Scion

(Editing note: probably my current favorite in the whole lair. Bit rough and overlong, but Plague!)

Art by the fantastic MarinaQuakenbush!


Tainted

---

He looked almost regal, his neck poised, ruined wings floating on the pus-film like lilypads. Some trial or punishment--there was a high water mark around the rim of the crater he was trapped in, right where his nostrils would be if he reared back and stretched his neck to its limit.

Spells exploded overhead, the air filled with smoke and screaming.

He hadn't taken his eyes off her. What would happen if his clan was driven off? Would he drown, starve? There was no hate in that seeping face, just a kind of calm acceptance. He already knows I'm going to leave him. So why did she shove down enough rocks for him to clamber out? Why did he offer his claws, and why did she clap restraints on them?

Aria's squad had suffered a humiliating defeat, but she'd managed to slip into the Wastes with her captive. No resistance from him, no sign from the team. Most of them had retreated in random directions, coughing and bleeding. She felt like a failure. It ate at her.

"Stop looking at me."

He nodded once and looked away.

"You're marked by the wrong Mother. It's not your fault, but it taints you. I'm not sure how close it's safe to be."

Another nod, and he pulled away from her a bit. The restraints forced him to keep his strides short and choppy, but he was still faster than her. And even with the restraints, he had those huge teeth, those spines, the possibility of combat magic. What had she been thinking back there? Flying would be suicide, but it'd be a faster death than he could give her, if he put his mind to it. Besides, there was no point in taking prisoners when her team had fallen apart.

She took a quick look to confirm his wings were too tattered to give chase with, then swept her own down. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open in a silent plea. He's afraid? Of what? She felt herself falter. She'd never considered Plague dragons feeling fear; something about it softened his face, revealing youth and innocence she'd missed for all the scars. He can't be much older than I am. Her combat training tried to reassert itself, but her gut had already made the decision--he wasn't a threat.

"Flying so close to the battlefield is too dangerous. I think we should head north on foot, but I'm going to pray for guidance first. Stop looking at me."

He did.



The coughing started that evening. He tried to lay his tattered, overly-warm wings over her, but she shrugged them off.

"Don't touch me! You're unclean, your Flight's unclean, you-"

Another coughing fit. An infectious cloud had hit her squad on the way in, but she thought she'd had enough wards up. No matter--she prepared the counter-spell, letting its shimmering energy spill over her. There were a few seconds of silence before the next fit forced her to her belly. She cast another. The silence was shorter, the coughing more intense. She tried every spell she could reach for, panic mounting as the failures piled up.

"No, no, no, Glademother no, no." There were tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry Mother, I failed you, I'm going to rot out here and my clan will never knew what happened, and DON'T TOUCH ME!"

He backed off and made apologetic gestures. She coughed and cried as he watched, helpless.



Progress was slow. She often had to stop and drink, but they were running out of water and the coughing had only gotten worse. He saw her eyeing the sludge-brown streams and nudged her back.

"You can stop, I wouldn't-" Aria broke down in a fit that left her dry-heaving and struggling to stand. She developed a fever, followed by muscle weakness that progressed to a form of paralysis. Once she finally collapsed, he nudged her prone body belly-up; she wondered if he'd kill her, and how long he'd take.

Instead, he dug through her satchel and found the spell-key to release his restraints. He slipped her bag (her prayer books! her mobile shrine!) around his neck and draped her across his scaleless, over-warm back. Tainted. They set off at a soft lope as she blacked out.


Stars. Nighttime? Something warm and wet on her tongue. She forced her eyes further open and saw some animal suspended above her. Its blood flowed down its shattered spine and into her mouth. She struggled to get away, but he wrapped his claws around her head and forced her cracked lips apart, coaxing her to swallow.

Light, too bright. He'd propped her against a rock and was carving runes into the infected dirt. Waves of his red magic wound around her feet as he made blasphemous attempts at a cure.

Light again, less pain, more blood pouring into her mouth. She wasn't on his back; he'd moved her into some sort of membranous sling over his side. It was translucent and slick with goo. There was something wrapped around her that kept her warm, something with an active pulse but no breath. Plague-constructs. She imagined the Glademother's eyes on her, and she imagined they were hateful.

Dark. He'd pulled her from the sling but kept the warm thing around her. There were slivers of dried fish mixed in with the blood. Still no good water, none for miles, nothing even safe enough to wash with. She could feel dried blood and mucus crackling on her scales whenever he adjusted her. The Glademother's gaze seemed lessened. Can She even see me under all this filth? In her dreams, she begged to be clean.

Light. The ridgeback was trying to clean her by licking his claws and smearing away the grime. Had she cried out in her sleep? Half-lucid, she tried to find her god. Doesn't he know that Plague spit is so much worse than blood? Moments later, I've no right to be picky. She tried to thank him, but her tongue wouldn't move.

Dark. Slipping morsels of food into her mouth. Where was the Glademother? And where had he found fresh fish?

The days bled together in the endless Wastes. He was able to avoid the mirror packs and worse, but the evasions slowed their progress. Sometimes he'd find a stream he deemed safe, and she could feel clean for a little while. Inevitably, she was forced back into blood and filth. She could feel the place leaking into her every cell, even as he did his best to ward her. Her god was gone, replaced by the mocking laugh of the Rot Mother. Her nightmares were full of red eyes -- her eyes, she knew, plucked out and corrupted and forced back into her skull.

She woke to wind. They were flying? Had his wings been healing? She hadn't been lucid enough to notice, but there they were, twelve flaps of scaleless, ulcerous skin. How long had that taken? How long since she'd heard the Glademother's voice?



He woke her for the first time. They'd crossed the border between the Plaguelands and the Tangled Wood, She broke down in tears, weakly grasping at him, stroking his neck and sides in gratitude. He nudged her towards a shallow river, the cleanest water she'd seen since-

-she let out a sob and limped in.

He didn't seem offended as she desperately scrubbed away every trace of his homeland. When her muscles started to fail, he stepped forward to help, wincing only a little as he waded in. The silence told her it was pointless. The Glademother was gone.

They were attacked as they were leaving, but she was well enough to use magic; he took instinctive steps back from her thorn-cants, so she switched to vines and slumberspores. These were enough for a shiftless little while, long enough for Aria to admit that the Labyrinth still called her. She worshipped it a little, even as she knew she was unworthy, and so she spoke to him one night as they tended their battle-wounds.

"You could come with me, you know."

A little start. Was that hope or nervousness?

"I think the whole world's broken, except Nature and except you. You came through a lifetime of that-" she jerked her head southwards "-and you're beautiful. I didn't last...how long was it?"

He couldn't or wouldn't say. Why was he blushing?

"Priestesses are respected." Hopefully even unclean ones, she thought, but she pushed that away for now. "I'll make sure you have plenty of food, a comfortable lair, and no one will ever treat you like..."

No need for more, not while she could see him. A shift in the shoulders, cocked head, noise tilted up. Slight tension giving way to hope.

"No more surviving. Thriving. If you're willing, of course. Only if you want."

He made a tiny sound. Not a word, more like a sigh or the first note of a song. He scooped her into his arms.

"So will you-"


-and warmth was his answer.