“Probably. But Ithinkyou’re secretly really good at it.” A smile briefly appears at the corner of her mouth before she turns back toward the river.
“All you do isthink.” The exchange should have ended there. Instead I find myself considering her observation. She is not entirely wrong. I have been evaluating possibilities ever since we stepped outside. And that’s not for me. If I were alone here, I would simply leave this island and get to the shore, as easily as walking through the river.
The island is not trapping me. The island is trapping Morgan.
"Well?" Morgan asks after a while.
The question pulls me from my thoughts. "Well what?"
She gestures toward the river. "You spent the last ten minutes staring dramatically into the distance. Does it mean you've reached a conclusion?"
I have. The problem is that I dislike it. For several moments I listen to the rain while deciding how much honesty to provide. "I could leave."
Morgan turns her head toward me.
The statement sounds harsher once spoken aloud, but it remains true. "I can walk across the riverbed. The current is irrelevant. The creature would be unable to stop me for long."
To my surprise, Morgan simply nods. "I know." There is no accusation in her voice. No anger. No disappointment.
"You know?"
"Of course I know." She looks back toward the river. "I know that dragons can walk underwater. You said so."
The simplicity of the response leaves me unexpectedly dissatisfied. I am not entirely certain what reaction I expected. Objections, perhaps. Concern. Some acknowledgement that my departure would create difficulties.
Instead she merely accepts the fact.
After a few moments she says, "If you decide to go, just tell me first."
I study her profile through the rain. "That is all?"
Morgan shrugs. "What exactly am I supposed to do? Tackle you?"
"That would be ill advised. Yes, I can obviously do whatever I want. That is dragon-like."
The conversation has made the situation worse. Leaving still makes sense. Unfortunately, it no longer feels simple.
Leaving is the rational choice. Yet even while I stand there reminding myself of that fact, I find my attention drifting toward the strangest concerns.
How much food remains on the island? How much does she need? Would the creature attack while I was gone? Could the shelter survive another night of storms? How long would she last alone?
I frown. I’m still thinking as if Morgan is my responsibility. But dragons don’t do responsibilities. We take, we enjoy, we destroy, we conquer. If a servant dies, or somehow suffers in one of the endless ways that can happen, then we don’t give it a second thought. And we certainly don’t care whatmighthappen.
Unfortunately, I am beginning to suspect that some part of me disagrees. It’s the weak part, the not-dragon part in this cursedly weak form! I cannot let it steer me. I must act like a dragon!
I picture my hoard, my old hoard in the carefully hidden lair on that secret planet. I imagine lying on it, feeling the warmth of the gold seep into me, hearing the soft, metallic clinks as I run my hand through the heaps of treasure.
Yes. That’s what I need. Gold. A hoard. And on this island there is none.
Morgan was a pleasant conquest. But now I must fight her spells.
“Stay in the hut,” I say. “Perhaps the creature will stop if it can’t see you.”
Then I walk straight into the river.
15
- Morgan-
