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Gut Feeling

by Lurker16

The dragon's cavern gaped on the side of Mountain Guile. Its entrance ringed itself in rock, forming an arch eight times taller than the city hall of Ashvue below and five times wider. At its highest point shone a voussoir that Willhelm recognised as belonging to the volcanic Faery two miles North. It held her signature: two sets of scratch marks that crossed one another to form a grid. The keystone pulsed violet.

Willhelm clawed through his journal, tearing pages as he searched her chapters. His writing was a scrawl. He stood before the cavern in a brown tunic that had once been red. Laces of leather tightened across his chest to secure it to his thin body. The circle cut below its neck hung loose. His trousers were torn. The soles of his leather shoes were defeated by the voyage up-mountain.

Adrenaline rattled through his spine. Amber, he thought to himself. The Faery's magic always had an amber glow. He clasped his book shut.

He gazed at the stones of the archway as though they were jewels upon a necklace. It felt gravity defying. How could one cavern survive under an entire mountain? There was a ferocity about it that tied knots in his belly. Nobody saw the dragon arrive, yet here its domain stood, holding up the mountain as if it were a blanket.

He remembered being a boy and telling his parents about the hole in the mountain, that looked down on the city like an eye. “The Faery will come tame the beast,” his mother told him each night, mistaking his shivering for fear. From their cottage he would look at the eye, recording his observations on parchment in broken English. He would wait until she and his father fell asleep on the opposite side of the room before resuming his vigil. He looked over the rooftops, afraid that the one night he did not watch would be the night it showed itself.

Once, the eye looked back. It was deep and purple and as unbelievable as it sounded when he explained it, he could see the black pit of its pupil in the darkness. “It was a dragon,” he told his parents. “It was a dragon,” he told Allen and Rob from along the road. “It was a dragon,” he said, trembling before the Liege of Ashvue. Common-folk were not to speak the Liege's name. The metal of his soldiers was cold upon Willhelm's shoulders.

The Liege's palm smacked across Willhelm's cheek. “We will have no more talk of dragons, Boy. They are a faery's tale, and even the Faery of Mountain Guile speaks none of this. We know it to be true.”

“But I saw it,” Willhelm said.

The Liege was a pasty man, with long fingers and a sharp jaw. On his back draped a mantle of blue silk, edged with bear fur and sapphire. He was neither thin nor fat. His face was shaven but rough. He brought his hand to Willhelm's neck, digging his fingernails into his voice-box. Willhelm gurgled, the apple of his throat twisted in ways that he knew it should never be turned.

“I will have silence,” the Liege said. He shook his head. Willhelm was released. “A mauve dragon. I should love to wear its scales upon my body. Would that it were true,” he chuckled. His knights and petitioners snickered in return. He raised his arms for his audience. “Perhaps I shall consult with a mauve faery and ask her to paint my kingdom with its blood. Return the boy to his hut. I should like to enlist his father in my military.”

Willhelm spoke no more of the dragon after that. His mother begged him not to. The window was sealed over with mud and broken pottery. His father was taken.

Still, he kept his journal. He hid it in a hole carved in the wall beside his bedroll. As he grew, so too did the eye. He measured it with units of his own devising, creating language where words were unknown. He was uneducated, but intelligent.

Some of the common-folk took pity on him. Others had no patience. Allen and Rob stopped playing.

Years passed, and the eye became wider. Bigger. Stronger. More dangerous. People started to go missing. When Willhelm turned of age, he was appointed as Town Crier: an insult of a role but one he wore with pride. By then, others had noticed the cavity. Talk started. Not just among the common-folk, but within city hall, too. He spread the word. “A dragon,” people started calling the creature inside.

A dragon.

Willhelm stood at the dragon's cavern and looked one last time to Ashvue. The spires of city hall and its surrounding nobility dominated its centre. He could see the craftsmanship diffuse outwards into the housing of the common-folk. The buildings became shorter and looked brown from so far, with sparse gaps for farmland.

It was disappointing. He expected to feel something – not necessarily sadness or regret, but something. She was kind, but he did not miss his mother. His father was already gone. Where he anticipated doubt, he instead saw the eye as he remembered it from all that time ago: loud and deep and dominating. At the base of the mountain, some ways from Ashvue, the Liege's hunting taskforce camped. They were coming to kill the dragon.

Mentally, the cavern had always been home, for as long as he could think. His thoughts belonged here. He yearned to witness what was inside. Nobody had seen the dragon itself, only the growing entrance to its abode. Those who had been sent to investigate did not return. Good folk and bad folk and common-folk and noble men had vanished without word. The Faery refused to discuss it further. Eventually, she ceased hosting visitors at all.

Willhelm stepped inside.

Darkness cut across him as he passed the threshold. His journey spanned three days and two nights, with the better portion of today being consumed as well. Without the markets and labourers nearby to gauge how late it was, he relied on the sun descending behind him. Its light waned. The sky became orange in places and red in others, the two colours mixing over clouds in every other place to make a colour almost purple.

Purple, like the keystone that should have been amber. Willhelm paced toward the nothingness until even the sky retreated. He held an arm out, trembling, wondering if the next thing to touch would be the dragon. His steps slowed. He clutched his journal to his side. The tips of his toes grazed across rocks and soil beneath. He was blind.

His tongue felt dry. It rolled along the roof of his mouth and over his gums. He salivated and swallowed. When he opened his mouth, the air he breathed was hot. It held in his chest like stone. There was a weight to it – a guilt – that reminded him of the time he was caught digging up a farmer's potatoes when he was a boy. This was not his air to breathe: it was the dragon's.

“–llo?” Willhelm's voice crumbled. “H-hello? Is anyone h–” he swallowed again, “–Here? Are you here?” He tried to imagine what the dragon looked like. How big it was. What it was doing here. What it would do when he found it – or when it found him. “Hello?” he said.

A buzzing rose. It started small, like the suckers in the Summer months, before growing loud enough to bounce off of the walls around him. When its volume stopped increasing, its pitch raised, straightening the hairs on his arms and shaking his teeth. It rung like a church bell. A blast of light coursed towards him.

He flinched. In the time it took for Willhelm's eyes to adjust, the light dimmed and narrowed along its passage, following the ceiling of the cavern like a vein of minerals. Under its purple glow, he saw that the sides of the dragon's home were just as wide – if not wider – than the entrance itself. He looked along his arms and feet at the muck over his body. His arm ached from holding his book to his side. He tucked it into his trousers. He breathed.

The air was still heavy, but he inhaled easier now. When he walked he avoided tip-toeing. The light reassured him.

“Hello?” he said, louder. A few paces ahead, another purple light pulsed alive. It bore the same sigil as the keystone of the arch. He followed it. “Dragon? Are you here?” His voice carried forwards a short distance before being buried.

It felt as though his legs were part of the light itself as they tried to find their way. Further along, there was another flash – and another. Each stone connected to the next with a web of violet. He grinned. Before the sixth stone, the light caught a hunk of crystal, spun around inside it and weaved its way forwards again. He had never seen anything as fanciful in all of his life.

His blue eyes shone. His brown hair glowed. He felt like something more than he was.

“Oi, Mr Dragon, I'm coming to see you – if that's okay, I mean. I know you're in here,” he said. He laughed. He ran.

The way was twisted in places, with slopes and branching paths. More than once, the ceiling gave way to a vastness above. Spikes clamped down from the blackness to meet with others from the floor in a way that made him think of a dragon's maw. It excited him. No matter the obstacle, he followed the stones and the light, which found one surface or another to traverse.

He remembered being thirsty and hungry, although he packed well for his trip. He remembered his mother, who he loved and left. He remembered living a life that was satisfying yet unsatisfying in most aspects, except the aspect that truly mattered: the dragon. He remembered and then he did not remember. He remembered again and then it became a haze.

Within the maze of walls and wonders, he placed his hand on a stone and forgot. The vibrations shook his thoughts. It burned his hand. He pulled it away and winced, before holding it close to the light again to inspect it. There was a burn, circular, with the outline of a wider diamond around it.

A memory surfaced; an image of the Faery's sigil. This was not it. The memory dissolved. He thought the burn looked like a gem, until he turned his palm to the side. It was an eye. It scrutinised him. He cradled it to his chest and carried on. His heart fluttered.

The stones grew closer together. The paths sprawled wider. There were more tunnels and drops. The stones ventured down some, only to return and travel a different way. Willhelm slowed. He was out of breath. His legs and feet and hand hurt. The light had been so definite in its direction. It felt correct. Why was it splintering now?

Their placement became excessive. They were clumsy. They were unsure.

Willhelm stood before a boulder that was larger than his chest. It lay suspended in the wall, its edges square and its front flat. Without the shine of the three smaller stones around it, he would have missed it. He pressed his good hand over it. It felt smooth. There were markings across its face that felt familiar, but he could not quite place it. They were like the markings of the smaller stones, but messier. Five lines scored across five lines around and sideways and all the way off the boulder to scratch at the wall beside.

Scratches. They were scratches. Not like the Faery's scratch marks, but– the Faery! He had forgotten about the Faery. His head felt like it was floating. How could he forget about the Faery? Her markings were here but with five fingers instead of three for each swipe, and they did not form a grid. He stepped back. The weight was back in his chest, as big and as heavy as the boulder itself. The scratches trailed to the ground, through the dirt.

As he backed away the weight dropped from his chest to his gut. His hand reached for his journal but its spine snagged the burn and fell free of his waist. He cried out. The violet light was straining his eyes, though in his mind's eye he saw what had happened.

The volcanic Faery, either at the insistence of visitors from Ashvue or for her own peace of mind, sought the truth of the mountain. Perhaps she knew more than she let on. Willhelm imagined her taking those first steps towards an invisible foe through the archway. Maybe she was afraid, as he was. Maybe she was cocky. He envisaged her mapping out her path – Willhelm's path – conjuring flames and stone as she went. An orange light would have banished the dark, the same colour as her eyes and skin and the magma from which her power was drawn. She must have known where to find the dragon. She must have been close. Close enough that–

“–I ate her.” The bass of the voice punched through Willhelm's back like a tooth through flesh. It moved the earth. The cavern itself was speaking to him, echoing in diminishing volume.

I ate her. I ate her. I ate her.

He fell to his knees. He heaved. His ears rang.

“About sixteen months ago, actually,” the voice said, “She was a feisty little morsel. Still, just a morsel.” The voice came closer than before. “It was cute, in the way that a field mouse is cute as it scurries to gather grain.”

Willhelm choked on the lump in his gullet. With every screech of his heart the lump grew more impossible to breathe around. The dragon. Finally. He tried to turn but his arms would not let him. Every muscle ceased. Something wide and solid lifted his chest before he could unlock his movements. A claw.

“Still, every farmer needs to stomp out a rodent when he sees one, doesn't he?” as the dragon spoke it raised him, before dropping him in the dirt. The talon tore through his tunic and spun him around.

Two amethyst eyes bore down on him. He looked to the left one, then to the right. They were sharp, embedded in a brow as angular as the dragon's skull. They were familiar. They were predatory. In the wash of purple light from the cave, the vivacity of the dragon's irises promised a depth behind them that rivalled the mountain itself.

Willhelm gasped for air. He squirmed. With clumsiness, he pushed at the claw holding his chest to the ground. The dragon arched a brow. Its lips pulled back to brandish a repertoire of teeth unlike anything he had ever seen. They locked together, triangular in shape, to follow the entire length of his jaw. At its cheek, the teeth coalesced and curved outwards, to form a tusk as sharp as a blade.

The dragon smiled. There was no claw on Willhelm's chest now. All that pinned him down was its gaze.

The invisible force slowed Willhelm's thoughts. Is it going to – I hope it doesn't – I hope he – please – eat me – please. He looked over those teeth again, which were half as big as houses. The dragon's head was enormous, enveloped in scales of sheer black. They glistened in the light to reveal peaks and troughs and a nose horn of purple. He tried to think of a building to compare it to, but his eyes locked with the dragon's and he lost concentration. There were no buildings big enough, he thought sluggishly. No words good enough. A heat surged from Willhelm's belly. He thought it was the claw – it must have pierced him – but the claw trailed down his hips to shred his trousers.

“Oh,” Willhelm squeaked.

He saw it now, wobbling in his periphery. He felt it, pulsing and hard. His cock cast itself up towards the dragon, desperate to get closer. It was slick with arousal.

The dragon laughed. Each rumble of his voice sent a new shockwave through Willhelm's shaft. Why – why is this happening – why on – why – why haven't I – been swallowed by this – magnificent beast. He gasped.

There was scraping against the walls and floor. The dragon's head disappeared as it rose towards an unseen ceiling. A violet stripe appeared down its neck as it ascended, which thickened as it went. Higher, bigger, longer. The chamber felt small as two forelegs took their place. The scales were endless, of onyx and mauve and shades in-between that refracted and reflected, between and beyond themselves. The dragon's silhouette grew wider until it could no longer fit. It grew upwards until the mountain groaned and submitted to its presence. The dragon brought its snout down to Willhelm and snorted. Willhelm felt the vacuum of its nostrils pulling him from the ground.

“You don't smell very good, do you?” the dragon said. Its tongue uncoiled from within its maw, dousing Willhelm in saliva that made his skin itch and his cock swell. The tongue extended far enough to stroke along his entire body. It was smooth in places, rough in others, with grooves and strength that surpassed any beast he knew. He squealed into it. It dragged him along the ground, back to the wall. His cock twitched into the heat of the lick. Willhelm cried as the tongue retreated to the dragon's mouth. “Don't taste very good, either,” the dragon added.

Lust pulsed across every inch of Willhelm’s body. It was fever. The dragon’s voice beat within his cock-head like a ballad. It entranced him to become his most authentic self. To fulfil his duty. To offer himself to his draconic lord, in service and mind and body.

“Please, Sir,” Willhelm said.

“Sir?” The dragon shook the cavern with laughter. “Try God, or deity, or poison-belcher.” As he spoke, his eyes lapped away what little resistance remained. A purple pendulum swayed within the slits of his eyes, from left to right and back again.

Willhelm’s eyes and cock followed the glow, glazing over with clarity and pre-cum. The last of his cerebral defences melted away with a sp-splort from between his legs. Yes, it was all so obvious now. He knew the dragon’s true name.

“Sini,” Willhelm begged, “I want… I need to be with you. Forever. I’ve known you for so many years, and you know me better than the sun knows the sky.”

Sini slid the blunt of his claw along the inside of Willhelm’s thigh, coaxing loose a few more bubbles of pre-ejaculate. His other forelimb skewered the journal he carried with him. With a flourish of his talons, he scattered its pages like petals.

“Have you ever enjoyed the warmth of molten rock in your gut, human?” Sini asked, flaring his nostrils. “Have you ever crushed diamond between your teeth like bones, or crunched ruby into dust for no reason other than because you can?”

Willhelm shook his head in response. Lilac-coloured drool drizzled over him.

“No,” Sini continued, “You do not know me. I have more names than you know colours and see more colours than you know names. I hunger and devour and yet hunger still, while preying on the minds of the lesser.” He spread a forepaw above Willhelm, before grinding the between-space of his talons up and down his cock. “I have conquered this volcano and all who tread its earth, yet still you flock to me like pigs to a trough, without knowledge of your impending slaughter. I see the army that approaches. I shall snack on them like a dog snacks on grass: through boredom and to cleanse my bowel. From consciousness I have grown into a being of power great enough to see beyond your skies to volcanoes beyond, to materials like but unlike minerals that your race could not comprehend. You treasure the dirt beneath your feet and abide a rule of law – of concepts that are designed to subjugate your own people in order to feel superior. I do not feel I am superior. I know I am. I am apex. In many ways I am immature and yet already I have surpassed your realm. This I have seen from my volcano. I will feed upon the energy of the land and deplete this mountain in order to grow and claim this lonely place. Perhaps I will not consume all of you. Perhaps you will not be worth my time. In infinity I know that your people will grow until they are dragons, just as dragons will ascend to a being beyond, and the soil of your land will become human. Or it will not.”

He raised his paw to once again look at Willhelm. “Like the faery before, you waste my time. Why are you here?”

“Because I’m yours.”

A frown cast a shadow over Sini’s face. He considered. He belched: a heady concoction that glowed amber.

“You’re right,” Sini said.

Willhelm’s eyes shone.

“You’re my supper.”