The Salting of the Pig
Trigger Warning: This story contains drug use, abusive dynamics, mentions of sexual violence, and graphic nudity. All topics are respected in text and comments disrespecting said topics will be deleted without discussion.
She stands atop the foggy lip of the bluff like a lonesome shipwreck, eyes cutting a warm light through the mist. The bottoms of her boots have long since gone cold. Yelrie takes a final look down the craggy stairs etched into the ribs of the rock, blinks, and turns on a chilly heel back inland. Malka sits cradled atop the thigh of her husband, Lachie, warm eyes grinning, and Yelrie can’t help but drift back to her. Malka rises off Lachie's thigh and wraps her thin arms about Yelrie's waist, locking herself in by the wrists.
“Must I leave you behind?” asks Yelrie in a thick whine, holding Malka in her arms.
Malka hums at her gently and rocks them. “Returning will be all the better. See?” Malka sways a pale arm out toward the shrouded, slumbering sea. “We will all be waiting for your return. And we will swim when the sun breaks and run on the beach—just us. And I will tell you of our lakemoon!”
“Well, perhaps not everything this time,” Lachie says from his seat.
“Perhaps not everything!” Malka repeats without a glance toward her husband. Yelrie brings her back into a tight-armed hug and closes her eyes. The fog breathes cold over her arms and face and she takes in a slow lungful, lets it breathe into her body and chill her from the inside out. A high chirp from Malka takes her out of the fog and back into her arms, Yelrie squeezing Malka one final time before parting away.
“It should not be long. I should be back before the moon wanes,” says Yelrie, the back of her throat tightening midway.
Malka smiles, leans in, and kisses Yelrie's cheek. "You are smart, friend. Please, do not forget what you are."
She departs sooner than she hoped, offering her final goodbye to Malka and Lachie as they wish farewell.
"Be safe!" Lachie calls when Yelrie is just reaching the inland edge of the bluff. "Do not let the cuckold take charge!"
Yelrie smiles mischievously and chuckles to herself, knowing well how easily voices traveled near the shoreline. As Yelrie begins the winding way down, her eyes catch glimpse of Brinus far below, sunning himself in what appears to be silence. Allowing herself some time, she stops to scratch an adventuring hound clambering up the stone steps. The dog pauses to give an open-mouthed, panting grin, brown eyes creasing like warm, little sunsets. Yelrie cradles her jowls while planting a smothering layer of kisses over the hound's brow.
“What a good girl—“
“Yelrie! I know you are petting that hound I saw come by,” Brinus’ voice reaches over the lip of the rocks. Yelrie gives a parting kiss on the hound’s head and ushers her off, finding Brinus still poised atop a warm rock at the crossroads.
“Finished?” asks the dragon as his eyelids flick back, pale gaze vaguely centering on her. He is a mountain of sea-pink scales crested with a metallic sheen, glistening in the sun like a beacon of strength. The way he proudly holds his head so high, mane catching the wind and tossing about his snake-like head—Yelrie rolls her eyes at the mere thought. She leans against the rock and folds her arms, idly squinting at the stone statues of Saint Paisley casting their tall shadows into the distance.
“I suppose so."
Brinus claps a clawed hand out from beneath his chest and heaves his front legs out from beneath his bowing chest. “Do not feel heavy,” he encourages. “It will be quick.” Yelrie offers a bleak hum of acknowledgment before following him further inland.
As the road thins and the wild claims its edges, Brinus takes her atop his shoulders and climbs up the sheer-faced mountainsides, high up where Yelrie can see the sea lapping warmly against the white beach and Saint Paisley as she holds a solemn-faced farewell. She sees the little houses on the bluff where Malka and Lachie live and the sprawling city climbing out from beneath the treetops—all of it slipping further and further away with each of Brinus’ bounds.
The jungle, ever-hemming itself along the cliff’s edges, whips across the fabric over her shins and her legs clamp down on either side of the dragon’s shoulders. Brinus makes a low noise of distaste as she sweats into his cold mane. They travel in silence across the rugged, green hills and the yawning gulches, Brinus climbing ever higher, until Yelrie sees nothing more than swimming green and blue and her eyes stare distantly into the dragon’s cloudy fur.
It isn’t often she leaves the foggy bluffs beside the sea, where the sand goes cold beneath her feet and the foamy waves crest throughout the night like thundering horses. It isn’t often she wanders out beyond into the unknown, where she wonders of Malka and of Lachie and their unborn child, where she worries her return will not be greeted as lovingly as the last. Each time she returns she gathers blood, leaves a trail of it behind her in ghostly, unforeseen footsteps that follow her down the beach. When she leaves, Yelrie is scared there will be no one to greet her when she comes home—or no one willing to.
This departure is no different from the rest. Yelrie feels the burden saddling itself upon her shoulders with each step Brinus takes, her sanctuary fleeing far behind them until there is nothing left for her to see.
Their first nightfall arrives slowly, the little village up ahead hanging as a lure. The inn lights up the night like a ghostly temple, clouded with low voices and laughter, the smell of dried meats and fresh-cut fish gracing Yelrie’s nose. Brinus picks up speed beneath her, excitement evident in his low, labored grunts. They bound across the farmland like silent spirits toward the crossroads, Brinus gliding at times with his arms tucked tight beneath his snaking body, just high enough off the ground for the grass to flicker beneath the heels of her boots. Yelrie relishes these soft, intimate moments when the world is asleep around them—quiet gods in a quiet world. The sounds of the sleeping hamlet rouse her attention forward and Yelrie leans to the side to get a better view around Brinus’ mane. The soldiers stationed at the crossroads watch their approach, torches casting a glistening light across the curves of their armor. As Brinus draws nearer, he slows. “Saint Yelrie!” the soldier on the left announces them, bowing his head as Brinus’ heaving figure traipses by. Swinging herself off his back, Yelrie lands with a dull thud before the soldier. “We seek accommodations,” she asks after their shared greetings. “Will Sir Brinus be joining you?” The dragon tosses his head to eye the little soldier, tongue flicking out to catch his scent. “If the inn does not reach above me, a barn will do.” The soldiers look about with hesitancy. “The horses have been stabled. We do not wish for Sir Brinus to be kick—“ “Horses mind him not,” Yelrie assures. They nod and direct her down past the glowing inn, where she can see a group of travelers watching their every move in curious wonder. Brinus cuts a thick line down the right side of the road, shadow looming over the open windows like a monstrous beast. The crowd up ahead flee inside the inn as they draw closer and slam the doors behind. Brinus gives a snort at the sight. Yelrie keeps her eyes low. The barn is further than the soldier claimed and they walk for a time in silence, eyes scouring the night for a sign or scent of livestock. “Right,” Brinus instructs from somewhere above her, Yelrie hearing the telltale flick of his tongue. “I can smell it.” “So close,” Yelrie whispers, lips curling near the edges. “The taste of horse shit on the wind.” Brinus purrs out a laugh and repeats her words in an airy, joking voice. “You will taste the horse shit and you will know you have arrived.” They laugh with humble relief, Yelrie pushing open the barn’s door with some help from the dragon. The horses sigh and shift amidst the darkness within, unbothered by or uncaring of their entrance. Toward the back is a pile of tossed hay spread out on the floor. Yelrie can see afterbirth congealing in a bucket off to the side. Brinus offers a throaty laugh and sizes himself beside the stables. “And you would have me wear this,” the dragon mutters, nosing the slick leather of a saddle hanging off the wall. Shutting the barn door behind them, Yelrie wanders past the horses to the open space on the floor, kicking at the hay and spreading it out over the dirt for them. Brinus takes in a dramatic sigh and falls atop the scattered pieces of hay, the sound of his body hitting the floor seemingly shaking the barn’s hinges. “I am pregnant, Saint Yelrie . . . “ Brinus whispers in a pained voice, grinning despite himself. Yelrie smacks at his stomach. “No, dear. You are just fat,” she answers. “Oh! She kicks!” Brinus rolls onto his back and tucks his arms against his chest, neck curling to settle on the opposite side of Yelrie’s lap. Looking down, Yelrie sends the lopsided dragon an exasperated stare. “We must call for Mistress Hilde—“ “Too far,” Yelrie bites out. “That is not funny.” Brinus rights himself onto his stomach, mane catching the loose strands of hay and tossing them onto her. “You are no fun.” “And you are cruel.” Yelrie lies down in the hay with her back to him, hearing Brinus take a deep breath behind her. After a few moments, she hears the dragon shifting across the dirt and sees his head coil into view, just long enough to reach above and around to stare with wide, white eyes. “I am sorry.” “No, you are not.” Yelrie hears raindrops on the roof of the barn, head tilting to see if there are leaks. “Why does it upset you so?” Yelrie looks back at Brinus. Her face pinches together in the middle and rage tears the edges of her mouth up. “Why does it upset me? Why does it upset me that you are laughing over death?” Brinus rears his head up from the floor. “You always do this. You always act as if I am some monster.” “And?” Brinus’ eyes narrow. “Why not laugh! We are killing a murderous cunt. You should rejoice.” “We do not know that.” Yelrie stands before he has time to argue, stomping away toward the barn doors and shoving them open a crack. The wind blows rain into her face and cools off her heated skin, eyes staring out into the storm. The village outside no longer hums with life; instead, little wet houses enclose tiny flames of dying light. Yelrie feels another whip of water mist her eyes and she blinks. She waits until she is too cold to stay beside the doors, shutting them once again and slowly cutting her way down the line of nickering horses. They stare at her with wide black eyes and Yelrie can’t help but feel judged. Upon the hay, the bucket of blood and mess now catches drops of water falling from the roof. Brinus is turned away from her, coiled in a tight ball around himself. Yelrie settles beside him and gently rests her back against his body. “I am sorry,” she says, more so to bring Brinus’ eyes back to her than to ask forgiveness. The dragon flicks his tongue at her. “It is fine. I know you are tired.” It is quiet for a time, Yelrie listening to the sounds of the horses. “May I touch you?” she asks Brinus. Slowly, the dragon lowers his nose to hers, eyes briefly meeting hers before slipping shut. “You may touch me.” Her hands glide sheepishly over the musculature of Brinus’ neck, feeling every curve of every scale, flinching with each and every breath. In that moment, Yelrie feels close to his heart—wherever in him it may be. It is only minutes later that she realizes he is looking at her. Yelrie lifts her palms to cradle his jaw. The rain pounds against the roof like hoofbeats, thrumming low inside her hollow chest. Brinus’ gaze humbles her insides into wet sand. She feels she has lived the life of a gravestone, to be looked upon only in recognition of grief. But when Brinus looks at her, she feels alive. “I do not touch people often,” Yelrie whispers; a frightened, apologetic thing. Brinus hums beneath her fingertips, the vibration running up the flesh of her wrists. “People do not touch me.” Brinus’ eyelids flick back and he looks at her in a thoughtful way. Yelrie sucks in a tight breath through her nose. “You are a good person, Yelrie,” Brinus says beneath the pounding of the rain. Despite his words, he sounds as if he is mourning. “I do not want for you to suffer.” Yelrie stretches herself to meet their foreheads. There is nothing left inside her to speak, so they sit in a sanctuary of silence until sleep overcomes her.
She has no time to awaken before a voice is yelling within the barn. The sound of horses stumbling in their stalls overshadows heavy footsteps, Yelrie’s golden eyes tearing open as a hand grabs hold of her hood. The air in her throat catches when she’s yanked up from the floor. “Out! Out of my barn!” the farmer shouts and shoves her toward the doors. “Get out of my barn!” Brinus lets out a terrible snarl, Yelrie looking back to see the insides of his mouth as it hangs open. “Out! Get out!” Yelrie is up and running for the door in a blind panic before she thinks to call Brinus, shoving through the narrow opening left between them and slipping in the mud. Her body hits the ground and rattles the air free from her lungs, shoulder slapping down hard enough to leave her in a brief daze. “Saint Yelrie!” Yelrie looks up to see the soldier from the night before reaching out to help her up. Behind them, she hears Brinus’ heavy feet as they stumble about inside the barn. The farmer is still screaming. “Brinus!” she shouts. The dragon bursts through the doors with steady hop, missing the mud and instead landing in the scattering crowd. A few shout out of fear, but Brinus turns away from them and looks upon Yelrie and the soldier. Instinctually, his neck twists in preparation to strike. “Stop!” Yelrie commands him. The soldier takes in a sharp breath as if he’s been holding it, relief flooding his face. When the farmer finally steps out from the barn, the soldier is already gripping at his sword. “What is this? To wish harm on a daughter of Ruuben?” Yelrie wipes mud from her arm as she glowers toward the barn’s owner. He scowls back, spitting something thick at her feet. She doesn’t see the fist before the blow hits her cheek, bone hitting bone, and Yelrie stumbles back to the ground with the force. Pain rattles through her teeth and up into her head; a javelin through one ear and out the other. “You and your serpent are nothing but butchers!” The farmer shrieks over her stunned figure, knuckles reddening with fresh bruises. “Murderers!” The soldier forces him away hard enough to make the farmer stumble, shouting for him to stand down. There’s a crowd surrounding them, faces blanched in horror at the sight. Yelrie has just enough sense left to raise her left hand and ball it into a fist. The movement has the crowd staggering back, the farmer’s eyes burning wicked tunnels into her before Brinus’ jaw overshadows them. His serpentine body hangs in the air like tapestry before beginning to spin, coiling wickedly with his teeth firmly closed overtop the farmer’s shoulders. There’s a sickening sequence of cracks and the villagers scatter like rats, the soldier fleeing after dropping his sword with a whimper of fear. Yelrie drags herself up from the mud, lifts a cautious hand to her pulsing face, and lets out a stuttering sob. The screams drown out her own, Brinus’ writhing shadow forcing her to witness his movement even while turned away. By the time she has settled herself, Brinus is waiting beside her with patient eyes, a lump slowly making its way down the curves of his throat. “Let us move on, Yelrie,” he whispers to her. She obeys with little more than a nod, and then they are off once more into the wilds.
They travel in near silence for two more days, surviving off the jokes and grunts shared between them. When the land goes flat on its stomach and colors blossom into view, Yelrie feels her body awaken from its dreamlike fatigue. “Thieves’ Rise?” Brinus opens his mouth but hesitates a brief moment. “Well, yes. Almost.” “The village?” Pale eyes glance back at her through the mess of fur, Brinus making a sticky, indecisive sound. Yelrie hums back. They discuss the beauty of the meadows and the shadowed face of Thieves’ Rise as it spears the red, stretching clouds. Its intimidating gaze goes cold when the hungry mountains swallow up the sun once again and cast the world into twilight. Yelrie admires the illustrious, metallic sheen the moon casts across Brinus’ muscled body, pearly scales bending and folding like silk underwater. The mountains eventually heave themselves up in waves of black trees, blacker than the space between the stars and casting rugged shadows against the low hanging clouds. Yelrie’s gilded eyes follow a bright patch of flowers to a sun-washed, wooden post. Carved into the front is an arrow, moonblossom vines wrapped about the wooden trunk. “Pretty,” Brinus says as he grazes his snout along the trail marker’s edge. “Haunting,” Yelrie corrects. “I meant the flowers, mostly.” Yelrie snorts. "Poison, you mean." Brinus eyes the arrow and flicks out his tongue to swat at one of the flowers. “Should be close, now.” The trek up to Saint Hildelith’s temple leaves them in pitch black, the moon’s bright face obscured by silvery, gossamer clouds. Brinus misses his footing every now and then, Yelrie eventually slipping down from his back to walk alongside him. In the dark, away from the city, he looks like a monster and she reaches out to take a handful of cold fur. Brinus’ large snout swivels in her direction only a moment, then sternly veers forward. “Do you miss Malka?” he asks against the somber choir of frogs. “I do.” “Mm,” Brinus hums. “I am happy you have such a close friend waiting for you.” Yelrie’s bright eyes flick upwards to the dragon, their cores firing a gold halo around her bloated pupils. His face is obscured only by low-hanging leaves, his milky eyes looming over like little moons. “Thank you, Brinus.” “No need,” says the dragon. “I am not always so terrible.” Yelrie holds a pregnant pause and bites at the insides of her cheeks. “You are not terrible.” Brinus purrs like a hungry cat. “Thank you, Yelrie.” A light hangs in the distance, shrouding two tall, imposing men stationed beside a glowing tapestry of moonblossoms. “Sir Brinus and Saint Yelrie!” They shout in muddled unison. “Yes,” Yelrie replies into the darkness. “We apologize for our late arrival.” The final steps feel as if she’s wading through mountains and Brinus silently encourages her back onto his shoulders. The dragon stalks past the spearman with little more than a succinct greeting and asks for the closest bedding. In the pit of her stomach, a coal glows hot with relief. Closing her eyes, Yelrie focuses on the sway of Brinus’ body as he winds a path into the village. They ignore the awakened crowd of curious children standing sleepily in their doorways. Yelrie sees their little faces go white as Brinus lumbers by. “Uh, yes—Saint Yelrie?” Yelrie leans back from her slumped position against the curve of Brinus’ soft neck and looks down at the spearman keeping pace beside them. “We are a very small village. Travelers do not usually stay with—“ “We are staying here,” Brinus cuts the man off. The spearman stands there for a second with knitted brows but hangs close by the dragon’s shoulder. Yelrie waits patiently for him to speak, twisting herself to better face him. “We are ordered to be here just as you are, soldier,” she says when the silence becomes inevitable. The soldiers take their time to answer. “Yes, Saint Yelrie.” With that, the two men guide Brinus across the cliff’s edging, a small house settled near an overgrown offshoot glowing faintly in the night. Even from a distance, Yelrie can smell the goats. Out behind the little house is an herb shed, spacious with a latch opening in the roof. Brinus sizes himself beside its dingy ribs. “This will be fine. May the mistress remove her belongings?” “No need!” a pregnant woman excitedly shouts from the house, hand waving and reaching out to them from a fire-lit window. Yelrie waves back before Brinus coils his way inside. Immediately is Yelrie’s face swiped by a hanging cluster of garlic. “Shit,” she hisses and haphazardly slips from Brinus’ back to the ground. “This is not good.” “It is not bad,” Brinus says quietly, stooping to avoid banging his hefty skull against a hanging fern. His long body weaves a tight coil on the dirt floor, Brinus watching a pot slowly tilt to the side as he hesitantly takes a needed breath. Yelrie stretches over his thigh and thumps against his left shoulder, tugging his mane for him to hurry and drop his head down. Brinus immediately yanks back and away from her touch. Surprised, Yelrie makes a confused noise. “What is wrong?” “Stop. You are annoying,” Brinus growls. “Oh.” There’s a tinge of embarrassment on the end of her breath. She takes her hands back and settles out on her back after spreading some bedding out from their pack. Staring through the opening in the roof, Yelrie listens to the rhythmic sound of Brinus’ heavy breaths. “Brinus?” Yelrie turns head head to meet the dragon’s eyes when they peel open. “Have you thought about this at all?” “Thought about what?” Yelrie conducts her hands aimlessly over her chest. “This. What we are doing.” “It is not my job to think. I do as I am told.” Yelrie grimaces. Brinus shuffles himself closer, close enough that his breath grazes her temple. “You think too much. You should think of thinking less.” “I should think of thinking less?” Yelrie asks with a chuckle. Brinus purrs low in his throat. “You should think of thinking less. You will think less that way.” Yelrie laughs quietly at Brinus’ words in the shadows of the shed, the flickering of lightning bugs catching her attention every so often; little ghosts haunting the herbs. “Brinus?” “Yes?” Yelrie bites down hard on her lower lip when it shivers beyond her will. Her mouth parts to speak, but instead does the woman inhale a crumbling lungful of air. She can feel Brinus watching her, waiting, never one to interrupt her weeping. Much like a statue, Brinus’ comfort came from beyond himself; cold and solid and forever distant, forever indifferent to Yelrie. “Do you think the farmer was right?” Brinus’ eyes make a sticky sound as they blink. “Who?” “The farmer,” Yelrie repeats, voice harsh. “The man you killed.” “You commanded me to." Yelrie's fingernails glow from underneath; the smell of burning skin and rosemary films the air like sheer oil. Brinus's mouth opens just enough for a cold fog to drift out. "Are you a beast, or are you a man? Do you not think?" “Yelrie.” Brinus’ voice is cold steel and she tenses. “Enough of this talk. You do not care what a farmer says, so close your mouth." Yelrie can’t cut him off before she begins to cry. Her tears seem to spark further discomfort in Brinus. His chin tucks close against his mane before he leans over her shivering body. Yelrie reaches up to hug his thick neck, hot cheeks cooled by his icy scales. They settle like that for what feels like centuries, Yelrie weeping into Brinus’ shimmering, uncaring hide, crying like a babe for its jaded mother. She feels small, small like the fireflies banging helplessly into the glass ceiling, small like the stars that twinkle and jeer just beyond. “I am sorry,” Yelrie whines around a mouthful of spit. “I am so sorry—“ “It is fine,” Brinus hushes her.
She stands on the foggy cliffside once again, the wind cooling her wetted scalp. The sea is flat, bosom heaving with white-crested waves—the body of Ruuben, one with the earth. The fog is so thick; Yelrie can barely make out the body of someone descending from the sky covered in starlight. They descend like a ship set to sail, cutting through the fog toward her with torches in the eyes. Yelrie steps further to the edge and grips the rocks with her toes, arms spreading out wide to envelope the wind-faring figure. She is a giant of the new world, a daughter of Empress Ruuben; her hair is fine wine covering her face and a man wraps about her. Yelrie knows they are of one body. “Do you like to feast on the flesh of salted pigs?” the giantess asks as she drifts amidst the fog. “I do,” answers Yelrie. “I feast on salted pig.”
“Do you like to feast on the flesh of salted men?” asks the giantess.
Yelrie hesitates, but answers, “Yes, I feast on salted men.”
“Do you like to feast on the flesh of salted women?”
Yelrie begins to cry. The giantess raises a gilded hand and strikes her across the face. Yelrie’s head snaps to the left, the hollows of her eyes filling with thunder that echoes across the sea.
“You devour the innocent,” the giantess accuses. The torches in her eyes brighten and brighten. Yelrie’s eyelashes burn with blue tongues of flame and she weeps. Her eyelids close down, melt into one skin, so tightly sealed that she knows she will never see again.
“I cannot see,” Yelrie says. The world is black and cold and wet and fearful of her. She trembles at the edge of a deep, bottomless maw. Gilded fingernails pry into her mouth and spread her jaw snake-like. Yelrie feels like a clam, her throat coughing on a toothy pearl.
“Do you feast on the bones of your first teeth?”
Yelrie nods and coughs up another tooth.
“You will die a helpless child.”
Yelrie’s eyelids burst open and teeth pour out onto her toes. Yelrie bends forward to look and falls forward off the cliff’s edge. As she falls through the fog, the giantess above fading into the grey sky, she smells salted pigs.
The next time she opens her eyes the sky is crushed tangerines. Brinus’ head is beside hers, nostrils flaring when she shifts. The herb shed is filled with the light of the newborn sun, the soft scent of oregano and rosemary filling Yelrie’s senses. Reaching for her pack, she digs for her flower pouch and unwinds the ribbon holding it shut. A gift from Lachie during his and Malka’s wedding, a sticky clump of dreamroot nestles toward the bottom of the leather pouch, stench intermingling with the mound of thyme behind her. “This early?” asks Brinus in a tired voice. Yelrie shrugs off his comment and begins tearing the tiny clump apart. “How long have you been breathing that in?” “What does it matter?” she retorts, right hand balancing a hollowed stick while the other snaps a fire into existence. She feels Brinus’ eyes on her as she coughs from a hefty inhale. “I do not mean to pry. I am curious.” Yelrie offers him a defeated stare. “Since before I met you.” “Ah,” says Brinus. He lets the topic fall when Yelrie returns to fiddling with the contents of her pack. When she eventually finds it pointless to busy herself, Yelrie ushers for Brinus to get up and they depart from the herb shed together. “Saint Yelrie!” a woman’s voice calls from the edging of the cliffside, Brinus pausing beside her gait as a group of priestesses round the corner of the house. Yelrie stops moments after him, eyes narrowing. “We came to see if you were awake!” a blonde woman, presumably their lead, explains as she holds fistfuls of her dress in hand. The young women behind her all stare open-mouthed up at Brinus, whispering and laughing among themselves. Yelrie tugs her hood back over her head with a tinge of shame. “We are awake, yes. Sorry if we—“ “Come to the springs with us, Saint Yelrie!” one priestess interrupts. “Sir Brinus may come—if he, uhm, wants to!” Yelrie sends the dragon a curious look, who responds with an emotionless stare. “I would like a bath,” Brinus answers solemnly. The priestesses excitedly turn in on themselves and giggle in a way that causes Yelrie’s stomach to form a pit. Their hair is all chopped short and waved with seed oils, golden and brown curls shining in the morning sun. She idly daydreams of slicking back Brinus’ mane in the same fashion. “Come! Hildelith has been waiting to see you!” the oldest priestess explains and flicks a hand for them to follow. The temple sat overlooking the tiny village, much smaller in the sun’s glare and somehow somber without its nighttime glow. The Moonblossoms from the night before welcome Yelrie with tired, yellowed leaves and for a moment she wishes to be as they are. At the splitting sound of tambourines, something behind her eyes crackles with intensity, Brinus coming to a halt beside her and the group of priestesses. The village crowds further up the dirt pathway, flowers in-hand, spring-green branches wafting over what appears to be a mound of uprooted grass settled squarely in the center of the road. Her chest flutters in distress and a rock settles toward the back of her throat. Yelrie coughs in an attempt to dispel it, noticing Brinus’ milky eyes settling on her. His snout parts to speak, but whatever words can come from his mouth are swallowed by a loud uproar and tens of banging tambourines. “Oh, Saint Yelrie, you must meet the other Floweress!” “Yes! They will love your accent.” “It is so beautiful.”
The voices of the priestesses fade into a bleak obscurity. Suddenly, her body is no longer her own and she fathoms an unspeakable realization. Between the dancing legs of the villagers, Yelrie spots a bloated, purple man lying facedown in the dirt beneath the mound of grass and flowers. Yelrie inhales deeply, curiously, instinctually, but is instead overwhelmed by the harsh scent of herbs and morning mist. Then, as if beckoned out from beneath the mound, Yelrie sees the corpse heave a gasping breath. She feels her throat clench and she screams for something her body no longer delivers.
Brinus is upon her in seconds with sharp eyes and cold hands. “Yelrie?” he whispers, soon repeated again in fervency when Yelrie finds herself incapable of response. The backs of her eyes thunder when her skull comes down hard on the dirt.
“Saint Yelrie!”
Flat on her back, Brinus moving wildly above her in silent twilight, Yelrie sees herself on the ground from somewhere far away. For a moment, she is but a spectator to her humiliation, a quiet god in a quiet world; she is safe. And in that moment, as she looks down upon her own crying face, Yelrie feels nothing.
With a strong gust of wind, she’s back inside her eyes and blinks to wet them. “I am fine. I—“
“It is fine! I have you,” says Brinus as he scoops his thin front legs beneath her body and takes two heavy hops away from the crowd of priestesses and villagers. Yelrie coughs against his mane and pounds her palm upside the dragon’s neck. “I have you—“
“Un-have me!” Yelrie manages to shout around a mouthful of fur. Her backside thuds against the ground when the dragon drops her. Shifting himself, Brinus scuttles back and pensively hangs his large head over Yelrie’s. The woman takes a breath, dusts her palms against her clothes, and slowly rights herself.
The crowd of onlookers watches her with wide, curious eyes, having congregated not but a few feet behind Brinus’ hide in hushed captivation. Yelrie offers them all a stiff nod of reassurance.
“I have not eaten in some time,” she explains. Her eyes wander up the trail behind them but there is no mound or body. The road is empty save for scattered, worry-eyed villagers. One of the priestesses makes a soft laugh of relief, joined by a few more.
“We will fix that! Come! The temple is not far.”
With that, the women cling near to her side even after Yelrie’s bare feet grace the cold marble floors of Hildelith’s temple. The walls are etched with fine paintings of mountains, peaceful and embroidered with thin, gilded accents. Yelrie takes a moment to pause and stare up over the Herculean murals.
She sees the rugged, black cut that is Thieves’ Rise and her stomach knots itself. It looks like a curse blotting the sand-colored walls; a weight settles behind her eyes and she allows the women to lead her away. Mighty pillars stand sentry ahead before a smoke-filled room. Yelrie sees standing water reflecting across the floor, ripples disturbing a waving image of some open-mouthed swine etching the ceiling.
Hildelith is twice their size in height, her daunting figure overshadowing a smoking pot of glowing ashes as she steps out from behind the green drapery enshrining her seat. She sits atop the golden slab and brings her legs beneath her. The sound of bare feet causes Yelrie to glance over her shoulder; the priestesses retreat back down the hall in hushed steps, Brinus squinting at her from his position in front of the flower mural. His legs are stiff as tree trunks beneath the bow of his chest. Yelrie offers him a subtle nod and prays he sees.
”Saint Yelrie?” Hildelith’s soft voice beckons her.
Yelrie turns to face the giantess before bowing at the waist. ”Mistress Hildelith,” she answers. Hildelith shifts stiffly atop her throne and motions for her to come closer. Yelrie obeys and takes a stumbling step into the room.
”It is a drop.”
Yelrie looks up from her feet toward the woman, left eye winking away water. ”So it is.”
”You come with the dragon?”
Yelrie nods.
”I have not seen him for quite some time,” says Hildelith. ”I presume Empress Ruuben has spoken often of me?”
”She has spoken of you.”
Hildelith leans forward with a curious look. ”Am I not the reason you are here, Saint Yelrie?” The room is silent save for the muffled lapping of water against the rims of the floor. Yelrie idly rubs the bottoms of her feet back and forth and feels them slide. She nods. Hildelith takes a slow breath as she slips off the golden slab. ”Come."
The giantess encourages Yelrie to follow and she does without question. Behind the green curtains is a private bathhouse, lit only by soft light filtering through angled slabs of wood lining the open ceiling. Women stand within the steam, bodies reddened like ripe fruit. Glancing to her left, Yelrie meets Hildelith’s brown eyes far above her.
”My Floweress claim you requested to bathe. Might we speak whilst doing so?”
”Yes, Mistress.”
With that, Yelrie undresses and rolls her clothes into a ball before placing them on a dry ledge. The water burns her skin when she wades in, followed closely by Hildelith’s towering presence. The water forces itself around the women’s thighs like thickened sand as they wander out beneath the slit roofing. The pool stretches out over the valley she and Brinus traveled through, the snow-capped mountains of Balbura’s capital city caging the horizon with jagged white lips. Yelrie does not realize she is standing still in awe.
”Did you know,” begins Hildelith, ”that flowers can grow even atop the mountains?”
”Even in such cold?”
”Yes.” Hildelith seats herself at the far edge of the pool, Yelrie taking the position to her right atop a warm rock. Even at it's highest point, Hildelith is taller than she. ”They are even more beautiful than what we have inside the temple.”
Yelrie hums in thought and drops her chin into her palm. They both look out over the morning sun, watch the way the shadows grow and stretch away from its gaze. Yelrie looks over at the Floweress behind them. The women all stare back, watching their Mistress intently.
”Saint Yelrie?”
”Yes, Mistress?”
Hildelith's brown eyes do not meet Yelrie’s. Instead, she is quiet for a time and ponders something to herself. Yelrie takes the chance to look over the woman’s body. She is adorned with burn marks and scarring, the soaked silk wrapped about her hips fluttering on the water’s surface.
”We mean harm to no one. I mean harm to no one. Empress Ruuben has gifted us her protection for generations. I must ask: What have I done to deserve death?”
The question knocks the wind from her chest momentarily, Yelrie turning her head away from Hildelith’s stern eyes.
”You are . . . so young. I had expected her to send the serpent, but not a young woman.”
Something at the bottom of Yelrie’s jaw brings her teeth together with a dull crunch, a flicker of anger snapping in her stomach. “Women are no less dangerous than men.”
Hildelith’s eyes are on something far away, glossing callously over the misty valley. “Saint Yelrie, have you thought about this decision you are making?”
“I have.” Her voice doesn’t stumble over itself like her stomach does.
“Then you must understand all that we have overcome here—all that I have done to keep my people safe,” Hildelith says. “You must understand what happened here must never happen again. You must understand why we have become what we have become.”
The silence falls between them in heavy layers that bring Yelrie’s head low between her shoulders. Sulfur eyes flicker over the view as she finds somewhere to hide amidst the gold-tinged hillside. She hears Hildelith laugh to herself at her lack of response.
“Ah, Saint Yelrie. You and I are not so different. We both have become anew; it frightens us.” Hildelith turns back to the temple and Yelrie mimics her, peering into the steam at the Floweress chittering to each other. Through the haze, she sees their bodies are without scratch, unblemished and perfect beside Hildelith’s battered countenance. “Do not feel shame for what you must do, Saint Yelrie. Do not shame us for what we must do. Just as flowers do not choose their color, we do not choose who we become.”
Yelrie meets Hildelith’s eyes for the first time and she shudders. Bumps rise beneath the skin of her arms and thighs and she is overtaken by a fluid shiver. Hildelith rises from her seat and wades into the steam. Yelrie watches her leave in silence, frozen atop the rock she’s perched. The Floweress hush themselves as Hildelith passes them by, bowing their heads in respect. The little flowers weaved into their curls shiver in the wind that breathes down her wet spine. Yelrie rests her chin on her knee and turned her head away from the chittering priestesses, all of whom staring at her like a feral beast on display.
A woman from earlier sits along the lip of the bathhouse and looks toward Yelrie with shifty eyes. Young, insecure, she sits alone in a tiny ball, blond hair glistening in scattered rays of sunlight. For a moment, she reminds Yelrie of her younger self. A frown creases her face. She wills the memories away, forcing a smile when the young Floweress meets her eyes again. Stiffly rising from her seat, she wanders toward Yelrie and away from the other priestesses.
“Saint Yelrie, may I sit with you?” she asks in a small voice. Yelrie nods and pats the space beside her backside. Smiling, the priestess grabs hold and tugs herself up beside Yelrie, pulling her legs against her chest and wrapping her pink arms around her knees. “I wanted to tell you how much I admire your head! I had heard Deshreti were hairless, but I had not foreseen such beautiful faces.”
Yelrie self-consciously rubs her hand over her bare scalp before tugging casually at one ear. “Thank you. I have met few of the same mind.”
“Balburan men are fickle creatures,” the priestess says with a sigh, green eyes flickering to see Yelrie’s response.
“Men are fickle creatures,” answers Yelrie.
The priestess gives a breathy laugh. “Men do not see the beauty of women as women do. Do not listen to their whining; you are a beautiful creature.”
Yelrie offers the priestess a shy grin. “Thank you. What is your name?”
“Leia.”
“Leia,” Yelrie repeats.
Leia gives a reassuring nod, blond curls sticking flat to her head. “Yes! Your tongue says it so prettily.” Yelrie stretches one leg out and Leia follows suit, patting the fat of her thighs like drums. “Sorry! I have a fat tongue, ha; I am meaning to ask if you are well. We were so scared this morning—“
“Ah! No, I am fine. It is alright.”
“Are you certain?” Leia asks as her shoulders roll forward. “You looked as if you had seen a monster.” Her concerned eyes drift downward and Yelrie feels the bruise on her cheek thump with blood. Leia seems to have enough sense in her not to ask where it came from. Yelrie thanks Ruuben she doesn’t speak up.
“I am sorry you had to travel covered in mud. I will be cleaning them before the festival for you—if you would like?”
Yelrie smiles. “Yes, that would be lovely,” she says. “Are you a new priestess of Mistress Hildelith?”
Leia flushes. “Yes! And I am very happy to help you with whatever you may need.”
“I see.” Yelrie offers a hollow laugh. “Is that why they have given you this duty?”
“Which duty, Saint Yelrie?”
Yelrie’s mouth sours but she smiles nonetheless. “The duty of watching me.” Leia’s grin falters but holds steady, blue eyes squinting as she cocks her head to the side. Yelrie laughs, this time sincerely. “It is fine, dear. I know of my reputation.”
Leia’s hands raise before her stomach and her fingers tie an invisible, nervous string.
“Oh, I would never disrespect a Daughter of Empress Ruuben! Please, I meant only to help. I am the smallest. So are my duties to the temple and to our visitors. I mean no disrespect, Saint Yelrie.”
Yelrie offers her a reassuring smile, shaking her head to end the girl’s apologizing. “No need to fret, dear. I am fine. You are a sweet thing; how old are you?”
“Nineteen summers,” Leia chirps with a little smile. “I was crowned on the solstice to be a Floweress. I am forever grateful to Mistress Hildelith for allowing me entrance. She is a kindly woman.” They fall quiet as Yelrie waits for Leia to continue, lips thinning in a patient line. She was much too young to hear of her Mistress’ deeds—of the acts she would soon find herself committed to. A dreadful lump lodged itself near the back of her throat; she prays for Empress Ruuben to have mercy on her doubtful heart. “I am sorry. I have a fat tongue—“
Yelrie stops her with a hand on her cheek, brushing back an oily curl of blond hair. “You are much too hard on yourself. Why do you not tell me of your solstice? How proud you must have been.”
Leia takes a calming breath, nodding. “Yes, I was. It is not so different from the festival happening this evening. You will enjoy yourself, I assure you.”
“It will begin at sunset?”
“Mistress Hildelith knows when the sun will blink. She will tell Maria soon.”
Yelrie nods slowly as she chews on Leia’s words. “Mistress Hildelith knows when the sun will blink?”
“Oh, yes! Of course,” Leia says. “They are of one mind; I see no reason why she should not.”
“Does she see as Ruuben does?”
Leia falls quiet at her question. Yelrie grimaces and flounders inside her skull.
“I believe that she does. Is that not why you are here, Saint Yelrie?”
Yelrie hesitates. “Yes, it is why we are here.” At her response, Leia looks down and rubs the hair on her legs. Yelrie’s chest leaps upward on the inside. “We have come to uncover the beast responsible. Mistress Hildelith is not at fault; she has done more than enough for our people—our women and children.” Leia looks up at her then, face soft, unsure. “I do not place fault on your Mistress. She has yet to do wrong in my eyes.”
Leia’s mouth curls shyly at the corners. “Thank you, Saint Yelrie. Your blessing is—it is more than we ask for and we are thankful.” Yelrie exhales sharply as Leia hugs her suddenly, returning the gesture after recovering from her shock. A sudden shout quiets the low noise in the bathhouse and Yelrie turns to see Hildelith standing beside another Floweress in green. Leia leans her mouth closer to Yelrie’s ear and whispers, “That is Maria.”
“Maria?”
“Yes. She is our high priestess, the one I spoke of before.”
Yelrie nods her head and listens closer to what Maria is saying across the bathhouse, but the sound of the Floweress clapping overwhelms the small space. Leia quickly claps with them and Yelrie sends her a pining look.
“The festival!” exclaims Leia. “We will begin soon.”
“Ah,” says Yelrie. Nausea forms a pit in her gut and she hunches over herself suddenly.
“Come! You can walk with me if you would like, Saint Yelrie,” Leia offers before hopping down off the rock into the pool. Water whips up to splash Yelrie’s face, washing away the tears threatening to spill. “You may wear some of our robes, if you would not mind! I will return your clothes to you when they are cleaned.”
“Yes,” Yelrie assures as she slides down into the steaming pool. “That will be fine.”
Swallowing the fear in her throat, Yelrie follows Leia back through the bathhouse into the temple, avoiding the towering shadow of Hildelith standing sentry by the door like a grim, lonesome totem. Yelrie pretends she doesn’t see her.
Brinus is waiting for her near the flower mural, still as stone with his head cocked back to admire the ornate tapestry hanging from the ceiling. As she approaches, Yelrie takes notice of his wet mane.
“Did you get yourself a bath?” she asks the dragon, patting his chest in greeting.
“I found myself a little bird bath, yes,” Brinus purrs. Leia gives a bellowing laugh at the joke, Yelrie eyeing her only a second before brushing her discomfort off. As she walks pass Brinus, Yelrie hears Leia greet him herself with verbosity and Brinus repaying in kind. Yelrie swallows her anger as the three of them trail after the crowd of Floweress ahead of them, tambourines banging loudly down the trail to the village below. To Yelrie, the walk is much longer than necessary; sweat rolls down her back and she flinches each time, swatting at imaginary bugs like a horse in a cramped stable.
At the bottom of the trail, when the steep incline flattens out and her footing isn’t as uncertain, Yelrie takes notice of the large bonfire being built near the center of the village. The branches are covered in green moss, much too fresh to burn without making enough smoke to block the sky. Tilting her head up, Yelrie eyes the sun as best she can. It’s full still. She blinks away the blind spot that blurs the center of her vision when Brinus’ head blocks her view.
“Would Saint Yelrie be able to help us cook?” Leia says to her left. Yelrie squints but smiles nonetheless. Leia smiles back. “Would you consider showing us your clap?”
“I would not mind. Faster than using flint,” Yelrie concedes. She’s used to the interest by now, at the very least. Nevertheless, a certain part of her insides still shudders a loathsome way.
Leia squeals and brings a fist in front of her mouth. “Exciting! I am so excited! I wanted to say: You are the very first Saint to ever walk the Mistress’ temple!”
Yelrie’s attention fades away as Leia guides them to a painted house, barely avoiding stomping a chicken as she steps inside. “Shit—“
“Ah, I am sorry!” Leia says as she scoots the hens out with a gentle push. Yelrie stands with her back against the wall watching the girl flounder her way across the dirt floor.
“She let the chickens out again!” a girl’s voice booms from the kitchen.
“Leia did it!”
Yelrie watches in silent amusement as Leia continues to chase the chickens out the open back door. “I am so sorry!” she repeats when the hens are outside. Yelrie laughs and waves it off with a flick of her hand.
“I enjoy animals.”
“Saint Yelrie!” an older women says from the adjoining room, the ends of her clothes blackened by soot. Yelrie can see her black toenails just beneath the frayed ends of her dress.
“Saint Yelrie said she would help us cook,” Leia says to the older woman, who looks to Yelrie expectantly.
“Yes, I did say that,” she assures. She doesn’t know why the other women hound Leia, but she decides it is better not to pry. Behind the house, Yelrie spots Brinus as he toys with the hens in the grass. She sees the crowding villagers off behind the trees watching the dragon curiously. Yelrie leaves him be. She prays the attention is enough to satiate Brinus for the evening.
“We have the fireplace here, Saint Yelrie,” the older woman announces to gather her attention again. Yelrie wanders into the kitchen and stops at the lip of a small hole. Mossy branches and twigs fill the bottom up the rim, Yelrie looking up and realizing a small crowd has formed inside the kitchen, a dozen eyes waiting for her to act. She crouches and snaps a flame onto her finger. The villagers shout and clap, Leia hopping on the balls of her feet at the doorway.
At the corner of her vision, a broad man steps toward her out of the group, the first man she’s seen since arriving with Brinus the night before. Yelrie’s mouth closes in on itself and her chest flutters. The flame on her finger turns blue and scatters to fill her palm, back curving a beastly way. The villagers take a few steps back, the man’s face twisting sheepishly as he mimics them. As if on cue, Leia jumps forward to intervene.
“No need to fret! That is Marc.”
Yelrie stands up straight beside her. The flame in her palm sputters out with a dull fwump.
“I am sorry to have scared you,” Marc apologizes, Yelrie taking note of the spear resting in his left hand.
“It is alright,” she mutters, throat clenching stubbornly around the words. The kitchen falls silent during a pregnant pause. The sound of feet shuffling causes the muscles in her stomach to clench.
“Would Saint Yelrie prefer to sit outside for a moment?” Leia asks, hand already reaching to hold Yelrie’s. She accepts the gesture and allows herself to be led back through the house and out the back where Brinus spreads himself out across the ground. At their arrival, the dragon groggily lifts his head to greet her with a silent, slow wink. Yelrie curves the edge of her mouth up as best she can, looking over her shoulder toward the kitchen window to try and catch sight of Marc inside. The man is nowhere to be seen.
Leia’s fingers slip from her grasp as the priestess plops herself down on the grass near Brinus. She pats the space beside her with a shy grin and Yelrie settles close to her.
“I am sorry Marc frightened you,” Leia whispers to her as they watch the villagers scuttle about preparing for the festival. Yelrie looks out over the cliff side, gold eyes casting a distant stare over the sun-bleached rocks and spiked, green palms.
“I did not expect a man, is all,” she answers, hoping not to offend.
“No! No, it is fine; we understand. Mistress Hildelith has taught us well of men. You are safe here. The Boar eats the evil and leaves the good.”
Yelrie eyes her for a second at her comment, Brinus shifting behind them with a heavy, drawn-out sigh. She hasn’t heard of the Boar in years. It had become an entity of shadows and memories, smog taking the shape of a person only to be blown away in time.
“Have you seen it?”
Leia shakes her head. “No one sees it. Thieves’ Rise is forbidden to us.” Yelrie nods and picks idly at the grass. Every dull rip ripples between the rungs of her ribs, thumps the back of her tongue deep in her throat. Leia is quiet a moment. “The men of the village have dedicated themselves to Mistress Hildelith; I promise you, they will never harm you. Marc is . . . “ Yelrie glances at Leia as the Floweress trails off. There’s a glint in her blue eyes that reminds Yelrie of Malka. Her chest flutters with sorrow; how she misses her.
“He is your lover?”
Leia looks surprised, but conceded with a nod. “Yes.” The edges of her pink lips curl upward and she stares at something beyond Yelrie; a lover’s gaze. “He is a Rib Guard to Mistress Hildelith. I have been seeing him since last winter.”
Yelrie shifts her hips to face Leia and reclines on her hands. “Does your Mistress permit you seeing him?”
Leia’s head falls to her left shoulder and she takes a quick, deep sigh. Yelrie allows her to think for however long she needs.
“She would rather me be with a man who could give me children,” Leia says. “But she understands love very well.”
“He is sterile?”
“He is a Rib Guard, so he has been castrated.”
Yelrie can’t hide the subtle lift of her brows. “Castrated?”
Leia nods. “Rib Guards must be castrated. It is a show of reverence to our Mistress.”
“I see.” The words leave her mouth like slow-dripping sap. “I can understand that—with what she has been through.”
“Thank you,” Leia says. “Some do not think the same.”
Silence laps between them in a cresting wave.
“Some do not think at all,” Yelrie assures her. Leia thanks her with a small smile before her eyes widen in excitement. Suddenly, she’s up and running around Yelrie, who swishes herself around to see Leia rushing across the village to Marc. The priestess bounds up to him like a newborn foal; Yelrie feels empty even when watching the two kiss and whisper their greetings to one another. A thump sounds behind her.
“She is odd,” Brinus mutters to her after righting himself onto his stomach.
“She is kind,” Yelrie corrects him. The dragon gives a horse-like snort. “She is. You have not spoken enough with her.”
Brinus stretches out his neck, one eye pointing intently at Yelrie and making the woman hum in amusement. “Perhaps,” he admits.
“Perhaps,” repeats Yelrie. The dragon saddles himself closer to her and lays his skull over her thigh. Yelrie runs her fingers through his mane, enjoying the coolness and closing her eyes to listen to the tambourines. “We are leaving after the festival?”
“I should think so.”
“It would be nice to stay.”
Brinus works his jaw in thought; Yelrie feels his smooth scales slide against her robe. “There is more work waiting for us. We have not yet completed our work here, either.”
His words sound hollow despite their sincerity. Yelrie shakes her head dog-like when a bug gets too close to her ear. The noise of the festival starting is an overwhelming crescendo that throbs in the hollows of her eyes. Across the road, barely uncovered by the painted houses, Yelrie sees Leia and Marc clapping rhythmically alongside the villagers. Not a second later is Leia meeting her eyes, hands grabbing at her skirt before running back toward them.
“Saint Yelrie!” she breathily exclaims. “You must clap for our bonfire—please?” The last word is added in an airy pant, her hands clasping together before her chest. Yelrie waves off her pleading and nudges Brinus off her lap. Leia guides her toward the bonfire in the center of the village; she feels the eyes of each person centering in her in droves. She fumbles under their hulking gaze, toes digging a bit harder into the dirt with each step toward the bulk of green limbs.
Leia is beside her, close to her, holding her hand like a protective mother against the shield of prying eyes. When they both stand before the bonfire pile, she steps back to give Yelrie room, mouth set in a patient grin. Yelrie feels strength despite her fear. Her hands burst into flames.
When she grabs hold of the branches, the villagers shout and back up, banging their tambourines against the sides of their hips and wafting their hands upward. Thick, black smoke curls out beneath the pile of branches as Yelrie sets fire to the base. She coughs on the smog and hops back.
Behind her, having followed silently unbeknownst to Yelrie, Brinus takes a heaving breath and blows the flames upward, their orange teeth nipping into the sky. Turning to look at him over her shoulder, Yelrie’s smile fades at the look Brinus wears; stern, impending, and doomed. The villagers rejoice around them in blissful ignorance but as she looks at Brinus, Yelrie feels sorrow.
“Thank you, Saint Yelrie!” Leia interrupts them, grabbing hold of Yelrie’s hand once again and leading her back away from the dancing villagers. Yelrie watches their manic movements, watches the way the Floweress twirl ribbons of green silk around the encroaching form of Hildelith stepping out of her temple high above the village.
Between the plumes of black smoke, she looks like a monster and Yelrie turns away in horror.
Leia speaks to her but her voice is as distant as the ocean, as distant as Malka and Lachie and their foggy bluff overlooking the grey sea. Looking over her shoulders around the village, Yelrie grows sick at the sight of a gutted pig being piled atop the fire on iron rods. It’s eyes seemingly stare at her in waxy pain. Brinus mutters something into her ear that is carried away by the music and singing.
“Would you like to eat with us, Saint Yelrie?” Leia asks her in a near shout.
Yelrie shakes her head. “No, no, I do not eat pig.”
Leia looks toward Brinus with curious eyes. The dragon shrugs his head from side to side and says, “I do not eat unless Saint Yelrie eats.”
“Ah! That is understandable.” Leia’s face betrays her despite the attempt to hide her disappointment. Yelrie ignores her pining glance and looks back toward Hildelith and her Floweress. The villagers bow in reverence as she walks through the crowd, parts them like thick hair, her scarred body shimmering with sweat. Even behind the folds of her clothes can Yelrie see her muscles quivering. Brinus nudges her to look away before Hildelith has a chance to meet her gaze.
“You may rest behind the house, Saint Yelrie. There are few people who wander back there and you may have some privacy. I will tell the Floweress to allow you space?” Leia tells her when they are away from the crowd.
“Yes, that would be nice, Leia.”
The girl nods her head. “I will return with your clean clothes! I will be careful with your hood, I assure you!”
“Ah, it is an old skin. He has seen much worse,” Yelrie assures her, thinking thoughtfully of her tiger pelt. She’s quiet a small moment, eyes softening. “I would appreciate your gentleness with him.”
Leia smiles. “Of course, Saint Yelrie.”
Behind the house, Brinus noses at the hens as they peck at his paws, watching their movements in curious silence. Yelrie approaches him and the chickens rush away, round eyes darting at her intrusion.
“You are wearing their clothes, now?” Brinus sighs. “I have warned you before of getting attached.”
“Oh, quiet,” Yelrie growls and reclines against the curve of his belly. “They are cleaning my clothes.”
“Might as well get whatever help we can while they are still around,” says Brinus with a thoughtful tilt of his head. Yelrie glowers up at him, spotting a wicked grin smearing his snout. “Won’t be long now.”
Yelrie looks toward the house and the women inside. The body of a second, large pig rests dead in the center of the floor, gutted and ready to cook. Her eyes narrow, spotting what resembles moonblossoms stuffed within the hollowness of its stomach. Her thoughts come to a curious pause but before she can look harder a woman blocks her view, casting an array of salt and spices onto its wetted back.
“We will find food once this is over,” Brinus mutters in her ear, having leaned down to speak. Yelrie doesn’t bother looking back at him, eyelids falling to half-mast in realization. “Do not eat anything. There is not much time left.” Yelrie doesn’t answer him; instead, she crosses her legs and rolls her shoulders forward, picking thoughtfully at the grass.
“You keep uprooting it and there will be no grass left.”
“Where is my bag?” she asks him, barely avoiding interrupting him. Brinus curves his head back to search the ground for her, returning to her when he clutches her bag between his teeth. Yelrie snags at it and tears the top open quick enough to burn the ends of her fingertips. Brinus is quiet as she fumbles with her dreamroot clump.
“That will not help you.”
“Neither will you.”
The dragon huffs and his voice drops lower down his throat, biting out a succinct, “Who do you think will be killing her?” The comment has Yelrie desperately sucking in a lungful of smoke, the whites of her eyes reddening like a blossoming bruise. She is calm again and pats at his snout.
“Does not matter anymore,” Yelrie exhales. “When is the damn sun blinking.”
“Not much longer. Hildelith is out and about. I imagine she does not wander far from her little bathhouse.”
Yelrie sends him a cutting stare. The dragon meets it fearlessly, milky eyes close enough that she can see the fading outline of his slitted pupils; little moons above the sea under a gossamer cloud. The smoke inside her lungs fills her with gentle admiration and she leans close to touch their foreheads. Brinus, despite his previous bitterness, closes his eyes and nuzzles her hot skin.
“It will be over soon,” he assures. It does not subdue her fears like he may think it does.
They recline on the grass beside each other, Yelrie on her back with Brinus curled about her. The sky is bright like glass, burns her eyes and makes her tear up. As she closes them, she thinks of Brinus’ eyes and the moon, how the dragon feels so cold beside her even with her blistering heat. She thinks about how she is afraid and of the farmer on the road.
You and your serpent are nothing but butchers.
Looking toward Brinus, Yelrie wonders to herself if the farmer is right. But a butcher would not be beautiful, and Brinus—he is beautiful. His body like a shimmering crystal in the sun, cold as snow and eyes of white ice. The Lion of Lothil; a serpent of the isles; such a beautiful creature made of blood and scales and teeth, created to devour. Yelrie reaches out to touch him. He stares at her as if she is dreaming.
With a high-pitched shout, Yelrie's focus is drawn back toward the bonfire and the villagers crowding around it. Just above their heads, Yelrie sees the green tapestry dancing in snaking circles, waves cresting around the hips of Hildelith as the giantess stands staring upward in silence. Head falling back, Yelrie can't manage to open her eyes against the sun's light, looking back at Hildelith after a tight blink. The center of her vision is blackened and she can barely make out the giantess, but the sudden noise from the villagers alerts her to their excitement.
Another lungful of smoke and the sky turns radish-red. Yelrie looks up again and sees its eyelid closing down, folding over, blotting out the light with each passing second. A curdled shout gathers her attention forward with a sluggish jerk of her head. The grass is red like the sky, her dark legs sticky and hot and dripping with bile she did not recognize. Leia stands over her with her hands clapped over her mouth. Chunks of vomit spill out the edges and smear her purpled face. Yelrie can’t help but stare up at her with smoggy indifference.
The dying sunlight crowns Leia like a god, then she collapses forward onto the ground, her nose cracking against the dirt. Brinus is a mass of lavender and pearls leaping overhead. His knee catches the back of her skull and snaps her head forward so hard her chin hits her sternum. Yelrie tastes blood as her teeth sink into the flesh of her tongue, drooling pink saliva onto the tops of her thighs where Brinus’ head once rested.
The world is swallowed in a beastly howl that echoes out from the valley below, carried on the wind from everywhere, anywhere; the air suddenly becomes a choir that vibrates inside of her teeth. Yelrie lifts her head back up to see the bonfire blowing flames onto the thatch roofing of the painted houses, swallowing them in slow, calculated bites. The villagers, one by one, fall to the ground in a red haze. The Floweress drop their tambourines; seven bells ringing one after the other. Hildelith stands aglow among the bodies with her face covered in tears.
“Yelrie!”
Brinus’ voice is thunder in her ears. He stands poised before the monstrous bonfire, mane frozen with his throat flared and ready. Hildelith stares at her just behind Brinus, face melted in sorrow.
“Command me to do it!”
Yelrie blinks at the command. Hildelith’s head barely reaches over the flames as she suddenly steps into the fire. Brinus watches her with horror before snapping his eyes back toward Yelrie.
“Yelrie! Command me!”
With a swift raise of her hand, Yelrie makes a fist Brinus is suddenly upon Hildelith. His mouth closes down above her shoulders as he swallows her head and yanks it free with a deathly spin. Hildelith collapses onto the fire in a flurry of ashes, overshadowing the gutted swine and taking it down with her. Yelrie can’t watch further without her stomach heaving and she looks away as Hildelith is eaten within a cloud of black smoke. As she closes her eyes, Yelrie smells salted pig.
Their first nightfall arrives slowly, the little village up ahead hanging as a lure. The inn lights up the night like a ghostly temple, clouded with low voices and laughter, the smell of dried meats and fresh-cut fish gracing Yelrie’s nose. Brinus picks up speed beneath her, excitement evident in his low, labored grunts. They bound across the farmland like silent spirits toward the crossroads, Brinus gliding at times with his arms tucked tight beneath his snaking body, just high enough off the ground for the grass to flicker beneath the heels of her boots. Yelrie relishes these soft, intimate moments when the world is asleep around them—quiet gods in a quiet world. The sounds of the sleeping hamlet rouse her attention forward and Yelrie leans to the side to get a better view around Brinus’ mane. The soldiers stationed at the crossroads watch their approach, torches casting a glistening light across the curves of their armor. As Brinus draws nearer, he slows. “Saint Yelrie!” the soldier on the left announces them, bowing his head as Brinus’ heaving figure traipses by. Swinging herself off his back, Yelrie lands with a dull thud before the soldier. “We seek accommodations,” she asks after their shared greetings. “Will Sir Brinus be joining you?” The dragon tosses his head to eye the little soldier, tongue flicking out to catch his scent. “If the inn does not reach above me, a barn will do.” The soldiers look about with hesitancy. “The horses have been stabled. We do not wish for Sir Brinus to be kick—“ “Horses mind him not,” Yelrie assures. They nod and direct her down past the glowing inn, where she can see a group of travelers watching their every move in curious wonder. Brinus cuts a thick line down the right side of the road, shadow looming over the open windows like a monstrous beast. The crowd up ahead flee inside the inn as they draw closer and slam the doors behind. Brinus gives a snort at the sight. Yelrie keeps her eyes low. The barn is further than the soldier claimed and they walk for a time in silence, eyes scouring the night for a sign or scent of livestock. “Right,” Brinus instructs from somewhere above her, Yelrie hearing the telltale flick of his tongue. “I can smell it.” “So close,” Yelrie whispers, lips curling near the edges. “The taste of horse shit on the wind.” Brinus purrs out a laugh and repeats her words in an airy, joking voice. “You will taste the horse shit and you will know you have arrived.” They laugh with humble relief, Yelrie pushing open the barn’s door with some help from the dragon. The horses sigh and shift amidst the darkness within, unbothered by or uncaring of their entrance. Toward the back is a pile of tossed hay spread out on the floor. Yelrie can see afterbirth congealing in a bucket off to the side. Brinus offers a throaty laugh and sizes himself beside the stables. “And you would have me wear this,” the dragon mutters, nosing the slick leather of a saddle hanging off the wall. Shutting the barn door behind them, Yelrie wanders past the horses to the open space on the floor, kicking at the hay and spreading it out over the dirt for them. Brinus takes in a dramatic sigh and falls atop the scattered pieces of hay, the sound of his body hitting the floor seemingly shaking the barn’s hinges. “I am pregnant, Saint Yelrie . . . “ Brinus whispers in a pained voice, grinning despite himself. Yelrie smacks at his stomach. “No, dear. You are just fat,” she answers. “Oh! She kicks!” Brinus rolls onto his back and tucks his arms against his chest, neck curling to settle on the opposite side of Yelrie’s lap. Looking down, Yelrie sends the lopsided dragon an exasperated stare. “We must call for Mistress Hilde—“ “Too far,” Yelrie bites out. “That is not funny.” Brinus rights himself onto his stomach, mane catching the loose strands of hay and tossing them onto her. “You are no fun.” “And you are cruel.” Yelrie lies down in the hay with her back to him, hearing Brinus take a deep breath behind her. After a few moments, she hears the dragon shifting across the dirt and sees his head coil into view, just long enough to reach above and around to stare with wide, white eyes. “I am sorry.” “No, you are not.” Yelrie hears raindrops on the roof of the barn, head tilting to see if there are leaks. “Why does it upset you so?” Yelrie looks back at Brinus. Her face pinches together in the middle and rage tears the edges of her mouth up. “Why does it upset me? Why does it upset me that you are laughing over death?” Brinus rears his head up from the floor. “You always do this. You always act as if I am some monster.” “And?” Brinus’ eyes narrow. “Why not laugh! We are killing a murderous cunt. You should rejoice.” “We do not know that.” Yelrie stands before he has time to argue, stomping away toward the barn doors and shoving them open a crack. The wind blows rain into her face and cools off her heated skin, eyes staring out into the storm. The village outside no longer hums with life; instead, little wet houses enclose tiny flames of dying light. Yelrie feels another whip of water mist her eyes and she blinks. She waits until she is too cold to stay beside the doors, shutting them once again and slowly cutting her way down the line of nickering horses. They stare at her with wide black eyes and Yelrie can’t help but feel judged. Upon the hay, the bucket of blood and mess now catches drops of water falling from the roof. Brinus is turned away from her, coiled in a tight ball around himself. Yelrie settles beside him and gently rests her back against his body. “I am sorry,” she says, more so to bring Brinus’ eyes back to her than to ask forgiveness. The dragon flicks his tongue at her. “It is fine. I know you are tired.” It is quiet for a time, Yelrie listening to the sounds of the horses. “May I touch you?” she asks Brinus. Slowly, the dragon lowers his nose to hers, eyes briefly meeting hers before slipping shut. “You may touch me.” Her hands glide sheepishly over the musculature of Brinus’ neck, feeling every curve of every scale, flinching with each and every breath. In that moment, Yelrie feels close to his heart—wherever in him it may be. It is only minutes later that she realizes he is looking at her. Yelrie lifts her palms to cradle his jaw. The rain pounds against the roof like hoofbeats, thrumming low inside her hollow chest. Brinus’ gaze humbles her insides into wet sand. She feels she has lived the life of a gravestone, to be looked upon only in recognition of grief. But when Brinus looks at her, she feels alive. “I do not touch people often,” Yelrie whispers; a frightened, apologetic thing. Brinus hums beneath her fingertips, the vibration running up the flesh of her wrists. “People do not touch me.” Brinus’ eyelids flick back and he looks at her in a thoughtful way. Yelrie sucks in a tight breath through her nose. “You are a good person, Yelrie,” Brinus says beneath the pounding of the rain. Despite his words, he sounds as if he is mourning. “I do not want for you to suffer.” Yelrie stretches herself to meet their foreheads. There is nothing left inside her to speak, so they sit in a sanctuary of silence until sleep overcomes her.
She has no time to awaken before a voice is yelling within the barn. The sound of horses stumbling in their stalls overshadows heavy footsteps, Yelrie’s golden eyes tearing open as a hand grabs hold of her hood. The air in her throat catches when she’s yanked up from the floor. “Out! Out of my barn!” the farmer shouts and shoves her toward the doors. “Get out of my barn!” Brinus lets out a terrible snarl, Yelrie looking back to see the insides of his mouth as it hangs open. “Out! Get out!” Yelrie is up and running for the door in a blind panic before she thinks to call Brinus, shoving through the narrow opening left between them and slipping in the mud. Her body hits the ground and rattles the air free from her lungs, shoulder slapping down hard enough to leave her in a brief daze. “Saint Yelrie!” Yelrie looks up to see the soldier from the night before reaching out to help her up. Behind them, she hears Brinus’ heavy feet as they stumble about inside the barn. The farmer is still screaming. “Brinus!” she shouts. The dragon bursts through the doors with steady hop, missing the mud and instead landing in the scattering crowd. A few shout out of fear, but Brinus turns away from them and looks upon Yelrie and the soldier. Instinctually, his neck twists in preparation to strike. “Stop!” Yelrie commands him. The soldier takes in a sharp breath as if he’s been holding it, relief flooding his face. When the farmer finally steps out from the barn, the soldier is already gripping at his sword. “What is this? To wish harm on a daughter of Ruuben?” Yelrie wipes mud from her arm as she glowers toward the barn’s owner. He scowls back, spitting something thick at her feet. She doesn’t see the fist before the blow hits her cheek, bone hitting bone, and Yelrie stumbles back to the ground with the force. Pain rattles through her teeth and up into her head; a javelin through one ear and out the other. “You and your serpent are nothing but butchers!” The farmer shrieks over her stunned figure, knuckles reddening with fresh bruises. “Murderers!” The soldier forces him away hard enough to make the farmer stumble, shouting for him to stand down. There’s a crowd surrounding them, faces blanched in horror at the sight. Yelrie has just enough sense left to raise her left hand and ball it into a fist. The movement has the crowd staggering back, the farmer’s eyes burning wicked tunnels into her before Brinus’ jaw overshadows them. His serpentine body hangs in the air like tapestry before beginning to spin, coiling wickedly with his teeth firmly closed overtop the farmer’s shoulders. There’s a sickening sequence of cracks and the villagers scatter like rats, the soldier fleeing after dropping his sword with a whimper of fear. Yelrie drags herself up from the mud, lifts a cautious hand to her pulsing face, and lets out a stuttering sob. The screams drown out her own, Brinus’ writhing shadow forcing her to witness his movement even while turned away. By the time she has settled herself, Brinus is waiting beside her with patient eyes, a lump slowly making its way down the curves of his throat. “Let us move on, Yelrie,” he whispers to her. She obeys with little more than a nod, and then they are off once more into the wilds.
They travel in near silence for two more days, surviving off the jokes and grunts shared between them. When the land goes flat on its stomach and colors blossom into view, Yelrie feels her body awaken from its dreamlike fatigue. “Thieves’ Rise?” Brinus opens his mouth but hesitates a brief moment. “Well, yes. Almost.” “The village?” Pale eyes glance back at her through the mess of fur, Brinus making a sticky, indecisive sound. Yelrie hums back. They discuss the beauty of the meadows and the shadowed face of Thieves’ Rise as it spears the red, stretching clouds. Its intimidating gaze goes cold when the hungry mountains swallow up the sun once again and cast the world into twilight. Yelrie admires the illustrious, metallic sheen the moon casts across Brinus’ muscled body, pearly scales bending and folding like silk underwater. The mountains eventually heave themselves up in waves of black trees, blacker than the space between the stars and casting rugged shadows against the low hanging clouds. Yelrie’s gilded eyes follow a bright patch of flowers to a sun-washed, wooden post. Carved into the front is an arrow, moonblossom vines wrapped about the wooden trunk. “Pretty,” Brinus says as he grazes his snout along the trail marker’s edge. “Haunting,” Yelrie corrects. “I meant the flowers, mostly.” Yelrie snorts. "Poison, you mean." Brinus eyes the arrow and flicks out his tongue to swat at one of the flowers. “Should be close, now.” The trek up to Saint Hildelith’s temple leaves them in pitch black, the moon’s bright face obscured by silvery, gossamer clouds. Brinus misses his footing every now and then, Yelrie eventually slipping down from his back to walk alongside him. In the dark, away from the city, he looks like a monster and she reaches out to take a handful of cold fur. Brinus’ large snout swivels in her direction only a moment, then sternly veers forward. “Do you miss Malka?” he asks against the somber choir of frogs. “I do.” “Mm,” Brinus hums. “I am happy you have such a close friend waiting for you.” Yelrie’s bright eyes flick upwards to the dragon, their cores firing a gold halo around her bloated pupils. His face is obscured only by low-hanging leaves, his milky eyes looming over like little moons. “Thank you, Brinus.” “No need,” says the dragon. “I am not always so terrible.” Yelrie holds a pregnant pause and bites at the insides of her cheeks. “You are not terrible.” Brinus purrs like a hungry cat. “Thank you, Yelrie.” A light hangs in the distance, shrouding two tall, imposing men stationed beside a glowing tapestry of moonblossoms. “Sir Brinus and Saint Yelrie!” They shout in muddled unison. “Yes,” Yelrie replies into the darkness. “We apologize for our late arrival.” The final steps feel as if she’s wading through mountains and Brinus silently encourages her back onto his shoulders. The dragon stalks past the spearman with little more than a succinct greeting and asks for the closest bedding. In the pit of her stomach, a coal glows hot with relief. Closing her eyes, Yelrie focuses on the sway of Brinus’ body as he winds a path into the village. They ignore the awakened crowd of curious children standing sleepily in their doorways. Yelrie sees their little faces go white as Brinus lumbers by. “Uh, yes—Saint Yelrie?” Yelrie leans back from her slumped position against the curve of Brinus’ soft neck and looks down at the spearman keeping pace beside them. “We are a very small village. Travelers do not usually stay with—“ “We are staying here,” Brinus cuts the man off. The spearman stands there for a second with knitted brows but hangs close by the dragon’s shoulder. Yelrie waits patiently for him to speak, twisting herself to better face him. “We are ordered to be here just as you are, soldier,” she says when the silence becomes inevitable. The soldiers take their time to answer. “Yes, Saint Yelrie.” With that, the two men guide Brinus across the cliff’s edging, a small house settled near an overgrown offshoot glowing faintly in the night. Even from a distance, Yelrie can smell the goats. Out behind the little house is an herb shed, spacious with a latch opening in the roof. Brinus sizes himself beside its dingy ribs. “This will be fine. May the mistress remove her belongings?” “No need!” a pregnant woman excitedly shouts from the house, hand waving and reaching out to them from a fire-lit window. Yelrie waves back before Brinus coils his way inside. Immediately is Yelrie’s face swiped by a hanging cluster of garlic. “Shit,” she hisses and haphazardly slips from Brinus’ back to the ground. “This is not good.” “It is not bad,” Brinus says quietly, stooping to avoid banging his hefty skull against a hanging fern. His long body weaves a tight coil on the dirt floor, Brinus watching a pot slowly tilt to the side as he hesitantly takes a needed breath. Yelrie stretches over his thigh and thumps against his left shoulder, tugging his mane for him to hurry and drop his head down. Brinus immediately yanks back and away from her touch. Surprised, Yelrie makes a confused noise. “What is wrong?” “Stop. You are annoying,” Brinus growls. “Oh.” There’s a tinge of embarrassment on the end of her breath. She takes her hands back and settles out on her back after spreading some bedding out from their pack. Staring through the opening in the roof, Yelrie listens to the rhythmic sound of Brinus’ heavy breaths. “Brinus?” Yelrie turns head head to meet the dragon’s eyes when they peel open. “Have you thought about this at all?” “Thought about what?” Yelrie conducts her hands aimlessly over her chest. “This. What we are doing.” “It is not my job to think. I do as I am told.” Yelrie grimaces. Brinus shuffles himself closer, close enough that his breath grazes her temple. “You think too much. You should think of thinking less.” “I should think of thinking less?” Yelrie asks with a chuckle. Brinus purrs low in his throat. “You should think of thinking less. You will think less that way.” Yelrie laughs quietly at Brinus’ words in the shadows of the shed, the flickering of lightning bugs catching her attention every so often; little ghosts haunting the herbs. “Brinus?” “Yes?” Yelrie bites down hard on her lower lip when it shivers beyond her will. Her mouth parts to speak, but instead does the woman inhale a crumbling lungful of air. She can feel Brinus watching her, waiting, never one to interrupt her weeping. Much like a statue, Brinus’ comfort came from beyond himself; cold and solid and forever distant, forever indifferent to Yelrie. “Do you think the farmer was right?” Brinus’ eyes make a sticky sound as they blink. “Who?” “The farmer,” Yelrie repeats, voice harsh. “The man you killed.” “You commanded me to." Yelrie's fingernails glow from underneath; the smell of burning skin and rosemary films the air like sheer oil. Brinus's mouth opens just enough for a cold fog to drift out. "Are you a beast, or are you a man? Do you not think?" “Yelrie.” Brinus’ voice is cold steel and she tenses. “Enough of this talk. You do not care what a farmer says, so close your mouth." Yelrie can’t cut him off before she begins to cry. Her tears seem to spark further discomfort in Brinus. His chin tucks close against his mane before he leans over her shivering body. Yelrie reaches up to hug his thick neck, hot cheeks cooled by his icy scales. They settle like that for what feels like centuries, Yelrie weeping into Brinus’ shimmering, uncaring hide, crying like a babe for its jaded mother. She feels small, small like the fireflies banging helplessly into the glass ceiling, small like the stars that twinkle and jeer just beyond. “I am sorry,” Yelrie whines around a mouthful of spit. “I am so sorry—“ “It is fine,” Brinus hushes her.
She stands on the foggy cliffside once again, the wind cooling her wetted scalp. The sea is flat, bosom heaving with white-crested waves—the body of Ruuben, one with the earth. The fog is so thick; Yelrie can barely make out the body of someone descending from the sky covered in starlight. They descend like a ship set to sail, cutting through the fog toward her with torches in the eyes. Yelrie steps further to the edge and grips the rocks with her toes, arms spreading out wide to envelope the wind-faring figure. She is a giant of the new world, a daughter of Empress Ruuben; her hair is fine wine covering her face and a man wraps about her. Yelrie knows they are of one body. “Do you like to feast on the flesh of salted pigs?” the giantess asks as she drifts amidst the fog. “I do,” answers Yelrie. “I feast on salted pig.”
The next time she opens her eyes the sky is crushed tangerines. Brinus’ head is beside hers, nostrils flaring when she shifts. The herb shed is filled with the light of the newborn sun, the soft scent of oregano and rosemary filling Yelrie’s senses. Reaching for her pack, she digs for her flower pouch and unwinds the ribbon holding it shut. A gift from Lachie during his and Malka’s wedding, a sticky clump of dreamroot nestles toward the bottom of the leather pouch, stench intermingling with the mound of thyme behind her. “This early?” asks Brinus in a tired voice. Yelrie shrugs off his comment and begins tearing the tiny clump apart. “How long have you been breathing that in?” “What does it matter?” she retorts, right hand balancing a hollowed stick while the other snaps a fire into existence. She feels Brinus’ eyes on her as she coughs from a hefty inhale. “I do not mean to pry. I am curious.” Yelrie offers him a defeated stare. “Since before I met you.” “Ah,” says Brinus. He lets the topic fall when Yelrie returns to fiddling with the contents of her pack. When she eventually finds it pointless to busy herself, Yelrie ushers for Brinus to get up and they depart from the herb shed together. “Saint Yelrie!” a woman’s voice calls from the edging of the cliffside, Brinus pausing beside her gait as a group of priestesses round the corner of the house. Yelrie stops moments after him, eyes narrowing. “We came to see if you were awake!” a blonde woman, presumably their lead, explains as she holds fistfuls of her dress in hand. The young women behind her all stare open-mouthed up at Brinus, whispering and laughing among themselves. Yelrie tugs her hood back over her head with a tinge of shame. “We are awake, yes. Sorry if we—“ “Come to the springs with us, Saint Yelrie!” one priestess interrupts. “Sir Brinus may come—if he, uhm, wants to!” Yelrie sends the dragon a curious look, who responds with an emotionless stare. “I would like a bath,” Brinus answers solemnly. The priestesses excitedly turn in on themselves and giggle in a way that causes Yelrie’s stomach to form a pit. Their hair is all chopped short and waved with seed oils, golden and brown curls shining in the morning sun. She idly daydreams of slicking back Brinus’ mane in the same fashion. “Come! Hildelith has been waiting to see you!” the oldest priestess explains and flicks a hand for them to follow. The temple sat overlooking the tiny village, much smaller in the sun’s glare and somehow somber without its nighttime glow. The Moonblossoms from the night before welcome Yelrie with tired, yellowed leaves and for a moment she wishes to be as they are. At the splitting sound of tambourines, something behind her eyes crackles with intensity, Brinus coming to a halt beside her and the group of priestesses. The village crowds further up the dirt pathway, flowers in-hand, spring-green branches wafting over what appears to be a mound of uprooted grass settled squarely in the center of the road. Her chest flutters in distress and a rock settles toward the back of her throat. Yelrie coughs in an attempt to dispel it, noticing Brinus’ milky eyes settling on her. His snout parts to speak, but whatever words can come from his mouth are swallowed by a loud uproar and tens of banging tambourines. “Oh, Saint Yelrie, you must meet the other Floweress!” “Yes! They will love your accent.” “It is so beautiful.”
by leechy
by leechy
by leechy
I love Yelrie my goodness she's so good! And that art tho? Sis an artist. I love it <3