Page 94 of Upon Buried Embers
A Dragonbond doesn’t run unless in battle, and certainly not for anyone else, but it seems for the Little Whisperer, I’m doing a lot of new things.
Like having someone wash me, braid my hair.
Now I’m running to her, too?
Pathetic.
But what if she isn’t there anymore? What if she managed to leave despite me telling Drogonah to watch over her?
I sprint harder, ignoring those on patrol in the distance as they look toward me in alarm.
“What’s wrong?” One of them shouts, weapon ready.
I wave them off. “Nothing!”
Why are they acting like if I’m running, it has to be because we’re under attack?
What if I just wanted to run?
If they so much as breathe a word that they saw their Dragonbond sprinting like this, I’ll put them on horse shit duty for a week.
Putting those thoughts aside, I push myself harder.
Before I know it, I’m in the cave and rounding the corner, only to stop short.
My dragons are not in their stone beds… they’re in the center of the cavernous space.
What?
They’re all laid down, sleeping. Drogonah is on the outside, out of his bed which heneverdoes, and he peeks an eye open at me, huffing slightly.
What’s happening? Where’s my Little Whisperer?
I go to him, running a hand up his snout. “What’s going on?” I mutter, and he turns his head to the path between sleeping dragons.
Confused, I make my way through the dragons. We have nine of them so far, and as I continue to walk between them, unable to see above, I realize I’m going in some sort of spiral pattern.
I frown at the unusual behavior.
I run my hand over the dragons I pass in greeting, shushing them when some wake. Drogonah at the end, and then Blaise, Agnar, Solia, Doren.
The heat coming off them is enough to even start bothering me.
As I enter the last of the spiral containing Hakkon, Hedoric, and Alter, I pause, seeing Escor at the very end.
But that isn’t what’s surprising. It’s the little red-haired elf curled up in between him and his tail that has me shocked.
Escor lifts his eyes to me, gums peeling back in a silent snarl. One stern look from me and he stops, lowering his head back down next to the elf.
I walk toward them and crouch down, moving the hair out of her face. She sleeps softly, face smoothed out, small hands resting under her cheek. I can’t help but notice how beautiful she is. Even malnourished.
She’s been squashed down over the years, and if what she says is true about how old she was when she was given to Emerish, she had no chance to grow in a way I’m sure she was meant to.
She may be an elf, of nature and animals, but she has a low ember burning within her that I want to nourish and set alight.
What an odd feeling for me.
But it’s a craving I must sate. Like having my eyes on her, feeding her every chance I get, wanting to be the only one to touch her hair….
