“Thank you,” she said to him. “It’s beautiful, but I can’t take it home with me.”
Home, she said while shaking her head. Midas thought on it for a moment before he understood; she could not bring it with her to the village.
She spoke again, almost pleading, though not with him. She was pleading with the rest of the world. “I want to keep it with me, but I cannot keep it safe. They will take it.”
Midas leaned forward, trying to understand. He didn’t comprehend the words, but he could see the way her hands clutched the scale only to hold it out to him solemnly, as if letting go of something precious.
When she turned her head over her shoulder to look toward her village, her body dropped with defeat. Midas stared at her, carefully observing her body language. As he looked, something tightened in his chest. It wasn’t the old ache of rage, but the burn of grief for her.
She was afraid of them. Afraid of the humans. Afraid of what they did to beauty and kindness and joy. She might be the only human who could see the rest of them for what they were: savages.
Elowen stepped forward and placed the scale atop his tail that was coiled around itself near his wings. “You must keep it safe for me. It is a part of you, and they don’t deserve to take it.”
Midas did not breathe. She gave it up, gave it back, for safekeeping, because she trusted him. He shifted slightly, then leaned forward to nudge her gently with his snout.
Midas was an intelligent creature, and knew that he could no longer bring Elowen things that the other humanscould take from her. Trinkets would not do. She needed more.
As he watched her sort through the wildflowers around him with her shoulders hunched forward in concentration, he noticed the way her bones protruded against her skin, and the way her old dress barely held onto her thin frame. Her fingers trembled slightly with exhaustion, and there was a hollow sharpness in her cheeks. Her collarbone jutted against her chest, and he was now keenly aware of how the effort of fatigue laced her movements.
She was withering away. Starving. He growled, a deep, resonating sound from deep in his chest. It pulled Elowen’s gaze to him, and without a warning, he moved away from her and into the trees.
He did not wait to see the confusion on her face, nor did he try to explain with their limited understanding of each other. There was no time for any of it, only the need to fix what he had missed before.
The hunt was brief and swift. He returned to the lakeside with a large buck between his bloody teeth. It pleased him when he saw Elowen was where he had left her, and he dropped the deer gently near her knees.
When she didn’t move, he nudged it toward her with the claws on the edge of his wings. He was not waiting for praise or thanks, he was waiting for her to eat. He could not bear the knowledge that she was starving, because any semblance of her suffering felt like his own failing.
There was no time for her to gather wood for a fire or for her to clean the meat herself, and so Midas butchered the buck with his claws. He made a messy job of it, but the bestof the meat was separated from the carcass, and he cooked it with the fire from his own throat. When he was done, he deposited the meat in front of her again and watched with intense eyes.
She ate the meat slowly at first, but the more bites she took, the quicker she ate. The juices of the meat coated her lips and chin, and when she had finished everything her stomach could hold, she looked up at Midas with a new sparkle in her eyes.
He’d fed her well, and it pleased him, so he would continue.
After the buck,Midas made it a point to bring Elowen something to eat every time he visited her at the lake. When her lips curled around a fresh fig or juicy meat, he watched; not with hunger, but with a strange, tight satisfaction. It was like the crunch of bones beneath his claws after a hunt. It was like the clinking of gold beneath his body when he fell asleep on a pile of coins in his hoard.
Elowen, he decided, was part of his life now—hunger and hoard. Not something to be consumed, but something to be kept. Something to protect. Something to adore.
And that meant proving himself.
Not just with food, of course. Anyone could hunt. Even the weakest of males could find meat. But Midas was not anyone. He was the last of his kind, andthat made him mighty and strong. He was a prince of ashes and king of the skies. Born in fire, forged in ruin.
And he must prove it, but not because she asked him to; Elowen asked for nothing—but because something in himachedto give. To show her the worth of all the things he had, and the worth of the dragon he had become after all this time.
Midas’hoard began to change.
Gone were the days of hoarding forhimself. Now, he found things and wondered ifshewould like them.
A silver bell. A silk ribbon. A polished stone the color of a winter sky. Each offering carefully placed near her side of the cave.
She had seen none of it yet, but he built the shrine to her deep in his cave where he could keep it safe from human eyes. One day, when he was ready, he would show her all of it.
Even though she could not fully understand what it meant to him when she smiled at his gifts, he craved that soft, stunned gratitude. He did not hoard gold for wealth, or jewels for beauty.
He hoarded symbols of worth. He did not save these treasures for her because she needed them, but becauseshewas the treasure, and he hoped these things would help her to see it one day.
He could not ask her to stay with words,and so he asked her in actions—in gifts. In the steadiness of his presence beside her. He would give her safety, and warmth, and anything else she lacked with the humans.
Midas did not believe she realized it, but Elowen did not belong in that cruel village among the humans.
