Chapter Text
The heat in this place is insufferable. A sweltering humidity that rises from deep below the mountain. It’s lovely at night, as you can feel the warmth radiate into your thin bedroll that lies upon the dark slate floor. However, now is when you curse your circumstances.
They had called this place ‘sacred’. They referred to the cavernous home of the land’s guardian as a temple. It did not look like a temple, but a jagged hollow carved by a beast to nest in.
A tribute is what they called you. Dressed in a simple shift with bangles of silver on your wrists and ankles you, along with three others, were dragged up the mountainside to be this month's rent to the dragon within.
You were not eaten, beaten, or killed– which was a relief. However, you were put to work. The pair of emissaries clad in black robes and bird-like masks had sent two of the others back, claiming they did not meet the high standards of their master.
Which left you and another young woman, thrown in the great hall of this so called ‘temple’ and told to start organizing the treasures within. The towers of gold, jewels, and finery reached from the floor to the ceiling in some places– a task you could never hope to finish in your mortal lifetime.
“Look!” Tara, the other tribute, said softly to get your attention. She lifted from the pile she was working from a string of gold with large opal stones. Holding it up to her neck she showed it off to you, “It suits me, no? I always thought I’d look lovely in gold.”
You snicker softly and shake your head, “Your neck would get sore wearing something so heavy, but yes, it suits you.”
The sorting and cleaning felt pointless as you were just moving the hoard of treasure around to make slightly more organized piles, but at least it was something to do. And after the first few days of oohing and ahhing over the extravagance that was thrown aside here, you became accustomed to it.
There was, however, a looming dread that weighed on you. It had been a week since you arrived, and you’d seen neither scale nor horn of the so-called dragon. Was this busy work all simply to burn time until it returned? Were you and Tara the only two of the offerings that would suit the fiend’s taste?
You didn’t dare speak your worry to Tara, as her smile was the one of the only spots of hope you had.
Hours pass; you and Tara are dismissed by the sterner one of the priests– twins you suspect, though you can’t prove it with their whole bodies covered. There’s something in the way they speak and the way they move around each other that gives them away.
You eat the same bland supper of porridge and dried venison and head to bed. The bedroll is comfortably warm as you lay atop it. Tara, for all her excitable chatter and endless energy, always falls asleep almost instantly.
You, however, take a moment in the darkness to reach beneath the wool blanket you’ve been using as a pillow to find your secret. A small thumbnail size gemstone that you absconded on one of the first days here. The color of it had caught your eye– the way it was cut refracted the light in a way that made you unable to look at anything else. Such a deep, visceral red that shimmered with hints of vermilion, cranberry, and rose.
The little lantern next to you was almost out, but you rolled to face it anyway. Holding the precious stone between your thumb and forefinger and rolling it in front of the light. The firelight danced in the gem’s facets, covering your face in beams of scarlet and crimson.
It was neither the largest nor the finest gem you had seen in the dragon’s hoard, but you couldn’t part with it. Tucking it away and bringing it out at night to admire it, and with a soft smile you wondered if the dragon did this too…
+=={:::::::::::::::::>
The ground beneath you trembled, and, at first, you thought it was your imagination. But then it happened a second time. The delicate stacks of gold coins you’d been counting and sorting– coins from countries you’d never even heard of surrounded you– fell to the ground and scattered.
Tara felt it too, as she rose her head and lowered her shoulders. She looked like a frightened mouse the way she began to lower her body closer to the floor.
Down the single walkway in the middle of the hall, you saw the twins scurry past. Heading towards the entrance of the cave, they mumble under their breath as they adjust their robes and masks. Clearly, the arrival of their dragon lord has caught them off guard.
Tara inches closer to you, seeking comfort from the approaching beast from your calmer energy.
The ground shivers again, stronger this time. It thuds more rhythmically with the beat of footsteps. A heavy scratching from claws as sharp as steel as they tear into the slate and granite floors.
Your skin grows clammy and your breathing quickens, but it is not fear you seem to be feeling. A building, buzzing anticipation that climbs up your body like a rising tide. You feel the inexplicable urge to rise to your feet and chase down the source of these tremors. Your empty, amnesiac memory supplies no reasoning for this, only that you’ll find something at the end of that quest.
Tara’s hand on your arm stops you before you even realize you were moving. Lowering back to your knees, you turn to her her pale expression and the way her shining eyes flick between your face and the cavern’s entrance– silently begging for something.
Your desire to comfort your new friend overwhelms that bizarre desire for what can only lead to an early death. Using your free hand, you squeeze her shoulder, “Just keep working. If we keep our heads down, I doubt it will even notice us…”
Tara looks only minutely soothed by that but nods. She returns to sorting the stack of emeralds by size and shape, but now her trembling fingers drop them more than once.
You take a deep breath and focus on your task, internally reassuring yourself that the dragon won’t even look your way. You’re nothing but another piece of gold on the pile– a gift from the village to keep the beast’s ire off of their very flammable houses.
+=={:::::::::::::::::>
Defending territory was a bothersome experience, but it could be enjoyable at times. Bloodshed and battle had its charms, and reaffirming the deep boundaries of what belonged to him was satisfying. However, what Qīngchè enjoyed most of all was coming home.
Landing high on the mountain under the cover of dense clouds felt like being welcomed back into security. It was a ritual now to take a deep, long inhale– breathing in the scent of the metallic gold and the faint hint of sulfur from the magma deep below. The familiar warmth bled up into his feet and he rolled his shoulders to rid his heavy wings of any moisture.
Qīngchè was eager to lounge upon his treasure and feel the shift of coins and precious stones beneath his body– luxuriating in the evidence of his power and never-ending hunger. The twins should have supper ready soon, which he confirmed with another breath to smell the aroma of roasted meat– pheasant and pork.
The hurried steps of his twins met Qīngchè’s ears, but he was too distracted by new aromas being carried in the air. They brought with them a cloak and pants, and readied to cover their master when he shifted to his more humanoid form.
Citrus? No, that wasn’t it. It was sweet yes, like the zest of a lemon that danced across his palette as Qīngchè inhaled again. The scent was almost shy, hiding behind others in the air as if it didn’t want to be found. But how could he ignore it now? Syrupy, light, and sinful. The fleshy decadence of a summer-ripe peach.
The twin’s faces, hidden behind their masks, contorted in confusion at Qīngchè’s delay. With a sudden shake of his head, the dragon shed his larger form to stand upon two feet and wear the skin of a man instead of obsidian hide.
Luke stood on his tiptoes to drape the cloak across Qīngchè’s shoulders, careful to avoid the sharp overgrowth of scales on his left shoulder, and tying it securely with an ornate silver broach. Meanwhile, Kieran secured a draping sarong around Qīngchè’s hips and tightened the supple leather belt with a polished silver clasp.
Qīngchè gave the young men a firm nod and a small, rumbling hum– a small sound that they’d come to understand as a sign of thanks.
“Someone else is here.” Qīngchè stated, strutting forward towards his hoard and away from the icy cold of winter outside.
The twins followed hot on his heels, keeping a perfect distance behind him to leave room for his heavy tail to sway. It was Kieran that spoke first, “The village across the river sent their winter tributes– two weeks late, and only two were worth keeping.”
“The other two smelled like sickness so we sent them away,” Luke adds, finishing his younger brother’s thought, “We have the other two sorting your treasures.”
The tributes were not Qīngchè’ idea, and honestly it’d been so long since it started he doesn’t remember where the tradition came from. Once in the winter and summer, some local villages thought it was smart to send him some human offerings. Like sending a nobleman a tax– pah! Qīngchè would have preferred the money.
But they were useful, keeping things clean and taking care of chores around the den to make it more livable. Qīngchè wouldn’t deny free help, and he sends them away before the next round of tributes with a bag of gold and orders to never return.
The scent of fruit grows as he enters the main hall. It mingles with the heady scent of gold and steel to create a dizzying concoction.
Qīngchè has no intention of stopping to interact with tributes. He despises the way they tremble. It’s bad enough to have intruders in his den, why should he submit himself to their presence more than he has to?
But he stops anyway, halting mid-step and nearly passing them by. It’s the scent– sweet nectar dripping across crystal amber– drawing him in against his better judgment.
Qīngchè steps off the main walkway and down into the lower floor below where the piles of treasure have already been sorted. There are ornate, lacquered boxes stacked on top of each other, and piles of coins arranged in little towers.
The two mortals don’t look up, but they clearly know he is there. Qīngchè examines them for a moment. One is already trembling. Her little fingers keep dropping the coins as she tries to stack them, and her shoulders hunch as if to hide herself. With a half-breath, Qīngchè can smell the acrid scent of fear, like sour milk poured over her underlying lavender scent. It's not this one that has caught his nose so potently.
It’s you that is leaving this…this stink in his den. Qīngchè lifts his chin, unconsciously squaring his shoulders as he braces against what can only be an opponent. You reek of something sinful, and even though you won’t raise your head to look at him, there isn’t a trace of fear.
Qīngchè’ cloak shifts as he steps closer, knocking over several of your already organized piles. The timid woman flinches at the sound of the glittering metal, but your head lifts and brows furrow. Indignation burns in your eyes at his lack of care and ruining your hard work, and before he can stop himself, Qīngchè is smiling.
“Forgive me,” He drawls in a tone that holds no remorse, “Did I intrude?”
A small taunt. A tiny jab. Qīngchè wants to see what you’ll do when he pokes you. Is that fire in your eyes just for show? Are you as easily riled as you seem?
You lift your chin and without hesitation, meet his eyes.
You don’t reply to him, and Qīngchè is grateful for that, because he’s not sure he could respond either. Familiarity is not what he feels when he finally sees your face. That comforting sense of returning home is not what encompasses him from head to toe– no. A pain lances through his chest, just shy of sending him to his knees. A ripping sensation tears through his heart because recollection like this hurts.
Qīngchè didn’t even realize– he didn’t remember what it was he was missing…until you returned to him.
+=={:::::::::::::::::>
Finally seeing the dragon is underwhelming compared to the theatrical image your imagination had produced. You had envisioned bursts of colorful flames and a roar that trembled the foundation of the earth.
This is just…it’s just a man. Granted a very large, very inhuman looking man– but a man nonetheless. His eyes are red, sharp and piercing, and they have an oddly slitted look to them. But you had seen much crueler eyes settled in the heads of much lesser, mortal men. The fattened friars of Tarsus city’s chapel that raked in tithes and spat upon you when you ventured too close.
He’s looking at you without contempt or hate, but curiosity. Was he not aware the tributes were arriving? Did his masked subordinates not warn him?
You feel Tara tug at the threadbare sleeve of your shift, silently begging you to look away– defer, grovel, do something other than stare directly in the face of your own demise.
Casting your eyes down– for Tara’s sake, if nothing else– you return to the collection of knotted necklaces. You’ve been trying and failing to untangle them for hours and the tips of your fingers are sore.
You don’t dare speak, because what is there to say?
“You bring the scent of frailty into my den,” The dragon continues, placing his foot in between you and Tara, so there is no question who he is speaking to. “Have you no shame?”
Confused, you lift your head again, and the puzzlement you feel must be written on your face because the dragon’s eyes light up in amusement.
“What payment do you think is fair for my hospitality?” A fiendish smile caresses his face. The ruddy hue of his lips catches your attention as they stretch over sharpened, ivory teeth.
“Hospitality?” You gawk and then internally cringe. Your mouth is going to get you killed– sooner rather than later, it seems.
“Oh?” The dragon coos, mockingly, “Perhaps I was given a lion, instead of a sacrificial lamb…Have I not been inviting enough for you? Or perhaps my underlings have been barbarous?”
Your eyes catch movement as the shorter of the two masked-men stiffens. It takes you a moment to find something to say that doesn’t feel like it will guarantee to spark the dragon’s rage, and so– rather stiffly– you manage out, “It is…not my place to say what is…and is not hospitable.”
A huff escapes the dragon’s lips, blooming outward in a small plume of silver smoke. Amusement lights up his face, and the deep crimson of his eyes turns into a brighter, dazzling vermilion.
It sounded like a growl, but you realize it was a laugh. Although his humor sounded more akin to violence than mirth. He turns, and the air shifts with him. The wide expanse of his shoulders commanding the cavernous space, “This one will bear my cup this evening. Dress her appropriately.”
You scoot back as his weighty tail swings close to you. The sharp, dagger-like tip twitches too close for comfort to your face, and a quiet gasp leaves you.
Unable to look away, your eyes trail the dragon’s back wondering if the scales that protrude from his alabaster skin hurt him. What a strange thing to worry about…why does the dragon’s pain have any consequence?
Tara squeaks as the henchmen approach. The quieter of the two motions for you to stand, while the other bends down to offer you his hand.
“Up you go,” He says cheerfully as he pulls you to your feet, “When’s the last time you bathed? Ah, nevermind, we’ll bathe you anyway. The master is sensitive to smells, you know.”
You’re being ushered away from Tara and the unfinished sorting before you can even form a question. Looking over your shoulder, your friend is up on one knee, like she thought to follow– but a quick shake of your head has her back down on the ground. There’s no need for both of you to die tonight.
+=={:::::::::::::::::>
You soak in a small, hot spring– which you didn’t even know existed, but you’re not going to complain. Once clean, clothes are given to you to wear and even a pair of slippers. They are not ornate or lavish, but certainly are finer than the crumpled wool you had been wearing.
You’re now certain the two masked underlings of the dragons are twins– or siblings, at the very least– as they bicker like only siblings do.
“She needs some beads for her hair. Something in…this color, don’t you think?”
“She’s not a doll to be dressed up, Lucian. We just have to make her appearance tolerable so the master does not lose his appetite.”
“But a few gold chains around her neck would be lovely, don’t you think Kieran? Ah, no! Rubies, yes these rubies.”
You feel weighted down by the skirts of the dress they practically sew you into, and the simple ruby necklace feels like a brand on your collarbone. It was cold when the man– Lucian, or Luke, you have learned– had clasped it on, but now feels too hot.
The dining hall of this rocky abode is just as you pictured it: dark, gloomy, humid. The flat, slate floors tap sharply against the polished heel of the ridiculous shoes the twins put you in, and you resist the urge to turn and run the instant the door closes behind you.
The dragon lounges on a wide chaise, leaning back onto one arm with a table in front of him. The wide tabletop is plated in gold, but scraped and scratched in places– like it’d been damaged in the effort to steal it.
More stacks of unsorted gold and treasures litter every corner. The dragon’s hoard is so much larger than your simple imagination could fathom, and you feel a bit dizzy as you slowly step forward.
He doesn’t look up from where he drags his claw across the brass platter, rolling over-ripe berries across drizzled honey and bits of bloody meat.
A low hum vibrates out from his chest, and when you are close enough, you spot his tail. It shifts behind him, curling back and then around, and from the bladed tip, he dangles a pewter pitcher encrusted in pale blue stones– so out of place among the brass and gold everywhere else.
“Pour the wine, little lamb.” The dragon rumbles as he plucks a tidbit of meat from his plate and places it into his mouth.
You exhale sharply through your nose at the name, and nearly spill the wine when you begrudgingly take it from him.
“Into what?” You hiss, feeling demeaned, embarrassed, and angry. Was he simply playing with you before eating you? Hasn't anyone taught him basic manners?
His laugh is like a large, brass bell, melodic but deep. It reverberates throughout the room and sends a small shiver up your spine– his amusement excites you somehow…like you’re playing a game of dice for laughs instead of bartering with life and death.
Waving his hand over his table, he motions to his empty chalice, which matches the pitcher.
Stiffly, you walk over and pour the deep, red wine into his cup, which he snatches from the table nearly before you’re finished. He takes a long, slow drink, and when you dare to look at him, his eyes are already on you– staring deeply into yours like he can read the thoughts cast behind them.
“Why do I get the feeling…” He drawls as he sits the cup down, “that you would poison this wine if given the chance?”
You hold the pitcher closer to your body and look away from him, deciding instead to stare at a coat hook across the room– overflowing with mink trimmed capes and velvet coats.
“Speak, lamb.” He says a little more forcefully, yet still sounding like a request. “I wish to hear your desires from your own lips.”
You lift your chin, jaw working as you fight against the instinctual response that comes to you. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I mean…” He hums, and rests his chin on his hand, moving to stare at you even more brazenly, “That I wish for you to tell me… why it is you wish to kill me?”
You jump slightly, “I don’t.”
“You do.” The dragon’s smile is salacious. “You must know that dragons bring out the very worst in your human souls. I can hear the desires you dare not say aloud– so speak, lamb. Say it, for it is no secret.”
Your body suddenly warms, as your stomach flutters. It’s unclear whether it's from fear, or something else.
“It is pointless to say it if you already know,” You daringly reply, “I am sure I am not the first tribute to wish you dead.”
Lazily, he offers you the empty cup, twirling it slightly to beckon you to him. With an audible sigh, you obey and pour it full.
“Of course not,” The dragon insists, taking a smaller sip before setting aside the chalice entirely, “But you are the first to ever smell so…potent.”
Your nose crinkles, “Potent?”
“Forgive me,” He hums, and shifts to stand from his lounging. You lean back, nearly stepping away as the height of him overwhelms you. The dragon peers down at you, and the sharp incredulity has lessened into softer curiosity. “The mortal tongue still evades me at times. – I meant potential. None has ever felt so close to actually acting upon their desires. You…You come into my home, reeking of fragility, and fear, and rage.”
Unwillingly, your face flushes as you feel like, in a way, he is complementing you.
“I have a different role for you, than the other tributes that have come before.” The dragon continues, reaching out to take the pitcher from your hands. He sits it down onto the table and lifts his unfinished wine. Handing you the cup, he smirks devilishly, “I want to see what nurturing that rage looks like… Drink.”
“I’m not thirsty.” You reply quickly, but take the cup anyway.
“A token of peace,” He says with a small bow of his head, “Whatever it is you may have feared from me can be forgotten. I shall teach you to become fierce, so that you shall never feel weak again.”
Confusion bubbles within you, as well as suspicion. His motives are unclear and so you rightfully don’t trust them.
“What do you gain from this?” You have to look away from his intense gaze otherwise you’re certain you’ll crumble, and so you tentatively sniff at the wine. It’s sweeter than you thought it would be. Rich, honeyed and heavy with the scent of blackberries.
Your question pleases him, and you can tell by the way his chest and chin rise– puffing out slightly like a ruffled, content bird.
“Does it matter?” He counters, “A diversion from the monotony of eternity? An amusing plaything in my free time? Or perhaps…”
The heat from his scaled hands practically scalds you as he gently wraps his fingers around yours, lifting the silver chalice to your lips. You move so easily with his coaxing, and your eyes are unable to leave him. The rubies in his irises sparkle with delight as he guides you to take the first sip of decadence.
A low rumble fills his chest, vibrating the air. It is such a deep sound your ears don’t even properly hear it, but your body feels it.
“Perhaps I see in you something worth spending my time on.” His voice is quieter now as he watches the way your lips come away stained a little redder with wine. “An investment.”