud wondered sleepily how the abbot knew about his rampage in the library, or why he didn't mention anything about breakfast, or what he wanted to do (again!) with those two books, and it was to the sound of the dragon's light breathing that he drifted into an uneasy slumber.
When Freud opened his eyes the first thing he saw was the color of golden fire. For a long moment he wondered why he had awoken in such a strange room until the color vanished, was replaced briefly with blue, and then reappeared.
Freud blinked to clear his vision. The colors seemed familiar somehow, and so was the feeling of being stared at. How strange it was that -
Those were eyes. Freud jerked out of his chair with a yelp and the dragon too startled backwards, mirroring his panic. The boy fumbled against his desk and upended the tray set there, having the bowl on its top flip into the air and land squarely on his head. Stew sloshed all over his habit. Shocked out of his mind a second time that morning he fought to clear the broth from his face before he realised the soft chuckling of the dragon. Opening his eyes he saw the dragon baring teeth, eyes half closed in a happy laugh. And he couldn't help but smile back.
The sun was already at its zenith, shining strongly in an azure sky that reminded him very much of the dragon's scales. Then he realised it wasn't morning at all, but already close to noon, and he'd been allowed to sleep through morning attendance, and breakfast, and best of all, morning lessons. With a light skip in his step he trotted down to clean himself up. He got reprimanded by the head chef and by the laundryman, but got another bowl of stew and a clean habit to replace his soiled one. They didn't ask him about last night though he was sure that everyone had already heard of the ordeal by now. Word travelled fast like fire here. After all, that was how he gained such a reputation for himself so quickly.
Back in his room and ready for lunch, a pang of disappointment hit him as he remembered the abbot's instructions to clean the library before lunch. He sighed. To the dragon that was staring unceasingly at him he said, 'I have to go clean up that horrible dusty library. Be good until I come back okay?'
The dragon blinked in reply.
For all the silence that was supposed to be maintained in the library, he got a terrible earful. He was sure that everyone could hear the librarian's anguished shouts but he really couldn't be bothered anymore. Wordlessly and as swiftly as he could he slotted the books back into their respective positions. How ironic it was that his previous self was helping him so often in the library to get him out of trouble. He remembered to retrieve the melted candle and its stand and tossed it haphazardly into the storage cabinet when he was sure the librarian had gone off to get a drink of water. Before that man could ease the strain in his voice and before round two could commence he was off, sprinting back down the hallways and back to his room.
Then he stopped dead in his tracks, and let out another groan.
The abbot sat in his chair, smiling softly as he fed the last of the stew to the ravenous dragon, which apparently had a taste for the carrots Freud used to hurl out the window or slip into the pockets of clean clothes. Baffled completely beyond words he could only stand in the doorway and watch as all his lunch vanished before his eyes.
He let out a small noise of disbelief.
'Good afternoon,' smiled Father Rene.
The dragon belched in greeting.
Freud did not - could not find words to reply.
'Come, it's time for that chat you promised m -'
'I haven't had lunch yet, Reen!' cried Freud in frustration. 'And I didn't promise it, you gave me the orders to find you in your study. After lunch!'
The abbot stared amusedly at him.
'Which you fed to the dragon!'
'Freud, how should you pronounce my name?'
The boy could slam his head into the door. 'Re-Nay.'
'And how should you address -'
'Father Re-nay,' snapped the boy loudly, interrupting the man. 'Can we just have that cursed talk now?' Hungry and disgruntled, Freud turned on his heel and made for the Abbot's study, sure that the dragon could understand every word and was laughing at him. He didn't wait long enough to find out.
He had been placed under the Abbot's supervision after changing hands many times. The responsibility of overseeing Freud's behaviour had been passed from monk to monk and Freud just shrugged them all down. It was only after every monk had tried to take the boy in hand, and only after the boy had indicated his aversion to authority in increasingly creative ways that the entire monastery finally turned to Father Rene as their last hope.
The middle-aged Father was a one trick pony but it was a trick he played because it was so effective. Freud would only admit that to himself for fear of being scorned by the monks, or their looks of Finally that boy will get what's coming for him. When he tried to burn the Abbot's books with matches he was subject to the longest silent treatment he'd ever been through. Probably at least half a day. But it worked, for he never involved the the Abbot's books in his pranks again.
Father Rene's room was as small as his. The first time Freud had stepped into his the study, he was surprised at how the other monks had bigger, more spacious rooms. Even discounting the old and sturdy bookcases that lined two of the four walls, the study was undeniably cramped. Plus the bed in the far corner opposite the desk, even he had to wonder how the Abbot could live with this.
The only thing different from usual was an additional desk that was fitted beside the Abbot's old one. Freud eyed it with unhidden distaste, a sinking feeling settling in his gut as he guessed what it was for. Who it was for.
'So what do you want to hear?' he drawled.
'Perhaps about last night's events.' Father Rene closed the door and perched on the bed instead of sitting as he usually did in his old wooden chair.
Freud regarded the man's calm expression, those deep, pitch-black eyes that spoke of an incredible amount of knowledge and wisdom. The more he stared the more they bore into him, and he was always reminded at how small he was, and how little he didn't know. Today was no exception and a part of Freud was certain that the man had already found out about his escapades to the back yard but just never said anything about it.
He didn't usually crack so early, but he was hungry and hoped the abbot would let him off as quickly as possible so he could eat.
'I was in the back yard...'
'Watering the sakura trees at that time? Never knew you had green thumbs.'
'Trying to run away.' Freud stared levelly at the man. 'Jump over the walls.'
A strange expression passed over the father's countenance but it was too quick to make out.
'That explains your broken ankle.' The father allowed himself a quiet smile. 'And why you always seem tired in the day when you were supposedly resting in your room the whole night.'
Obviously, Father Rene, thought Freud scathingly, I wouldn't have broke it on purpose, would I now?
The abbot cast a look at Freud's ankle. 'I'm surprised nobody else noticed your attempts, though. I know for a fact that jumping up the walls like that is a noisy affair.'
Freud didn't pick up on the abbot's implied meaning at the time, and only would a long time later.
'The brother outside my door can't guard a room even if it held gold.' He grinned instead, slightly proud that his sneaking prowess was something to be reckoned with, even if the Abbot had seen him after all. A small success was as good as any, right?
The abbot ignored his comment. 'Back to that dragon...'
'It was just lying there. In the bushes. Near the pond.'
'And you approached it?'
Freud scratched his head. 'I... I don't know why I did. Just felt it was the right thing to do I guess.'
Father Rene laughed. 'Dragons are well known for their telepathy.'
'It was speaking to me through my mind? But I didn't hear anything.'
'Young dragons are only able to transfer simple thoughts and emotions over to their targets. That's why you were impelled to help. I suppose you knew where it was hurt even before you saw the injury?'
Freud nodded, dumbly. What was the monk, a dragon keeper in his past life? 'You knew dragons exist?'
'I know they do. In fact everyone does,' smiled the Abbot, walking over now to one of the bookcases and pulling an old volume out. 'You would too if you didn't skip class on Leafre's biodiversity.'
He didn't know what a Leafre was. Freud glowered. Fine, he got the hint that there were interesting things to be learned but he didn't want to read about them, he wanted to experience them for himself.
'Leafre is a subcontinent past the deserts of Ariant,' said the Abbot, reading his bewildered expression. 'Most of the world's dragons are found there... and I wouldn't be surprised that your little Onyx dragon is too.'
A what?
'Isn't onyx a type of rock?'
'Those dragons are so named for the sheen their scales take on after they have reached maturity.' The abbot flipped open the book in his hands and set it on the smaller desk. Freud didn't move to read it. 'Young Onyx dragons are blue, but their scales deepen in hue until they are almost completely black.'
As much as Freud was satisfied that there could be hundreds of other dragons out there, he was a little disappointed. He wanted to find out what dragon it was by himself, and not be told what it was. 'Okay, okay. What do you want me to do then?'
The abbot looked surprised at the untactful change of topic.
'I said I'd do anything if you helped the dragon,' muttered the boy, fists clenching by his sides. 'So what do you want me to do?'
'I'm glad you still remember our agreement. Since you asked so nicely let's just jump straight into it.' Father Rene smiled quietly, and Freud couldn't tell if he was being sarcastic. 'This dragon is your responsibility and you will be its main caretaker. But you don't know what it likes to eat -'
'Stew,' growled Freud, bristling.
'- or if it requires anything specific to heal -'
'And carrots.'
'- which are some things you'll have to know if you want to care for it,' the abbot continued as if Freud hadn't talked at all. 'Because I'm not going to tell you how to go about doing that, you will read this book and find out as much as you can about them. All following action will be tasked to you.'
That made sense. As much as he hated to admit it, that made sense. And wasn't that what he wanted from the beginning? To do something hands-on, and to take responsibility for the dragon, and to not be told what to do. Maybe now he could finally show everyone what he could do, and he wasn't the irresponsible, immature kid they always made him out to be.
Freud sighed loudly and rolled his eyes, making sure the abbot could catch his unwillingness. 'Okay, okay. Stupid books.' He slouched over to the smaller desk and had his fingers around the spine of the book when Father Rene suddenly appeared beside him, pressing the volume firmly but gently back onto the table, sandwiching his fingers in between.
'Ah. I forgot to mention. You will do your readings here -'
'With you?' cried Freud, trying to pull his fingers out but not succeeding. 'Why can't I read in my room!'
'- at this desk. And I expect you here during lesson times, meaning between breakfast and lunch, and between lunch and exercise time.'
Freud racked his brains for a coherent protest but only found one. 'And the dragon will just stay in my room?'
The abbot took him by the shoulder and wordlessly walked him back to his room. Hushing all forms of objections from him, he quietly opened the door. On the bed, with a full belly, the dragon slept calmly, face finally free of pain.
'He'll be sleeping half the day away.' The abbot explained, Freud sulking like there was no tomorrow. 'He'll wake and wait for you when he's hungry, which is when you will be too.'
He was made to get his stationery and Reid's two other books. He trailed behind the abbot, Freud having to run to keep up with Father Rene's long strides, and he never felt any smaller.
After he had eaten a quick lunch under the Abbot's stern gaze, he was back in the stuffy study. At first he fidgeted, restless and worried for the dragon, but in the abbot's presence he couldn't walk out as he pleased. He made his displeasure loudly known with yawns and half-hearted muttering but Father Rene still sat at his desk, pouring over whatever text he had at hand.
But as much as he hated reading, he loved reading about the Onyx dragons. The golden eyes rose frequently to mind as he scanned the pages, finding himself voraciously absorbing every word and every bit of knowledge about them. He learned about their habits, the way they slept in the day but ruled the night, how they hunted in packs, and how a strict but merciful hierarchy ruled the race as efficiently as - if not more than - how humans did. They were sentient dragons, unlike the creatures in Leafre, and had complex ways to communicate amongst themselves. It was often reported that these dragons could mimic human speech, or at least transmit thoughts to humans using the words and alphabets they did.
When the book came to a close, it was only mid-afternoon, and Freud was sad it had to end so quickly. The author's style was enrapturing and despite such a factual topic, he'd been surprisingly eager to continue reading. So whomever it was, he supposed to ought to give the author some credit. Flipping to the last page to read the acknowledgements, he could have flipped the desk there and then.
'I see you've enjoyed Miss Reid's text,' laughed the abbot, breaking the silence, making Freud jump again. He could only glare back and try to calm his breathing as he continued. 'While many considered her a jack of all trades and master of none -' Freud allowed himself a smirk at that - 'she is well-versed in many fields and can discuss them in great depth.'
Freud rolled his eyes. 'Well thanks to stupid Reid, I needed to look through hundreds of books. While the dragon waited.'
'It's also thanks to her that you understand more about it too,' said Rene easily. He turned back to his readings. 'Well, since you've completed the book in far less a time than I expected, I suppose you're dismissed.'
Far less a time than he - Freud growled and glanced at the book. Indeed it was a thick volume but once upon a time he would be eating these books for breakfast! The abbot was underestimating him.
'I can read faster than that,' he murmured in place of goodbye. Getting up and feeling too well-read for his liking, he reverted back to his childish demeanour and blew a raspberry over his shoulder as he opened the door. 'Byebye stupid Reen.'
He tore back to his room so he would have distance as an excuse to not hear the Abbot calling him back, but strangely he heard nothing anyway. That suited him fine. The dragon was there, sleeping calmly. Now that Freud knew better he could safely say it was the equivalent of his age in human years. And given the nature of its injuries, it would be ready to fly in half a month.
But the abbot's words nagged at him as he busied himself in his suddenly-spacious room. So he felt that Freud was a slow reader? Was that only because of the way he behaved? He could be a fast reader if he wanted - and he'd wager that even the pet couldn't read as fast as him. He'd finished that thick book on Onyx dragons in a few hours, for heaven's sake! That wasn't something to be sniffed at. Though he might be a nasty boy in the eyes of the monks, reading fast was a skill few had and he wasn't afraid to flaunt it.
When the dragon awoke he was halfway through the book on human medicine and knew how to properly bind bones in the event of a compound fracture - if the bone broke in more than one place. He knew how to bind differently a fracture in the arm bones, ribs, and thighs, and was just about to move on to the smaller bones like fingers.
It yawned and the loud sound tore Freud abruptly from his concentration. He turned sharply, just fast enough to see the rows of teeth... so many teeth... close at the tail end of the yawn. The dragon chirped and lifted its arm to wave. He was so startled at the human-like behaviour that he almost didn't wave back, and when he did the dragon broke into the widest grin he had ever seen.
In some ways that dragon meant the world to him. It gave him a sense of purpose when he changed the bandage every morning and used saline to clean the arm, and the wing membranes. Finally a breath of something new had come into his life, in the strangest of forms which was this dragon, and he was just relieved that his life in this stuffy old monastery could still see some improvements. Sure it'd only be for a while but the way the dragon watched him with those emotive eyes gave him so much satisfaction it made his heart burst.
That dragon accompanied him everywhere. Even though the Abbot's study was already cramped enough, it insisted on latching to Freud's shoulders as he read, otherwise it'd curl up on the Father's bed and sleep the afternoon away. It watched him eagerly from the window as he ran laps around the perimeter of the monastery alone (as the Abbot permitted him to), and ate beside him when he brought their meals back to the room on a tray.
Before he even knew it he was irrevocably attached to it and missed it greatly when he was sent on errands. Normal errands, not the punishment kind, for now Freud spent his time safely in his room reading, or with the abbot, or playing with the dragon. The monastery grew quieter and everyone seemed to heave a sigh of relief as the unbearable whirlwind of energy which was Freud shifted his attention to other less destructive things.
Of course he would. That dragon lent meaning to his actions every day and helped him settle into a relatively untroubled routine. It taught him the value of silence when communication by mere emotion was enough. It taught him how to keep his heart calm in the way it never looked perturbed even if one of the monks would come by Freud's room to berate him for whatever wrongdoing he might have done in the day. And most of all... It taught him what peace was. He couldn't understand the dragon just as he couldn't understand the abbot, couldn't understand how they had so much satisfaction within them that it overflowed into their actions. The contrast between them was stark; he was like a rushing river while they were the leaves that floated on the surface of the rapids, unaffected by his raging torrents and emotional outbursts.
But beyond that, the dragon was his friend like nobody else was. It was his playmate and he spent nights telling the creature fairy tales and legends. He was proud to share whatever brief knowledge he had about the land he lived in, knowledge that he garnered from books but still knowledge anyway. He spoke of Ariant with their gypsies and travelling nomads and thieves, he spoke of a race of Light mages who occupied a faraway land called Aurora, he spoke of an icy land called Rien and their fierce tribes of warriors, he spoke of the lush lands of Elluel and their Elven rulers. The dragon listened to him with that unwavering attention and while Freud was convinced that it could understand him, even if it didn't, having the dragon listen as he talked eased so much pressure off him and calmed him down like nothing else did.
Freud helped the dragon out of its splint when the time came. He was twitching with excitement. He just couldn't help himself. It had been as he predicted, merely half a month since the dragon's arrival, and it was finally time to help it work some strength back into its muscles. Under the watchful eye of the Abbot he unwrapped the bandage deftly and efficiently, and rubbed the life back into its leg. With a satisfied croon the dragon flexed its leg and then leaped into the air with joy.
It toppled over many of the stacks of books in Freud's room as it vaulted from the dresser to the newly-installed bookshelf, and upset the quills and parchments that he had just painstakingly indexed. But he found himself laughing, mirroring the dragon's joy as it could finally, finally fly again. It landed on his head and down they fell in a mess of adrenaline and happiness, the dragon licking furiously at his face to express its thanks and Freud trying to catch his breath when it was knocked out of him. The dragon, for Freud never had the heart to name it, leaped to its feet and trotted once around the room, coming to a rest beside the abbot and the boy sitting up on the floor.
'Freud did a good job helping with your injuries,' the Abbot said after Freud had finished laughing. The boy turned in surprise but the dragon seemed to be expecting his words. Father Rene had a genuinely contented smile on his face, and for once Freud could finally see what the man felt inside.
But as the monk continued, Freud grew more and more surprised, and more and more confused.
'Freud is one of the smartest boys to have graced this monastery.' Freud stared, disbelieving, as Father Rene knelt by his side to level his gaze with the Onyx dragon. 'He learned the ways of your people in one afternoon, taught himself medicine in a day, and memorised my entire history collection in a week. He has displayed immeasurable bravery in approaching you, and even more for putting his pride on the line to help you.'
The dragon nodded. Freud blinked in astonishment. The first sign of understanding from the dragon that wasn't a blink and it was reserved for the Father?
'I wish you luck and peace in your travels. Your kin must be very concerned for you.' The dragon nodded again as Father Rene continued. 'I apologise but we have never had a way of communicating with them or to let them know that you are safe. The seasonal storm is approaching and it is only fortunate that you should be able to return just before its arrival.'
The dragon got to its feet and Freud spluttered, his mind now completely shaken and unable to form coherent thoughts. 'W-W-What... You're going now? So fast? So soon? But I... I...'
The Father placed a heavy hand on Freud's shoulder but still he sprang to his feet as the dragon made for the window, sorrow in its eyes. 'You can't go! Don't leave me behind!'
'Freud,' said the accursed Abbot with that tone of voice that meant trouble should Freud not behave, but the boy didn't care.
The dragon was going to up and leave just like that? How could it, after Freud had become a changed person for it? He'd endured so many stares and read so many books to help it and it was just going to leave him behind... to do what? What was he going to do now?
'Don't leave me with them,' he gasped, catching the dragon by the shoulders and pressing its trembling form to him.
His days had all but revolved around this dragon, in more ways than one. Now that the dragon was gone what was he going to do? What could he do? Without the dragon, who was a friend - no, maybe even a brother to him, he was left purposeless, without aim, to go back to his horrible, meaningless ways and face all the ill treatment from the monks again.
The dragon licked him once after a long hesitation. And for the second time in his life his heart was ripped cleanly into two when he saw the conflicted look in its eyes, wanting to stay but needing to go. Then he realised he was being selfish, that this was a creature with a family, with parents, with others that cared for him. That was why Father Rene brought it up earlier. Freud could be an orphan, but it didn't mean that others were too. And he couldn't afford to let the dragon's family worry any longer. It'd been gone for half a month, which was a very long time. If he were the dragon's brother, he wouldn't want that. Not for the world.
Biting hard on his lips to stop the tears from leaving his eyes, he untangled himself from the dragon. The boy, bully turned prodigy, swallowed hard before he opened his mouth, then closed it. Even after all the books he'd read, he had no human words apt enough to express his pain. But he knew the dragon felt it, for he felt the dragon's anguish, and all he needed to do was to pat the dragon once on the head in farewell, and step back.
With a mournful whistle the dragon leaped onto the windowsill, judged the flowing air currents, and cast one more look back over its shoulder. Freud lifted a hand to wave and it waved back. And then it was gone.
Freud didn't watch it go. He crumpled to the ground, silent tears finally leaking from his shaking frame, uncaring of the abbot placing a gentle hand on his shoulder, uncaring that the monk could see his one act of weakness. All he knew now that he was alone, stuck in this horrible place, without that dragon, and without the way it filled the void in his soul.
