Chapter 3: A Mystery

Ciara fought the urge to squirm under Raoul's prodding. Not only did the touches unnerve her, as she was unused to them, but they hurt. The beginnings of her bruises were on her fingertips, but their true extent had not been revealed until she had been forced to remove the extra layer of clothes by a female healer.

Her arms, legs, and body were covered with the dark purple marks, which were made all the more apparent by her natural pallor. There she stood, cold to the touch, skin marred and dyed by broken blood vessels, and completely, horribly exposed. The healer woman clucked at her.

"Do your man beat ye, dearie?" she asked, rough clothes fluttering about her creaky ankles. Ciara figured she was wearing more than the standard blue healer's apparel- maybe an extra coat against the evening cold. She shook her head vehemently. How could her man beat her when she did not have a man at all?

"Well, are ye usually so marked?" She was an older woman, obviously, to use the more archaic, proper way of speaking. She obviously knew about her inability to speak, and used only the simple, one-word answer sort of questions. I wish… I wish I had no reason to hide so much. I wish I could be like them.

"Ach, there are no cases for to compare with. Thou art the only one, and I've naught to help ye…" Ciara crossed her arms over her chest, hoping the examination would be done with now. Her hope was fulfilled; the healer started to pack her bags. "Right then, dearie…best get ye clothes on and remember to keep warm always."

She hurried to get her clothes back on. Her father would be most upset at her for nearly giving away the family secrets, but he was the only one she had left to take care of her. Being what she was a hard thing to maintain, and she could not continue in her condition without help.

She loved her life, even if it was lonely. It was wonderful to be warm, and to be warm with the company of others' small kindnesses. It made her warm when Philippe was watching her with something akin to fondness, and when he asked favors of her and slipped extra coins into her hand when she worked harder than the other servants.

These small kindnesses made her life worth living and fighting for.

The door closed, and she put on the last of her uniform.

A knock stayed her hand from again picking up her bag to leave. A rather clean, lightly perfumed scent reached her through the door. Philippe. It was definitely not Raoul, for he had spent all day in a strong-smelling healer's shop, where there were smelly herbs and bitterness all around.

Her cold hand grasped the door handle and she let him enter, a little ashamed. Doubtless he knew about her bruises, for it was an employer's duty to know everything about the physical condition of an employee that might hinder his or her work. Her white face burned, and she bowed her head, as was customary, to show submission and acceptance. It was a gesture that said 'you are above me, and you will decide what I do.'

Philippe frowned. It was past her working hours, and she did not have to behave as such now. "Do not hang your head now, Ciara. When you are not in my house, you are not my servant. You are my equal." It was true for they were not in his house- they were in the healer woman's back room.

Ciara shook her head, but he'd guessed why she refused to face him. "Money does not mean superiority. Also, should you believe that I am here to dismiss you from my service, you have assumed wrongly." This, at last, lifted her chin so that it appeared as if she were indeed looking at him. "I simply wished a conversation with you."

…

Raoul had trudged back to Christine's shop somewhat disappointed with the payoff of his first patient. Philippe could not pay him, and the servant girl had little money to spare, so she had paid him a silver coin and a few coppers for his trouble and the ointment he had given her. Christine would have treated her for nothing, he thought, privately berating himself.

He looked about him at the fading light and shivered. There had been too many simply whisked away by Darks for it to be safe at twilight anymore. He looked about at the empty streets and sighed. He had heard that the big, lavish cities of the south had their streets lit up at night, with lanterns on tall posts, so that there were hardly any shadows for Darks to lie in wait.

Perhaps he would move to a city one day, to a major trading city, so that he could experience the rest of the world, and not only his cold, small bit of land. Perhaps…when he let go of Christine, and bade her farewell forever.

He rubbed his arms. The healer's tunic was not as warm as he had imagined it to be, and now he regretted not bringing his cloak.

As he rounded the corner, looking across the road at the glassblower's workshop, he saw a middle-aged man walking with the servant Ciara. They did not hurry away from the encroaching shadows, nor did they have urgency in their stroll. The man's shadow, dim as it was, seemed to flicker and waver with a life of its own. Raoul squinted and blinked. Surely that shadow did not contain a Dark…if it did, the man should have been consumed already.

He at last caught a glimpse of his profile and recognized him. It was the man who had led Christine five miles out to the Protector's cave.

He called out to them. "Ho, neighbors!" he cried, waving. "Why do you not hurry? It is close to the Darks' feeding time!" Ciara whirled about for a second, her face frightened. The nameless man scowled at him and began to pull the girl along faster. She responded by almost running along with him, never looking back. Was she frightened of him? Raoul followed, leather shoes tapping the wide paving stones. "Wait! Where are you going?"

They seemed to be getting father away as they ran through the streets. He was sprinting after them, but they went faster still. Every step took them further and further, as if they were flying- but that was impossible, for their feet still stamped upon the ground. "Stop!" he shouted, spotting them duck into a dark back alley. It is close to nighttime now, should they not be avoiding the shadows?

He reached the alley and ran forth, expecting to catch the people when the venue reached its end.

He stopped after a few seconds, heart pounding in his ears. He looked about at the three dim walls, two of which were awash in the last rays of the sun. Desperately, he pressed his hands along the bricks. They must be here somewhere! People do not suddenly vanish…or am I insane? Am I dreaming?

The shaded wall was cold under his fingertips, and as unforgiving and stalwart as ever. He examined the other walls, which were warm from the sun. There was no trace of a quick climb, and no ladder with which the runners might have escaped.

A bubble of panic crept into Raoul's throat, and he all but ran back to the shaded wall and searched it again. A scrap of cloth pulled away from where it had snagged and fell into his hand, and breath flooded his lungs in a sigh of relief. I am not mad!

It was a bit of handmade, finely thrown lace from the hem of Ciara's otherwise plain servant outfit, something she had added on to make her uniform more personal.

He tucked the bit of cloth into his pocket and looked about him. It was almost dark now, so he jogged back to the shop and entered quickly, shivering. Even a lifetime of bearing the evening cold could not ward off the chills of Darks. He was fortunate to be out so late and still left unharmed.

His feet returned him to the shop, and he immediately lit the one lantern the place held with a knife and flint. I shall have to tell Philippe that there is something very wrong with his servant. He likely will not listen, for he gazes upon her with a special fondness- still, it is my duty.

He replaced the flint in its drawer and looked about the shop, sighing. The place was still so unfamiliar to him, just as Christine had been. The back room held her bed and personal belongings, but he was not ready to take up residence there. It seemed wrong, disturbing her things when she was dead, and therefore to be respected.

The journals he had left on the small counter caught his eye again. Gustave Daae had not been born in the village. This he knew well, for the man had oft been whispered of. A memory from when he was small flickered in the back of his mind.

"He is not from here," Raoul's nurse had said. "And his daughter- she was obviously born here, but from whom?" She had paused in her muttering and given him such a look that he still shuddered at the memory. "Raoul, dearest, she is not natural. Do you know why the midwife cannot tell who she was born from?" Raoul, knowing much for his age simply because his nurse told him many things, shook his head. There were many midwives in the village, but which of them had delivered Christine?

"Because," the old woman continued, "she died but a few hours after the birth, from cholera, rash…and madness."

…

Christine woke to a scraping sound and intense heat. Her mouth was dry and her skin ached from spending the night on hard rock. How had she gotten there? Oh, yes…

The dragon had landed, barely looked at her, and had hummed; and she, suddenly sleepy, was asleep before she hit the ground.

She opened her eyes and sat up, wincing as her weight pressed on the bruises the Darks had left, which were beginning to fade from purple to red. A different weight hung off her shoulders now, and rubbed against her damp skin: a smooth, tanned hide covered her from the neck down, though it was wider than any hide she'd ever seen. The animal had to have been at least twice the size of a cow.

Under the skin, she could feel that her one article of clothing was still missing, so she wrapped it about her as best she could and stood, looking for the source of the sound.

At first, she believed her eyes to be playing tricks on her. A furrow had been gouged out of the stone floor, and from the way steam hissed up and thickened the air it had been melted and then dug out. The dragon (whatever his name might be) was still scraping at the trench, which ended in what could be a pool, nearly her own height deep.

Of course, it did not have water in it yet, since the water was still trapped behind layers of stone. Why is he doing this? Surely he is not obliged to do such a work for me. Then she realized- she had troubled him, and all because she had waned water. This was his way of keeping her distant. This has to stop- I should care for myself, and he should not have to coddle me.

She picked up a fist-sized rock and stepped forward, peering into the trench. It was rough, just as she had anticipated. Maybe it was stubborn, stupid, and childish of her to interfere with the dragon's constructive efforts, but she wanted to help. It was part of her half-finished scheme to become a friend, and she was not quite sure it would work…

Her feet slapped against the warm surface and she knelt, situating herself so that the hide was under her knees as well, and began to smash at the ridges in the rock, to smooth them over.

Erik had heard the human get up and move about beneath the racket of his methodical digging, but he did not stop. Perhaps she was curious again, as he was beginning to see her tendency was.

Then he heard the crack of stone on stone, and a crunch as bits and pieces were pulverized. His claws stopped, and he turned. What silliness is she up to now?

Christine pretended not to notice as he approached, even though a huge reptile is quite hard to ignore. His breath brushed over her face as he peered at her work. A patch of the rock was now pale and sandy, and relatively smooth. She ran her index over the new surface, and blew away the dust.

She tensed visibly as he sat and made himself comfortable (for he intended to watch her for a while yet), and sniffled. Then she did something he had never seen a human do before: she sneezed.

Erik flinched back, startled. Was this something that humans normally did? If so, it was one very strange practice… What are you doing, little one?

Christine, satisfied at having roused his curiosity, looked up, unafraid, and answered, "I am helping you." Then she went back to hitting rocks against rocks.

Erik sniffed at her. She was beginning to smell less of cold and dark bruises and more of something warm and clean. There was something in the way she moved as well. She moved too quickly, with too much strength for any other human. You do know, of course, that I could finish smoothing over the channel within minutes.

"The purpose of helping is to ensure that that the other does not take the entire endeavor upon himself," she said rather sagely, nodding to herself. He stood up again and began to walk back to his place to finish tearing down the last barrier between the little pool and the icy water.

He had told himself that he had taken on this project simply because he disliked being interrupted during his baths, but he knew that was not the reason. She had looked so pitiful, swimming towards him in a daze. Now she was trying to help him, despite his rough treatment of her. Are all humans quite as odd as you? he quipped, slowly lowering his guard.

"No, not all."

So you are odd among humans as well.

"I suppose when you say that, you are not telling falsely."

He chuckled. I wonder how many dragons are as witty as you, human. He turned back to his chore, wondering at her scent. He had contained it within an organ he shared with snakes, to examine it further.

She smelled of the smoke of incense, and many herbs. She had probably been an herbalist before she had come to him. Underneath that, there was the scent of delicate skin and the meat she had eaten the day before and that morning (when he had brought in a hare for her, finding that he hungered not). There was something extremely familiar about the smell that hung about her. Had he met her before? Surely not…

Just as the water began to flow past him from the depths of the cave into the pool, he realized what he had detected about her.

She smelled like a young dragon, beneath all her humanness.

A yelp interrupted his revelations, and he looked back at the girl in a new light. What strange magic worked within her tiny frame?

…

Christine had never had the luxury of a hot bath before, but now she knew the true discomfort of an icy cold soak in a stone bath. All her complaints about her small wooden washtub at home now disappeared as she did her best to keep warm in the freezing groundwater. It did not flood, thankfully, as she had blocked the canal with a pile of pebbles as soon as it was suitably filled, but that was small comfort compared to her aching joints and numb skin.

She had insisted on privacy whilst washing herself, and to her surprise, the dragon had complied.

She still didn't know his name, and he had only called her by hers once. That was rather unfair in her mind. Still, it was better for her to live out her days this way than to live in misery.

He had disappeared into the depths of his cave again and a faint echo could be heard of his singing. It was not enough to make her lose control of her mind at that distance, but it still sounded beautiful. I wonder if dragons showcase their arts as humans do. Perhaps not, for dragons' lives are so long, and they seem to prefer seclusion. She looked down into the darkness and sighed. At least, this one does.

She had still not been asked to clean his scales, but that was most probably because he had not had a very messy catch yet. Maybe he would ask within a few days, as he seemed to return from some of his cave ventures dusty and even muddy.

Her hands scrubbed at every inch of skin she could reach, for in the water, dead skin became itchy and looked positively disgusting, at least to her. In some places, callouses seemed so thick that she could not pull them all away, despite her best efforts. Working with stone, even for just a few days, had hardened her normally soft hands and knees, and dust clung to her skin from spending nights on the floor.

She would be living a very lean life from now on, only necessities and nothing more. After all, her captor (it was hard to think of him as such after having had two conversations with him) was not obliged to care for her beyond her most basic needs.

Her fingernail caught on what felt like a scab on her back, just at the base of her neck, and it softened in the slightly acidic, mineral-holding water. She felt at it, for a moment, realizing there would be no mirror for her to check her looks, and no comb to control her curls. In a matter of weeks, she would look like a savage from a distant place she had only heard of.

Would she feel somewhat neater if she cropped her hair short, like a boy?

Itching under her skin, she rubbed at the scab until it came off and gave way to a smooth, soft surface. She smiled to herself, remembering what her father had said to her years before. "That is the beauty of nature," he'd said, ruffling her curls as she sat next to him in his crafts' shop. "When you heal properly, you become stronger and more beautiful than before."

And she had believed him, even more deeply than on the physical level. His words were true of life as well, and spiritual, mental healing, even heart healing. She had no true grasp a heart's healing, for she had never loved anyone other than her father. Another startling realization came to her as she lifted herself out of the water and onto the huge hide from the unknown creature.

She would never have a husband now, not when she was living with a giant reptile that would probably use her and discard her body when she died of age or illness. Was it for the best, however? She would never have suited any of the young men back in her village. They were too shallow, too dramatic, and too immature in her eyes. Not one of them had ever caught said eyes and maintained their attention for more than a few minutes.

Hearing the soft rustle of scales over stone, she wrapped herself in the skin and waited. Her stomach was still comfortably full from the hare he had brought, and it made her feel more than a little guilty at the thought that she had eaten most of the meat and left the fat, bones, and organs for her captor…or caretaker.

The dragon returned to his usual place on a particularly smooth bit of the stone floor and laid his long, wiry body on the ground, staring into nothing as if meditating. He is dusty again, and does not seem interested in cleaning. That is what he kept me for, then.

She reached again for her stone knife and sawed away at a piece of the hide, looking back every half minute at the creature her village had so ignorantly named 'Protector.' At last, a rag-sized section was cut loose, and it was what she needed, though she was sorry to see the end of the leather's symmetrical shape.

Erik heard Christine approach. Humans were so clumsy as they moved, even this one, who smelled of dragon and seemed stronger on the inside than most. He could hear the difference between the balls of her feet and her heels as they shuffled over half-rough rock. I can hear you, little one.

The footsteps stopped, and he swiveled one eye towards her. If you are going to wipe the dust from my scaled hide, you need not hesitate, he said in a slightly condescending tone. He was surprised to see that she had left the giant goatskin behind her, especially since the night was rapidly cooling.

"I will clean you when you tell me your name." The golden eye blinked lazily at her, staying closed for nearly a whole second before it opened to gaze upon her again.

I am called Black. Her boldness surprised him again, and he almost laughed at her cleverness.

"You are a very bad liar, dragon. You blinked." He was amused, but hid it and instead used the human expression of an eye-roll, eliciting a quiet giggle from the girl.

I told you one of my names. In practice, I did not lie. I simply avoided telling you my personal name. A pout, of all things, appeared on her face as he said this.

"Very well then. I shall not clean you, and you will have to live with more and more layers of dust until- until grass grows on your back!" He took in her stubborn stance and huffed noisily, tongues of flame flicking from between his teeth. Surprisingly, she did not flinch.

You are not sharing body heat with me until I am cleaned. Her outrage at this statement was quite amusing, as her cheeks turned a darker shade of pink that was just visible in the fading light.

"But you must tell me your name! Would you like to be called 'Protector' for the remainder of my years?" she exclaimed, almost reaching out in her frustration. "And the remainder of my years will be very short, should you leave me to freeze to death!"

This time, Erik could not restrain his laughter. It resonated throughout the space, and it felt as if the mountains thrummed with energy. He lifted his head and let his eyes blink several times.

Christine found the sound to be powerful, and just like every other sound he had made so far, very beautiful. It was not a woven spell, as his singing seemed to be, but a true expression of mirth. His guard was penetrable, at last! Then he took several long breaths to calm himself. Do you wish to freeze for one night, or would you perform this one thing and stay warm at my side?

Erik wished he had not said those last three words, but they had slipped from him against his will. He had not meant to say something that might be interpreted as intimate by a human- especially a human! But she was not fully human, was she? She did smell like a young, healthy female under all the remnants of her human life…but that was no excuse. Was he a deviant, in a strange, perverse way? The very idea caused his insides to churn.

She was speaking again, with more determination than before: "Do you wish for me to freeze to death and never have anyone to clean you again?" He sighed to himself.

I suppose I must reward your efforts. My name is Erik. Christine smiled a brilliant, jubilant smile, which was quickly replaced with humored indignation. What sign or wonder are you waiting on? Clean me!