It said something about the state of a dragon’s mental health when he wasn’t at all surprised to wake up buried alive. It certainly said something about his lifestyle, the young dragon decided as he blinked blearily through the gaps in the hay covering his face.

He had not chosen this bed of hay as a resting place willingly. He preferred the open air, and would have been perfectly happy climbing a tall tree and making himself a nest there, but that unfortunately was not an option at the present moment. Not with the captain of the fleet so close.

As he slowly became more awake, the young dragon became more aware of the fiery itch crawling over his skin, like he was being bitten by ants. He shuddered against the feeling, for it was new and unexpected, and the new and unexpected was not a friend to any dragon (even odd ones like him).

The dragon ignored the itch, as well as the instinct to leap out of the hay and check his body for crawling bugs, and instead checked his surroundings. Safety had to come first after all. He made the mistake of flicking out his tongue to scent the air and got nothing more than a mouthful of moldy straw. Choking slightly, the dragon strained his ears to listen for signs of movement.

He heard the soft huffs of the horse in the next stall, the clanking of pots and the chatter of women coming from the main house, but he heard no one (except for the horse) in the barn itself. That was no guarantee of course that someone wasn’t waiting and watching- Wes hadn’t been appointed captain without being canny- but he would never be able to sniff them out or scent anything covered in a mound of hay as he was. So really there was only one thing for it.

Well, only one real way to know anyway. He thought to himself. He took the deepest breath he could manage without drawing in any more of the hay scent (for it was truly foul) and plucked up his courage.

Slowly the dragon male crawled out from his less than comfortable hiding spot, taking a moment to gulp in the first fresh breath of air he’d had in hours. Despite his dizzying relief he did not let his guard down, keeping his body primed for attack or flight should the situation call for it. A quick glance around however assured that he was alone and he breathed a small sigh of relief.

So this was the price of freedom was it? A life on the run spent hiding out in cattle food?

Not exactly the life Lavair had planned out for him, but then again the life Lavair had planned out for him was no real life at all by his estimation. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t risk to avoid that life, as evidenced by his desperate flight from Dalkinley, the last flight he’d sworn to ever take.

The young dragon had shed his dragon name and adopted the simpler one they used with the lesser races, fully intent on losing himself in the world of men and living out the rest of his days as a human.

His mother of course would be appalled once she found out, but he cared not what his mother thought of the race of men. He found humans to be fascinating creatures. They were free in a way that he had never experienced in the hundred and twelve seasons he’d lived. It was that freedom he craved, that freedom that he would trade his own life for, that he was so determined to seize. If mother had her way every last one of them would either be slaves or food. To her humans were little better than the cattle.

There was a lot that Blaine was running from and his people’s ideas regarding the ‘lesser’ races was just the icing on the cake. He would never regret his decision to run but this whole running from the law thing was indeed more bothersome than he had anticipated, and Lyras scales did his face burn! No not just his face, his whole body was at it now. His skin felt like it was trying to crawl off his bones.

Blaine frowned down at his skin-darker than some, but nowhere near as dark as David’s- rich and deep in color with thin nearly imperceptible lines running across his fleshier parts outlining scales that were suppressed by magic.

He didn’t have to look in a mirror to know that his eyes were showing off their gold and that the impression of scales going down his spine and ending at his tail bone would be starker than ever.

He was still in his man shape but he was completely without glamour to hide him. This was only troubling because he was trying to put one on and not succeeding. Sustaining a glamour was a hatchlings trick, easily achievable by a dragon of his age and rank in the horde. Blaine tried again and when nothing changed he sighed and gave it up.

Well this was a problem. He may not be the strongest dragon in the horde but if there was anything he could boast about it was his abilities with magic, particularly small charms and glamours. The fact that his skin was practically crawling off of him and his magic no longer seemed to be in his control was a bit frightening.

Maybe Wes hadn’t just been trying to scare him when he’d warned that remaining in a human form for weeks without interruption was unhealthy for a full blooded dragon. He’d thought it was something the older dragon had made up, to scare him off from even contemplating living out his life as a human.

Hopefully this is temporary, a symptom of some sickness maybe. Blaine thought with a frown as he stretched limbs that had grown stiff in the night. All of this was worth the pain, it really was- he tried to convince himself. He just wouldn’t believe all that drivel about staying human being unhealthy. He’d been living in his polymorph form for close to four weeks now, and he was determined to do it forever. He didn’t much care who else said otherwise.

Thinking about Lavair always put Blaine in a sour mood, so he pushed thoughts of his elder dragon away and focused instead on the problem at hand. The problem was of course that Wes had tracked him to Bale.

Blaine already assumed that Wes had tracked him to the tavern, because his season was coming to a close and that meant he was at its peak, he was sending off some particularly strong pheromones at the moment and he had grown lax. He was rather unfortunately distracted by other men at the present, and he’d found that young man who worked at The Swill to be too compelling to resist and hadn’t bothered at all to try and mask his smell.

Wes had always said that he needed to learn how to control his passions, but that was easy for Wes to say. He hadn’t gone through a season yet. It was nearly impossible to keep a low profile and not talk to anyone, when with one smell everything you ever thought you wanted for yourself seemed right there for the taking.

It was just an illusion though. A dragon might choose his rider but a slave who chose his master wasn’t any freer than a slave who didn’t.

Blaine simply refused to accept a rider, because while certain aspects of the Anum tai might seem appealing to a romantic like himself, he simply refused to be some mans beast of burden just to feel connected to someone.

Blaine set about gathering his things, for it was time to decide what to do. He slipped into the pair of trousers he’d stolen off a farmer’s laundry line (he’d ruined the pair he set out with). He found the blunted dagger he’d been carrying with him as a means of protection from bandits on the road, and he slipped it into the sheath on his belt. He of course had natural weapons magic, teeth and claws, but he refused to use those any more unless absolutely necessary.

Alright now he had choices to make.

His inability to achieve a proper glamour was the first order of business because it put him in the most danger. It drew attention to him and it made him too easy to identify as dragon. Wes wasn’t the only person he was trying to avoid. There were men out there who would love to get their hands on a dragon for his hide, for his magic, and for all the treasure men assumed they horded.

Blaine was pretty confident he could elude Wes and the others and continue on his way but he needed to get back in the tavern, and he couldn’t do that with his current problem. Dragon scent was strong and unmistakable to other dragons, especially the scent of a dragon in the height of need like Blaine was. Thankfully though he’d had the foresight to try and mask his smell this time around.

Blaine bent his head and sniffed his arm as delicately as he could. Immediately his hypersensitive nose was choked with the scent of moldy hay. Eyes watering he rubbed his nose and clenched his fists against the feeling of sharp pinpricks assaulting his face. The sensation continued, getting a bit stronger with every second.

It shouldn’t have affected him so much. Something was really wrong with him. Really, what else could possibly go wrong with his life? Maybe, considering his current run of ill luck, he should just move on before Wes could catch his trail again and take his chances with bandits and hunters until whatever was ailing him eased.

But even as the thought passed through his mind Blaine was striding from the barn, looking towards the north and calculating the best way to get inside the tavern unseen.

There was something he’d left there, something from his old life that he simply could not leave behind.

##########

Getting inside The Swill was surprisingly easy, even without a proper glamour. Blaine had made a handy friend in a local boy by the name of Arthur (or Artie as he liked to be called). He and his father were fisherman, and he’d taken a liking to Blaine after Blaine had helped mend one of his nets. True he’d cheated and used a little magic, and true the net wouldn’t have needed mending if Artie hadn’t caught Blaine trying to steal one of their boats and a fight hadn’t broken out, but that was just semantics.

Artie had agreed after some heavy bargaining to snatch a tunic and a hat for Blaine from his father, in exchange for a tip on where to find the best fish that day. Blaine had an uncanny talent for knowing the best fishing spots. It helped that he could smell them, but Artie didn’t need to know that.

And so, disguised as a fisherman with a wide brimmed hat shielding his face from sun and view, Blaine walked back into the tavern through the front door like he belonged there.

Immediately Blaine could smell that Wes and at least three others had recently been there. David was one of them, he’d recognize that spicy scent of his anywhere, and maybe Jeff too- but Jeff was still pretty young and Blaine doubted Laviar would have let him out of Dalkinley so untried.

Blaine didn’t think the scents were fresh (though it was hard to tell with the overpowering scent of sweat and mead in his nose) but that meant nothing because undoubtably Wes had left some sort of trap waiting for him in his room. Wes didn’t like messes and an all out brawl between the two of them was sure to leave a mess.

Blaine moved quickly towards the back stairs, noticing that several eyes lingered on him as he went but not stopping to worry about it. It was all about speed now. Get in, face whatever Wes had left for him, and get out as quickly as possible.

Perhaps it was foolish to come back at all, risk everything for a memento, but he couldn’t leave the pendant behind. He had control over the situation. He was confident that he could handle whatever surprise Wes had waiting for him.

Blaine did wish his throat would stop trying to close up on him, however. The pain was a bit distracting. Since leaving the barn his throat had become raw and swollen, closing off his airways so that every breath was laborious.

Blaine was undeterred. He focused on the task at hand, going about his mission with the precision and control that had impressed Wes enough to make him formation leader, firmly separating his mind from the pain in his body. He paused in the sparsely lit hall, flicking out his tongue to take in the scents his nose could not pick up.

The rooms above the tavern were doused in the scents of sweat and dirt, not to mention refuse, body odor, sex, molding cotton, sage leaves and...

Blaine’s head spun and he swayed a moment on his feet. Sage leaves? Now there was something that did not belong, he thought as he grew steadily more and more light headed. The scent of sage was light, barely there and yet it wrapped around Blaine like a blanket. He took deep breaths of it, his mind wandering back to his home in Dalkinley, to the meadows just outside the great forest; and he felt a sudden deep longing ache inside of him that he could not explain and was not at all certain he could fill.

He looked down at himself to find that his skin had broken out in livid bright red bumps, and had begun secreting something like sweat; only it was gold and filmy.

Well, this isn‘t normal. He thought, and somewhere in his mind there was alarm that he was not more alarmed but his mind was disconnected from it all. Its focal point was getting into his room and facing whatever he found there. The smell of sage, yes it was coming from his room. Someone or something waited for him there and he should by all rights retreat but he couldn’t. There were reasons of course, but none of those were in his mind. Blaine simply couldn’t turn away. He was drawn forward like a moth to flame.

He forced his body forward, step by step, creeping as stealthily as he could manage down the hall. The hall was short and narrow, with two bowing doors at the end on either side. He paused in front of his door, momentarily frustrated with himself because the closer and closer he got to it the more that sage scent drowned everything else out. He couldn’t tell who or what was waiting inside for him.

Well. One thing he knew, the tiny room Jeremiah had snuck him into each night wasn’t big enough to hold more than two people comfortably. So it was unlikely any more than that would be waiting for him inside. If it was anyone other than Wes waiting for him, he was confident he had enough skill to come out the victor in a fight. If it was Wes, well then things would get rather unfortunately bloody.

He had the advantage though. Wes would hesitate, Wes would think that their friendship would make it impossible for Blaine to seriously hurt him, and likewise he would not seriously want to hurt Blaine either. But Wes was wrong. There were some things worth fighting for, worth getting your hands dirty, and freedom was one of them.

I’m so sorry friend. Blaine thought, resting his palm against the wooden door. And then he pushed it open, ready to meet whatever would be waiting.

He was expecting an attack. What he wasn’t expecting was to open the door and find a man sleeping in his bed.

#################

Kurt had been waiting in that damn tavern for two days now, and time was only ticking. He was getting nervous. Jeremiah had led him to Blaine’s room the first night and Barel had ordered him to stay there and not show his face below stairs again. Jeremiah brought him food, and every day that passed with no sign of anyone even remotely resembling Blaine the young man got more and more nervous.

If Kurt didn’t meet the dragons at the dock with Blaine in tow, no one knew what hell there would be to pay but no one wanted to find out either. Kurt trembled just thinking about it. He hoped they would just kill him, but no, that would be too simple. They’d bind him; he knew that much and that would truly be a fate worse than death.

It was early evening on the second day and Kurt had decided that if Blaine didn’t show by the third morning he was going to make a run for it. He probably should have tried that from the get go, but then again running from dragons was much easier said than done. They had a sense of smell that could sniff out the sweat on a flee from three counties over ‘curse them. Not to mention they could fly.

Kurt felt queasy every time he thought about it, because every time he did this little mocking voice in his head asked him just how in the hell he planned to run from a group of dragons.

Kurt stayed in the desperate hope that Blaine would show. He figured that even if he couldn’t trick him into a trap, they could at least attempt to run together. He had a better chance running with another dragon than on his own and if they were caught....well, call him horrible but it paid to have a bargaining chip.

Kurt had been awake for almost a full forty-eight hours waiting, and it wasn’t any wonder really that without planning too he fell asleep. It seemed that no sooner had he drifted off to sleep than a cold chill of warning crept down his spine, jarring him awake. His mother had told him that the demihuman would always know when a dragon was near because they were bred specifically to anticipate a dragons needs. Dragon’s blood called to theirs and Kurt’s traitorous blood was always going to try and answer.

As Kurt struggled out of the shadowy grip of sleep he registered two things in lighting quick succession. One, a dragon in human shape had leaped on top of him and two, the beast was dying.

Kurt’s eyes snapped open and above him eyes a brilliant hazel surrounded by a band of molten gold regarded him with focused hunger.

The dragon had a hand wrapped around his windpipe; the other pressing against Kurt’s chest but Kurt was strangely unconcerned about the crushing pressure around his throat. His mind seemed to be working on some ethereal level, noticing things he had no business noticing when he perched so precariously at the edge of death.

Blaine-this had to be Blaine-was sweating something strange and filmy. The dragon’s skin was lived and bruised beneath the fine layer of the bright secretion and his hair was standing on end. The stark outline of scales had tattooed what was visible of his body, as if he’d drawn them in ink, and Kurt suspected that he would feel their hardness if he reached out and touched their raised bumps.

Kurt had never seen a dragon die for himself, but he remembered a story told to him long ago. The story of a young Sidhe woman who had trapped her master in the shape of a man.

“They are weaker in that shape, easier to kill, but still very very dangerous. I did not know how to kill him, but I found that I did not have to. Too long trapped in the shape of men and their own magic will kill them. The dragon inside fights to get out, they bleed gold, they shed their skin.”

His mother had told him that watching the death of a dragon was like watching a star implode, that it was beautiful in a tragic kind of way. Kurt was sure that this dragon was dying the same way as his mothers tormentor had, that the dragon inside of the man was fighting to get out, tearing apart the same body that it depended upon for life.

“Who sent you?” The words were not spoken aloud, they crawled inside Kurt’s head in an unfamiliar voice. Blaine’s voice.

Seeing as he was being choked to death and he had no idea whether this animal could read his mind or not Kurt thought it was wise to answer honestly.

“Wes.” He thought in response, just as added pain flashed across his senses. Suddenly his whole body burned as if it were on fire. Even though Blaine’s grip on his throat had loosened somewhat, Kurt felt as if the crushing continued.

Above him Blaine swayed, clearly weakening further, but Kurt didn't attempt to break free of him. The feeling of crushing pressure on his throat and the burning all over his body, that wasn't his pain he realized. It was Blaine’s.

“I don’t understand. He sent you to kill me?” Blaine asked even as his hands fell away from Kurt’s throat entirely and he collapsed on his side. His momentum rolled him off the edge of the pallet and onto the floor with a painful thunk that Kurt felt jar his whole body.

“How did you poison me without my knowing?” The dragon’s voice was thin and weak even in Kurt’s head. Kurt could hear the wet rattle of his breath as he struggled to breathe.

Quickly Kurt rose from the bed, battling the rush of nausea and dizziness that threatened to topple him. Since thinking was easier than talking with his abused throat he thought his response at Blaine even as he bent over the dragon and began examining his body.

“Poison? Don’t be an idiot. You’ve stayed too long in this shape you fool. Didn’t you notice any of the warning signs?”

Blaine didn’t answer Kurt’s harshly growled thoughts. He lay sprawled out on the floor like a gutted fish. Kurt cried out as the dragons body began to seize and he felt the ghost like pain of muscles twisting and bones bending in his own body. He bit his tongue to quickly silence the sound and pushed the phantom pain to the back of his mind.

If this dragon died he would have no chance at all. None of them would. Who knew what those other dragons would do in retaliation.

“Did you hear me?!” Kurt screamed through his abused throat. “Change! Change or you’ll die.”

At first Kurt thought that the dragon was too far gone to hear him and he slapped his hands against the man’s chest in frustration, and then there was the sound of a roar and he was being thrust violently backwards by a wave of sound and heat.

There was blinding light and a roaring jet of flame that blasted up through the roof. Kurt watched in horror as it caught quickly on the floor and surrounding walls. He threw his hands up to shield his face from the flames, and only lowered them when the roaring stopped. Heart galloping in his chest Kurt peered through smoke and flame, eyes widening in terrified awe as a large serpentine form lunged toward him.

Kurt closed his eyes, tears falling down his cheeks as he fought for breath, body trembling as he anticipated death.

He felt something heavy and leathery against his back and snapped them open again to see that the dragon had curled its long body protectively around him, shielding Kurt from the fire that was quickly consuming the room. He’d tucked a wing over the trembling man’s head, screening out the thick smoke.

“Reach behind you. Under the bed pallet is a small leather pouch. Grab it and then climb on my back.” The dragon instructed in a voice so deep and resonate that it made Kurt’s heart thud painfully just hearing it. Still he shook his head, instinctively resistant to the idea of climbing onto the back of this huge beast, but he could hear the crackle of the flames as they burned unnaturally loud and fast, and he knew that he wasn’t getting out of the room alive if he didn’t leave with the dragon, and that there wasn’t a second to spare deliberating.

Kurt turned towards the bed and with calm he certainly didn’t feel, he grabbed the satchel he’d left at the end and dove his hand under the pallet. He searched until he felt the rough touch of leather against his palms.

He pulled the pouch out and flung it into his satchel just as a portion of the roof came crashing down around them flinging sparks and filling the room with smoke so dark even the dragons wings could not shield him from all of it.

Coughing Kurt flung himself against the dragons neck, only having seconds to take in the strangely warm feel of scales beneath his hands and thighs before the beast took off, wings spreading wide, tail lashing out to tear a hole in the wall that sent even more of the room crashing inwards.

Kurt clung to the dragon’s neck for dear life as they hurtled though wood and flame.

Fire lashed at them, and Kurt felt it kiss his cheeks, but then suddenly it was gone, they were bursting out of the upper floor of the tavern, spinning out into open air. Up and up and up they went, the wind snuffing out the flames clinging to Kurt’s clothing and hair.

Kurt opened his eyes as they sank into an impossibly graceful arch, the world seeming to move in slow motion around them as Kurt blinked back stunned tears. Sick terror coursed through Kurt as he struggled vainly to keep his seat.

And then the ground was racing towards them, time was speeding up again, and the dragon beneath his body twisted and thrashed as he struggled to stay in flight.

Kurt hated dragons. He truly did.

TBC