Disclaimer: I don't own these characters.
This is on Tumblr, but for some rather vexing reason it's not showing up in the Mericcup tag. It's on my page if you want to reblog it.
Perched atop a chest, her knees drawn up and tucked into the tent of her nightdress and a shawl thrown around her shoulders, she gazed through the gloom at the bed she'd left and the figure still asleep in it.
Despite the dragon slumbering at the far end of the room, one forepaw over his snout as if he'd fallen asleep mid-scratch, it was far cooler out of the bed than in it. Summer had died easily this year, losing strength by the day until autumn surged up in a unanimous blaze of ruddy foliage. She'd woken to the sound of rain falling outside, pattering mildly but steadily against the flat wooden shingles overhead, slipping down the eaves. The air at the window smelled of wet leaves dragged down to the cool earth— of the world shutting itself up. She sat and over the unhurried drumming of the rain and the even snoring of the dragon she listened for quieter breathing.
As they so often did without her bidding her eyes found the new scar, still gleaming and pink where it jutted out from beneath his hair, where the spike of a morningstar had caught his temple—there had been blood everywhere, so much blood she'd thought he would surely die, though he'd turned as if he hadn't felt the blow and fought on, crouched low to the ground like a wild thing, moving with fatal grace. She forced herself to look elsewhere, to see more than the moment where she'd almost lost everything.
In the daylight she would tease him with the suggestion that he was starting to get old: he was getting wrinkles, and his beard was finally starting to come in, she'd laugh, though she would run her palm over the short hair on his jaw and shiver at the rasp of it over her skin. And in his way of seeing her every vulnerability he would catch the little shudder and use it to his advantage, taking hold of her and darting close to rub his jaw against her neck, against that place that made her knees quiver whenever he touched it. She was no better than a dragon, really, just as easy to tame by someone bold enough to try. A quiet word there, the gentle press of fingertips here, and his eyes meeting hers had conquered her.
From time to time, at the sound of his laugh, or when the firelight caught his eyes and brought out the golden heart of the green, she scolded herself for being caught so easily, for allowing such an attachment to him. People were dangerous to care for; they were so brief, so fickle. But (though some walled-up, crumbling bastion of her heart would protest) he was not. If anyone could live forever, she half-believed, it was him, him and his dragon. And though the changes time wrought on his body proved the lie of her belief she could not begrudge the wrinkles, not when she knew that they were the ones he'd been earning every time he smiled.
He had promised, in front of her people and his, to protect her. He had promised to teach her and to learn from her. Standing by her side under a shield-bright sky he had promised to put her safety before his own, to hold her up and, he'd added with a chuckle, to hold her back, if need be. All of those promises he had fulfilled already; and the private promises that he had made, the ones whispered in the night and traced upon her skin, the ones that made her blush and pant and ache, those he had fulfilled too, with his clever tongue and nimble fingers and flight-forged form.
Of all people he would not fail her. She would not let him.
The murmur that reached her through the dark was rough with sleep. "I can tell you're staring at me."
"Awfully clever, aren't you, to be able to do that with your eyes closed." He hummed in what she recognized as modest agreement.
"Can't sleep?"
She shook her head before remembering that he wouldn't see her. "The rain woke me."
His head turned toward the window, and she saw his chest rise with a deep breath. The ghost of a contented smile passed over his expression; it was gone before his head rolled to face her again. Neither of them woke in the night for no good reason.
"Was it worth it?" His eyes were still closed, though it seemed that now they were screwed up tighter, eyebrows drawn together, as if he were either ashamed of the question or afraid of the answer.
Her throat tightened as the voices reared up in her head again, their shouts deafening, their insults cutting at her weakest points. It had been a surprise to them all that the Vikings were willing to compromise, and for a moment she'd hoped, thought that her people would understand, that all would be well. But the Highlanders had refused to yield, and at that stubbornness she still felt the prick of pride in her, though she cursed it more often than not. She'd found herself again with sword in hand, fighting for what she knew with her body and soul was right. Once steel was involved, her dad had always told them, there was no room for doubt; you had to be as sure and straight as the blade. The questions, the uncertainty, the tears, those had all come later. When he'd woken from the long, terrifying sleep that followed stitching his wound closed he'd been distant, and she'd felt adrift and numb, unable to imagine a life where she'd given up everything only to be given up in return. Then, finally, he'd taken her hand and lifted it to his lips.
He kept his promises. He was sure as the blade and steady as the rain. "Yes," she answered, though her voice caught in the middle, unexpectedly buoyed by the swell of her heart.
He mistook it for sadness, though, and who could blame him? They both knew terror and sorrow as well as they knew their own heartbeats. The night grew colder as she listened to his breathing, too muted to be asleep. He keeps his promises, she told herself, a mantra too obvious to need repeating.
Then there was a movement among the bedclothes: one hand freed itself to stretch across the bed toward her, fingers curled slightly. Now she saw that his eyes were open wide, searching her in the shadows. "Will you come back?" he asked, and her heart sank that she allowed him to doubt her.
The shawl was abandoned atop the chest. She crossed the rough floor, climbed into the bed, and wrapped her fingers tightly around his. Her place was here, close by him, near enough to feel his heart beating, near enough to shield him from any harm. She drew their joined hands between them, twined her legs with his, pressed her lips to the base of his throat and felt his breath in her hair. "I will always come back to you," she vowed, and there was an assurance in the words that required no sword in hand, no blood staining the ground between them, nothing but her hand in his.
Outside, unnoticed, the rain fell.