You leave before the birds can begin to sing. And though the elders rise, stone-faced, to strap a sword to your belt, no one comes with you; this is not their journey, after all, not the way it is yours.
Color is finally bleeding back into the world when you slow to a stop before the first line of trees.
“I have come to slay the dragon,” you declare, though the woods, of course, do not respond.
###
You find a path, one you will certainly lose in the dark. But a path is a path and never of any beast’s making, so you might as well shed your reservations. Count your blessings as they come.
You pause once to force some bread and water down your throat, twice to practice unsheathing your sword, three times to investigate the trees. They are all around you and unlike any you have ever seen. Silver-veined. Bent end over end, as though in genuflection. If you unraveled them, stretched them out from trunk to crown, you imagine they would soar to incredible heights.
And for a while, this is all there is—you and the trees, limbs knitting across the dappled sky. It’s not until shadows begin filling in the gaps of day that a peculiar realization steals over you: you’re no longer alone. Your first thought is of the dragon, that the beast has come to take you, too. But then the bushes tremble—panic pinches the breath out of you; you forget all about the blade by your side, all about the curse—and out comes a figure swathed in tattered gray.
You stare at her, she stares at you, and then, wordlessly, the two of you set off down the leaf-strewn path. There is still light left to see it. And the girl. When she is not looking, you sneak glances at her. Each time, you glean something new. A long, wispy curl. The glint of an eye, impossibly dark. It’s not much. But it’s enough for you to cobble together a mental image of her: quiet. Soft. But not quite so delicate. She reminds you of something, nothing you can put a finger on. Nothing you can, at this moment, name.
That night, sitting by a fire of your own making, you finally break the silence:
“Who did the dragon take from you?”
She looks at you. She looks at you, and you wonder whether you have made a grave miscalculation.
But then she says, “A girl. It’s always a girl.”
###
When morning arrives, you locate the path again. Sometimes, she falls behind, and it’s like you’ve grown a second shadow. Other times, she falls into step right beside you. It startles you, every time she speaks. Her voice is nothing like you first imagined it would be—like waiting for song, but receiving thunder instead.
Conversation between the two of you is few and far between. Just as well. This is your journey, after all, and you never really thought it could be shared. You never really wanted to share it, in the first place.
But when dusk settles, and your shadow grows long in the flickering flames of your campfire, you hesitate. As far as you can tell, she has not eaten all day. She looks at the hunk of bread in your hand. And keeps looking. Eventually, you break off a piece and offer it to her. She studies it for a moment, expression inscrutable, and the next thing you know, she’s disappeared into the trees, leaving you alone with the bread, already crumbling in your hand.
You watch the sky grow dark. And darker still. You should eat the bread; you’ll need every bit of strength you can muster, if you wish to stand a chance against the dragon. The only problem is your appetite has suddenly fled. Fled with her.
Find the girl; find your hunger. What a ridiculous notion. For whom is she to you? Your allegiance lies with your people, your elders, the sister you never knew. Yes—you owe nothing to this girl, nothing at all.
So why is it that your gaze keeps returning to the spot where the woods devoured her? Why is it that you find yourself itching to draw the blade you barely know how to wield?
You’re still at war with yourself when she returns—not empty-handed, as you assumed she would be, but clutching two dead rabbits between her fingers. They leave your stomach content, your hands oily with grease. The second night, you build a bigger fire; a third, and you grow accustomed to her disappearing act.
Then, one evening, she is gone for so long that your old concerns resurface. And you’re just rising, sword held at the ready, when the trees spit her back out.
In the aftermath of your feast, you curl up as close to the fire as you dare. Your hands still smell of meat. Somewhere in the distance, somewhere far from you, a dragon lies in wait. You’ll know when the beast draws near—this is how the curse goes. But for now—for now, your eyelids are heavy with sleep, and maybe this is what drives you to speak:
“I thought you weren’t coming back.”
“Do you wish for me to leave?”
“No.” You fight back a grin. “I’d miss your rabbits.”
She turns away, but not before you glimpse the sudden brightness in her eyes. You wonder if she understands; you wonder if she knows. That there was no war this time. That there was frighteningly little stopping you from going after her.
###
Counting the days as they pass is a pointless exercise; after all, you have no way of knowing how far these woods extend. But you can’t help it; you do it all the same. Here, under a constant canopy of silver-veined leaves, you can already feel the days melting together.
In a single, practiced motion, you reach for the hilt of your blade. It’s no longer so alien between your fingers; you can unsheathe your sword without looking now, even lunge without compromising your balance, and you’re struggling to sink the sharpened edge into an invisible opponent when she interrupts. Hands you the already smoking carcass of a rabbit.
You gnaw it down to the bone. You forget about the sword; you forget to be embarrassed. You are down to your last loaves of bread, and trudging endlessly down the trail, and teaching yourself how to move with a blade leaves you ravenous. Really, you have never known hunger like this before, the kind that grows and grows and grows, and you find yourself telling her so:
“I come from a land of plenty. No one is ever left wanting.”
Her eyes meet yours from the other side of the fire. “Have you never known famine?”
“No.”
“What about plagues?”
“They come, every now and then, but few die before their time.”
“And floods?”
“The rains that arrive every moon are as gentle as a kiss.”
“And war?”
“They exist only in legends.”
You wait for her to ask some more. But when only the crackle and pop of fire fills the vacuum of silence, you simply continue on.
“The other girls and I… we used to spend all afternoon picking berries, in the summer. I swear they’re sweeter even than honey. They positively explode on your tongue. I wish you could taste them.” You laugh, stare at your open palms, newly calloused, and remember the way they used to become sticky with juice. “There are none here—at least none like the kind I know. I’ve looked. But I fear the ones I’ve found are poisonous.” Your laughter turns brittle at the edges. “It’s a dangerous place, isn’t it, these woods? I suppose the fire should help. It’s meant to, anyway, and your rabbits are the only creatures I’ve seen all this time, so maybe it’s working.” You stoke the flames with a knobby twig, then glance at the pile of little, white bones by your feet. “I never learned how to hunt.”
“Why?”
“It’s not my place.”
In the hush that follows, you hear her take a breath, like she might say something. But then she keeps quiet. Another breath and silence. A third, and you lie down, close your eyes, pondering, all the while, the peculiar sensation blooming in your chest. It’s nothing you can name. Yet you feel it all the same: as if you hadn’t wanted her to give up. As if you had only wanted her to ask, Why?
###
You walk. You walk, and, finally, you are rewarded. One afternoon, you come across a spring, and thank the gods you do: there’s barely any water left in your canteen, and on top of that, you have not bathed in days. The water is cool in your throat, warm on your skin. Sitting by the bank, you can feel the sun on your back. Or maybe it’s her eyes. You turn, if only to transform that feeling into knowing, and find yourself counting, instead, the droplets of water pearling the red of her lips. She is the first to break the silence:
“What is that? On your left shoulder.”
There is no need for you to ask; you already know the answer. But you do so, anyway, and with a smile that rises, unbidden, to your lips:
“This?” Twisting around, you touch the freckled handprint marbling your pale skin. “I was born with it. A girl can never bear a blade, otherwise.” You wait. “It is a mark of the highest honor.” And wait. “The gods are sparing in their blessings, and yet they chose me.” And wait. “It means that I am destined for greatness.”
And keep waiting. But there is no flash of admiration in her eyes, slate dark unlike the blues you are so accustomed to, not even the faintest glimmer of curiosity. You feel the smile slip from your face. It should not sting. And yet it does.
When she speaks, she does so without looking your way. “Is that why your elders sent you here?”
You bristle at the implication behind the question. “I was not sent here.” As if an ox groomed to haul a wagon. As if a dog trained to beg. To heel.
But if she hears the venom in your voice, she gives no indication of it. “Were they not the ones to thrust a sword in your hands?”
“The elders had nothing to do with this. I took the sword in my hands. I spoke the vow to avenge my sister. It was my wish to come here—all mine.” Only now, gazing down at her, do you realize that, in your agitation, you have leapt to your feet. A strange, prickling sensation erupts beneath your skin, and you slump back down. “Is it not yours?”
But she is quiet. Her gaze, you notice, keeps drifting to the right. Your left.
You cannot explain how it feels. Or maybe you can: like something pooling in your chest, your lungs. And yet, nothing quite like drowning. Nothing quite so cold.
“You can touch it if you’d like,” you hear yourself say.
For a moment, she remains quite still. Then, slowly, she closes the distance between you. Her fingers travel the length of your shoulder before coming to a rest upon the curve of your neck.
“Yes,” she whispers. “It was my wish, too.”
###
Sometimes, when you dream, you can’t help but wonder whether it’s all real. To someone else, if not to you. Like that one sun-drenched morning when you wake up to laughter already dying in your ears.
It belongs to her, you’re sure of it. The girl you never knew. The one you could not save.
###
There’s something in your throat, nothing coughing will dislodge.
“You spent too long in the spring,” she proclaims as the two of you set off the next morning.
“No, you’ve got it all wrong. This only means we’re headed in the right direction.” At the perplexed look on her face, you cough out a laugh. “This is no ordinary sickness; this is the dragon’s curse. The closer we get to the beast, the faster this affliction will spread.” And the words are springing off your tongue before you can even think to stop them: “Did your elders tell you nothing?”
“No.” Her attention shifts—or maybe it’s just her eyes that move from you to the ground, and back again. “Not a whisper.”
And now you’re equal parts rage and indignation… and something else altogether. Because you can think of nothing worse than what those elders of hers have failed to do. And yet, how fortunate you are to know such love from yours.
“What is it?”
You look at her. Plant a smile on your face. And force it to bloom. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”
After dinner, the two of you settle on the same side of the fire. Her gaze flickers in the low light of the flames.
Can you show me how you hunt? The words linger on the tip of your tongue. Instead, you sigh and pull your knees up to your chin. You can tell, by now, when she has something on her mind, words swirling beneath the bronzed arch of her throat. It’s always a gamble, whether they might make it to her lips. This time, they do:
“What was your sister like?”
“I can’t say,” you reply with a shrug. “The dragon stole her before I was born. Horrible, isn’t it, to never have known your own sister? Or maybe not. Maybe you’d think it’s better to be spared the pain of knowing, of remembering. But sometimes… sometimes, I dream of someone—a girl—laughing. I think it’s her… It must be her.” You throw a branch into the fire. Sparks spit and fly and paint the night gold. “She must have looked like me.” And you stop, feeling, strangely, as though the words slipped past your teeth without you knowing.
But she latches on like a fish to a hook. “How can you know that?”
“Because sometimes,” you whisper, “when my mother looked at me, her eyes would fill with tears.”
Silence descends, and this time, unlike all others, you find yourself chafing at its raven wing.
“What was she like?” you ask, louder than you intend. “The one you lost.”
But her back is turned. She must be asleep. As quietly as you can, you lie down next to her. For you, sleep is slow to arrive, and when it does, you’re still thinking of her. Of how she reminds you of something. Of snow. (“Yes. We don’t get much of it, do we?”) Of something precious.
###
You wake up to sunlight filtering through the leaves and your clothes drenched in sweat.
“I’m fine. This is a good thing. This is how it’s meant to be.” All this you say before she can even utter a single word. Because she means to—you can see it in her eyes, in the sharp twitch of her lips. And then you hear it, too, hours later, when you’re struggling to hold your blade steady in the air:
“How will you fight in this state?”
You grit your teeth. “There is no how. I simply will.”
“Are you not afraid?”
“Of course not.”
“What if you die?”
“Then I will have died a death befitting one who bears this mark!”
In the hush that follows, it takes you far too long to realize that you’re simply watching her watch you. You turn away, but not before she tilts her head to one side and remarks, in an odd, toneless sort of voice, “You think I am a coward.”
No. Yes. “I only wonder why you ask such questions.”
She says nothing. You close your eyes. Because somehow, some way, it feels as though you heard her answer all the same.
###
Your condition worsens. And you hate the way she looks at you. Like watching you is the worst form of torment.
So look away.
“Is that what you want?”
You never meant to utter the thought aloud. But you did, which means they’re out there now, those words, that directive, hanging in the negative space between the two of you. It’s your turn to speak, you’re perfectly aware. The only problem is that you have never been able to leave a question unanswered. Never until now.
“We should go.” The words emerge from your throat in a half-rasp. Sometime in the night, your cough worsened, leaving your throat raw and tasting of metal. You lurch upright and force some bread between your teeth. “We’re wasting time.”
“You should rest.”
“No.” You never even noticed her hand on your wrist. But now that you have, it’s all you can feel. All you can do to jerk out of reach. “I can’t. Don’t you understand? We’re close now, we must be. It’s just as the elders promised; soon, you, too, will feel the dragon’s curse.” You trip over the words in your haste; you can barely draw breath enough to keep the world from spinning. Yet you can’t bring yourself to care. “We must hurry. We must find and slay the dragon before it’s too late.”
You wait for her to speak. To protest. Instead, she turns and starts back down the path, leaving you watching, staring. Almost wishing that she had. Almost.
That evening, you can barely feel the fire’s warmth.
“Promise me,” you whisper through chattering teeth. “Promise me you won’t find the dragon before I can.”
She places a hand on your cheek. “I promise.”
And you hate it, the way she looks at you. Like she’s lost you already.
###
Please, don’t cry. If you cry, then I’ll start crying. And if I start, then gods know if I’ll ever be able to stop. Mama, I’m telling you—I’m almost there; it’s almost over. So, please… For both our sakes, Mama—please… no more.
###
When you rise the next morning, the first thing you do is draw a finger through the remains of last night’s fire. She is already awake; she has been for some time—that much you can sense without even looking her way.
But she will not be ignored. When she speaks, her voice is piercing in the pre-dawn hush:
“Is it time to go?”
It’s okay, Mama.
You stagger to your feet and set off into the gathering mist.
It’s almost over.
###
There are trees. More trees. Fallen twigs. Dead leaves, the silver of their lifeblood leaking into the ground beneath your feet.
And then, in the midst of it all, there are tracks. A tremor wracks your body, leaving you blinking away stars, wondering if the curse has warped your vision, too. But no—you drop to your knees and inspect the imprints, larger than any you have ever laid eyes on, and push aside the voice in your head that urges you to remain as you are. To never rise again.
“It’s here.”
And your heart is slamming against your throat, and you’re stumbling off the path and crashing into the undergrowth, and everywhere you step, branches lash out at you, and this is certainly all in your head, but it’s as though the trees are at war with themselves—
And then it ends. You’ve left the woods behind. Now, there is nothing but you and her and the grass below and the ash above.
“We’ve done it.” Laughter whistles out from between your cracked lips. “For a moment there I didn’t think I’d… Never mind. None of that matters, not anymore.” You suck in a sharp, rattling breath. “We need to be ready. Any second now, the dragon will return, which means we’ll only have this one chance to make things right, to… to…”
To what? Because this whole time, you have been fumbling for your sword.
But she has not budged. No, not even an inch. Your hand falls to your side, the other side, and then the words come crawling up your ravaged throat:
“Who did the dragon take from you?”
And at last, she speaks: “They told you your destiny, strapped a sword to your belt.”
“Who did the dragon take from you?”
“But what does that matter when, all your life, they’ve forbidden you from wielding it?”
Silence falls. And then someone laughs. Not her. You. “Of course.” You reach for the hilt of your sword. “You’ve been poisoning me this whole time, haven’t you?”
“There’s a reason you never asked me to show you how I hunt. There’s—”
“—a dragon in these woods. A monster—”
“—of your people’s own making.”
“My people?” You pull your blade free of its sheath, metal gleaming in the bloodied light of dusk. “You’re the one who stole my sister!”
“And yet you don’t believe that I’m capable of such a thing.”
Silence again. She takes a step forward. You take a step back. Something flickers in her obsidian eyes—something bright and devastating.
“What is the life of a girl worth to your elders?” she whispers. “A century of bountiful harvests? A decade without pestilence? A retinue of sons to carry on their name?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You see it,” she breathes. “Tell me you understand.”
A girl… “I don’t know what you mean.”
“That your people, long ago, forged a pact with some cruel god.”
It’s always a girl. “No… no…”
“That your elders, in making a monster of me, sought only to give their daughters purpose in death.”
It’s just as they promised… “They would never.”
“That your elders, in sending you to me, wished only to wash their hands of guilt.”
The sword trembles in your grip. “Don’t.”
“That your elders, in all their cowardice, could not even grant you the dignity of truth.”
I’m almost there… You close your eyes—
“That it was never the dead for whom your mother weeps.”
It’s almost over.
“That there is a curse. But it was never mine to give. Never mine to bear.”
—and let the sword slip from your grasp.
In the hush that follows, you open your eyes and find yourself peering up at her. You never even felt your knees give out, never even heard her close the distance. But she isn’t done here. No—as you watch, she bends, picks up your blade. And holds it out.
“Go on, then.” And her voice is like a clap of thunder. “Take it. Why else have you come all this way? Why else but to perish with a sword in your hands? To break between my fangs? Because you will.” A tear, silver-veined, slips from the corner of her eye. “They always do.”
And now it’s your turn to speak. To move. To prove her right. Your vision flickers at the edges; something warm bubbles up your throat, leaving it tasting of metal. You run your fingers through the falling ash. Not all of it is gray. Some of it is white. Like snow. And you hear yourself say, “Ask me what I wish for.”
“Haven’t you been listening?” A bark of laughter careens across the plain. “Despite everything, I know what you want.”
“Ask me what I wish for.” Slowly, you lift your gaze. “Please.”
And there isn’t even a hint of laughter left on her face. She looks away; she won’t speak, either. You know her well enough now to understand when she has something to say. And when silence will be all that you receive.
No matter. With trembling hands, you open up your pack, scoop out the last of your bread. And hold it out. She doesn’t mean to, doesn’t want to, but she’s looking at you now. She’s looking at you, and you wonder whether you have made a grave miscalculation.
No matter. Your vision blurs; something wet rolls down your cheek. And there she is, as your world fades into oblivion—the trees caving in, swallowing her whole.
###
Sometimes, when you dream, you can’t help but wonder whether it’s all real. To you, if not to someone else. Like that one gray dawn when you wake up to your name in her mouth.
It belongs to her, you’re sure of it. The girl. The dragon. The beast.
###
You open your eyes. You have never seen the moon like this before. Nor the night. Yes—you have endured nights far darker than this, and the moon burnished as a coin. Perhaps, it will rain, wash away the moon and the stars. But the ash—that much will remain, you are sure of it.
A breeze sweeps past your cheek on its journey elsewhere; some quiet sort of sweetness lingers in the air. When you are not looking, she lays the dead rabbits at your feet. When you are—well, maybe this is what drives you, at last, to say:
“I thought you weren’t coming back.”
But she is quiet, quiet for so long that you fear she will never speak again. Then:
“Do you wish for me to leave?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
And her eyes are as slate dark as ever, and she is nothing quite so delicate, and in the silence that follows, you do what you should have done a long, long time ago: you reach for her. “Haven’t you been listening?” And stifle your laughter against the fanged curve of her jaw. “Show me how we hunt.”
