Chapter 2: Servitude

Philippe feared for his brother's health. He had been lovesick over a woman that didn't know he existed, and now he had taken a job that he had not been trained for. He could kill someone with his ignorance of flora and fauna alike. Their family was very powerful, almost always mentioned in relation to the town's elders; that made Raoul's slow descent into poverty and madness all the more shameful.

How was he to maintain his reputation when his brother would be the only thing people concentrated on? He had worked so hard to make a name for himself above his own deceased father's, inventing ingenious little devices that did everything from pitting fruits to gliding on the wind to deliver small packages. His large house at the edge of the village was home to almost ten servants, each one paid, fed, and clothed well. Now, however, if Raoul stayed with this dead healer's worldly goods, he risked splitting the community in two over the issues of his disownment.

Raoul knew nothing of his own power, all heavenly powers bless him. He had grown up sheltered, and fed on fairness and morality for years. He knew naught of what he could do regarding control of his home.

Philippe closed the shutters he'd been looking out of and prepared for a day of directing the servants. He was scheduled to have guest tonight, leaders from a distant city who were to discuss the shipment and sale of new crops- exotic things, like spices and citrus fruit. He himself had never tasted a citrus, but they were rather infamous for being extremely sweet or extremely sour.

Strange fruits aside, he had something else to worry about- one of the servants, a blind, mute girl named Ciara was being tormented by the other servant girls again. It was only natural, for the lack of coloration except in her deep red eyes generated a fair amount of fear and suspicion.

Philippe himself was rather curious about her, for he knew nothing of her but when and where she worked in his household. Still, he could not allow any gossip or disputes between his employees. It not only embarrassed him, it upset people and led to insubordination.

He had not experienced this sort of trouble before, thank goodness, but he had seen it happen in the master potter's small factory. One man had been struck on the temple by a flying lump of half-hardened clay. He had not woken…ever. Now the master potter was simply a potter among tens of others, each slightly less skilled than he, but with more business.

He scrubbed his skin with cool water and dressed quickly, wanting to reach the kitchens before breakfast was served. It would give him a chance to resolve the issue of Ciara's continued presence in his home…and observe her. She was one of the few under his command who did not live in the servants' quarters. She always left from the main doors of the large house, carrying a small bag across her shoulders for her pay and the remains of her meals.

The other maids and hands disliked her for her silence, and they had not missed the fascinated way Philippe stared after her, and the way he always had a reason to be where she was. If she was out on a short meal break, just outside the stables, he said that he had to groom his horses. If she were cleaning the various rooms, he would request that his spacious apartments be done first, and early in the morning.

The most popular rumor was that Ciara was secretly a prostitute, and was being paid extra to sleep with her rich, handsome master. Some pitied her for her loneliness, but she never minded it, it seemed. Others longed for her fictional, elevated position, and pitied her for her blindness. Still more believed she was a witch, the kind that cast curses and communicated with the dead.

What utter nonsense.

Philippe knew she was innocent of all these things, and that he had been the cause of half her persecution, but he knew not how she felt for it. She had never showed a reaction to these cruel sayings, or any emotion, for that matter.

He wished he could inspire some sort of feeling within her- fear, or admiration, respect- possibly even the platonic love he shared with some of the maids he casually conversed with. She simply seemed so alone and empty…

He descended the stairs, still buttoning his white cotton shirt and earning several gushing sighs from the women who had already set about dusting and straightening everything from the last night's dinner. He wished they would stop mooning over him, for their affections had gotten him into many fights with their lovers and husbands.

Ciara was going to be in the kitchens, working her thin hands into a stubborn lump of dough, probably one that was to be served at noontide. She would stop to brush her hair from her blind eyes and smooth face, and pretend not to hear the vicious gossip being circulated in whispers around her.

When he at last reached his destination and was greeted with the thick smell of porridge, he was also met with a surprise. Mara, a little slip of a girl he paid well in order to help support her ailing mother, ran up to him, breathless and looking frightened.

"M-master Philippe!" she entreated, stammering in her hurry to get the words out. "I saw Ciara catch a pot!"

"And?" he asked, suddenly wondering why Ciara's catching a pot was so jarring. She was blind, that was true, but she knew her way around and could sense anything around her. It was almost as if she'd taught herself to 'see.' "Pray tell me more, little Mara. Ciara has caught plenty of pots before, I'm sure-"

"I saw it, but no one believed me, so I had to come and tell you-" He was steadily growing impatient.

"Heavens, girl, just tell me!" he said, voice raised a notch. Mara began to stammer again, this time slightly scared of her employer.

"I-I- she- she caught it, but as she reached, her hand- it-it turned black and all…squishy. Her fingers melted." At this declaration, Philippe's eyes narrowed and he brushed past the maid into the kitchen. He wanted to see this for himself.

Ciara was holding the clay pot in her arm, stirring a large portion of thick stew. Her face turned towards him as he came to her and bid her pause in her work. "Ciara let me see your hands."

She obediently put down the pot and held out her hands. The one that had been holding a wooden stirring spoon was clean. The one that had been under the container was sticky with old black grease, the buildup from many tens of meals and spills. Philippe turned to Mara, who had anxiously followed him. "You see, Mara? There is nothing amiss. Your eyes must have tricked you." His voice left no room for discussion.

"Yes, Master Philippe," she murmured, and left to go about her usual business: preparing for the evening meal, which was to be the grandest affair that night. As soon as she had gone, the young noble grabbed a damp rag and gently took Ciara's wrist. She did not protest as he showed her a small kindness by scrubbing away the grime and muck of dishes past.

As the fatty slime came away, he noticed that her fingers were cold, near frozen compared to his own, and darkly bruised. Had she injured herself somehow? As if she could feel his stare, she jerked her hand away as soon as he had finished cleansing her white skin.

A pinch of hurt began in his chest, but he ignored it and simply walked away. He would deal with her personally when he had time.

…

Raoul's curiosity in opening the mysterious black box had been justified. It had contained the journals of Christine's father, Gustave. He had sent long hours reading through them. Most of the beginning was rather cryptic, but he had been clear on one thing: he had studied animals before becoming a craftsman.

His handwriting was poor, and the light dim, but Raoul had managed to make out some words that interested him greatly: I have a great passion for wild creatures, especially. They intrigue me more than perhaps is healthy. Now, in the morning light, the young man looked at the date of the entry. It was nearly five years before Christine had been born, or so he figured.

A learned man, Raoul thought. Such a pity that he died before he could share his passion. It was true, too. He had found many a sketch of an animal's innards- perhaps a wolf or a lion, and once, a were-lion midway through transformation. Perhaps I can be the one to add his knowledge to our town's library. He was a talented artist…

Slowly becoming rather bored and confused by the data on animals and the more dangerous creatures that spanned years, Raoul skipped forward- until he glimpsed a sketch of the a dragon. There was no writing on the page, not even a caption. As he flipped past the page, however, the face of the sacred creature hinted at a distinctly human emotion: sorrow. Unnerved, he looked again- and all he saw was the reptile's snarl. I must have imagined it… But he knew he had not.

It was simply too odd to have images staring at him from a scrap of parchment. It made him think himself insane.

He skipped forward into the years of Christine's childhood, forgetting the strange drawing as he read on about how the girl had grown, played, cried, and lived- and sang. He recalled her in his own mind as well, for he had been one in her audience when she sang in the town square. He had always left her a gold coin, not coppers as other, less generous people gave.

A light ringing at the door signaled the arrival of a visitor. The visitor, however, was unexpected in his nature.

Philippe stormed into the shop, fuming so much that one might have thought his cheeks smoldered. "Raoul, get your filthy behind out of this wretched slum and do something useful!" he barked, making his brother jump and hit his head against a low-hanging lamp.

The normally quiet youth retaliated immediately, rubbing his head and wincing. The journals flopped to the narrow wooden counter. "I am doing something useful, unlike you- I'm not the one scheduling a dinner party while the people on the street starve! And don't tell me to feed them, because I have no food!" His anger turned to surprise when Philippe threw his arms up in exasperation and said something quite contrary to what he'd been expecting.

"I mean, Raoul, that one of the servants in our- my- household has mysteriously bruised fingers, and you need to get up and do somethin about it! You're a healer, aren't you?" His face altered into an expression of grim amusement. Raoul's, however, broke and reformed into a jubilant grin.

"As a matter of fact, I am, brother dear. Let me pack some supplies and I'll be on my way."

"Good," Philippe replied, terse in manner and tense in his back and neck. "It's about time you started working."

…

Christine had learned that the dragon, her keeper, was a nocturnal creature, but also a very light sleeper. She knew of the spores of a mushroom that could drug one into a deeper sleep, but had no idea how it would affect a reptile with superheated insides. It probably wouldn't affect him at all.

Escape was impossible.

The faun she had prepared was now nothing but a few crushed bones and a dunghill somewhere near the forest beyond the hills, for the Protector preferred privacy while going through the motions of cleanliness (excepting, of course, the scrubbing of scales). He was indeed civilized, but not in a human sense.

If he has a very particular taste in sanitary business, does he have a very particular taste in anything else? Or is he simply intended for survival, and naught else?

It was dusk now. He had instructed that she wait until after his hunt to clean him, though she had not the slightest idea of how to clean a scale. Perhaps he would bring her something to clean with other than a sharp, flat stone and her own garments.

Her tongue was sticking to the roof of her mouth. Even after drinking the dew that had collected in her clothes the previous morning, she had not had much to drink since nearly two days previous. I have never seen a reptile drink, she suddenly realized. All the small lizards and skinks that had infested her shop in the cruel winter had never so much as opened their mouths to take in a bit of the life-giving liquid. Surely they need some form of hydration… Maybe they absorb it, just as amphibians do.

At any rate, she needed a drink. It was never healthy to go without water for long. The sun was sinking quickly. She would need to drink soon, but who knew what she would run into in the dark caves? Would he rage at her for stumbling into him as he slept? He had shown no anger or viciousness as of yet, but who knew? She had only been with him for a day!

Her thirst overcame her fear, and with cold limbs, she trod into the darkness.

At first, she could see nothing and hear nothing save for her own breathing and steps against the slippery stone. Then, the floor began to slope downwards and become damp. He hands, now invisible in the darkness, clutched at sharp stone pillars to help her keep her footing. The floor and walls of the cave were becoming damp, and she could almost taste the difference in the air around her.

Water was there, somewhere in the underground realm… At last, her feet touched a puddle and she knelt, feeling with her fingers that she had stopped at the edge of a pool. Her mouth greedily sucked up the water, not bothering with the work of cupping her palms to drink. The liquid tasted different, almost bitter, but it was ice-cold and refreshing.

Then that sound came again, the voice that cast a spell over her mind and made it foggy with a narrowed focus on simply listening. It was different, this time- she heard no words, nor did she feel compelled to do something she would not do if she were in her right mind. It was a soft song, one of reflection and stillness, yet the very air and the stones and waters echoed and vibrated.

And again, she wanted to find the source of the music and just stand and breathe it in.

She stood, not bothering to wipe her face, and began walking. The floor turned into a basin, and the basin into a pool. She did not notice that she was now wading in ice-cold water.

Erik, having extremely keen hearing, heard the water stirring gently around him. He thought nothing of it, and continued his humming in the grotto. He enjoyed having the sound bounce back from all the walls. That way, his voice was multiplied into a hundred voices, and each reached his ears with a slightly different quality.

A distinct splash interrupted his torrent of singing. What? He turned, and his eyes took in a somewhat (though not very) surprising sight.

The song stopped suddenly, and the spell keeping Christine's limbs moving broke. Her eyes looked up for a second, and into the Protector's golden eyes. With a frightened cry, she began to sink, unable to move, for the extreme cold paralyzed her.

He knew, in that moment, that he would save her. Idiotic human woman- she should plug her ears when I am humming.

Christine could only look up as her legs tangled in her dress and the water pressed in around her. I can hear my heartbeat. Will I hear it as it stops forever? For after all, what reason could the Protector have for keeping me? The pressure was beginning to make her ears ache.

Erik leapt out of his place, easily gliding through the deep lake. He submerged, water rippling off his scales. A third, transparent eyelid closed over his eyes, and he searched the dark, cavernous space. There- a bubble wavered up, catching the light from his eyes. He dived, following a glimpse of white cloth.

A sense of familiarity washed over him as he grasped Christine about the waist again. Must I constantly be rescuing this little creature from everything? He ignored the fact that she fit into his claws and that her body temperature was higher than his on the surface.

He rose to the surface again, and crawled out of the rocky pool, the girl still clutched against his chest. He felt oddly relieved, as if he had rescued a favorite pet, or caught a piece of prey that had nearly escaped.

It was awkward, walking back to the entrance of the cave on three legs, but it was not as if he could reach around and place her on his back. She would fall off for sure, barely conscious and weak as she was.

She will be of no use to me ill either. Just how many times must I provide for her before she begins to work? He set her down and considered her wet robes, then decided to abscond with them. She would probably be better off without them, now that they were soaked. With the precision of a surgeon, he hooked a claw through the sodden fabric and tore it from her. It required little effort to roll her out of the cloth.

Perhaps she will need warmth to dry off…but not from fire. Should she stir, she will be burned- and she is no use to me burnt either. So he lifted her again, hoping that his scales did not bruise her, and curled himself around her so that she was cradled between his leg and flank.

A gurgle of hunger interrupted his tending. I must find some way to keep her out of trouble without compromising my hunting time.

…

Christine opened her eyes and was met with the sight of dull black scales everywhere. She was warm, and a hot breeze seemed to be coming from behind her. What…? She was dry, and rather comfortable, for the surface she was lying on seemed to be curved to the shape of her body. Oh.

She had not moved yet, but it had occurred to her exactly where she was. The very comfortable 'bed' beneath her was a hind leg, and her pillow a wide, armored flank.

Then it occurred to her that her robe was missing, but the ceremonial gold chain still hung about her neck. A surprised shriek caused her unofficial couch to shift suddenly and dump her to the cold stone floor. Moonlight filtered into her vision, and suddenly she could see as a filmy, tent-like wing was removed from around her.

She quickly curled into a ball to preserve her modesty. He must have taken it while I was unconscious!

Erik felt like using the human expression of rolling his eyes to show his annoyance. They were such excitable creatures, humans. Perhaps their lifespans were so short because they spent much of their time being afraid. If you are afraid of being so close to me, small human, perhaps I should inform you that you owe two human lifetimes to me. He lifted his great head and nudged at the ball-shaped Christine, trying to get her to move, like a rolled-up pill bug that has been startled. A muffled complaint reached him, even though her head was buried in her skinny knees.

"M-may I h-h-have my robe b-back?" She felt a red-hot flush creeping up her face. Even if the Protector (or whatever he was called) were a different species, her strict sense of modesty would not allow her to stand and reveal herself unabashed.

A thunderous, rumbling laughter brushed through what was left of her curls. What use could you possibly have for a wet scrap of cloth? It is not even sanitary now! A shining orb hovered near her head, curiously eyeing the newly pink coloration of the girl's too-soft skin. Her indignant, stammering reply only increased his amusement.

"M-modesty! I intend to keep m-myself covered in m-male comp-pany, th-thank you!" Christine risked a glance upwards and squeaked at the sight of a toothy grin that seemed to clash with the deadly claws and spiked spine. The resonant laughter continued, and she found herself grinning even though her mind told her not to smile at all. Her own humor at the situation emerged in the form of a bold comment that she would not have made just hours ago. "Tell me, Protector, what would you do without your scales in the presence of a female?"

His clever response forced a chuckle from her throat. He was beating her at her own game! Why, it depends what species of female. If I were the human and you the dragon, I would not curl in on myself like a Dark in bright sunlight. And I can hear you holding in your laughter, little Christine, his voice acknowledged, almost purring.

"I- I am not laughing!" she argued, and turned her face from his metallic eye with a teasing huff.

You are, and you know it. Then her mind brushed over a thought- he had called her by her name! This revelation spawned another thought: if she had a name, what was his? Surely he was not 'Protector,' as the village people called him. He had a name, but it was not what she had called him.

Erik spotted her lapse in the moment and his chuckling faded away. What thought troubles you?

Her face looked into his eye again, seeming nearly melancholy. "I do not know your name. Surely you have a name I can call you besides your useless title." He flinched at her declaration, and stared for a long moment.

Christine felt herself redden again under his gaze. Had she said something offensive? Then: Yes, I have a name. You may call me as you wish, however, as your life will be but a fraction of mine.

He uncoiled himself from around her, leaving her chilled in the night air, and took off, presumably to hunt. She gazed after him, and he could sense her bewilderment long after he left.

As he glided on the day's residual heat, he found it hard to focus on hunger. He should not be bonding with the human. She would die in a matter of decades, when he would live on for millennia. He would remain young while she withered away like a blade of grass in a drought.

It was not a pleasant thought.

At last he settled on snatching a were-beast (a tough-tasting, half-transformed wildcat) from its own night hunting and ate it without returning to his cave. Being near Chri- the girl would only weaken his resolve. She was different, and did not fear him after he reassured her, as many often did. She was curious- and perhaps that was one of his greatest flaws.

Meanwhile, Christine hunted around for her clothing and sighed when it was nowhere to be found. Perhaps the dragon had seen fit to incinerate it. At any rate, she was not about to skip about stark naked. She would need to procure some suitable material and tools, and very soon, at that. Her mind drifted back to his cold comment on her short lifespan.

Was she doomed to a lonely life of servitude to someone who did not want her, or could she find the chink in his armor and become his friend? What a novel idea, to befriend a different, thinking species…