Coris's tale began with common knowledge—the Crosset Famine, a beguiling invitation from Bailiff Johnsy, a hunting trip gone awry. From there, it escalated into an anecdote of chilling detail. He described his time in Draken's kidnapping party, then launched into a fantastical account normally associated with people who have suffered blunt force to the head.

He recalled a blast of pure flames, a gust of ice wind. Metallic talons swept him off the snowy glade, skimming treetops into the sky. He showed her the melted arrow he claimed to have pulled out of the dragon's leg, before they crashed into a cave on the mountainside. He claimed to have woken up to a girl with glowing green eyes and red-gold hair—Meya.

Meya might have believed it. If it wasn't for the fact that she remembered nothing of the sort. Of course not—it was just too impossible to have actually happened.

She? Transformed into a dragon? Even the notion of Greeneyes being dragon riders who must strip down to call forth their mounts seemed reasonable compared to this bullcrap.

Meya was tempted to think Coris was high on laudanum. Or that some of his mother's rose oil had seeped through his scalp and trickled through his skull into his brain. Yet, he seemed in control of his faculties. His silvery eyes were bright and sharp as ever.

And, despite her lack of memories, her logic argued otherwise. Coris' story provided answers to the half-forgotten questions in the old cupboard at the back of her mind.

Why the wound on her arm didn't fully heal (and, now that she actually thought back, she was actually bitten by a snake on her right arm!). Why she had seemingly stayed home all through the Famine, when the villagers should have been raring to lynch her family. Why Draken had stared awkwardly at her when asked how Coris had escaped. Why her family crest was a dragon. Straightforward, really—she was descended from them. And she was one of them.

Coris left off at his painstaking search for her. Silence descended between them as he reached for a long gulp of lukewarm tea. Meya stared at him, trying to take it all in.

"So, you're saying—I'm a dragon." She managed. Coris set down his tea with a rattling clink.

"Half-dragon, to be exact." He sighed. His movements were subtle, strained. As if he anticipated a fireball from Meya at any moment, "We can assume that most—if not all—of your inner organs are human. Obviously, you ingest human food and excrete—"

Coris stuttered. As they both blushed, he cleared his throat in an attempt at grace,

"—Excuse me, human waste. And, judging from our nighttime escapades, I'd say apart from the heat, your—er—attributes are also human. I assume you have had menarche..."

Coris flourished his hand as if to say You get the idea. That reminded Meya of something that was bound to have arrived by now. She gawked at the waffling young man as her brain whirred in panic.

No way. He's barren.

But Zier said that might just be his imagination.

No, Coris has healers backing him up.

But he's so blessed.

So what? Size doesn't equal substance.

But you luuurrve it, right?

What's that got to do with—Whatever! I'm using Silfum!

Right...! Maybe it's the Silfum. Or the stress from the Heist. That's it! Stress and pungent herbal fumes wafting about my nether regions and tipping my humors off kilter. Yes, that must be it.

Meya nodded over and over, soothing herself. Coris sprang up and strode to his study desk, fetching a journal from his secret drawer.

"On the other hand, your draconic characteristics are—here," He rifled through the pages as he traipsed back. Noticing what he'd written here, he breathed sharply, flipped it closed then handed it to Meya.

Goodly Freda! He's been taking notes on me?

Meya took the journal, hands trembling from both fear and fury. His prose was clipped and precise, but still took her several minutes to read. Every other word was long and difficult, each sentence labelled with a rose bullet, crammed around a rough pencil diagram of what appeared to be one half Meya's face, and one half dragon head, as if Coris had been adding more as he noticed new things.

Phosphorescent eyes. A branching line connected the statement to Meya and the dragon's eyes. Meya didn't need to know what that first word meant to know what the nosy donghead was referring to.

High body heat.

Immunity to substances otherwise harmful to man—i.e. dwale, aconite, etc.

Aversion and severe allergy to Lattis. Must have picked those up during the Heist.

Ability to transform into dragon and back upon contact with Lattis. Wait—He'd speculated that right after the Heist? How long had he been keeping this from her?

Grinding her teeth against the ball of fiery rage roiling inside her bowels, Meya fought the urge to let loose in a particular direction and forced herself to keep reading,

High affinity to metals and minerals.

To Meya's eternal embarrassment, an indented paragraph elaborated on the phenomena:

---i.e. Sexual desire and arousal upon physical contact with Rose Crystal.

Predictably, below that bombshell was:

High heat in birth canal (female) serves as natural deterrent for interracial reproduction, by hindering sexual intercourse and killing semen.

---Note: can be subdued by Lattis.

Meya made sense of perhaps the first five words, but that was enough. More than enough.

I'll give you truth, he'd said. And once again she'd given herself to him, but as she concentrated on making love to him with all the passion and tenderness in her, he made a mental note to scribble details of her most intimate parts in his blasted journal.

Lastly, in ink that hadn't yet lost its gleam and seeped deep into parchment:

Metallic bones and blood capable of melting Lattis

---Evidence: severed phalange and molten ring, preserved by Morelia Hild. Account of Gillian, Nostran mercenary, as recalled by Meya Hild.

And,

Ability to regenerate digits, limbs, and flesh

---Exception: injuries caused by Lattis.

Meya flipped the page. Nothing was there but splotches of seeped-through ink, and reflected outlines of the previous page's contents. Smirking, she closed the journal with a flump of expelled air.

"You could write a treatise." She handed it back to Coris. He took it numbly, his bulging eyes stared at her, unsure and afraid, "I feel like an impaled beetle in some sick collection."

Coris recoiled, sickened by the side of himself he struggled to repress.

"I'm so sorry. On hindsight, that was despicable."

Meya refused to meet his eyes. His apology rang hollow in her ears. She was angrier than she'd ever been in her whole life, but she didn't know why.

"We could've written this list together. With your consent. If only I'd been honest with you." Coris plowed on, desperation in his voice. He pushed the journal onto her, "I promised I'd give you truth. So, it's yours now. It's my only copy. Chuck it in the fireplace. Slap me with it. Do whatever you want with it."

He shook the journal, prodding her arm with it.

"What about that copy in your brain?" She asked quietly. Coris jolted at the reminder.

"I'm so sorry." He hung his head so low his hair grazed his lap. "I swear, I won't breathe a word of this to anyone. This secret is yours to reveal."

"Still, 'tis why you insisted on following me to the Crimson Hog, innit?" Meya wasn't relenting, "You wanna talk to Draken. About me! Then you left right before I came back. But I bet everyone else already knew about all this? Me being a dragon or whatever? What're you gunna do about their copies, then?"

Coris simply bowed lower.

"I trusted you, Lord Coris. And time and time again, you betrayed me trust."

Coris remained silent, the cold emanating from his body trembling as he did. His shame didn't soften her, nor heal her feelings of betrayal and hurt. It tortured her worse.

He was a nobleman and a prodigy. Was it too much to expect even of the lowliest and meanest of men to treat a fellow living, thinking, feeling being with basic respect? Be they dragon, human or something in between?

Still, she strove to see his side. To understand. To find her responsibility in this quagmire. She hadn't been fully honest with him. They met as enemies. They hadn't remembered their past. Even now, Meya had no memory of the Famine. He must have needed time to make sure. Even once he was, it mustn't have been easy to come forth with the truth.

Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

"Then again, musta taken a while, mustering up the guts to tell me." She hitched up a bitter grin. Coris perked up in alarm, "You have your duties, Lord Hadrian and all. Gotta have eyes on freaks like us Greeneyes. I mightn't have turned out different say our roles are reversed."

"Don't justify this. You have every right to be furious." Coris argued.

"Nah, you're a nobleman. I'm a peasant girl. And a Greeneye, to boot." shrugged Meya.

"And does that strip you of the right to outrage? Being a peasant girl and a Greeneye didn't stop you risking your life to rescue a nobleman. Thrice. It doesn't make your dignity any less worthy of my respect—of anyone's respect!"

Meya wasn't expecting that from him. From anyone. Her head agreed she shouldn't be this furious with Coris. He was simply doing what he had to for Hadrian. For Latakia. Yet, her heart longed to believe in what he said, that she deserved to be offended.

"I should never have spied on you. Observed you like you weren't human."

"But I'm not human, am I?"

"Yes, you are."

"No, I'm not."

"Have it your way, but does that make any difference? Human. Dragon. Greeneye. Your body may be different, but you have feelings acute as mine. I should have respected that, but I didn't. Whatever contempt you feel for yourself, I deserve it."

Meya eyed him warily. Why was he so desperate? What did he want from her? Forgiveness? Punishment? Or simply for her to stop blaming herself?

She couldn't find it in her to figure it out. She was sapped. She abandoned her grudge and moved on. There were more pressing issues than her blind, besotted, oft-betrayed trust in him.

"Never mind. I'll save it for next time." Coris raised his eyebrows, incredulous. Meya quickly added, "No, really. Don't. Do it. Again—Ever."

Meya hammered down the words as if they were nails on wood, blazing green locked with pale silver. Her forgiveness was swift, but the same may not be said for her trust. And she'd never forget. Coris nodded. Meya cleared her throat, continuing in what she hoped was a casual tone,

"So, I'm a half-dragon. And you're saying all Greeneyes are like me?"

Her expression was blank, her voice flat. She watched her hand as she scratched a smudge of dried soup off her dress. Coris kept watch on her from his distance.

"You saw Gillian and his men that night. He and Dockar transformed into dragons upon contact with Lattis, while his men—" He flipped the journal to the back cover, then handed it to Meya, "—used this Lattis whistle to transform."

On the inside of the back cover, swinging from a length of torn string whose ends were glued to the leather, was a tube made of the familiar opalescent silvery metal.

A little way from the mouthpiece, a slot was carved out for a knob with intricate, minuscule, maze-like carvings. She fiddled with it. It turned once with a clear stop, then back around. Dragon mode and human mode, she'd guess. Though how a dragon would pick this thing up and blow it was anyone's imagination.

"I've sent men and hounds to scour the hill for evidence. They found this where Gillian was standing. It probably came off when Zier slashed his neck. I reckon the Nostrans escaped partly so as not to reveal more of their secrets to us."

Meya nodded numbly. The enormity of the revelation was catching up, creeping up her fingers and toes towards her heart like frostbite. All her life, she'd known she was different, of course. Everyone around her had never tired of pointing out her abnormal features. She was a Greeneye. An anomaly. Pariah. Outcast. Yet, by all means, human. She'd gotten a few freakish, unnerving characteristics, but overall, she was still human. Though she'd rather be normal, she could live with the lot she had.

She realized now, those were less quirks than symptoms. Telltale signs. Evidence of her monstrous nature. She was a dragon. She didn't belong. Not just in Crosset, but the whole of Latakia.

Where should I go now? What should I do? Should I be glad? Should I want this?

Unbidden thoughts materialized one after another, coagulating into a slow, torturous swirl of chaos in her head. Coris's soft voice pierced the gloom like a faraway, hollow echo.

"All this must have come as a huge shock. I'm sorry for not letting you be the first to know. Again."

The journal slipped from Meya's unfeeling fingers, landing on the floor with a muffled chime of metal, stone and leather.

"I'm—I'm a dragon." She shook as she grinned. She trembled so hard, even her voice was jittering,

"So them folks were right. I'm a monster. Not harbinger of misfortune. Not Chione's minion. Just plain old big, ugly, flying, fire-breathing, murderous monster."

"No—You're not—You're not a monster." Coris tried to correct her, but the desperation in his lie only served to underline the cruel truth, scoring a line on her heart like a metal quill. His cold hands on her arms burned like iced steel.

"You're just another living being. Like me. You've seen Gillian and his men. You've seen Frenix. You've seen Heloise. You've seen Old Mother Gelda and her grandson. We all have dragon blood in us. You're just like everyone else."

"No, I'm not." Meya shook her head, "I'm not."

"Meya, please."

Meya shrugged him off and sprang up, pacing restlessly.

"Why? Why me?" She demanded of unseen deities lurking in thin air, fingers tangled in her hair. She broke into a half-run, as if she hoped it would shake away this malediction in her blood. As if she could somehow escape the draconic half of her body.

"Why's it me who got this from me parents? Why didn't any of me brothers or sisters get this? Why isn't anyone in Crosset like me?"

"Meya, there's nothing wrong with being a dragon. You're still the same as you always have been."

Coris struggled to find words to comfort her, but, even as pure human as he was, he knew they were empty and meaningless. He didn't answer her questions. He couldn't prove his claims. He couldn't understand how she was feeling. He didn't know what she wanted. For perhaps the first time in his life, Coris didn't know what to do except stand there, helpless, silent, as she tore herself to pieces before him.

"Me own mother couldn't hug me for longer than two breaths. Me wet nurse was Draken's cow. No nursing mother in the whole of Crosset could stand to hold me. Everywhere I go they chuck rotten eggs and fling mud at me 'cause me eyes freak them out. I can't even lie with a man without hurting him. How gruesome is that? What kind of girl burns men when they come inside her?"

Meya covered her face. Tears trickled out between her fingers and dripped from her chin. She crumpled to her knees, fevered whispers renting through the still night air.

"I never wanted this. I dun want this. Isn't my life difficult enough? Why can't I just be born normal? What have I done wrong, Freda? Why?"

With a wail of despair, Meya crumpled onto the cold flagstones.

"Meya!"

Coris rushed in, heaving her up by the shoulders. She was awake, but her eyes were squeezed shut. Her hands had left her tear-streaked face. She was tearing and clawing feebly at her dress, trying to flee from her own skin. He locked her fingers in his. Her back burned like heated iron on his chest. He gritted his teeth and held on.

"I'm here. I'm here with you. I'm not leaving. You're not a monster. You're my savior. My friend. You're the May Queen. You're not alone. You have many people like you out there."

Meya's tears fell thicker and faster.

"We're going to Safyre and Everglen. We'll find more Greeneyes. We'll learn more about your folk. And we'll help them. All of us. If it's the last thing I do. Please—Please—"

Coris didn't know what he wanted her to do. And if he should want it. What was he expecting? When she'd first transformed and he'd explained the truth to her, she'd brushed it to the back of her mind, focused on ensuring their survival. Then, she'd forgotten it.

Here, now, there was no urgent threat to distract her, nowhere and no reason to run. And he fumbled to keep her shattered self in one piece between his thin arms. All he knew was he must keep holding her, never letting go, even as she burned like fire on him.

Be brave as she had been for you.

----------------------------------------

After Meya's sobs subsided, Coris helped her to the bed. They slept with their backs to each other, as they usually did. Unlike the previous nights, however, Meya left her Lattis medallion on the bedside cabinet. She shoved Coris to the edge of the bed, far away from her heat as possible as she sulked herself to sleep.

Even from this distance, Coris felt her heat beating against the back of his nightgown. Cold heat, it was. It was rather underwhelming, alarmingly so. He'd been expecting flame and fury. Flying objects, resounding blows. Screams of denial and sobs of despair.

All would have been natural, justified. All had been his own reactions six years ago, as he lay on this very bed, recovering from his bout with the poison.

Through it all, Mother held him when he'd let her, and simply stood by his side when he hadn't, waiting. And Zier was there, in the dead of nights when Father had forced Mother to retire to bed.

Days later, when he had calmed down to a hopeless stupor, Bishop Frey sat down and explained to him a philosophical term called The Cycle of Acceptance.

He told the unresponsive Coris that he had walked past the maelstrom of denial and the flames of anger, and was now lost in the night of despair. He told Coris of the parents and siblings and companions he had lost, splotches of tearstained ink from letters bearing dire news, dotted throughout his long journey. He predicted his journey was ending soon, just like Coris's. Coris asked him if he was ready. The old man shook his head.

"None, not even the most learned sage, the most meticulous mathematician, the most tortured soul, would ever be truly ready for such a thing so certain, yet so unpredictable as death. Few would wish for it. Few would choose it."

"The best we mortals can hope for is acceptance. Acceptance leads to action. Action sets apart that which is alive from that which is not. When you happen upon the crossroads of bargaining, know that there is no right or wrong path, so long that it leads away from despair. Keep breathing, one breath at a time. Think, one day at a time. Stronger as you go. Let hope keep you company, if you feel you couldn't manage it alone. So long as you keep breathing and thinking of tomorrow, you will stay alive."

Hope will keep you alive much longer than any elixir would.

A sweeter, clearer, youthful voice whispered. His heart seized up as it dawned on him.

He'd thought he had achieved acceptance. Had escaped the claws of despair dragging him into its festering mire. Had faced the crossroads of bargaining and chosen his path, but he may have chosen the wrong path. In Meya's eyes, his acceptance was tainted with despair and pessimism. He'd always been pragmatic, but would it be better to nourish some hope until the end, even when a miracle would never happen? To risk the gutting disappointment that would follow?

There is no right or wrong.

Coris flipped over, studying Meya's backside. In the dark blue-black shadows beyond the reach of moonbeam, her silhouette pulsated in the slow, unsteady, shallow rhythm of fake slumber.

She was probably slogging through the journey he'd completed, for better or worse. Though much less violent and prolonged than his, the denial was there. The anger was there. The despair had been the present. He longed to help her in whatever way he could. To let hope surround her, the way Mother and Zier and Bishop Frey had done for him. But he had wronged her so cruelly. Ironically, in giving her the honesty she was long due, he'd destroyed her trust in him.

Still, Coris didn't regret telling her the truth. It was exhilarating. All that worried him now was her silent pain. Her fury at his deceit, he could placate with sincerity. Her despair at being a creature she believed despicable was something he couldn't heal. Cruel as it may seem, she must step past it herself, but that didn't mean she must be alone.

Perhaps Meya felt the prickle of his stare. She rolled around, her glowing eyes like twin fireflies staring solemnly from the shadows.

She crept into the moonlight. Her eyes were puffy, her button nose still tinged with red. Coris couldn't resist himself any longer,

"Can I hold you?"

To his surprise and relief, Meya gave a loud sniff then edged further towards him. He gathered her into his arms, breathing deeply as her heated skin burned against his. He pressed a comforting kiss on her swollen lips salty with dried tears. A fresh teardrop landed on his cheek. He was sure it wasn't his.

"I dun want this. I dun wanna be a dragon. I dun want it. I dunno how to make it go away." Meya begged, her trembling voice choked with sobs. Coris nodded.

"Neither do I. It's unfortunate, isn't it?"

"What's gunna happen to me? To Greeneyes like me? Once they know what we actually are?"

Coris had half a mind to lie. To appease her fears with idealistic solutions. To be the ultimate problem-solver, the knight in shining armor of every fair maiden's dreams. But he remembered Bishop Frey's advice, how he got past his despair. It wasn't through false hopes, but having a steadfast friend by his side.

"I've no idea." He admitted, "But I'll be with you. You'll be alright. I'm a genius. And you're a dragon. Big, bad, busty and breathing fire. The wet nurse of Zier's dreams."

Alas, he laughed alone. Sighing, Coris shifted uncomfortably as her jugular vein beat a burning tattoo on his skin. Unfortunately, Meya sensed it. She sat up and slithered towards the cabinet.

"Lemme get me Lattis. Else you won't be able to sleep. We have an early morning, right?"

"Good idea." Coris mumbled, hating himself for agreeing. Meya had convinced him to let her wear the coin whenever they make love or cuddle, for his comfort. Again, Meya seemed to sense his dismay. She slumped back down, fumbling with the clasp at her nape.

"'Tis alright, Coris. 'Tis just a coin. I'm still a monster once I take it off. Now you can do me whatever way you like, Dragon Fetish."

With that, she flipped to her side, facing away. Coris wrapped his arms around her and her hand in his. Her tears splashed silently onto it.