A/N: Some of this I am totally making up. Other parts I steal from other fandoms. It's fan fiction, I don't care, you can't stop me 8P.
Looks like most people are all for sticking to Rorek (officially anyway). Sounds good to me! Even if the Draconic translation is a bit…awkward XD. Don't worry, I'll explain that later.
(8)
She told me I had the power and the talent for sorcery. All I needed was skill and knowledge. She told me she would give them to me, but I had to do everything she wished. And so I did. Despite all the cruelties I faced at the hands of this sorceress, I could neither come to hate her nor to wish her ill. She was too much like the emerald being I had murdered. Beautiful, cold, hurting, and frightened. I cooked her meals, cleaned her floors, washed her clothing, and assisted her spells. I protected her, and constantly did I wish for an end to her fear. Perhaps I felt that if I could banish her fear, could heal her wounds, then I might atone for the dragon I murdered all those years ago; her words haunting me still.
But on the day my training was complete she turned me from her door. I begged to stay; so sure that I must heal her, so determined that she should not fear me. I even went so far as to ask her hand in marriage, convincing myself that I could overcome my fear of touch for this. But she refused me.
I would not leave. I was determined to stay and do what I believed I must. But as the days wore on her fear only increased. It was apparent to both of us who had the greater power and she could not cast me out by force. I pleaded with her, I continued to act as her servant, I did everything I knew to do in order to gain her love and trust but nothing worked. Finally her fear became too much for me to bear and I left.
Never again would I seek the company of a woman who feared me. I decided that if I was to marry anyone that it would have to be a sorceress of greater power than my own. Perhaps such an ideal was folly for the women I would later come to desire had learned their own harsh lessons. They knew better than to love a man, any man, no matter how honest his intentions might be.
~ Excerpt from Rorek's memoirs.
(O)
Chapter 10 – Gods in the Dark
Malchior was incredibly pleased with himself.
Two stories later and Raven was still trying hard not to giggle about what she'd realized during a Draconic rendition of "The Nutcracker" that he'd made up for her. He was hoping she'd figure it out. The last thing he wanted to do was spell it out for her; that wouldn't be nearly as much fun and certainly wouldn't have her giggling like this during his version of "Dagon".
"Ruvaak, [are you listening to me?]" he asked.
"[Yes, sorry, go on.]" she answered without hesitating. It really was amazing just how swiftly she picked this up.
"[Honestly, Raven; I'm sure that when Mr. Lovecraft wrote this, the last reaction he was expecting was a giggle.]" he chided. But he was too cheerful about it and she just smirked at him.
It was petty, he knew. But in this position it was all the revenge he'd be able to exact. What more could he do? Beating the living snot out of that blue-eyed prick was out of the question. Paper wasn't that strong and he couldn't go very far from the book. He also couldn't move it himself, either. The reason for this was a bit complicated and had to do with his paper body's connection to the book. He was, more or less, an extension of the book. The paper form was like a hand reaching out from the body by way of an invisible and ephemeral arm. One could say his weight was in the book; when he picked it up he couldn't move. He might as well try to fly by picking up his feet with his hands.
He did take heart from the fact that Raven had apparently ground His Excellency the Knight in Shining Armor's pretty face in quite hard, but Malchior knew only too well what Rorel's default reaction was to a woman who defeated him in magical combat and it was not a natural one.
They were both pretty screwed up, he had to admit. Obviously Rorel wouldn't have any more desire than Malchior to let Raven know just how much they were screwed up. Neither of them would be willing to try explaining to anyone the real reason Rorel wanted the book so much. And Malchior couldn't find the courage, or even the words, to tell Raven the real reason he hated Rorel being here.
It…hurt. That was it, wasn't it? It hurt, and it hurt a lot more than he could have imagined. He tried to tell himself that it didn't. He was fine. He just didn't have any love for the guy who'd locked him up in a book for a thousand years. The last thing he wanted was to leave the custody of a beautiful young sorceress. Facing an eternity of no one to talk to but that blue-eyed pretty boy made him want to find an active volcano and sacrifice himself for the prosperity of whatever village that had decided living close to it was a good idea.
But it was more than that. So much more.
He had been accepted, forgiven, and even befriended. Stupid conversations, intimidated metal balls, and interactive fiction with a distinct lack of sensible logic. He had been looking forward to it. And now? Now, because of Rorel, he was being shut back up in the closet. His newfound friends wanted to protect him and he was too much of a coward to tell them that they didn't need to. He didn't want to explain why the famous dragon slayer wasn't actually here to destroy him once and for all or something of that ilk.
Perhaps he should not have edited the book quite so much. But it was proper, wasn't it? The knight in shining armor was the good guy. The dragon was the bad guy. That was the story; that was how history remembered them before it forgot them almost entirely (and unless Rorel wanted to change his name to Beowulf then they'd stay forgotten). Was it possible that this was how he'd wanted the story to go? Maybe. The truth was so much harder to accept. It would be so much easier to say that dragons were evil and men were good. It would be so much easier to point at all the stories that showed this and ignore the fact that they'd all been written by humans (who, of course, record things with complete honesty and don't leave anything out; not even the bits where it turns out they started the whole mess in the first place). So much easier to say, "I am the dragon, I am evil, this is how things are."
But he couldn't. All those things he'd done to deserve being sealed away in this book had been his own crimes. Being a dragon had nothing to do with any of it. Being a dragon had nothing to do with the way he'd broken Raven's heart…
She forgave me. he reminded himself. She even fought for me, to protect me. Perhaps there is hope. Perhaps this time I can win her heart honestly and with no other motivation.
Was it any wonder he'd gone and made himself the hero of the story? Changed the names so that, for once, someone would love him instead of Rorel?
He continued going through H. P. Lovecraft's "Dagon" in Draconic. Raven knew the story already so she was mostly piecing things together. Obviously it was working well. This was only their second time using the story method and already she was getting a feel for the combined words. There was a logic to it all, but it was complex and involved; it was something you just had to get a feel for.
He stopped abruptly when he heard the knock on the door.
"Don't worry. I have a silencing barrier surrounding my room. We can hear them but they can't hear us." she told him calmly. She picked up the book, slipped it under her pillow, and went to answer the door. "Stand in the corner and pretend you're a mummy or something."
There weren't many corners to make use of. Albeit there were more than normal rooms typically boasted (Raven had been playing around with dimensions since the last time he had free reign of this room), but most of them were already in use. He settled for a small space of unoccupied wall next to a book shelf and got into place just as she was opening the door.
He tensed when he heard Rorel's voice. And yes, it was most certainly Rorel. He could feel it, and it was all he could do not to jump out and try to rip his head off.
"The Lady Starfire has been teaching me to make dishes from her homeland. I am not sure I know where Tamaran is, but the food is certainly interesting. Would you like to try some?"
"Um…Rorek? Tamaran is another planet. And some of their food isn't exactly safe for human consumption…or the consumption of anyone with fewer than nine stomachs. You…haven't eaten any yourself, have you? You have, haven't you?"
Rorel coughed. "Is there a modern healer in the building that might have experience with this sort of thing?"
"Go have Cyborg check you over in the infirmary. With any luck you'll just get a bit sick and be fine sometime tomorrow."
"Ah, good, do excuse me then."
Raven shut the door and returned.
"He's cooking for you?" Malchior asked in a carefully neutral tone.
"Define 'cooking'."
Malchior snickered.
"So, that was Ror—" she bit her lip and cleared her throat. "That was Rorel?" she asked in a carefully steady voice.
"Yes, most definitely." he answered with a nod.
"Hm, I wonder why someone would shut him up in a book too." she mused.
"I don't know; I wasn't there. But if I were to hazard a guess I'd say they were probably trying to save his life. Complicated history, remember? Rorel wasn't exactly everyone's favorite little dragon slayer, you see." he explained.
"I think I can get a picture. So how much of the diary did you edit?"
"Quite a bit. I wouldn't trust the details." he admitted.
"I don't remember much of it anyway. So if you could edit the story like that why didn't you just edit the rest of it rather than simply refuse to let me read it?" she asked curiously.
"I did, but everything changed back when I…" he paused, 'When I ripped out of it as a dragon and proceeded to crush your heart as I attempted to roast you alive' would probably not go over too well. He edited the sentence. "…stepped out of the book for some fresh air and, er, moonlight." It worked. Raven let out a snort of laughter. "Only the Dragon to English translation stuck. Everything else snapped back like a rubber band and I didn't really care enough to change it up again. I didn't really think I'd ever have a reason to." he admitted.
"Ah, so if I went back and read it now,"
"You'd find out a few things about Rorel that he'd undoubtedly rather you not know, yes." Malchior answered. He brightened up. "Would you like to read it?" he asked her cheerfully.
She shook her head. "I think I liked that story better when I thought you two were fictional characters. Now it'd just feel like an invasion of privacy." Her eyes strayed to a clock that was sitting on the top shelf of one of her bookshelves. Malchior wondered if it was hiding another closet. She seemed to have them everywhere. "I need to talk to Nightwing about something before he goes to bed. But that reminds me; do you remember that dragon poem you translated for me the first day? The one with the original version of your draconic focus chant carved into that stone monument?" she asked.
"Yes. They're called Dovahgolz, or Dragon Stones. What about it?"
"It mentioned something about Time eating his children, and I've been having some odd dreams. I was wondering what that was all about. As far as I know it isn't exactly in the nature of time itself to eat things." she said.
"Odd dreams?"
"Yeah, I've been having them for the past few months. Recently they've been getting more frequent and…clearer. I keep hearing these phrases. Like, 'Time eats his children', 'the first escaped', 'become like me', and 'it's a warning'."
He raised an ink eyebrow. Well, that was interesting. "I think I can piece those together for you." he told her. "The part you're thinking of is 'Rok naak ok kiir / Alokgein filok / Mahgein du rok', which basically translates to something along the lines of, 'Time eats his children but the first escaped and the last ate him back.' Not the prettiest turn of phrase, I know, but I can't really think of any other way to put it. The 'become like me' part is probably a hint as to what the verse actually means.
"It's a warning – that is to say, a caution for fathers or parents in general. It's based on some old stories about a god – the one whose power was of time, naturally – and the issues he had with his kids. What it really means is that you, as a parent, should not try to force your child to become what you are; to be you. Jointly it also means that you shouldn't try to contain or trap your child. I think the story goes that Time ate his children so they would be him and could never leave him. He did this because his first child refused to become Time as well and ran away. And then the last child turned around and retaliated by eating him instead. The warning is that your children will not love you if you try to contain and control them to the point that you are practically eating them. Instead they will either run or lash out.
"Now, that's not to say one shouldn't discipline one's children; there's a difference between discipline and control. Slapping their hand when they reach for a sweet you already said they could not have is discipline. Telling them off for drawing things because you can't draw or you just don't like it is control."
"Seems like a fine line to me." Raven mused.
"Intention has a lot to do with it. If your intention is to teach and guide them out of love then a controlling behavior is not so easy to slip into. But if you just like having power over someone else then it turns into abuse."
Raven lifted an eyebrow of her own at him. "You seem to know a lot about this sort of thing. Had kids yourself?" she asked.
"Me? No! It was…I just…sometimes I just liked to listen to some old men talk about this stuff and I thought about it a lot and…" She was smirking at him. This wasn't working. Unless he told the truth, or at least part of it, she was going to draw up her own conclusions. He sighed. "My…mother was…she was a power-hungry overbearing bitch who had to be in control of absolutely everything. Alright?"
Her expression was unreadable for several uncomfortable seconds. Then she broke eye-contact. "My…father was like that…" she muttered softly, not looking at him.
Malchior felt himself smiling, though he had only his paper eyes to express it. "I wonder what would have happened if they'd ever met." he mused, trying to lighten the mood a bit. He couldn't help but speculate that Raven's father probably wasn't completely human. "Sparks? A bit of flame-throwing? The end of the world, perhaps?"
"Most likely." she responded with a small smirk. "Fortunately for me he wasn't around for most of my life."
"Yes, I managed an escape of my own. Though, to be honest, I'd have been even more happy with the eating option."
"Really? Before the existence of mustard or barbeque sauce? Would you have been able to stomach it?"
He chuckled. "No, probably not, come to think of it. Anyway, you say you are having odd dreams? What sort of dreams?"
"At first they just came every now and then. I might have been having them for over a year now and just didn't notice. But a few months ago I started having them once a week, then about twice a week, then three times a week. Now it's getting to the point where I only seem to be getting a good night's sleep every twice a week if even that much. I never remembered much of them either. Not until recently. I'd just sort of toss and turn in bed and then wake up feeling like I hadn't slept at all the next morning. Lately, though, I've started remembering words and phrases. I can't remember all of them. Some of them I don't understand, others seem to be from that dragon stone poem of yours, and I know there was at least one that was very odd. 'Hide your hair' or something like that. 'Nails', maybe. I don't know.
"Anyway," she went on, "One of the phrases was, 'can you hear me?'. When I finally shouted out that I could suddenly one of the voices starts talking to me a bit more clearly and without all the others whispering along. It told me that it was the first child of time; the one that escaped. And that he needed my help. Er…what is it? Malchior? Are you alright?"
No. He wasn't alright. He very much was not alright. A small, numb part of him wondered dully if it was possible that the wave of bowl-knotting terror washing over him could be properly conveyed in an expression that had no more than a pair of eyes made entirely out of paper and ink. He decided that even an entire face wouldn't be able to do a proper job of it.
"Malchior?" She sounded worried now. Very worried. Oh good. Maybe that meant he'd be able to explain this to her without screaming.
"Raven," he began in a voice of numbed calm, "The children of Time, in any story, were all gods." Now, how to make her understand why being contacted by such a god was very, very bad. This would be tricky. "And you know that all the gods were sealed away in scrolls, right?" If he'd had a proper throat it would be dry now. Good thing he was already dry and still talking regardless. "But those that weren't were the ones that had been imprisoned in Tartarus."
"Alright," she began carefully, "but I seem to remember one story in which some being or other was imprisoned in Tartarus because he stole the gift of fire from the gods and gave it to humans. So they can't all be bad, right?"
Okay, don't scream. Just don't scream. Stay calm, stay numb. It isn't that bad. It could be worse. It really could be worse. For instance: The sun could blow up, all the other planets in the solar system could suddenly decide the earth would look really nice as a pancake, time could come to a complete stop, the old gods of H. P. Lovecraft's imagination could suddenly decide to exist, and…well…there were plenty of things that could be worse – if only marginally.
He tried not to raise his voice. It didn't work. "No, Raven, he was imprisoned in Tartarus for setting a lot of humans on fire!" he snapped. And that was such an understatement he didn't even know where to begin. He took a deep breath – a mental need rather than a physical one – and let it out, trying to calm himself down. "Stories get mixed up in the retelling. You know this. One word changes, and then another word changes, and suddenly it's not the same story anymore. Somewhere down the line my name goes from Mahkriiod to Malchior to Grendel and Rorel to Rorek to Beowulf." Calm down, just calm down. he ordered himself. "The point is: One does not get sent to Tartarus for pulling pranks." If the very foundations of reality could be fractured by way of supreme understatements then it would have done so at this point.
"And…supposing this is a scroll-sealed god?" she asked. "I'm not use to simply ignoring a call for help." she informed him severely.
"All the gods were bad, Raven. It's just that the ones locked up in Tartarus were the worst." He mentally checked to make sure reality hadn't actually developed a crack and went on. "You remember the stories of the Greek and Roman gods? Perhaps some of them didn't do a lot of harm but they damn well didn't help either! Three goddesses get into a tiff about who's the 'fairest in the land' and it all explodes into a bloody massacre that no one takes any responsibility for. Why should they? They're gods. Mortals kill and get killed all the time; why should they care? Besides, it's a lot more fun when it happens in massive quantities." he snarled bitterly.
"But it wouldn't be one of them." he continued. "I admit that there might be more scrolls around somewhere, but…suffice it to say the sealing spell that Rorel developed and the original one that captured the gods were a bit different. For one: The original spell required a blank scroll upon which the god's very being would be translated into the characters of their first language. What it did, what it was meant to do, was to more or less kill the god by turning their body, mind, and power into words, thus robbing their souls of any suitable vessel. Any sense of cognitive existence that might cling to these scrolls would be no more than a spectral shadow – a memory imprinted upon the world. A ghost, in other words. You could say that Rorel's version was simply inspired by the original."
"Then it definitely wouldn't be one of them." she sighed. "You are certain it could only be a god from Tartarus? You know for a fact that none of them might be innocent?"
"Do you remember me mentioning that the dragons worship something beyond gods? There are higher powers, Raven. Powers even they fear. Don't ask me too much; it's too deep. Just trust me when I tell you that there are no innocents in Tartarus. None at all."
"Weren't you telling me earlier that you'd rather be sent to Tartarus than handed back to Rorek – I mean Rorel?"
"Maybe I was exaggerating a bit…"
"But why would a god in Tartarus be contacting me for help?" she asked. "It doesn't make sense, Malchior. There's only one thing they could possibly want and if Tartarus was so easy to break open then it would have happened a long time ago. I couldn't possibly be able to do it."
"I wish I were as confident in your impotence as you seem to be." he stated, almost snidely. She gave him a look of some surprise. She just didn't get it! He grabbed her by the wrist, feeling his carefully controlled fear turning into anger. "Do you think I'm senseless?-! That I can't feel this?-!" He placed her hand on his paper chest. "Every time you touch me I can feel it! I can feel the electric currents of power you keep dormant and suppressed within yourself. I don't know what happened to you in the past few years we've been out of touch but you are not the same! You have the power of a Draconic High Priest locked up nice and snug but I can feel it and I'm not so sure you couldn't break open Tartarus."
She snatched her hand back, her eyes flashing with fire and defiance, "I couldn't!" she snapped at him. "If this prison is actually controlled by powers greater than the gods then I couldn't possibly be able to do anything."
How much could he tell her? Would she be able to understand? No. And it would be worse if she did. "Every wall has a crack, Raven. How much are you willing to wager on the assumption that they haven't found one by now? One that, perhaps, you could use? Are you willing to risk everything to answer one call for help?" he demanded, grabbing her shoulders. "Would you like to know what it was like when the gods were around?-! Would you like to know what might happen if they were unleashed again with none of the not-quite-as-bad gods to fight with?-! Perhaps we'll be lucky! Perhaps they will decide to fight amongst themselves. But who is it that always suffers the most when the powerful fight? What are you willing to risk, Raven?"
She stared at him. There was a strange expression on her face that he didn't quite recognize. Then the steady feel of her shoulders under his paper hands made him realize that he was shaking, and violently. His paper body was mimicking the reactions flesh. One wouldn't think paper could feel so strongly like this. Emotions were physical things, weren't they? Things of flesh, right?
No, not entirely. Words had emotion. Love letters dabbed with scent, apologies bathed in tears, words of the enraged, sorrowful, and pained who write their thoughts. People take those feelings and transfer them to paper so now the world doesn't hurt quite so much. Words held every emotion, even the ones that the present language had no single word to describe.
He started in surprise when he felt her hand on his cheek. It was gentle and soothing; the tingle of her dormant power was so distracting. "You're scared." she murmured in amazement.
"Terrified." he admitted, closing his eyes and leaning slightly into her hand. "You know the saying, 'There's always a bigger fish'? I suppose in my case it's something along the lines of, 'There's always a bigger monster'."
She was quiet for a minute. Then she said, softly, "I don't think you're a monster…"
"Then you really don't know me very well. Good for me." He sighed heavily. "Don't listen to them, Raven. Please. No doubt these gods believe their true nature has been forgotten – that you would not know them…"
"You're sure it's one of them?" she asked softly.
He opened his eyes. "There are many stories about Time and his children. Some are even about Time and her children. There is no way of knowing where the truth is. The children of the original Time could be any of the gods, but they are gods. That is one fact that does not alter – at least not in any of the stories I know, and I know quite a few. I may have been trapped in a book for a thousand years but I have been well aware of the changing times, if only through the literature."
She took her hand from his cheek but didn't try removing her shoulders from his own grip. "Is there any way I can stop these dreams then?"
"Yes, but you're not going to like it." he answered.
"Tell me anyway."
"There are a few methods we can try to prevent you from being receptive to external signals during sleep but they are going to require some time and practice. Until then, if you allow it, I can draw your sleeping mind into the pages of the book. I doubt any god would wish to touch a spell so similar to the one that eradicated their kinsmen. Even if they did I can protect you. I can give you restful sleep."
She looked a bit uncertain about this. Could he blame her? But she had to trust him in this.
He released her shoulders and took her hand in his. "Raven, please…" he murmured pleadingly. "I am not lying to you. Not about this. Let me protect you, please."
Her eyes flashed, suddenly suspicious and accusing. "Why?" she demanded. "Why do you want to protect me? Why do you care, Malchior? Why now?"
His grip on her hand tightened involuntarily. A paper body mimicking the reactions of flesh. Involuntary actions – things of emotion and instinct. Her words hurt, and the worst part was he had only himself to blame.
All it takes is one mistake. One can build up a great wall but a single error in construction can bring down the entire structure. One small mistake can ruin a great deal. And you did not make a small mistake. he reminded himself.
I KNOW! SHUT UP!-!-!
What could he tell her? What could he say? The truth? What was the truth? The truth was that the only scrap of affection he'd felt for her back then had been born of the fact that he'd not had the ability to speak to anyone before she'd touched his book and a small amount of her power had seeped into his pages. The truth was that the only part of him which felt anything for that dark child was small and had only enough power to constantly berate him. The truth was that, when he realized he did feel something a bit more real, it had scared him. The truth was he'd had a very, very long time to think and do little else. The truth was…he wanted her back. He wanted what he'd only pretended they had back then. He wanted her; he wanted her to be his. And dragons were territorial. You protected what was yours. You took care of what was yours. And you bloody well didn't let some bloody god dip their bloody fingers into it either!
He was scared. He was scared of what might be happening to her. Where had this strange power of hers come from? Why her?
He could tell her none of this.
"Think what you will of me, Raven, but I wouldn't let my worst enemy become a tool for the beings in Tartarus. And, despite our rather unfortunate past, I do not think of you as an enemy…not anymore…" he added softly. He was still holding her hand. "There are a few reasons you can trust me. For one—"
"I trust you, Malchior." she cut in, but her voice and her eyes were hard. "I just want to know why. I want to know what's different. What's different about now as oppose to before?" she demanded.
Ah…the very question he was trying hard not to answer. He stared down at their hands. He was clutching hers tightly, but his physical strength was very limited. If she pulled away he wouldn't be able to stop her. He thought hard and swiftly, wondering what he could possibly tell her that she might be satisfied with.
Tell her the truth. he growled at himself.
You do it if it's so easy! he snapped back, knowing full well he was dancing on the precipice of madness with such a demand.
No one ever said it was easy. The right thing is never easy. Existence is not easy. But it would be less painful in the long run.
Leave off.
"You forgave me…" he murmured softly, as if to himself. "They forgave me. I…I've never had friends before, Raven. Real friends, I mean. I have…pretended. I can pretend quite well. But the time we've been spending together…the way your friends enfolded me back on your space ship…this is not something I'm familiar with. It is not…easy for me. I want to protect you. I don't want anything to happen to you…or them…"
It was all true. He knew it when he said it. It just wasn't the truth.
Raven's eyes softened and she took hold of his hand. "Alright…" she murmured. Relief washed over him like a gentle wave of cool, soothing water. "What do I need to do?"
(O)
She was dreaming. She knew this, which was strange in and of itself. But the dream was more vivid than any she could remember having before.
She was laying down in waist-high grass with purple and yellow flowers bobbing over her as a light breeze made the foliage dance about. She could smell the crisp spring day, see the blue sky above her peppered with fluffy clouds that turned into shapes her mind made pictures of as she watched. There was some sort of grinding sound accompanied by a thumping that she felt more than she heard. She was quite comfortable, though. The thicket of grass did not have any bugs in this dreamscape and neither did any part of the flora prick her or make her skin itch. She felt like she could curl up and sleep here. There was so much grass beneath her that it made the ground very soft indeed. But she was already asleep, wasn't she? This was a dream; she knew this for a fact. She sat up.
The grass was right at eye-level so she had to stand. Then the grass she'd been laying down on sprang right back up as though she'd never been there. Yep, definitely a dream. She took a good look at herself. She was wearing exactly what she wore to bed: black bodysuit + skirt and nothing else. Alright, now that that was settled, time to find out what the grinding noise was.
It wasn't hard to find. An enormous black dragon whose head was more than twice as big as you were was very hard to miss. He was on all fours and was walking across the field along an invisible path that arched more and more with his progress. She flew up into the air but had to go pretty high to figure out what was going on. For some reason he was drawing a line in the ground, gouging the dirt out with his tail. Considering the size and strength of that tail, however, he wasn't drawing a line so much as digging a trench. But the line curved; he was drawing a circle. It was a perfect circle.
A circle. A circle that was described by where the grass wasn't. It was big too; plenty big enough for a dragon and a half-demon (in theory). She flew down to him when he was finished and hovered in front of his…er…snout? What did one call a dragon's face?
"Malchior, what is this?" she asked him, gesturing to the trench.
"A warning." he answered in the layered voice of his dragon form. It was…more gentle than the first time she'd heard it. There was no mocking edge for a start. "It means, more or less, 'thus far and no further'."
She looked at it. "It's just a circle." She couldn't feel any magic. "Why bother? You don't think the sight of a big black dragon will be warning enough?"
"This is a bit more emphatic. You might say it's enthusiastic."
"It's just a circle." she repeated. She'd used circles before, plenty of times. But they had been…well, there had been more to them than this. There were usually special chalks, inks, powders, sands, and so on. Often runes were required.
"Do not ask too much about this, Raven. It is deep magic, magic that the world no longer needs to exist. I would not use it anywhere else. It can be…dangerous." he told her.
"It's just a circle." she stated for the third time.
"Please?"
She was really starting to hate it when he said 'please' like that. She couldn't seem to refuse him! Maybe it was because the plea clashed so much with the smug, arrogant confidence that flavored his air when he wasn't upset or being secretive. She could almost feel how difficult it was for him to say the word. It meant that when he did use it, it was that much more valuable.
"I'm guessing I need to stay inside?" she forwarded.
"Yes. You can sleep here and you will be untroubled." he told her.
"Sleep? I'm already asleep." she pointed out.
"Your body sleeps but you are not dreaming; not properly." He lifted a clawed four-fingered hand to her. She decided to take the offer and sat down in his palm. It had an oddly cool, smooth texture to it. But it still seemed warm. It was like…like living metal. He carried her towards the center of his circle, using three legs to walk, and began to settle down. He lowered her to the grass so she could just slide down and then, to her slight surprise, he curled up around her. For some reason he reminded her of a cat, though cats didn't usually have such long necks. He laid his head down next to her and a wing unfolded over them both, blocking all but a minimal amount of light. It was like being in a tent made of grass and dragon.
Malchior closed his eyes but Raven wasn't so sure she was comfortable with this. She had plenty of space to herself so it wasn't like she was being squeezed in any way. Still…
"Don't you have a human form?" she asked him.
Malchior's eyes (at least, the one that she could see on this side), shot open and went very round. "Um…yes…why do you ask?"
"Wouldn't it be more convenient?" she questioned.
"Maybe…but it would not be very intimidating."
"Your circle isn't warning enough?" She was sensing something a bit more personal in his reluctance.
"Well, perhaps, but I prefer this form."
"Why? Does your human form have a funny hair cut?"
"Yes!" he answered immediately. "Most definitely! I have an absolutely dreadful haircut, no sense of fashion, and I…have acne."
"Acne?"
"Yes, terrible acne. It is mighty embarrassing."
"You're well over a thousand years old and you have acne?"
"Tis adult acne. Quite common."
"Only in this day and age and mostly in this country. The problem is all the crap that's being put in American foods these days. Which, as I recall, you've never eaten."
"Er…dragon pox?"
"Now you're just being silly."
His glowing red eye looked pained. "I don't suppose there's anything at all I could say to make you drop this sudden fancy?"
"What's so bad about your human form that you don't want me seeing it?" she asked.
He sighed deeply and with some resignation. "Alright, listen. You know that magic changes, right? Old magics die out as new ways are discovered. Humans find a new way of doing things and then the old way is simply forgotten. Well, when it comes to magic that isn't quite how things work. It's not just the users changing their methods; magic itself changes. And, back in our time, magic was a bit more…soft."
"Soft?"
"I'm not sure how else to describe it. Magic itself made less sense. Things bled into one another. It was a bit more fickle, a bit easier in some ways and harder in others. You know that this is, more or less, Rorel's diary or memoirs. What he wrote in here was a record of his own personal history. The words are his. They are his memories, his thoughts, and his emotions. They are him. And so when I was trapped within this tomb parts of what he was bled into me. We became…connected. I don't think he realized that he was suppose to use blank paper for that spell of his." he mused.
Raven thought she could see the shape of where this was headed. "You're saying you look like him?" she all but demanded.
"You catch on swiftly. Yes. We're not duplicates, but my appearance mirrors his far too closely for my own liking. In truth, the only thing that is different is my coloring." he told her.
"Ah."
"I wasn't too happy when I found out."
"I can't imagine how you would be." she mused, sitting down so that the bit of standing grass within Malchior's self-circle obscured her view. Part of her wanted to press the issue but she knew he wouldn't give in. She curled up in her little space and closed her eyes. "Good night." she murmured.
"Good night, Raven." he returned softly.
It was incredibly easy to fall asleep in this dream.
(8)
A/N: Malchior gets silly when he's nervous. XD
Look, kitty! I found the plot!
Cat: Yeah…I don't care.
T.T
By the way: I'm sorry if people take offense to my portrayal of the Greek and Roman gods, but I've personally read enough stories about these bastards to know that they're all bastards and, yes, even the so-called 'nice' gods of 'nice' things were bastards 'cause they didn't effing HELP much, did they? I'm sorry, but it is NOT OKAY to completely screw up a mortal's life and/or entire kingdom just because they make some heat-of-the-moment comment or other about how their kids are better than yours or they're prettier than you are or, worse, they happen to be the victim of something another god did (lay off the poor girls, Hera, it's not like they can say no to a god! It's your so-called husband you should be throttling!)! You couldn't win with these so-called people, either! Pleasing one god meant you were displeasing others and don't even get me STARTED on Zeus (cheating lying bastard man-whore gripe gripe gripe ate his first wife then gets mad at people for cannibalism effing bastard hypocrite grumble grumble grumble no right to judge anybody gripe gripe gripe…). Being a beautiful woman was pretty much a death sentence in these stories. You might as well slit your own throat rather than put the gods to the trouble. I'd be okay. I'm sure the horns, tail, and fangs would put off even Zeus. Also, draconic morning breath can be cataclysmic – particularly when I forget the mouthwash. :D Heheheh.
Coming up in the next chapter:
Pink elephants and their soap bubbles.
Just to let everyone know: I am having a hard time keeping up with a schedule of the three updates a week. I'm starting to fall behind on my drafts and if I get to the point where I'm stressing myself out about getting things written and edited as quickly as possible then the quality is going to go down. I'd also like a bit of time to finally pull out Diablo III and start playing. So from now on updates will be Friday and Sunday and I will only be updating during the week if I am actually able to get ahead. Sorry about this! But it will also give me time to actually write my crack-drabble companion story, which I have decided will be called 'Squares' since it sounds a bit closer to 'Circles' than 'Triangles' would have. I will try to have that one written and ready to be posted on Friday with the next chapter of Circles! Those bathrooms won't know what hit them :D.
PS: Taking a short trip up north for Memorial Day so I'll be a bit late responding to reviews since FF has yet to release any smartphone apps and signing in on a phone is a pain in the butt.