Chapter 13: Epilogue

Meg slowed to a trot, then a stop in front of the city. It had been a long while since they'd been there, almost a year. She sniffed the wet, humid air. In this weather, scents were amplified, and she could smell many thousands of humans, their waste, their animals, each with their unique signature. Perched on her back in a moulded leather saddle was Raoul, wrapped in a thick wool cloak and cowl and a long hunting knife. His face had gained a few lines over the years, browned a bit under the elements, but his light hair and physique remained more or less the same.

Seventy years prior, he had left this town as a boy. Now he returned, a sturdy man with the title of Magister. The wind blustered about his ears as he observed the great stone wall around the place, which was now at least four times as large. The buildings beyond it were wood and granite, interlocking blocks eliminating the need for mortar. The noise of people moving about their business, of wagon wheels and braying livestock, was unfamiliar after a year in the East.

"Is your mother there?" His partner was tired from the long run, even in her prime, for they had journeyed for two days nonstop to reach their destination.

She is there with him. He weakens fast.

"Then let us go." With a burst of strength, Meg bounded down from the outcropping that had once been a cave and carried him to the city gates, of iron and timber. They opened with great creaking when the watchman saw them. They did not stop their run until they reached the small castle that stood proud against the clouds. Normally he would have paused to greet the people, give sweets to the children and gold to the adults, but not tonight. Torches flickered as they sped through the stone-paved streets.

The horses in the stable shuffled uncomfortably when Meg neared, but did not make a sound. Raoul ran up, and up, and up into the stone tower where torches were replaced by candles in their sconces, clutching his medicine bag. He burst into the room, hands shaking as they had not for decades.

Giry was beside the bed, as was Lady Ciara and her son and daughters, all middle-aged and graying. She had become thin and frail, but she was a steady old woman, articulate and well-loved. Her eldest son was set to inherit the castle and its grounds, since Raoul's extended lifespan meant he could never be a leading figure. He had known Richard, Alayna, and Kristianne since they were children, and had grown fond of them from his frequent visits. The grandchildren, beautiful young men and women, stood about in their black attire. Some had inherited Ciara's albinism, her red eyes. Others had been given Philippe's light blue and his dirty blond hair. A baby fussed in the background as Raoul shouldered his way to his old, old brother.

A lump formed in his throat. He had been in the Far East for most of the year, preventing wars between the kingdoms, but he wished he had been here in the town.

"Raoul." Lord Philippe's voice was thin, but no less affectionate. "You came."

He knelt and clasped the bony, spotted hand with its rough skin. "Of course. Of course I did, how could I not?" His throat was clogged with tears.

"It is good to see you, Raoul," Ciara said softly. Her voice had become rich and strong once she'd found it all those years ago. With her white hair pulled back from her white face and striking red eyes, she was the picture of elegant mourning. From his place on the pillows, Philippe de Chagny chuckled- it was more of a wheeze.

"And here we are, all of us. I never thought I would live to see you all together again." The sentence ended in a dry cough. He had lived almost twice as long as most, thanks to Raoul's knowledge of the medical practice, but now he knew it was his time to go, and no magicked herb could stop him. He turned his head and looked at his brother. "When will you grow up, be old like me?"

"Not for a long time," he choked out. Indeed, because he was a Magister, he would outlive Philippe's grandchildren and their grandchildren after them, and who knew how long it would take for him to become senile and pass on the mantle?

"Ciara, my love…" She was by his head in a moment, kissing his hand. "I will wait for you. Be happy," he sighed. "That is all I want for you."

"I know."

"Richard," the old man said, drawing strength from what he wished to say. His son, tall but aging, stepped forward. His wife, a stately and humble woman, and their daughter with raven hair, followed. "You are the head of this family now. No matter the cost, you must keep them together, harmoniously."

"I will, father," the man said gravely. Alayna and her progeny, all fair-haired and plain, were addressed next. Her husband, a knight, had recently died in battle, painting white at her temples. Their sons were strapping young men, the elder of whom had an infant daughter.

"Dear Alayna, try not to be so stern. You must find it strange to rule the house in Leon's stead. Do not let my death break you." She sniffled and nodded, quiet as ever.

Kristianne, had inherited not only her mother's looks, but her blindness, and had married a Dark, one of the few who sympathized with humankind and was willing to give up the enmity the two races had long nurtured. This kept her from the family's prestige and wealth, but she was happy. Even now, Philippe was protective of her. Her husband's name was Vilne, and he was as black all over as she was white. They were an outcast family, for their offspring were shape shifters with their three-quarter Dark blood. Philippe eyed Vilne (black hair, black clothing, skin as dark as a moonless night) skeptically. It had taken him years to accept that Kristianne loved a Dark and he loved her in return. Their love was the reason Vilne could stand to be in the light.

"You-" he coughed. Ciara held a small bowl of broth to his mouth and he sipped. "You both have the greatest burden of all, and I am sorry to have opposed you as long as I did. Kristy, Vilne, you must change people's minds about you. I want you to be accepted, not pariahs." Kristianne wept openly. "Your children must be loved, not feared." Said children had been allowed into the room after lengthy arguments with the servants, and now had taken the shape of their parents' shadows.

"Thank you, father." Philippe laid himself back.

"I have lived so long, and yet you have not changed a whit," he said slowly, turning back to Raoul. The man wiped his face on his rough sleeve, swallowing back sobs. "You mustn't let this keep you from loving, brother."

"I have taken the oath, you know that." As a Magister, he had sworn off romantic love and any possibility of children. Philippe's voice faded to little more than a whisper.

"Love your friends, Raoul. Love those around you." He paused to breathe, throat rattling. "Is Meg listening?" The Magister nodded tearfully. Meg, with her keen senses, would hear every word.

Philippe addressed the dragon from a distance. "I know you both have been in love for a long, long time, as much as anyone from different kinds can be. Take care of him for me."

Meg's voice was familiar to all by now. I will. I swear it. Philippe nodded at Raoul, eyes hooded with exhaustion.

"You can love her, yes…" He trailed off. Ciara bent to kiss him sweetly, and he kissed back as ardently as he had when he was young.

"I love you- I love you-" she was saying, begging, over and over as his eyes closed.

"I love you too," he said back quietly. Then he was gone. Only the sound of the flickering candles indicated that there was one less soul in the room.

…

By the time the funeral was held at dawn the next morning, Raoul had cried so many tears he was sure he had none left. Through the night, Meg had been near, comforting him like a child, warming his chosen space in the straw piles of the stable. They had woken while it was dark so that he could make himself presentable for the ceremony in his best Magister's robes.

It is true, what he said, Raoul thought to himself. It took us a year to compensate all the damage I did, but it took her a day to choose to leave her pack and be my aide. She had been there constantly, through the lean times, through the harshest climes, through wars and strife. He slipped the heavy robe on. Its gold threads and tiny rubies were cool against his skin.

As he combed his hair, which had grown significantly longer, Meg snuffled, blowing it out of place. She was trying her best to cheer him. He looked back when he knew she was in the darkness and smiled sadly. "Thank you."

Erik and Christine are coming. Richard wants them to light the pyre.

"Right," he choked out. "Who better to light the fire than the dragons he worked so hard to know?" Then he lit a solitary lantern. The horses were standing in their stalls, asleep in the silence of the false dawn.

Philippe, true to his compassionate form, had used the incidents to establish relations with the local dragons, as well as the council leader and the heads of hives, packs, tribes, and other groups across the country. His little town had exploded into a thriving metropolis within twenty years, and his people lived well.

Erik and Christine, and one Persian dragon Nadir had been particularly close to the de Chagny house since then, assisting in the building of the city as they broke their cave into bricks and paving stones for the workers to use. In fact, the de Chagny family now lived in a castle made of that same stone.

After they returned from their trip to the East, they had settled into the foot of a faraway mountain, where prey was plentiful and they could raise hatchlings in peace. They are not hatchlings now, he reminded himself. The twins, male and female, were two great grey beasts now, each scale lined jewel-like with black or white. They were still small compared to their parents, each gangly and awkward in their adolescent bodies, but in another few decades they would fly off to seek mates of their own.

This thought gave Raoul some measure of comfort. "Life goes on." He tied his hair back in a small braid and shaved the shadowy stubble from his face with the sharpened edge of one of Meg's shed scales.

It does indeed, Meg said, as Raoul turned his attention to saddling her. It was a well-made, comfortable piece of leather and wood, sewn together with sinew and clamped with brass. On this day Meg also had mourning attire: a black blanket studded with silver and silk to throw on under the saddle. He spread it out over her back and fastened it to the saddle's straps. When he tied the seat in place, he always smoothed a hand over her, to make certain no scale was ever out of place and the contraption sat comfortably.

She lifted herself so he could pass the straps around her chest and under her belly. This was a practiced maneuver that had taken a while to master, but they had perfected it together. Some of her pack thought she was subordinating herself like a pet, but the truth was that their feelings for the other tied them like the leather straps, secure and tight. When everything was buckled, he wiggled the seat to ensure it fit properly, even though she had worn the blanket many times.

"Too tight?" He wanted her to be comfortable, and it showed.

No. Just right. But check your stirrups. I do not want you to fall.

"I will not fall," he said. She knew. She had saved him from falling over and over, except she had fallen herself and then he fell too. He checked the stirrups anyway and climbed on, grasping the saddle horn for support. Today, he did not need to grasp the straps in front of him. They would walk slow.

The ceremony was held on the beach. A small ship stained rosy with resin was waiting, holding the body. Crowds had gathered to watch the sendoff and place their gifts on the boat as provisions in the afterlife. Each member of the family placed their memento around the covered body- flowers, food, favored toys, articles of clothing. Most of his personal belongings had been given away in the weeks leading up to his death, as he willed.

The grandchildren were first, then their parents, then it was Raoul's turn. As a Magister, he owned very little but the clothes he wore and his tools. He had stopped by the old herbalist shop for chrysanthemums, a special red and gold variant. They were a mourning flower, but the bright red and gold were reminiscent of the eastern lands, where the flower symbolized luck and wealth. Philippe had told them all to be happy. He would do his best.

As he descended from the ship he lent Lady Ciara his arm so she could find her way up. As the individual who had been closest to him in life, it was her duty to raise the sail and set the ship on its way into the rising sun. She carefully placed an old coat over the body, a reminder of when he had saved her life. Then she felt her way to the mast and pulled the single sail into place. Raoul could see her wrinkled face was still damp and her eyes watery with crying.

Then he led her down again and removed the stepladder.

At the back of the crowd were five dragons: black, white, two shimmering grey, one orange and green. The people parted like water as they strode forward and lit the braziers with gold and blue flames. Raoul, Richard, Alayna's sons, Vilne the Dark, and the two shape shifters waded into the water to push the ship off the sand. It was a hard job, with the wind changing directions. Nadir had prepared for this, so with his great lungs and oriental magic, he blew a flower-scented wind that carried the boat smoothly away.

Raoul and many others who had gathered took their bows, dipped arrows into the fire, and shot them into the ship. The flames sailed high above like a blue-gold meteor shower and set the varnished vessel alight. Before long, the ship was just another star on the horizon.

Goodbye, brother.

…

Several months after Philippe's death, Erik watched Meg and her human companion hunting in the woods below. It was late in the afternoon, and they had not caught anything yet for the heat of the day. Magister de Chagny was armed only with his hunting knife, and the little wolf dragon was at a disadvantage without a pack to trap their prey. He did not mind this in the least, however, not when Christine was beside him narrating their progress and his offspring were brawling in the sky. With four able bodies to catch and prey, there was always enough food to go around. He fancied he had even grown a bit fatter over the years.

Oh. That looks as if it hurt a great deal. The undergrowth shushed as if a strong gale had pulled at it. He opened one golden eye. Christine had continued to grow until she was just under his size. It was a side effect of having done most of her growing as a human. Raoul has been thrown by the buck.

He deserves it.

Erik! she chided, but said nothing more as the hunt drew her attention.

Meg panted as she chased the frightened young buck through the trees. She could have leapt upon it immediately, Raoul was waiting for his part in the kill. Unlike most dragons, Meg's kind always shared prey, and always shared the duty of hunting. She would trap the animal, drive it towards him until he could drive his knife into its throat. The rendezvous point was nearing, she slowed as Raoul's scent became more intense.

He leapt out from his intersecting course and caught the deer by its horns. Immediately, before it could react and throw him off again, he wrestled it to the ground with a quick twist and stabbed it through the eye. It moved no more. His breathing was labored, and his skin damp with sweat. For a frail human with little strength and no natural weapons, he had become a rather good hunter.

Good kill.

"Do you truly think so?" Meg sniffed the warm carcass and lapped up some of the blood that had begun to flow out.

Yes.

Take the compliment, Magister. If a wolf dragon thinks you hunt well, you hunt well! They looked up to see Nadir hovering over them. Shall I carry this back for you?

"Be my guest," said Raoul, who was winded even though Meg had done most of the running. Keeping pace with deer was no easy thing. Meg watched Nadir rise away towards the cleft in the mountain.

Very polite, is he not?

"Yes, very." He was slightly irritated, however. They could have carried it up themselves, and then he would have had more time with Meg. The dragon bent down so he could climb into his customary perch and started a jog up the craggy stones. When they arrived, he knelt and unsheathed his knife again for a bit of dirty work. Nadir was somewhat bewildered.

Do you not roast your meat, human? He chuckled and sliced into the buck's belly, letting the gristle and entrails spill out of the abdominal cavity.

"You forget, I am not an ordinary human." Erik rumbled in agreement.

You are a long-lived, annoying human.

Ignoring this comment, he rolled up his sleeves, and with a wet squelching, groped about in the body for his prize. He had always shared a kill with Meg this way, and cooked what he needed afterward. From the warm body came a blackish, gelatinous liver. He took a bite, letting the fluid run down his chin. It tasted like living again.

With the courtesy of first bite out of the way, Meg tore into the carcass as well. Christine and Erik joined them, splitting the haunches between them for a snack.

After the meal was over, Raoul picked his teeth with a sliver of bone. He had cooked what meat he needed (less than a mouthful compared to Meg's portion), and left a few generous slices out to dry in the sun for later. He was leaning against his partner's side when an unprompted piece of advice disturbed his after-meal sleepiness.

You should tell her you love her. It was Nadir; Erik and Christine had gone flying (a constant pastime of theirs), and Meg was asleep.

"I have thought that for a long time. It would change nothing. We work together, we are friends, partners. We cannot be more." The Persian sighed as he continued to explain. "I know: she loves me as well. We have never needed to say so." The aftertaste of liver on his tongue was clinging and metallic.

There will come a day when you regret saying nothing. Meg's ear flicked, shooing away a fly. Not only were her senses keen, she was energetic and a deep sleeper. Her front paws twitched as she chased her dreams. You said yourself that telling her would change nothing. What is the worst that can happen?

"She does not feel the same way; how could she? She is a dragon," he reasoned with a dry laugh. Then he flicked his bone toothpick away and looked out towards the perfect, sunny day.

How do you love her?

"Let me count the ways," he said with a forlorn sigh and held up one finger. "I love her in the only way I know is true: with my heart."

Erik loved Christine when she was a human.

"But Christine is truly dragon. I am truly human." He clenched his fist and watched the dull sheen of his nails, the way the muscles of his arm flexed under thin, tanned skin. That skin was laced with thin scars, evidence of the mishaps they'd had together in the past.

If you ignore a wound, it will only fester, said Nadir with his characteristic proverbial wisdom. And should she feel the same, your bond will only grow deeper.

Raoul leaned back against Meg's scaly hide, feeling her breathe slow and deep, and her heartbeat's slow thrum.

You will not break your Magisterial vow if you confess. You cannot sire a dragon's children. The man smiled.

"You are right, of course." His eyes were bright. "When we must leave, then. Not yet." He wanted just a little more time in this peaceful place.

Ah. And where will you go?

"We are to head south, to the great jungles. There's a monastery of others like me who I must meet. Giry is a credible teacher, but I must prove my vows are legitimate, now that the eastern wars are over." Nadir seemed to smirk with his flowing whiskers.

You were the reserve troops. He coiled himself tighter and rested his aged head on the stack. I still say you should tell her before times change and you cannot.

"In a bit," he replied. "When the time is right, when we are alone." Then he closed his eyes to sleep away the daylight by Meg's side.

Stubborn idiot, Nadir sniffed to himself. They never admit anything until I suggest it.

…

Do you think they will last? Christine queried as she watched Raoul and Meg leave. It has been so long, and they have had more than enough time to become stagnant and cold.

They will last. If anyone is persistent, it is that boy, Erik answered.

That man, you mean, she hummed as he gently groomed her neck. Their years together were short in dragon terms, but she felt she had spent lifetimes with him. He has grown strong.

Just as you have grown strong. You are an amazement, Christine, merely for allowing me near. His wings and his leg were over her; he was practically on top of her as he picked at her scales. He need not have, for she was constantly clean, but grooming was an activity he had grown comfortable with.

That tickles, she protested, shivering.

It was meant to, he shot back. This is retaliation for your teasing earlier.

Is it? I was under the impression that you enjoyed every moment, she said in a rather provocative tone.

Flirt.

Grouch. She rolled over, and they would have proceeded with their activities had the twins not interrupted. Their son, who they had named Alexander after the great city, was accented with his father's obsidian color. Their daughter Valda was patterned with her mother's pearly white. Both were intelligent, competitive, and fierily loving. The parents rapidly resumed their former (decent) positions.

Alexander snorted. You need not hide what you do. We are not hatchlings.

We would not have interrupted but for Alexander's news, added Valda. She licked her claws delicately, cleaning off the remnants of a rabbit she'd had earlier.

You have begun to court. Erik's gut clenched. He had known that his son was growing quickly, and that in comparison he had mated late in life, but that did not tame the shock.

How did you know?

Your father knows everything, Christine said. She, too, would miss her son. Does she reciprocate your advance? She watched her son's metallic eyes light up.

She does. She is kind, and a powerful warrior even at her age.

You must introduce me sometime, she sounds wonderful, the proud mother said. Erik just gave a great harrumph.

Well enough, he conceded. At least we will have Valda for a while longer. He nuzzled his daughter affectionately. I still hold that it is yet early, Alexander. You have not yet reached your prime.

I was not 'too early,' Erik, Christine reminded him.

This is different, he argued back. This is our son.

We knew this day would come.

It has come too soon. He eyed the young male he had raised. Go, then. Be careful she does not break you. He needed no encouragement as he flung himself at the sky, off to woo his prospective mate.

I will chaperone, Valda volunteered, and launched herself into the air after her brother. Erik sighed heavily. There were millennia still to come and many more hatchlings to sire with Christine by his side. He only hoped their love stories would end as well as his had. He would be satisfied. Beyond that, he would be happy, and she would be happy because he would make it so until the end of his days.