Isobelle bites her lip. ‘You think I can’t handle the dragon?’
A sharp breath from under the visor is her only answer for a moment. ‘It isn’t the dragon—’ The breath comes again, and Isobelle recognises it as the ghost of a laugh. ‘Isobelle, I’m afraid to let you seeme.’
Isobelle can stand it no longer. She leans forward, grasping the edge of Gwen’s breastplate and laying her other hand at the edge of the helmet. Slowly, she presses her forehead against the metal, which has warmed to Gwen’s body, feeling strangely alive against her skin.
‘I’m here, Gwen,’ she whispers. ‘For as long as you need me. And for whatever you’re afraid to show me, I can wait. I’ll wait with you.’
Gwen gives a shudder. Then a touch on Isobelle’s hand makes her lift her head to find Gwen unbuckling her helmet, and pulling it off with a groan.
Isobelle takes it from her and tosses it aside, her eyes glued to her beloved’s face. Her cheeks are red with effort, her eyes shadowed with exhaustion. Her hair is damp with sweat, the braid unravelling and tendrils stuck to her cheeks. A purpling bruise runs down the side of her neck, to vanish beneath the edge of her jerkin.
Gwen’s eyes fill with tears. ‘I’m scared,’ she whispers.
Isobelle reaches out and brushes back the wayward pieces of Gwen’s hair, strand by strand; she cups Gwen’s cheek, thumb brushing that flush of exertion.
‘I’ve got you,’ she whispers back.
Gwen leans into her, wraps her arms around Isobelle, and lets herself go. Her shoulders shake with sobs and with remembered tension. Her fingers close and release against Isobelle’s back; her face presses in against the crook of Isobelle’s neck.
Beneath her fear is just … sadness. Grief she doesn’t know how to let go of, for the way things have been, for the certainty she had before she was cast into shadow. Before she knew what it truly was to fight a monster.
Isobelle holds her until she comes back into her body, each of them leaning into one another. Gwen’s hand slides down her arm, as if properly feeling Isobelle’s presence for the first time. Her head lifts, her eyes red-rimmed but wondering, solemn – still frightened, but no longer falling.
Isobelle cannot help but smile, forgetting everything – the dragon, the mine, the spell, the curse, the tower – the only thing in her mind is Gwen, as dazzling as sunrise after a lifetime of darkness.
Gwen draws herself up and reaches for her sword. ‘I’m ready,’ she says softly.
Isobelle nods at her and reaches once more for the torch. It flares to life in her hand, and she stands, raising it up over her head, casting a pool of light that shimmies and dances as she waves the torch back and forth.
Gwen braces a foot against the overturned cart and shoves it away. She shifts her grip on her sword and raises the weapon.
The woven tapestry of Gwen’s dream shudders, like a spiderweb thrumming messages to its weaver. The distant glint of gold becomes copper, becomes a flame, becomes a racing shadow. In a rush of heat and terror and fire, the dragon is there. Filling the tunnel, surrounding them in the acrid heat of its breath, it laughs an ancient, hideous laugh.
Isobelle screams – she cannot help it – and Gwen looks back at her. Wordlessly, she takes one hand off her sword and holds it out. With one long stride, Isobelle steps to her side.
Their fingers intertwine around the handle of the torch.
But before they can raise it, the dragon catches Gwen’s eye.
Her body goes rigid, like a hero of old turned to stone. Isobelle can’t bear to take her eyes off Gwen’s face; can’t bring herself to look at the thing consuming her beloved. She covers Gwen’s hand on the torch with hers, takes a long, deep breath … and turns to face the dragon.
Its massive eye is waiting for her.
She’s pulled into the empty, slitted irises like driftwood in a riptide. The dragon’s mind is tearing at Gwen’s, holding her suspended, hanging from a cliff with one hand, dangling over a pit of endless darkness. The dragon’s claws and teeth are despair and hopelessness.
The only thing that saved Gwen when she first faced the dragon was to think of Isobelle. She held up Isobelle’s brightness like a shield. But there came a moment when she knew the girl she loved was out there, somewhere, preparing to challenge the beast. Preparing to make an opening for Gwen to strike at it.
Now, suspended over nothingness, she faces that decision once more. If she lets herself think of Isobelle while the dragon is in her mind, the dragon will know Isobelle is there. The dragon will kill her, too. So she does the only thing she can do to buy Isobelle more time.
She lets go.
For a moment, Isobelle is frozen, watching her heart tumble through the darkness towards the abyss below.
I’ve got you.
She runs, sprints, flies across the span of the memory, breathless, her blood singing in her ears, willing herself to move just a little faster, a little faster …
She reaches Gwen in time to catch her, both sprawling down together. Gwen claws at her, certain she is the dragon come to finish her – Isobelle cries out her name, and Gwen turns the blow she’d aimed into a stumble. They crash together, Gwen shivering.
