Arctic

The rain is back, and a fog has sunk over the whole kingdom. Foeslayer tells me that all day on guard duty, they can hardly see in front of their faces.

It's horrible, making my scales damp and too warm all day, and making whatever illness I've caught from this evil place even worse.

I cough into my wing, groaning.

Braveheart clears his throat. "Well, at least Foeslayer and I aren't sick," he says from the other side of the room. Ever since I got sick, he's been  keeping as wide a radius from me as he can in this tiny godawful cave, and acting as though he'll die if he breathes in the same air as me.

"What?" I snap.

He laughs weakly. "At least–" he sighs, shakes his head. "Never mind."

"What are you drinking?"

"Coffee."

"You gonna get sent to actually... fight in the war soon?" Is he ever going to stop breathing down our necks?

Braveheart stiffens at that. "Probably around the same time Foeslayer gets sent out, yeah. It takes a while, you have to get seniority."

"I was supposed to lead armies into battle," I mutter. "Princes are supposed to become high-ranking generals, and defend the IceWing territory with their lives."

I know it never could have been. But I imagine a world where I never had to leave my home, where I was a king and Foeslayer was my queen. She would have been the one out of her depth. But she would have gotten used to it, and we would have lived like royalty.

A NightWing, queen of the IceWings. The aristocracy would riot.

But at least no one would be fighting in a war.

I can't help but laugh at the thought of it.

***

I toss and turn all day, trying to focus on a single point on the ceiling, watching water drip onto the floor.

My mouth is parched, the air is stuffy and thick.

Maybe I'll die here.

Maybe no one will care, or remember me.

The quietest voice in the back of my head whispers: Maybe this is your fault.

I try to picture the dragon who made me feel crazy, who seemed beautiful and impossible and just out of reach, what feels like years ago. Try to remember that feeling, frantic and gripped by the knowledge that if I didn't leave with Foeslayer, then I'd never see her again. I'd spend the rest of my life, haunted with regret.

It's hard to beleive I ever felt that way.

I cough. My throat is scratchy, and I feel like I've been shaken to the core.

I lean against the wall, standing up. Our corner of the room is just a pile of blankets, Foeslayer's old jewelry collection jammed into a heavy, locked box. Over the years, gifts from her mother added up. Foeslayer thinks she'll sell them, and get us somewhere to live of our own. I doubt she'll ever get up the courage.

It's too hot. I'm gonna die here–I bet that's why I'm sick.

I close my eyes. With every labored breath, I keep hoping it'll change.

I breathe the most pathetic blast of frostbreath on the blankets, the walls. I keep going, even as my throat burns, and my vision starts to blur, until everything is cold and sharp.

I close my eyes, and for half a second, right before I fall asleep, I feel like I've come home.

***

"What is this?" It takes me a moment to recognize the shouting voice as Braveheart's.

My ice feels half-melted, and for the first time since we arrived, I don't feel like I'm boiling alive inside my scales.

"Arctic, what are you–" Foeslayer slips on the floor, landing on her face. She mutters several profanities under her breath. "Arctic," she says tensely. "What did you do?"

I cough. "It was too hot."

"It was... too hot," she repeats, glancing around the room.

Braveheart carefully walks across the ice. Most of his things are soaked with water now, and some of them are still encased in ice. Now I look, most of his humble abode has been hit by frostbreath.

"I'm sick! I couldn't breathe!"

Braveheart turns to me, incredulous. "So this was your solution? Freeze my stuff? Look at this–this is a library scroll. I'm done with this–I don't care how pretty and sparkly you are, I don't care if you've got magic powers–you don't help out around the house, you don't hunt, you don't cook, you don't have a job, and you just wrecked my house!"

"Calling it a house is–"

"Say one more word," Braveheart warns.

I turn back to Foeslayer, carefully trying to step toward me over the ice.

"Braveheart, why don't you go hunting?" Foeslayer says. "I need to talk with Arctic." She's using that same tone Mother used to use  when she got mad at me in front of the court and didn't want anyone else to know. "And by the time you get back, I promise Arctic and I will have everything cleaned up."

Braveheart closes his eyes, taking a deep breath.

"Fine," he says, exhaling heavily. "I'll be back in a few hours. And when I'm back..."

"It'll be like it never happened," Foeslayer promises wearily, closing her eyes.

***

"Okay, Arctic—how exactly are we going to clean this up?" Foeslayer asks. "Do we—try and melt the ice with little bits of fire? How do we get the water out of his stuff?"

I look at the mess I've made, everything soggy and freezing cold.

This is what I sacrificed everything for.

True love.

I cough into my talon. I'm so tired, all I want to do is sleep. "I'll handle it," I say, forcing a smile. Trying to be the dragon I was a month ago.

"What?! Arctic, this is not the time to be proud, we need to deal with this—"

"I have a plan," I say, my voice grainy and rough. "Just... trust me."

Foeslayer worries her brow. "Arctic. You're freaking me out."

I pick up the box of jewelry we stole from Foeslayer's room. "Take this, and see how far it'll get us. We're getting out of here. I can't take it anymore."

"Isn't this—supposed to be a discussion? You don't just get to order me around, Arctic."

"We need to find somewhere else to live," I snap. "That's your discussion. Done. Now leave me alone so I can fix this, and go figure out our next move."

Foeslayer opens her mouth, then closes it.

She picks up the box of her old jewels from the floor.

***

I stare at this empty mess of a place. My fever has started to come back, or maybe it's just the ice starting to melt.

I shake out the soggy scroll Braveheart was complaining about. When I lay it out to dry on the counters, the paper starts to disintegrate. I try to wring water out of all the blankets, cursing under my breath.

Oh, who cares?

What soul do I have left to save anyway?

I mutter the words of the spell under my breath, closing my eyes.

"When I open my eyes, this–house–will look just as it did yesterday."

The words don't feel particularly powerful, or momentous. I grew up thinking spells should be special things–good, righteous, things that could change the world for the better.

It seems laughable, now.

***

"What did you do?" Foeslayer says when she comes back, a few hours later. (It feels like a few hours. Braveheart doesn't even have a clock.)

"I cleaned it up." If there's anything being an IceWing prince taught me, it's how to lie through my teeth. Anything can be passed off as truth if stated with the right air of authority.

Foeslayer raises her eyebrows, not looking so convinced.

"You did all this. In two hours. Mr. Never-cleaned-his-room-before."

I nod.

"Don't you trust me?"

Foeslayer sighs. Looks away.

"Well, he probably hates me for showing up at his house this late, but I talked with my commander," she says. "And he... knows a guy who knows a guy who might be able to help us get somewhere of our own. I don't really understand it, but–look, for all my old jewelry, we can get a little bit higher up the canyon. It'll be better. It'll be good."

If this kingdom's standard of luxury is the haunted mansion Foeslayer grew up in, I'm not going to start throwing parades just yet.

***

Braveheart comes back, accepting the improved state of his horrible little cave with a surprised sort of amusement.

"I'll cook. You take a break," Foeslayer offers, as he sets down three hawks on the tiny stone counter.

Braveheart snickers. "You? Cook?"

"I've read–scrolls about it!" Foeslayer says defensively.

"You worked all day, shouldn't Arctic cook?" Braveheart asks.

"Well, he just cleaned the whole place up--"

"Yeah, cleaned up the mess he made. So now we're just back to square one. If he can do something about the grime on the windows, we'll start talking. Why do you have to do everything so he can lounge around in luxury?"

"Braveheart, lay off. I'll do it. It's fine. I don't mind. I like cooking--probably."

I watch them bicker from the corner of the room, wishing they would stop. A headache pounds my skull, and my heart is starting to race. Maybe doing magic made me sicker.

I imagine myself like an ice statue, frozen in place in this coffin of a home for the rest of eternity. I'm too exhausted to brush the thought aside.

"Arctic, darling?" Foeslayer says from across the room. "Come here–if I mess this up really badly, I want someone else to blame it on," she jokes.

I close my eyes. Pretend I'm sleeping.

***

"Arctic," Foeslayer says gently, warm talons startling me awake.

I blink my eyes open, then flinch, moving away.

"Three moons," she says. "Am I really that scary? I just wanted to ask if you were hungry. Or... needed anything. You've been asleep a while." She looks over at Braveheart, curled up and fast asleep in his corner of the room.

"Quiet," she murmurs, curling up beside me. "Braveheart's sleeping."

I stare at her, the hints of green in her scales illuminated in the morning light. Remember thinking she was the most perfect, magical dragon I'd ever met.

Ha.

Everything seems less glamorous up close. Even her.

She reaches out, touches my cheek. I pull away, just a few inches closer to the wall. She recoils, shifting away, and avoiding my gaze.

I cough, closing my eyes and groaning. I can't tell if I'm imagining it, but I think it hurts a little bit less to swallow.

"You cast a spell. I knew you did," she says quietly, with no particular gentleness in her tone.

I don't know what to say to that.

"What?" she retorts. "No reply? I can't even get that?"

"What is there to say," I say quietly. "It's my magic. I can use it as I please. Besides, weren't you all for using my power freely?"

"It changes you, Arctic," she says in an irritating stage whisper. "It makes you into someone who I can't be around."

I scoff. "You were the one who told me it was my choice." It was never my choice–it was always hers.

"Fine. Ruin your life," Foeslayer says with a shrug. "See if I care. It's changing you, Arctic. This isn't the dragon I fell in love with." She's trying not to cry, but she can't help it.

"Have I really changed? Or have you just opened your eyes?!" I retort. "Maybe you're the one who's different."

"No! You don't get to make me feel like I'm crazy," she snaps. "You're cold, and you're mean, and you shut me down before I can get two words in—and it's all because of that spell you cast, I know it is."

"You don't get to tell me what to do," I growl. "It's not a big deal, I don't know why you're being so dramatic. It was one spell."

She closes her eyes. "We're so young, Arctic. And it's such a huge thing. I don't know, couldn't this be a discussion we have together, before you start giving out bits of your soul like it's nothing?"

"We?"

I wonder if Braveheart can hear us. Right now, I couldn't care less.

"Yes. Us. Together. You're not just impacting you, Arctic," she says.

"You just want to be the only one who gets my magic," I scoff. "You're jealous, is that it?"

Foeslayer hesitates just a moment too long.

"No. I'm scared, Arctic."

I want to hold her, tell her I didn't mean it. I almost do.

***

Our new home is barely any bigger than Braveheart's, but at least there's only two of us to share it. Up higher, the fog seems to have lifted. When I look out the window, I can glimpse the stars.

I'm sure Foeslayer must have made a horrible deal to even get us this far. Something we'll regret later on.

I hope we never see her horrible friend again.

"We'll have to decorate," Foeslayer says, smoothing out our blankets in the corner of the room. "I could have some spears on the wall, and a spot for all the trophies and awards–"

"Trophies?" I scoff.

"The ones I'm gonna get someday," Foeslayer says, the ghost of a smile curling across her mouth.

I was supposed to be a general. I was supposed to have glory. Now, I'm going to be stuck at home for the rest of my life, finding a million different ways to waste my time.

"You're glaring," Foeslayer sighs. She looks older in the firelight. This could be the house we die in. We'll get old and decrepit and forgotten here.

If this war doesn't kill us first.

"Whatever," I mutter.

"We can put some nice curtains here. Maybe a painting here..." she continues. I'm not listening.

***

I stare down at my mother's letters in my talons, shaking. I hope I didn't wake Foeslayer up.

Dear Arctic,

What future do you think you have in this kingdom? They'll never understand you, they'll never respect you, they'll never see you for what you are.

You can't have dragonets with Foeslayer. They'd be social pariahs, cursed for the rest of their lives.

What about heirs? Think about the situation you've left me in, Arctic. Think about what you've done to your kingdom.

I gave you everything. I gave you—

I can't keep reading. Can't keep hearing Queen Diamond's voice in my head.

I rip the paper to shreds, and toss it into the dwindling embers of the fireplace. I watch the flames burst up, swallow the letter, then use the rest of them as kindling.

I murmur a spell under my breath, just to see what'll happen. The flames burn higher, grow closer. Their heat makes me feel like I'm burning alive.