Elowen grabbed his hands and lowered them for him. “Let me,” she said, waiting for his permission. He cowered slightly, as if afraid of what she might do, but nodded slowly.
She carefully ran her fingers through a thick section ofhis hair at the side of his head and began to braid it against his skull until it fell down his back.
When she finished braiding it, she went back to her soup as if it was nothing, a passing moment in her life that she’d forget in a few hours.
But for Midas, it meant so much more than that. She had sensed his discomfort with his hair, and more than that, sherelievedthat discomfort.
Midas swallowed the lump in his throat and nodded toward the soup she was now ladling into a bowl. “Eat,” he commanded.
“Would you like some?” she asked, holding out the bowl for him. He made another face, and she laughed again before blowing on the broth softly. She pressed her lips to the bowl and took a sip of the hot liquid.
She sighed when the tension in her back seemed to melt away with the taste. They did not speak again while she ate, there was no need. Eventually, when the bowl was empty, Midas took it from her and set it to the side before handing her another filled with freshwater from a basin.
She sat cross-legged near the fire as she sipped from the bowl, and he had a passing thought that he should find her something of higher quality than clay—but the thought came and went from the forefront of his mind, replaced by the distraction that was her own hair.
He stared at it—the way it spilled down her back and over her shoulders in strands the color of rich bark.
Her hair had admittedly always fascinated him. It was so fine, so delicate, and so very pretty. His hand gently toyed with the end of the braid she had given him, and decided that he wanted to try giving her one.
He had seen her do it before, the way her fingers moved in a strange pattern and weaved the sections together. He had seen her do it so many times that surely he could master the action himself.
He leaned forward a bit and reached slowly for the ends of her hair. She turned slightly and hummed with curiosity. He froze, unsure and slightly embarrassed, but then he pinched some of her hair and pointed to the braid she had given him.
Elowen blinked, and then another light laugh slipped from her lips. “You want to try braiding my hair?”
He nodded, ears turning warm under her gaze in thisridiculoushumanoid form. These ridiculous hands he had, useless for defense or flying, but perhaps gentle enough for this.
“Alright,” she encouraged gently, shifting to sit in between his spread legs. Midas’ back was straight as he reached out again as carefully as he could manage.
The strands of her hair slid all across his fingers like liquid, so hard to hold. He separated it all into three clumsy bundles, and squinted in concentration. He stared at the hair in his hands for a long time before realizing he hadn't paid enough attention to her braiding at all.
His first attempt wasn’t even a weave so much as a knot. He huffed, and Elowen stifled a laugh.
“Not as easy as it looks?” she asked him.
He let out a grumble from low in his throat at her teasing, and tried again. This time, he managed three passes before the strands slipped from his fingers once more.
No matter how many times he made a mess of it, she simply shook out the knots for him and let him try againand again. Eventually, with careful patience and grumbles under his breath, he presented her with a lopsided, uneven plait of hair that vaguely resembled a braid.
She smiled as her hands felt over it, and looked up at him like he had just presented her with the finest gem. “Look at this,” she said, leaning forward slightly after turning to face him. “My ferocious dragon braided my hair.”
Midas huffed, tail thumping against the cave floor in feigned annoyance, but something in his chest felt warm and sated.
Her fingers brushed over his awkward hand, and she leaned into his chest. “Thank you.”
He looked down at her, so small, showing him this…foreign affection. It felt wrong, but it also felt right.
He was learning her still–always learning. And thus far, he had learned to be gentle in a way he never saw the humans be.
Let alone the dragons.
Twenty-Two
Elowenno longer winced when she bent forward. Her back still ached, in the way half-healed wounds always did—tight and tender. The worst of the pain had passed. The bruises had faded too, replaced by raised pink skin mapping out the scars to come.
She moved carefully as she swept the dust from the stone floor with a bundle of dried herbs, the scent of them meeting her as she worked.
Midas watched her from the shadowed curve of the cavern wall, one wing tucked tightly to his side, the other stretched lazily behind him. His eyes tracked every motion—each twist of her waist, each soft breath of exertion. He said nothing, but she felt his gaze like sunlight against her skin.
