Caelan snapped to full consciousness all at once, a sharp intake of breath carrying the sweet stink of the swamp through his nostrils. He blinked, swallowed, felt the slickness in his throat, lifted himself up a little bit, and felt the thin blank drift down away from his body, then followed by the familiar sensation of Ajax’s sleek, stout figure stirring behind him.
When did I…? He looked down at himself, still fully dressed, then up and around at his surroundings. A vague sensation of char and ash clung to the back of his throat, remnants from his dream of dancing flames and splintering wood; the marten reached to stretch his arms up over his head, gave voice to a shivering yawn, twisted his body this way and that, and then moved to extract himself from the dragon’s sleeping embrace; Ajax stirred, rumbled deep in his chest, and then settled back in, nuzzling into place after Caelan draped the blanket across his scales once more. Temperatures out here in the swamps rarely warranted a need for any sort of bed covering, and most often a blanket would be used for keeping the bugs away – but, then, all Ajax ate was bugs, so usually Caelan just went without.
One of his ears twitched. The marten turned around, blinked, wiped at his eyes, and then could not believe what he saw: all around him the same evidence of his dream, broken structures and charred remnants of buildings, blackened wood, burnt clay and brick… climbing vines, thick pads of moss, sizeable growth sprouting up from what had at one point been the entryway of one of the huts. As he left the structure and looked around he could vaguely trace the pathway outlined by the old boardwalks, but eyeing the planks, the ankles, the directions, this was nowhere that he recognized.
Frowning, Caelan spun around again. The trees surrounding the village did not look quite right, either: they were all the same type of tree, but differed in their individuality from what would read to him as home. And if his dream had been real, then certainly the ground cover would have burnt away as well; wherever he stepped he felt soft, moist moss squish beneath his pawpads, and when he reached out to catch himself against one of the burnt, crumbled walls, it began to fall away further, only for a thin webbing of plantlife to keep it upright. He paused, tilted his head, let his lips part open to taste the scents on the breeze… discerned nothing familiar, and in fact nothing recent. Just the smells of the swamp, the aroma of the forest, the familiar soft sting of packed and fermented clay plied along the walls of these old structures-
And he opened his eyes again. This is the old village. Again the marten spun around, stepping out towards the nearby boardwalk crossroads. This place burnt in a peat fire before I was born. I’ve never been – what reason could there be to visit? – but my mother grew up here, and…
The creaking of old wood beneath squishy footsteps twitched at his ear again, and a moment later a familiar broad, stout snout slid up underneath his paw to lift his arm up. Ajax pushed himself up against his handler’s side, the dragon lifting himself up so that Caelan had to shift his shoulder to drape his arm around him; still looking at the ruins around him, the marten turned his head and leaned in to bump cheek to cheek, gently rubbing back and forth where fur brushed across sleek scales. Ajax rumbled again, a low, puttering sound like the burbling of a slow river, then continued up to nudge underneath Caelan’s chin with his nose – with his thick tongue flicking out a moment later, stretching out, tasting both marten and still, silent swamp air.
“At least you’re not concerned,” the marten sighed. He ran his paw down across the dragon’s other shoulder, following the lines of his sleek, leathery scales, feeling the angle of bone and taut cords of streamlined muscle underneath, then brushing up across the silver chain that he wore as a collar. Feeling that there, rolling the surprisingly warm links over his fingers, tickled at some sensation of something back in the marten’s mind, but whatever it was evaded him just like the remnants of the previous night’s dream. He thought about it for a moment longer, lost it, then shook his head and leaned down to nuzzle at Ajax again.
“Come on, then. We’re here; might as well take a look around.”
After so many years had passed, Caelan had some difficulty in determining what the size of this village might have been. Part of him expected it to be smaller, while another part figured that the time that had passed since might not have any bearing on the population: as he followed the sunken and overgrown boardwalks, Ajax plodding along behind and sometimes beside him, he assembled something of a map from where he could pick out the ruins of individual huts beneath the encroaching presence of the swamp and forest.
Someone lived here once… he thought, standing outside what had at one time been a doorway. Hanging vines draped from the threshold, bearing fat little buds that would soon blossom into fragrant flowers. I wonder who. I wonder if it was anyone I know. Maybe Mother lived here. She was born here, and then left, and then came back, and… He looked a bit further up the boardwalk, blinked, tilted his head again. And that looks like the elder’s hut. Right in the center of the village, surrounded by the open green…
And green it was indeed, the normally carefully tended span of marsh soil long since overtaken by the natural rhythms of the swamp. For a moment Caelan could only stand and stare, mouth agape at the way that nature had reclaimed its territory: against the old fire that ravaged this village the elder’s hut stood the strongest, and yet now he could see that those foundations and supports had been slowly broken down by climbing vines and spreading roots, so that the skeleton of what remained stood lopsided beneath a verdant skin.
Ajax sidled up alongside the marten, once again lifting his paw along his head. Caelan reflexively turned his fingers to rub along the back of the dragon’s neck. “Do you think Elder Fog lived here?” he murmured, eyes tracing the outlines of where the vaulted hut would have once been. “Mother lived under a different Elder when she grew up, and then Fog had been named in the time she was gone. I wonder if there’s anything left…”
Visiting the Elder’s hut was something expected of any villager. The exterior was where festivals and feasts were held, celebrations, naming days, weddings, everything; the interior was where important decisions regarding the future of village and villager both were made. Provided the Elder’s attention was not already occupied elsewhere, any villager could approach for advice, or a new perspective, or an unbiased viewpoint, or deep wisdom on anything that bothered them.
Is this really all there is? What lies beyond the bounds of the swamp? I think I like someone; how should I approach them? I think someone likes me; how can I know for certain? Is magic real? Where does it come from?
Did you know my father? Where did Mother go when she left? Why did she come back? Why am I here, instead of there?
Caelan stepped over the new roots that now marked the doorway of the hut’s burnt remains. Even after so many years, at least as many as he had seen, he could still trace out the relative layout of the old elder’s hut. Here is the gathering room. Over here was the kitchen. The bedroom… the study… the great bonfire at the center, fueled with peat bricks. He sniffed at the air; no trace of the swamp gas he had picked up yesterday lingered over here. Oh. And here…
He padded carefully over vines and leaves and detritus, then bent down to brush some of the forest litter away from a small object nestled beneath what was once a table. It stuck to the wet dirt underneath, and as Caelan knelt down he brushed some of that away, a few thin, leaflike slivers breaking free and crumbling to dust within his fingers.
A book. He turned it over, then sideways, then upright again. I think that’s what this is. The texture of the cover felt like something halfway between leather and wood by this point, and when he tried to open it, it just peeled away brittle and broke off to the ground. The pages inside had darkened at the edges and curled and stuck together, evidence of the past fire melding with the natural humidity and moisture of the swamp all around; deeper inside he could almost make out the shapes of some of the symbols written inside, penned in a steady, flowing hand.
Caelan sat back onto his haunches, holding the book in both paws as much as he was simply holding it together. Every now and then as he turned the pages, one of them would flake free or simply crumble away, or a few would remain stuck together with the ink having bled all the way through; he ran his fingerpads across what surfaces he could, still able to feel some remnant of the symbols’ textures.
I wonder what it says. A nudge to his shoulder made his ear flick; he tilted his head and bumped it against Ajax’s shoulder. It is a duty of the Elder to record the village’s living history. Everything that happens, to be vicariously remembered by the next, and then the next after… somewhere in here may have once been the record of Mother’s departure, and then when she returned however many years later. Another bunch of pages crumbled beneath his fingers; he brushed away the dust. I was born after she came back, after this village burned. Which means my father must have been here, too. I wonder if he was in here…
Ajax’s breath stirred the brittle, sticky pages; a moment later the dragon leaned in, sniffed at the book, then reared back. Caelan chuckled, looped his arm underneath the feral’s neck, and tugged him in for another nuzzle; he tossed the charred, ruined book back towards where he had found it.
“That beast loves you like he loved your father,” his mother had told him yesterday. And that’s quite enough for me. But, still, I can’t help but wonder… The thought lingered there for a moment longer, hovering like the faint impression of soot and smoke with which he had awoken earlier, and then another nuzzle and nip from the dragon to his shoulder stirred him back. Caelan giggled again, turned his head to push into the beast’s shoulder, and then moved to stand up – but then paused when he saw the soot smeared across the shaven skin of his arm.
He frowned. That doesn’t make sense. All of the char around here had long since soaked away into the swamp; though the remaining beams and structures still displayed the black burn, when he pressed his paws across them, they still came away clean. And yet here was Ajax – Caelan stood up and stepped around him, the dragon craning his neck to follow with curiosity – with that same distinctive evidence spattered across his scales. Particularly along his shoulders, and the front of his forelegs, and then along his sides as well, and…
And another dancing swirl of black from around his own body caught Caelan’s attention. He twisted where he stood, reaching to drag the back of his shirt around. His heart thumped again; his ears flicked; his throat felt dry despite the constant moisture of the marsh-
The fire! That wasn’t a dream. Oh, gods… The marten glanced up to the sky, where soft clouds slid across a midafternoon sun. I have to get back right now. Which way is-?
He had never been out to the site of the old village before, and knew nothing of its whereabouts other than that it lay somewhere west of home. Paws trembling, Caelan pulled himself away from the dragon and stepped back out into what had once been the village green, trying to find a better vantage on the sky between the closely interlacing trees.
East. He cut a sharp whistle; barely half a second later the earth nearby thumped with Ajax skidding into place, the dragon’s head up and long tail arched.
“We gotta go,” Caelan told him, and then hoisted himself over the beast’s stout figure. Immediately he settled into the familiar, comfortable riding position, legs squeezing, footpaws hanging back, body close to the reptile’s back, head against his neck. “This way. Fast as you can. We have to…”
So rarely did he actually get to ride Ajax, so little was he able to actually guide him, that at first the union felt somewhat unfamiliar. The pulsing, thrumming rhythm of the feral beast’s body underneath his own, the pounding of powerful legs across damp soil then turning smoothly to the sleek, graceful sway of swimming through the waterlogged passages; diving this way and that to evade low branches and thick brush, feeling the wind in his fur, the tickle of the air across his shaved arms; shifting the position of his paws along Ajax’s shoulders, pressing in at his muscles here to nudge him this way, pushing there to get him to turn that way, yet knowing beyond any doubt that the dragon would be able to know his way through the swamp…
...it was intoxicating. For a while the shock and worry of the realization drifted to the back of his mind, where the memory of the fire hovered as little more than the clinging scent of char and ash up in his nostrils. But then he looked down and saw the dragon’s scales smeared with fresh black, and again Caelan had to dig back into his thoughts and mind to-
What happened? Why is it so… foggy? I remember smelling the swamp gas throughout the day. I remember talking with Mother about it. I remember going to sleep, and then… I remember the fire. Everywhere. Blazing. Roaring. It sounded like I was within the mouth of some great, terrible beast.
Overhead the clouds passed, the sun drifted, the trees swayed.
Ajax was there. Affection blossoming within his chest, Caelan leaned down further, and pressed his muzzle a little more firmly against the dragon’s neck where he could feel the pulsing of his heartbeat. Thank the gods for that. But I never saw Mother. I didn’t see… anyone, really. I thought I… might’ve seen… But that thought slid from the grasp of his memory like water between his fingers, and even as he tried to reach for it, something deep within him told the marten that it was something he would rather not recall. Why didn’t Fog do anything? We all knew that a fire was likely. Have patrols not been going out…?
Am I going the right way?
~ ~ ~
Caelan kicked at a loose pile of leaf litter, then did so again, and cursed under his breath once more. His body throbbed with the memory of riding Ajax for so long, his own muscles pulsing in rhythm with the leftovers of the dragon’s pace; the beast himself had settled into a low pond nearby, eyes closed as he recuperated. Doubt welled up within the marten, frustration, anxiety; he looked up at the now darkened sky, spread through with a wide swathe of stars like speckles of gravel strewn across black mud, with the twin moons rising low in the horizon.
Every minute I’m here… Off in the darkness nearby Ajax huffed again, his breath bubbling in the muck. I could be over there. I SHOULD be there. What was I doing here anyway? Why did I come this way? Why can’t I remember?
What is wrong with me?
Nearby crackled the low fire that Caelan had built once he had realized that there was no way the two would be able to find their way back tonight. The peat fuel was easy to find, and he knew as well as anyone how to properly set and bank the fire to prevent a spread; it was actually starting the spark that brought the most difficulty, but now it sputtered a dim flame with thick smoke curling up into the sky overhead. He had nothing with him for a night out in the swamp, nothing save for the clothes on his back, the blanket under which he had inexplicably awoken, and then that odd silver chain around Ajax’s neck, which he still could not recall ever having been there before.
Even so, though – the marten kicked at the ground again, then turned and plodded over to sink back against a tree – how could I be so shortsighted? Maybe it was the smoke from the fire that muddled my mind. I’d still hope that I would know better, though… He thumped his head back against the trunk, the soft, malleable bark sinking inward towards somewhat more solid heartwood. Ajax had been snacking throughout the afternoon and during their breaks in the travel, long tongue snapping out at the various flying insects, sleek snout pushing its way into soft wood and softer muck to dig out beetles and worms and whatever else hid there, while Caelan had managed to catch himself a few stringy, bland fish from nearby; at least in that realm, the forest would always provide.
He sighed again and rolled his head over onto his other shoulder. I hope Mother is okay. Then another thought: Actually, among everyone there, she’s by far the most likely to come through alright. I shouldn’t be too surprised that Fog’s considering her for his successor. But, gods, if he doesn’t make it through, then that means she’ll probably be up immediately, and… and that’ll change everything, won’t it? Maybe she’s back there now, organizing the survivors, starting on repairs… or will we move again? Further out towards the border of the swamp, to lessen the travel time to the eastern village for the bricks?
What about Bracken, and Perrin, and Gorse? Gods, I’m gonna get an earful from Old Fogbank when we get back. And Salo and Mux – Ajax always liked those two quite a bit – and Prim, and Soma, and… And he pressed his muzzle into his paw to stifle a breath. And I should be there. Not only right now, but yesterday. Why in the world would I-? What’s wrong with me? How much longer is it gonna take me… to…
A glitter out in the dimness caught his gaze and drew it out. Ajax had risen from his chosen spot in the still water of the swamp, stray drops of the clinging moisture still dribbling from the smooth curves of his scales; his eyes, sharp mossy green, took on a yellowish tinge in the dancing light of the fire. Viewed straight on he really did look like something halfway between a monitor lizard and a bear, with that wide, flat head, those broad shoulders, the thick forelegs with propped him up along the soft earth of the marsh. Again and again his tongue flicked out to taste the air, broad and thick, tapered at the end, glistening with the sticky wetness of reptilian saliva; he craned his neck up and to one side, then tilted his head there and padded forward towards where Caelan sat.
But at least I have Ajax here with me. Low firelight swirled and twisted across sleek, smooth scaling, shimmering with faint iridescence between stormcloud and stone greys; Ajax had always been somewhat darker in coloration than the other dragons back home, as though he had been splashed with mud left to dry along his shoulders, his sides, his haunches. His long, thick tail, also tapering to a point at its extremity and at least the length of the rest of his body once over again, dragged along the ground behind him. So that’s alright, then, I suppose… Caelan blinked, swallowed, and held his arms out.
Something in the beast shifted – Caelan could pick up on this, even through the relative lack of facial expression or the kind of body language he would look for in his fellows, ears and whiskers and nose and tail – and Ajax plodded forward to meet him. Velvety leather scales slid up against the front of his body, those broad, powerful legs sinking into the earth on either side of him; the lingering wetness of his quick bath seeped through Caelan’s thin clothing and into his fur, but the marten paid this no mind. He wrapped his arms around the reptile as far as he could and held him close, squeezing so that he could feel the natural tension of corded muscles, the latent heat of his weight, the pulsing of his heart within his chest, the whistling of breath through flared nostils.
He sighed again and drew one leg up alongside Ajax’s body near one of the dragon’s haunches. The feral shifted in turn for a more comfortable position across his handler, careful not to crush him beneath his impressive weight; Caelan’s ear flicked with the sensation of that tongue lancing out again and again, poking, brushing, touching at the side of his neck. He turned his head and showed more of the fur there, and a moment later shivered with the sensation of Ajax leaning in to the invitation, tongue now curling directly against his fur and skin, sliding down through the back of his shirt, coming up to warp around the other side of his neck.
Caelan, too, turned his head to nuzzle into the space between the dragon’s neck and his shoulder, where the somewhat thicker scaling of his back gave way to that soft velvet of skin underneath. He smelled of soil and moist wood, but then underneath these lingered that sharp, punchy spike that Caelan knew to be the scent of dragon: a little musty, a little musky, a little acrid, yet not at all unpleasant. After so much time spent alongside him, so much time not only training him but training himself as well, learning how to read the dragon’s body language and behavior, figuring out how to communicate in turn, this was a familiar, comfortable aroma, one that filled his senses when he breathed deep and helped to still the pounding of his heart, and the trembling of his thoughts.
One arm came up along Ajax’s back, fingerpads feeling across the faint texture of his scales, more like plates of malleable bark rather than shelves of stone; the other pushed down the length of the dragon’s body where he could reach, pressing into the flesh underneath, rolling back and forth across muscle and bone in a gentle massage. Before long that familiar low, steady rumbling pulsed out from within Ajax’s chest, vibrating the entirety of Caelan’s body underneath him; the marten smirked softly and lifted his head up to rest his chin along the dragon’s shoulder.
“I just…” He wet his lips, able to taste a little bit of the natural oils coating the beast’s body. “I just hope that everything back home is alright. The smoke must have been really bad if I can barely remember like this…” Ajax shifted on top of him, pulling himself up a little bit further, pressing a hindleg into Caelan’s. “I hate sitting around here feeling like I’m doing nothing. But then at the same time, there’s nothing I can do, so what’s the point in griping about it? But…” He rolled his head to the side and rested it alongside Ajax’s. “If I were there now, I could be helping people. My friends, and family. Gods know we’ll need your strength, too, to clear out the rubble, and…”
And his paw drifted down a little bit further along the beast’s neck, hooked fingers catching the links of the chain. Caelan’s ears flicked; he frowned, lifted his head, nudged Ajax’s aside, and peered a bit closer.
“And where did this come from?”
Back and forth he ran it between his fingers, the links certainly solid metal yet, somehow, feeling as though they flowed like captured liquid. The metal itself – it looked to him like silver, which he had seen once from a traveler passing through the village when he was just a pup – simmered with a latent internal heat, almost as though it were a living being. Again and again Caelan tugged at the links, pulling them across Ajax’s shoulders, seeking for the fastener or the buckle but never finding one.
He lifted up a bit – the dragon squirmed, shifted, and huffed impatiently, once again pressing himself against his handler’s lower body – and tugged at the chain collar. Ajax’s eyes scrunched up and his tongue poked out with the attempt, but try as he might Caelan just could not remove it from around his neck.
“This is just…” Caelan eyed it a moment longer, then finally let it go. Ajax tilted his head away, amused annoyance visible in his green eyes, then adjusted to once more settle his weight across the marten’s body. “I suppose we can ask Elder Fog about that when we get back. But, for now, I think it’s time to settle in, don’t you?”
He patted at the beast’s lower body. Ajax rumbled and whuffed deep in his chest, his haunches giving a slow, languorous rock forward in response; Caelan chuckled and did so again, to earn the same response out of him. The distant point of the dragon’s tail swished across the muddy earth. “Come on,” he urged, now starting to lean forward to rise from beneath Ajax’s weight; the dragon huffed again and slowly drew himself back, tongue flicking out again. It caught the side of Caelan’s jaw, then his cheek, and when the marten turned to playfully glare at him, his lips and mouth as well.
The marten batted him away, a soft chuckle in his throat. “Ajax. Come on. Aren’t you exhausted after all that traveling today? The fire’ll burn for another hour or so; let’s move over here and settle in…”
Green eyes pierced through his for a moment longer, and then begrudgingly the large feral started to move. He had to swing one of his stout hindlegs up to be able to step away from his handler, and as he did so Caelan felt the sudden lack of the deep, pulsing warmth of his body and presence, riding right up into the crook of his own leg.
Who needs a blanket, he thought with a smirk, when you’ve got a dragon?
~ ~ ~
The twin moons sparkled down from straight overhead, two huge spots of light in a sky swathed with tiny sparkles. Caelan’s ears remained perked to the ceaseless music of the swamps all around, underlined every now and then by Ajax’s slow, rhythmic breathing; he lounged back across the dragon’s side, one arm hooked between his hindlegs for support, the other resting across his own chest. He had built himself a little mattress out of muck and leaves, and rested with the thin blanket strewn across his legs.
I should be home, he thought again, his annoyance and disappointment keeping sleep at arm’s length. That’s where I belong. We’ll get back tomorrow, and help everyone out, and… and then Mother will see that I can handle myself out here, and she’ll change her mind and let me go with one of the caravans. Everyone will be okay. Right? Elder Fog will have made it out so that Mother won’t have to take on his mantle, and she’ll be fine too, and everyone else will be okay, and…
And I just want to be home. He closed his eyes, pressed his lips together, swallowed, drew in a breath… tasted the swamp, the remaining smoke from the campfire, Ajax’s scent soaked into his fur and smeared across his nose.
Everything will be okay. We’ll be home tomorrow. Right?
