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The first part of this story can be found here.

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• V -

Other than the relief of Linten's guilt, little changed in his life at the aerie; Linten still baked, Könec still hunted, and they both still looked after the eggs. All that altered was the openness of their affection - when they wanted to compliment, to touch, they did. They kissed and fucked almost everywhere in the aerie, though Linton's bedroom saw the most use. During one coupling in the atrium they - again - nearly slipped into the impluvium, and several loaves of bread were lost to over-proofing or burning as they fucked on the kitchen table. Once they even tried on the mountain in the snow - not ideal, with Linten lacking the inner fire that protected Könec from frostbite, and the act required the shedding of his fur coat. Still, it had been an experience to kneel in the cold, his body numbed but for his face pressed into the warm, silky soft curls at the base of Könec's cock. The tang of his musk had made Linten drool as much as the cock on his tongue - and the way Könec squirmed and cried when his salt-bitter spend filled Linten's mouth -

Well, Linten was pleased with the new state of affairs at the aerie . . . though there was one thing he would change.

“I don't understand, Könec. You courted me, and I accepted. There's no reason to keep giving me all these - these extravagant gifts." They were in Könec's hoard; Linten was attempting to return a thick rope of gold chain presumably meant to adorn his neck.

“There is every reason. You are my delight, my - my mate. I want to spoil you with jewels and silks and gold and whatever else!"

“I'm just a common baker, I don't -"

“You're a baker who's living with a dragon, is sleeping with a dragon - is beloved by a dragon. You are no 'common baker,' not to me."

Linten turned away, twisting into himself.

“Is this about the egg you - that was lost?"

“No, no. I - I still feel some guilt, but it's not that."

“Then why do you" - Könec sighed. “Among dragons, it is important, this gift giving. Is it not so among humans?"

“It is. It's not the only way we show affection, but it's common. But if it's valued so highly among dragons, shouldn't I be giving you gifts, too?"

“You don't have a hoard, Baker; I don't expect gold or silver from you. And you have given me things - your baking skills, your affection, your body. Those are precious gifts."

“But not as precious as gold and jewels, Könec."

“We differ on that thought, Baker. The eggs, too: you brought me those."

“That was just doing the right thing."

“'Just doing the right thing.' And who else in your village did it, or would have done it, hmm? You are a kind, gentle, beautiful man. You deserve all the jewels a king does and more."

“Könec. I don't -"

“No. Let me try a different tack. When I give you a new tunic, or a box of jewels, how does it make you feel?"

Linten considered it before answering. “Discomfited. I'm - I know you dislike when I say I'm 'common,' but I didn't live like this before, Könec. The only gold my family owned was my mother's brooch, and I went and lost that. I'm . . . unworthy of it."

A touch to Linten's cheek - Könec's warm, broad hand, his face concerned.“You said 'unworthy,' then not 'unused to.' What was it, Baker, that makes you think so little of yourself? Do you not see us as equals?"

“It's not that."

“Is it your father? His leaving?"

“No, Könec. My father was half-mad with grief when my mother died, and he came back. He - he came back. Neither of them chose to leave me."

“Then who did?"

“What?"

“Who chose to leave you?"

Mouth dry, Linten swallowed. “Can we - can we sit down."

“Of course." Könec led them to a richly carved bench and sat them down side by side, his arm around Linten's shoulders.

“I should tell you," said Linten. He took comfort in the warm arc from his thigh to his back where he and Könec touched. “Before you, there was a man. His name was Markas. They called him Greeneye; he had the most beautiful grey-green eyes, like a pine forest seen through fog. I loved him."

* * *

They had known each other as children. Markas was the son of the village woodcutter, Linten the son of the village baker. Ovens needed fuel, and so they saw each other often. Linten had been a shy young thing, stuck to his mother's skirts - but he had seen the boy with tanned skin and freckles brought out by the sun, green eyes that flashed. They were already calling him Greeneye, then.

Linten was sixteen when they first met in truth. Markas had broadened learning his father's labor, and his hair fell around his face in blond curls. He had started to bring the wood to the bakery himself, and Linten had taken up more of Herta's work as she was plagued by exhaustion and aches; in incidental touches and held glances, they took notice of each other as youths do. Markas took him on walks through the wood, a respite from his ever-growing share of labor. On one of those walks, in the dappled light that pierced the canopy, Markas had pressed him against a tree and kissed him. They were together for three secret years, stealing time in the shadows of trees.

One day, they lay under the drooping canopy of a willow, drowsing in the fragmented green and honey light of early noon. It suited Markas well, whose curls drank the light and sparkled like gold. Linten caught one and pushed it behind Markas' ear, earning a smile in return - one that crinkled the corners of Markas' eyes. They had been kissing for almost an hour under the tree. Then, the smile dropped off Markas' face.

“What are you thinking about?" asked Linten.

“You."

“How sweet."

“I -" Markas sat up. “Linten." His voice had gone hollow, distant. “I . . . well, I've met someone."

“What?" Linten sat up. “What do you meant you've 'met someone?'"

“A girl, Linten. She's from another village - Osttorf. I'm going to marry her."

“I - What?" Linten scrambled upright, an alien panic seizing him. “Excuse me, what?"

Markas stood up. “I'm sorry Linten. I -"

“No, no, Markas, I - what do you mean you're going to marry her? I thought that we were, that we'd . . ."

“I know Linten. I did too, I thought we'd - but I've always wanted a family."

“And I can't give you one. Not - not naturally." He spit the word like an underripe berry. “You - you always - with you, I felt like enough. I felt seen, I -"

“You are enough! Linten, you're - one day someone will be so, so fortunate to have you, just not -"

“You. Just not you. I'm not enough for you. How long have you been - were you just stringing me along?"

“Linten -"

“No. Nevermind." Linten's chest felt like fire - like the first time he'd burnt his hand in the oven. “Fuck - just go, Markas. Just go."

Markas did.

Linten and his father baked the sweets - Herta's recipe - for Markas' wedding. Linten watched as he married a girl - a sweet girl with brown eyes and brown hair. Markas smiled at her, and his eyes crinkled at the corners.

Three years later, Linten's parents were dead from wasting and grief, and he only went to the village for food. The parade of children bringing flour and taking bread kept him company, and the ovens kept him busy. When Ulwin was born, he did not visit. Markas had his brother bring the wood that fed the bakery's fires. Linten hardly ever needed to leave.

* * *

As he'd spoken, Linten had slumped into Könec's arms. A hand was stroking his hair, and he wiped the tears from his face.

“I'm sorry, Baker."

Linten sighed. “I understand why he did it. I - he and I wanted different things, but -"

The arms that held him curled tighter. “Shh, darling. You're here now. As much as I dislike the man, he was correct on one point: I am indeed fortunate to have you. And I've no plans to let you go."

Linten leaned into Könec's warmth. “Thank you, Könec. I'm sorry I've been spurning your gifts. I didn't realize why - and I didn't know how important it is to you, as a dragon."

“It's all right, my dear. I think I've a solution. What if I still brought you gifts, but humbler ones, more practical? A tunic of linen rather than silk, less rings to lose in dough as you knead."

“Yes, rings are somewhat wasted on a baker. I understand your teeth might not break biting into one, but mine? I'd like that, though - humbler gifts. And the ingredients - exotic fruits or that fine white flour - I can use those, make them into something to share with you and with the eggs, once they hatch. It'd be like we . . ."

Könec pressed a firm kiss to his temple, then to his mouth. “Like a family, Baker. We are one, you know. You just have to let us - let yourself - be."

So Linten inhaled, exhaled, gathered his sorrow and let it exit him into the air. Joy now, and comfort. “All right," he said, and he kissed Könec back.

• VI -

One day, as Linten fussed over the nest, refreshing the blanket and talking to the eggs, the one in his hands jolted wildly. That was not unusual, they had - as Könec had said would happen - begun to twitch more as their hatching day approached. The red one was especially lively, but Linten held the gold one, which hardly ever moved this much. The hatchling inside kicked again, and something tapped against the shell from the inside.

“Könec!" called Linten. He thanked the gods that they were both in the aerie. “Könec, come quickly!"

A sound of scrabbling claws, and Könec scrambled in, mid-shift, all concern and alarm. “Baker, is everything all right?" Linten held out the egg - a crack had broken in its shell.

“Should I put it down?"

“No, no, just" - Könec came over to him, grinning - “just hold it. They're ready, darling."

They both watched as the crack in the egg expanded, spreading in dendritic webs across the shell before, at its origin, a tiny white point emerged: the egg tooth. It sawed along the horizontal of the egg until a hemisphere slipped off, revealing a small golden hatchling, shimmery as the shell. Linten cooed and reached out - but should he touch it? One of Könec's large hands took his hesitant one and guided it to the baby's head - “It's all right, love; she's ours."

Linten stroked the baby's crown. Its scales were soft and silky like new leather and warm to the touch. It blinked open its eyes - huge in its head - as if waking from a long nap; they were as golden and brilliant as Könec's, though warm like honey rather than his vivid yellow. It pressed back into Linten's hand and trilled. Könec kissed his temple. “She's claimed you. What will you name her?"

“How do you know she's female?"

Könec traced the line of nubs atop her head with a finger. “Females have shorter spines as hatchlings, then longer ones as adults."

Linten looked at her, eyes as gold as her scales - a sweet gold, like a flower in a field. “Buttercup," he said, “In your tongue, what would that be?"

“'Gurunsig.' Golden bloom."

“Gurunsig." Linten touched his nose to hers - she chirped and licked it. He pet her again; her heartbeat fluttered a rapid staccato, her breaths just as quick. She was so small, so delicate in his hands. Tears bit behind his eyes. “Könec," he said, “oh, Könec, she's so - I've never" - and Könec kissed his cheek, his mouth.

“I know, darling." He too was crying, so Linten kissed him back. Then, another cracking sound. They both looked towards the other egg, which was twitching in the nest. “Oh, they'll share a hatching day," said Könec. He lifted the red egg into his arms, and they all watched - human, dragon, and hatchling - as it too cut itself an exit. It was faster than Buttercup and less meticulous. It poured out into Könec's hands, vivid red and with larger horns, and it opened its eyes almost immediately. They were sunny yellow.

“He has your eyes," said Linten. Könec exhaled something between a gasp and a sob, then pressed his forehead to the little one's.

“Khurinsu," he said, “welcome to the world. Your sister is here, too."

When the hatchlings met, they tangled into a ball. Könec shifted into dragon-shape, then went to nestle on his sleeping rugs. The hatchlings followed and curled against his warm belly, falling promptly asleep. Linten fetched a few pillows and blankets to make a bed, kissed his dragon goodnight, and laid himself next to them. One of Könec's arms came to hold him close. He didn't need the blankets, in the end.

* * *

For several days, they did nothing but enjoy the company of their children. Linten still baked and Könec still hunted - especially now that the hatchlings needed nutrition to grow - but the bulk of their days were spent playing with Khurinsu and Buttercup. They chased them down the aerie's passages, unsuccessfully kept them from falling into the impluvium, cuddled with and petted them when they were all tired. Buttercup had a charming habit of napping while draped around Linten's neck, and he was content to feel her warm weight as he did his daily chores - though he thought Könec envied him when Khurinsu knocked over an entire shelf books before setting a bolt of embroidered silk aflame with a fiery sneeze. It was worth it for the nights. Linten made Könec make up a proper bed in the hoard, and they and the hatchlings cuddled up to sleep, with Könec either in the bed as a man or draped over it as a dragon; they were lucky the frame was so sturdily built.

But the peace was broken one morning by a scream: male and human. Linten rushed into the atrium, where Könec had just entered from his usual early hunting flight. Still a dragon, in one of his claws he held a yelling, squirming man. Könec's face was screwed up in a rage Linten hadn't seen since the day he found him in the forest.

“What is the meaning of this?" asked Linten.

“This human," and it had been months since Linten heard that word in that vicious tone - “was in our territory. I confronted him and he told me he had come for you. I thought you should see him before I throw him from the mountaintop."

He dropped the human, who fell into an undignified pile before clumsily righting himself. He gasped. “Linten?"

“Markas?" Those were his green eyes, his straw hair, his handsome face. Könec's wanting to throw him off the mountain made sense, now. “What are you doing here?"

“Anika sent me. Grâvenholm - it's bad, Linten. So many people are sick. Anika thinks the dragon Ulwin slew cursed the village."

“And why wouldn't she have?" Könec's voice was like to have shook the aerie in its rage. “You ate her, and you meant to eat her eggs."

“I didn't," said Markas. “Not all of us ignored Anika's warnings - most of the elders; some of the children, and a few adults, we're all right, but -"

“But what? Your herb-woman knows only a dragon can break a dragon's curse, so she sends for my help? She sent the baker to me, and he told me of your village's actions. Why would she think I would aid her?"

“She didn't," said Markas, and he looked to Linten. “She sent me to him. Linten, I know we - I know I did wrong by you; I told Anika she should've come herself or sent someone else, but she had to treat the sick, and everyone else had work to do, and I'd chopped enough wood to last through winter. I know we've likely earned our misfortune, but Linten" - his grey-green eyes shone in the light - “Ulwin is . . . dying. He's my son."

Linten looked to Könec, who sighed. “I wouldn't go if it were only me here, Baker, but it is your village and your people. If you wish me to give them mercy, I will."

Linten closed his eyes. A part of him thought it justice to let Grâvenholm die of its sin, but he thought of Gurunsig and Khurinsu, and how he would protect them no matter what they did, good or ill. He thought of the love he and Markas had shared - the shadow of which still lived on, and of Anika, who was still laboring to save the village after it had spurned her wisdom. He thought of his mother and his father.

“We will help them, Könec, and do what we can."

Markas slumped. “Thank you, Linten, I" - he lurched towards Linten, for an embrace or a touch, but he stepped away. “Thank you."

“I will take you back to your camp, human," said Könec, “and we will meet you tomorrow morning, to go to your village. Get on my back."

Linten watched them leave. He wanted to go see the hatchlings and take comfort from them, but he could not move.

• VII -

He stood there as if in a trance, until, with a rush of wind, Könec landed back in the aerie. He rushed into the atrium, quickly shifting into man-shape, saw Linten, and stopped. They looked at each other for a moment.

“Linten." Linten felt the spark of magic sing in the air. So Könec knew his name now, his true name.

Könec strode to him, held his face in tender hands. “Linten," he said, and in the word Linten felt the dragon's power tremble through him. “Linten, my Linten." Könec kissed him, and warmth flowed into him: Könec's power, gentle and strong as a wind that caressed a bloom but left it unmarred.

“Könec, I -" Another kiss silenced him.

“No, not Könec" - a smile, tender and warm - “Immirgig. My name, my true name, is Immirgig."

A breath held, then - Linten whispered it, “Immirgig," and watched as the commanding magic pulsed through him, a visible shiver. “Immirgig, kiss me," and he did, deep and searching. Their perceptions reduced to a pair of open mouths and hands seeking touch.

Immirgig's face fell to Linten's shoulder; he burrowed into his neck, mouthing at where the hot beat of blood pulsed. Linten felt overwarm, blood risen to a flush in his skin and a yearning hardness in his cock. He ground his erection forward and gasped when it met Immirgig's. “Bed."

Immirgig nipped at his neck. “Order me, Linten."

The command pulsed fire in Linten's belly. “Immirgig, take me to bed," he ground out, and in a move of graceful strength Immirgig swept Linten into his arms and bore him to the bedroom, where he tossed him onto the bed, kissing him deeply before standing to shed his clothes.

Linten watched as more and more of Immirgig's skin fell into the light. “Immirgig," he said, and watched it shudder through Immirgig's body. His gold eyes burned with a ravenous fire; Linten thanked any listening god or spirit that he'd prepared himself earlier. “Immirgig, come here." He did, crawling on top of Linten and kissing him deeply. Something stung Linten's lips; they parted in a gasp. Above him, Immirgig was sharp-toothed, black scales spasming across his skin. His slitted eyes watched a drop of blood trail down Linten's chin. An inhale - but the exercise failed, the dragon still struggling to emerge from its human cocoon. A horn sprouted, then vanished. A hand became a claw, then a hand again.

“Fuck, Linten, I -"

“Shh." Linten licked his lower lips, tasted the copper tang of his own blood. “Show me, Immirgig" - and with a cry the dragon did. Fluttering scales erupted; Immirgig's pale skin vanished beneath a sea of iridescent black. His face lengthened and sharpened into a dragon's, and his wings flared above them into a canopy. Where they touched was hotter now, and the pants of breath were too; Immirgig hovered above him, head tilted in hesitance. Linten reached up to caress one of the horns that now crowned Immirgig's head, smiling as he leaned into his palm. “Immirgig," said Linten, and golden eyes turned to meet him, larger and more radiant in this form: slitted, alien, and beautiful. “Kiss me."

He leaned down and did. It was wet and sloppy, mouths mismatched and Immirgig's tongue large as his wrist. A whining groan sounded from Linten's throat as he parted his lips to it.

The muscle plumbed his mouth, his throat - his eyes rolled back in his head, his whimpered moans were muffled by Immirgig's tongue. They parted - Immirgig's tongue slipped from him with an obscene squelch; it hung dripping from the wet red of his maw, bracketed by teeth sharp as want. Linten looked down at Immirgig's cock - it was bigger, redder, slipped from a slit rimmed by scales. Its glans was pointed now, and at the base of it there was a slight roundness - the suggestion of a bulb. “Immirgig," said Linten, his voice a breath in the heavy air. “Fuck me."

The command took - Linten watched it shudder through Immirgig's body, shake through his wings. Immirgig gripped Linten's tunic and tore it off - then did the same with his braies, baring Linten's half-hard cock to the air. His gold eyes looked down at his sprawled, naked lover, his maw curled into a predator's grin; he put his jaws at Linten's throat - teeth like knives against the tender, mammal-quick pulse. Then Immirgig drew his tongue down his neck, his chest, his stomach, until it reached his cock. Immirgig gave it a perfunctory lick, enveloped it to the root - Linten's toes curled in pleasure.

He moved to Linten's thighs, held them in his jaw - the slightest bite of the teeth. Immirgig inhaled, savored. A toothier grin - a hungry arc of the lips - and he leaned between Linten's legs to the soft give between, entry to the heat of him.

At the press of tongue to that place, at its yielding, Linten realized the earlier kiss was but a simulacrum of real plundering. All sense died, all thought faded - all obliterated but the strong, wet, writhing muscle inside him, the press of it against his heat. Immirgig's jaw opened around Linten's hips, fangs resting where his legs met his pelvis. He was wet with spit that dripped from the Immirgig's maw as his tongue fucked him open - it was cool where the dragon was warm. He panted Immirgig's name. With how wet and open Linten was already, they wouldn't need oil - and suddenly the pleasure in him crystallized and spurt from him in a generous spend.

The tongue pulled away. He looked up at saw Immirgig's face wet with drool and come. “You already came," said Immirgig, his voice a bestial growl. “But I'll make you come again, Linten." And Linten felt the name's magic flow through him; a pulse of heat pulled through him. “Yes, you will again, before I'm done with you." He pulled Linten's legs over his shoulders and entered him in one steady movement.

Linten screamed. His spine arched off the bed - Immirgig held his waist in two hands that nearly encircled it, their sharp claws pressed in enough to bruise but not to break. A steady beat, a glide out and a slam inside; the wet smacks, the scent of man and sweat and spend; Linten was overused, overcome, his mind and eyes glazed over as Immirgig's thick cock struck that place in him where pleasure lay. The sensate thrill beat in his stomach like a drum backing a crescendo, higher and louder until -

He came, yowling like an animal in the throes of instinct, his cock sore and overworked even as it spent itself again. The drumbeat did not cease, and Linten fell into a place outside words, outside thought. He didn't feel Immirgig's thrusts grow erratic; the final slam against his hips, punctuated with a roar; the knot that grew to keep the warm, copious spend inside. Only bliss and a tender oblivion.

* * *

When Linten emerged from his languorous cocoon, he was held in by scaled arms, warm to the touch. He looked up, saw the face of his dragon; Immirgig's eyes were warm and half-lidded. When Linten shifted, he felt a trickle of seed exit him - a cool wetness on sore flesh.

“Hello, Linten." Immirgig's voice was a low rumble that shook through them both. Linten smiled and nuzzled into his scaled breast with a groan. They would need to clean themselves, and pack, and make sure the hatchlings had not come to any mischief while they were . . . otherwise engaged. But, for now, they lay back and drowsed in their entangled warmth.

• VIII -

The next day's journey was to be a long one. Immirgig, Linten, and the hatchlings flew southward out to Markas' camp. They had a modicum of supplies - Linten was in his heavy coat, with Buttercup around his neck and Khurinsu in his lap, both asleep. When they arrived, there at first seemed to be no one there until Linten saw the bundle of wool near an extinguished fire. Markas had always slept in compared to everyone else in the village. Immirgig made to roar, but a hand from Linten stilled him.

“I'll wake him, Immir - Könec. I'm sure you'd rather he not soil his drawers before a long day's ride on your back?" The fearsome grimace on Immirgig's face answered.

Linten paced into the camp, called Markas' name once, twice. He leaned down, put a hand against the sleeping bundle, and shoved. Markas groaned, then the pile sat up and the blankets fell from his blinking face. He smiled on seeing Linten, as if it were years ago and the two were rising from some shady place in Grâvenholm where they'd shared sleepy kisses - but then he saw the hatchling wound around Linten's neck and the great black dragon looming behind, and the smile fell from his face.

“Ah," he said, then yawned. “Apologies." He rose and packed his things - having brought little, thankfully - and they climbed onto Immirgig's back. Sitting in front of Linten and the hatchlings, Markas gripped desperately onto one of Immirgig's spines. With a beat of his vast wings, they were aloft, and Linten was thankful Markas did not cry out - the journey ahead was cold and long, and the hatchlings were fast asleep.

* * *

What had been a fortnight on foot passed in a third as many hours by dragon flight. It was late afternoon when they arrived at Grâvenholm. From the air, Linten saw the village in miniature - the ruined keep a pile of rough pebbles, the houses a scattering of shapes, the people and their animals tiny moving specks. Where he would have lived and died and been buried, if not for the eggs. He clutched Khurinsu, still dozing in his lap, close.

They landed some ways from the village so as not to induce a panic, though it was unlikely Grâvenholm's eyes had not seen the black silhouette of Immirgig against the sky. True enough, cries of alarm could be heard even at a distance. They dismounted; Buttercup stayed around Linten's neck while he left Khurinsu perched on Immirgig's back.

“I will go ahead," said Markas, “and keep the villagers calm, as much as I can.

“Do that," said Immirgig, his voice a threatening rumble. “If they greet us with hoes and pitchforks, know I will not be as easy prey as the sleeping mother your son killed."

Markas winced. “They won't. Anika has told them of your coming, and all our able-bodied men are abed with the sickness, anyhow. I suppose I couldn't convince you to approach in human form?"

A snort. “No."

“Eh, well then. When the village quiets, come then."

Linten and Immirgig watched as he walked away. “Why don't you shift into human form?" asked Linten, once Markas was far enough away. “I know with Markas it was a matter of intimidation, but it would make the villagers less likely to attack."

“I am vulnerable while in man-shape, and" - Immirgig brought his snout to nuzzle at Linten, who caressed it - “it is an . . . intimacy, a vulnerability. I use it out of necessity with those who don't know I'm a dragon, but with those who do -"

Linten pressed a kiss to his snout. “I understand, love." They stood like that, a moment in the plain: a dragon, a man, a daughter, a son. It was quiet.

“It sounds like it's time to go," said Linten, and they began the walk to the village. A tense fear began to grow in Linten's breast; what if the villagers did attack, what if they hurt Immirgig, or the hatchlings? They had already killed one dragon, and though Immirgig was bigger and older, it could be a trap, or -

“Calm, Linten." Immirgig stretched a wing to ruffle his hair. “No harm will come to you, or to us. I promise you. Trust me."

Grâvenholm's people stood in loose clusters, muttering among themselves. True to what Markas had described, there were fewer of them about than when Linten had left, and those that were were mostly elders and children. As Immirgig came into their view, they stilled like a herd of deer hearing the step of a wolf. One woman fainted, caught by another woman behind her. When Immirgig spoke, his voice booming, the crowd shrank away, save Markas, Anika, and a few elders.

“Village of Grâvenholm." Immirgig's voice boomed. “I was called to hear a petition from Anika, your herb-woman."

Anika strode forth, and though she looked far wearier than when she had seen Linten off, leaning more heavily on her stick, she still held a solidity borne of knowledge and age. She looked up at Immirgig with clear eyes. “Great dragon," she said, “a youth of our village slayed a red one of your kind, for she was nesting near our fields and posed a threat to our animals. But then our folk were foolish and made that slaying a slaughter; they consumed her flesh, though we elders urged against it. Now all who feasted lay ill and dying, and we sent Markas to bid you here, that we could beg your mercy."

“I see," said Immirgig, “but why would I grant you this mercy? You kill a dragon - an affront, to be sure, but she knew the risks of nesting so near a human settlement, and had you disposed of her body and eggs properly she would have had no power to curse you. Hells, if you had fed her to your animals, or skinned her as you humans do a common snake, you would have still not called upon yourselves a curse so dire. But so greedy you were, that you ate her flesh? And now that the magic you took into your own bodies has turned against you, you call for aid. You are fortunate it was her will that you die feverish in your beds - had it been my corpse you fed on, I would have seen you burned in dragonfire."

Linten looked up at his beloved dragon, who snorted with rage; he reached out and laid a hand on his neck. Immirgig turned to look at him, gaze a vivid, sparking gold with angry magic - and then he heaved a great sigh, his wrath exhaled into air. He addressed the village: “But one among you saved her eggs from this, and he was helped by you, herb-woman, and you both have asked me for mercy. I shall give it if I can. Bring one of the afflicted to me."

Two elders rushed into a hut and brought out a young man - Ulwin. Once strapping, he was now skinny and trembling as a twig in a strong wind, with red eyes and papery white skin. Linten saw his mother in her bed, wasting to her bones and shivering until she moved no more. He put a hand to the coil of Buttercup around his neck, felt the quick beat of her little heart under his fingers. Markas too, looked at his son with grief and pity.

Immirgig leaned forward and sniffed at the boy, who didn't flinch - Ulwin's eyes were damp, dull, and unseeing, lost in fever's grip. Immirgig grimaced at the smell.

“It is a deathly curse," he said, “the last will of a dragon: that your village be left empty and dead. It is powerful, and its power is compounded by the consumption of her flesh. I cannot lift it" - an uproar among the villagers, quickly quieted by a golden glare and smack of Anika's stick upon the ground - “I cannot lift it fully, but I might be able to alter it. May I try?"

Anika tilted her head in a half-bow, half-nod. “Any mercy you can give, great dragon. We will be grateful, regardless."

Immirgig inhaled, then blew, and all flinched, but no fire came. Instead there was cold wind, and all shivered from it. It blew through the clothes of every villager, through every house of Grâvenholm, as if it were a blizzard from the depth of winter - and then it was over. All looked at Ulwin, whose complexion began to pink and eyes began to clear. The villagers looked to Immirgig in awe, but when Anika bowed he held up a claw for silence.

“I have tamed the illness, but the curse remains - I cannot break it, only soften its blow. Those who consumed the dragon's flesh will not die, but they will be barren and fruitless. Your village's doom has not been thwarted, but deferred. This is my mercy."

A clamor rose, angry and despairing. Linten shrunk back behind Immirgig while the villagers began to weep and shout, before Anika yelled for silence with a force that ended all but the sobbing. She gave a solemn nod to Immirgig. “Thank you, great dragon. I understand you have offered what you can."

“Herb-woman," said Immirgig, “hold out your hand." She did, and in it Immirgig dropped a small black thing - one of his scales. “Keep this. When this village dies, I would have your lineage remain among folk who better respect your wisdom."

She looked at it, her face alight in wonder that softened the grief. “Thank you, dragon. And you, Linten, may you live well. You should go now, please."

“Come, Linten" said Immirgig, “if we leave soon we may make it home before dawn."

“If I could, Könec, I'd like to visit - to show you my bakery? I don't - we'll likely never come back here, and -"

“Of course. Lead the way."

* * *

Linten was glad that the flowers still bloomed along the edge of the trail - but the view at the end betrayed their charm.

“I - my - I -" Linten covered his mouth, but a ragged cry still escaped. His house - his family's bakery - was gone. A collapsed skeleton of blackened wood and bricks stood in its place. Even the old ovens that had stood for generations had fallen into a pile of shards. Something bit into Linten's knees - the gravel; he had fallen in his shock.

“Linten? Linten!" Immirgig's arm - human - wound around him, and Buttercup's coil slacked so she could lick gently at his face. Khurinsu, still perched on Immirgig's shoulders, nuzzled into his hair. Grief roiled within him, and he let it overwhelm for a moment, pour out like a liquid, before he gathered it inside and released it. His family held him through.

“Linten!" They all turned to the noise - Markas, winded and stumbling up the trail. “Fuck, Linten, I'd meant to warn -"

“What?" Immirgig rose, bristling; Khurinsu mirroring his angry stare. “That his home had been destroyed? If I'd known, I'd have -"

“It wasn't intentional," said Markas. “We wouldn't have burnt down the village's ovens on purpose. Some women - the curse made them sick and clumsy, and they accidentally started a fire. We didn't have enough people to douse it."

Linten rose. “All right," he said. He looked at Markas, and there was no yearning ache beneath his heart, anymore. He just wished for the aerie, and his dragon and their children.

“Linten," said Markas, “when the bakery burned down - we found something in the rubble." He drew a parcel from his tunic - some scrap fabric tied with twine - and unwrapped it. Inside was a gold, glittering thing that caught the sun - Herta's brooch. Linten stumbled to him and took it, cradling it in his hands.

“Markas," he said, looking up. Markas was still beautiful, even while he wasn't Linten's. “Markas, thank you, I -" Linten smiled and pulled him into an embrace. They held each other; Linten could smell his grassy boyish scent, feel the tickle of his soft curls. This would be the last saw of each other. Linten kissed his cheek.

They drew apart. Markas swallowed, his eyes shiny. "Linten, I - be well. I" - he turned to Immirgig. “Dragon lord!"

Immirgig glanced at him.

“I have no right to ask this, my lord, but" - he looked at Linten - “love him well."

Immirgig deigned a nod, and with a shift of air took dragon-shape again. “I will, human. I do," he said in his thundering voice, and nothing else, for which Linten was glad.

“Goodbye, Markas. Be well." Linten mounted onto Immirgig's back, and they took off into the sky. Markas watched them until they were specks in the blue, then nothing. He walked back to his village alone.

* * *

They returned to the aerie shortly after dawn, and would not later recall falling into their bed - only that they slept until the next morning. Linten woke first, rising softly from Immirgig's tangled limbs. He took a moment to look at his loves; Immirgig was in man-dragon-shape, the two hatchlings curled around him, drawn to his warmth. Linten smiled at them, unseen, then went to shrug on his light tunic and venture to the kitchen - it was time to make breakfast.

Unleavened bread that morning; there had been no opportunity for Linten to set out dough to rise overnight. He set to work mixing and kneading, losing himself in the rhythm, the push and pull of the dough. The door opened - Linten heard it but did not look. A warm kiss on his nape, and Immirgig held him loosely as he worked, giving him room to move until the dough went into the oven. Then, Immirgig turned him, pressed him against the counter and kissed him.

“Immirgig, please, I'm still covered in dough." His plea was to no avail - Immirgig kissed him again, pressed his thumbs into Linten's wrists. From the point of contact flowed a wave of pleasant, tingling heat, and the mess dried and flaked from his skin, dissolving into the air with a flicker of magic. Linten pushed his newly clean hands into Immirgig's hair, and they kissed and kissed.

When they parted, they looked at each other. Immirgig was suited to the pure, clear light that flowed like snowmelt through the enchanted windows - it marked the elegant planes of his face, and drew a gold from his eyes as bright and mesmerizing as the core of a flickering flame. One of his strong hands lifted to cradle Linten's face.

“I'll marry you one day, Baker. Linten." Any response was blocked by a thumb that drew over Linten's lips. “I will marry you and give you half my years for you to live. And we'll raise our Khurinsu and Gurunsig, and eat bread, and I'll finally take you to Goltenbërc, to the wider world. We'll make love and fuck and when it's time - and we're both tired - we'll go into the night together. I promise you that, Linten. My darling." Immirgig kissed him, and when they parted Linten could still not summon words.

“I will go check on the hatchlings - they were still sleeping when I left. Then I'll hunt. A few rabbits today, I think." He left.

Linten pressed a hand to his mouth, where Immirgig had rested his thumb, and smiled. From the oven rose the smell of baking bread.