Dreamspinner Press Year Six Greatest Hits

by JD Ruskin

  “But the shaking would not stop until it seemed the mountains themselves might tumble down, so the villagers asked their lord and his bravest warriors to confront the beast and find the source of its anger, but the lord and his warriors refused. So the villagers searched for the loveliest maiden to offer up to appease the monster’s hunger, because dragons coveted beautiful things, or so they had heard.

  “The maiden wept to know her fate, until her brother stepped forward and offered to take her place. The boy had no sword because he was not a soldier, but he was braver than those who did, and he was as beautiful as his sister, and so no one stood in his way as he left the village and took the path into the mountains.

  “It was a perilous journey, but as the sun was setting the boy made his way into the crevasse where the shaking seemed the greatest and the scent of dragon smoke was strong. He trembled because he was afraid and had no sword, and the dragon would likely eat him for coming near its treasure.

  “But the boy, who was as smart as he was courageous, pressed on until he heard a great roaring and felt a heat that nearly made him turn back, but he walked on. He walked until the ground rose up beneath him and knocked him from his feet, and when he looked up, he found himself face to face with the dragon of the mountains.

  “It was an awesome sight, a dragon as red as the setting sun, with eyes that pinned him to the spot and teeth sharper than any sword. The boy got to his feet and asked unsteadily why the dragon had been shaking the mountain. But even as he asked, he could see the cause: a large boulder had fallen and crushed the dragon’s tail and had trapped it in its own cave among all its treasures.

  “The fearsome dragon was really a lonely creature in pain with no one to save it, howling furiously as it tried to free itself. If the boy waited, the dragon would die of hunger and then the people would no longer be troubled by its presence. It was then, with that thought, that the boy also realized the dragon could have roasted and eaten him and lived a bit longer, but it had not. It had merely watched him, pitiful and powerful both, until finally the boy made up his mind that no creature deserved to die in such a fashion and pushed at the boulder in an attempt to move it.

  “There was still danger, but the boy ignored it to offer the dragon its freedom, a gesture that was not lost on the dragon. The amazed Being demanded to know what the boy was doing, as the stone was much too heavy for one dragon and one human to push together. It was too heavy for even an entire village to move. The dragon was going to die, he told the boy. No single human could save him.

  “But the boy insisted that he try, and pushed at the rock again, and when it didn’t budge, he sat down to think. This intrigued the dragon even more than the boy’s beauty until it stopped shaking long enough to ask the boy his name and where he had come from. The dragon asked the boy so many questions that it was morning before the boy realized that they had passed hours in conversation, and that the earth-quaking tremors had stopped because the dragon had grown weaker during the night.

  “The dragon, smiling though it expected death to come soon, grabbed a large ruby and gave it to the boy to thank him for the stories during its last hours, but the boy tossed the stone away and beseeched the dragon to try to push the boulder away one more time.

  “He wept when the dragon asked him to go, for the sunset-red dragon was kindly and gentle and the boy did not wish it to die, but the dragon insisted, and so the boy returned to his village to tell them he had learned why the mountains had been shaking.

  “His tale of the dragon’s plight moved the people, who had not thought a dragon could feel pain. The description of the treasure moved others, until they followed the boy’s path back to the dragon in order to take it. But when the boy learned of their plan, he raced back to the mountain, and there the villagers found him, lying alongside the dragon and begging it one final time to rise.

  “Pity overtook the greed in their hearts, and they worked with the dragon to push at the boulder. The great rock at last gave and the dragon was freed.

  “The dragon became their protector, as the village itself became the village of the sunset dragon. They had saved him and most importantly, they had given him his boy, the brave, beautiful peasant boy who had refused a fortune in order to save the dragon’s life and to whom the dragon gave its love instead, which was a gift the boy could accept. He came to live with the dragon in his lonely cave and served him well until the end of his days.”

  “A pretty story,” Bertie had added at the bottom. “And I am quite certain they lived happily ever after, though the story doesn’t say. Dragon tales rarely do, either because they feel the happy ending is implied or because they don’t feel one was truly possible and don’t wish to say. Personally, I prefer to believe in those two. They are a classic example of the kind of love story dragons in this region carved into their artwork in this period. Stories like this are also a strong example of the kind of human/dragon cooperation that used to exist, and the belief among dragons that cooperation was the only way to survive.

  “The bond between a dragon and its beloved, particularly when it chooses a human to love, is without a word in any tongue, ancient or modern. In fact, the dragons were convinced that to name it would be to cheapen it, for it was beyond value and to define it as we might attempt to do today would destroy it.

  “It’s clear from most of the surviving stories that the humans were there to serve the dragons and that the nature of the relationship was almost always sexual. It also seems, from the surface at least, that within the human/dragon relationships in particular there was a distinct power imbalance. Dragons were and are far more powerful than most humans could ever hope to be. But upon closer examination, the relationship seems more like an exchange of power. Dragons see their primary roles in the world as protectors, as guardians, but they have their weaknesses, weaknesses easily exploited by anyone ruthless enough. Even peasants in the Dark Ages could see what a dragon wanted, and beautiful young knights and maidens were offered up more than once as traps to capture a dragon.

  “Within this story, it’s clear that the dragon is the weak one. He is completely at the mercy of the boy, even when the boy is depicted in the story as his servant. This, of course, puts a spin on their relationship that a modern scholar couldn’t help but notice, but to call it that of dominant and submissive would be inaccurate. It may have been that for some of the pairings, certainly, and I won’t deny that the idea doesn’t have a thrill of its own, but that would miss the other point to these love stories.

  “As seen when it was shown in their art and stories, as in the case of this dragon and his boy, love itself, between two dragons or a dragon and human, was essential to the dragon’s survival. It seems a strange thing when the dragon is the creature of greater strength and wisdom, but to this very day, the idea is ingrained in most dragon cultures that a dragon requires a treasure, a treasure like the boy in the story, to guard and admire. It was why dragons the world over looked among the purest maidens for the one who would stay by their side; a dragon without a treasure was weaker than one with all the gold in the earth.”

  Arthur took a moment to breathe, to blink, and then read through the story again, suddenly understanding why Bertie had called the dragons of this time period “romantic little darlings,” and then remembering that Bertie had said his parents thought of him as just as romantic and old-fashioned. Even his friend Zeru said something, hadn’t he, when he called Arthur Bertie’s boy. Bertie didn’t deny it, either.

  Arthur hadn’t understood what those words meant to a dragon, but he could recall the number of times Bertie called him “his boy” after that. His boy. Or “pearl,” the treasure dragons were shown chasing more than any other. Darling. Treasure. The only thing Arthur had understood was how warm those pet names always made him feel, how rare and special and valued.

  His heart was pounding. His thoughts were spinning around and around the same idea. He was as hot as if Bertie was sitting next to him. He wished Bertie was be
cause he wanted to turn to him and ask. It couldn’t be true, but he wanted it to be.

  If it was… if it was, he had no idea what to do. There had to be some answer that would be understood, even between Being and human.

  Arthur couldn’t think clearly. His pulse was like thunder in his ears and below his waist, and he blindly skimmed through the rest of the file without reading a single word.

  There was an image file attached to it, showing a series of photographs of images carved into a cave wall, probably by a dragon claw. Arthur could see the boy, the dragon trapped under the boulder, and even the weeping virgin sacrifice. But it was the pictures of the dragon and the boy curled up together that left him breathless.

  “Bertie,” he whispered at last with his fingertips on the computer screen, and then he shut his eyes. He forgot about editing, the books, the shelves. That could wait.

  He closed his laptop without reading any more and felt his skin grow hot though the fire had been getting low last time he had looked at it. There was no response to that story that he could type up into notes. Arthur couldn’t write down that his heart was racing or how shaky he felt.

  He looked at the door, and then at the time, and then put his laptop aside to get up and throw another log on the fire, and when that didn’t make him feel any less edgy, he grabbed his computer and flopped down on the couch to read the story again.

  HIS DREAMS were about searching for something, something red and gold and black that he couldn’t find. The loss stayed with him as he moved, but he stopped and frowned when someone whispered to him. Without looking he knew the singular heat that meant Bertie’s presence, and he felt the weight of his laptop slip away as Bertie took it. He wondered if he was being tucked in, and then knew he was when he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  Arthur opened his eyes. Bertie was in what Arthur thought of as his “lecturing professor” outfit: black dress pants and a crisp, white-collared shirt, with his red scarf falling to the floor as he bent over to attend to Arthur. His shirt was buttoned wrong and probably had been all day. The fire was behind him, making him glow.

  It wasn’t raining and Arthur hadn’t asked to sleep there, but Bertie didn’t seem to mind that he had. He paused when he saw that Arthur’s eyes were open, and then the dark, tender look on his face changed to a small, rueful smile.

  “Arthur,” he began in a careful rumble, as if he was going to step back, and Arthur frowned and sat up to slide his hand through Bertie’s hair and pull him down.

  He was burning already, his skin licked by flames and the startled, careful press of Bertie’s fingers at his throat. Arthur pictured the flint-dark nails and felt the pad of each fingertip as it spread out instantly over his skin.

  He should have taken his shirt off and not just his shoes before falling asleep, but Arthur shook the thought off as he struggled to sit up and bring Bertie even closer. For a small moment, when their mouths touched, all Arthur could think about was the heat sinking into his bones and shooting down his spine. He slowly curled his fingers into Bertie’s hair and moaned into Bertie’s mouth as he tipped his head back. Bertie’s answer was a soft, pleased growl that got Arthur hard. And he was still so hot, he wanted his clothes off. Bertie’s too. Now.

  He took his hands out of Bertie’s hair for a moment to tug at his shirt collar, and Bertie pushed toward him, putting one knee onto the couch. He made a muffled plea against Arthur’s mouth, and Arthur shifted to make room for him.

  Bertie’s hands slid to his back, skimming down close to bare skin as Arthur’s shirt rode up. Arthur shivered and tried to arch into it, but when he moved, Bertie let out a rough sound and pulled his mouth away. Arthur shivered again as Bertie’s mouth vanished and then opened his eyes, really opened them, though he already knew he wasn’t dreaming. He breathed out, fast and shocked, at the way Bertie was staring at him.

  Bertie’s eyes were all pupil, gleaming volcanic rock above his parted lips. He was breathing as hard as Arthur was, and Arthur moved forward involuntarily at the glimpse of his tongue only to stop at the force Bertie put into his name.

  “Arthur?” He said it as if taking the second away from Arthur hurt him, but he had a question he had to ask.

  Arthur wet his lower lip and watched Bertie watch him do it. Bertie’s lips parted on a soft breath, but he didn’t say a word when Arthur carefully leaned forward to eliminate the distance. He stopped when their faces were close together and let his lips brush over the shadow at Bertie’s jaw, hoping as he did that it would leave them swollen and mark his skin. He felt stupid and brave like the boy in the story. He hadn’t asked, he still wasn’t asking, but when he ran his trembling hands down over the back of Bertie’s neck to keep Bertie from moving away again, Bertie took a sharp breath.

  “Arthur,” he said again, a smoky expression of longing that made Arthur’s hands shake so much that Bertie had to see it. Arthur held his breath and let his fingertips trace over the top of Bertie’s spine, over the start of wicked black scales that remained just out of reach. His throat tightened, preventing a real answer, but when Bertie angled his head down to let Arthur explore under the collar of his dress shirt, Arthur forced the words out.

  “You’re hotter than I imagined,” he admitted, and Bertie gave a slightly tense chuckle, though it changed into a gasp when Arthur undid the buttons at the top so he could slip his hand further underneath the fabric.

  “I’m gratified to know you thought about me,” Bertie answered with another laugh but made a quiet, aroused sound when Arthur dared another button. “Arthur.” Arthur stretched out and almost shut his eyes. If Bertie kept saying Arthur’s name like that, Arthur was going to come in his jeans.

  He stretched again, shuddering under all that heat and pressure, and then frowned because though Bertie was slowly climbing onto the couch next to him, over him, and he was sticky and damp with sweat, he still wanted more. He twisted, needing their clothes gone without having to take his hands from Bertie’s skin, and rocked up as urgently as he could with Bertie’s weight holding him down. He was so much heavier than Clematis. It was just what Arthur wanted. He wanted to feel it and know Bertie wasn’t going anywhere.

  His jeans hurt, they were so tight, and every breath left him flushed and hotter, harder. “You couldn’t tell I was thinking about you?” he demanded, knowing that wonder was in his tone. He thought he’d been obvious and besides, Bertie was magic.

  Bertie lifted his head.

  The kiss was fierce and unexpected. Arthur was pushed back on the couch by Bertie’s mouth and then by his hands, careful and strong on Arthur’s shoulders, relentless at his back. Arthur arched toward him without thinking, offering up his hips, his throbbing dick just as Bertie’s weight shifted over him. Magic.

  As though to prove him wrong, Bertie grunted. “I am not omnipotent, Arthur,” he chided roughly between kisses. Arthur panted at his mouth, trying not to think about how hard he was, how hot, or how long it had been. But this was Bertie and the name slipped out of him in whispers against Bertie’s mouth.

  If Bertie heard, there was no sign as his hands pushed Arthur’s shirt up and spread wide on Arthur’s skin. Arthur’s skin buzzed in response, his heart pounding under his ribs. He pushed up and met Bertie’s magnificent body in a quick slide. He licked his lips and looked up, then down between them. Bertie was hard too, his dick stretching out his dress pants. He felt big, looked big. Much, much bigger than Arthur’s fingers.

  Arthur couldn’t vocalize anything for several moments, and when he finally could, it was just a “please” that didn’t explain what he wanted at all. He frowned and tried again, shifting until Bertie was between his thighs, and even that wasn’t enough. Arthur heard himself whine just a little, and would have blushed if he could have made himself care.

  Bertie didn’t seem to notice any of it. He was acting strangely irritable for someone busy licking under Arthur’s ear and making approving noises every inch Arthur arched back to let him. His hands worked un
derneath Arthur until he finally got Arthur’s shirt over his shoulders. He threw it to the floor with a satisfied huff and then turned back to Arthur. Arthur brought his gaze up.

  He had no idea what he looked like. Probably not as amazing as Bertie looked, his gleaming skin damp and darker where Arthur had kissed him, his shirt askew. Maybe Arthur just looked as stunned as he felt, because Bertie gave a minute shake of his head and glared down at him.

  That fierce stare should have pinned Arthur to the spot. Instead he shuddered again, and then there was the velvet couch at his back and hot weight above him. He tried his best to bite back his helpless moan, but suddenly Bertie was crouched over him, peering into his face and staring at Arthur with a mix of pleasure and annoyance on his face. Arthur tried distractedly to think of why, but Bertie spoke before he could.

  “I thought you had a Being lover before.” Bertie bent back down to puff at Arthur’s collarbone and made Arthur gasp. The skin there was still wet from Bertie’s mouth, slightly raw from Bertie’s stubble. Arthur put a hand into Bertie’s hair so Bertie wouldn’t move away or stop doing that, ever. Bertie’s voice went lower. “Do I surprise you?”

  At that shaky, uneven tone, Arthur opened his legs and grabbed at Bertie’s shirt to try to pull him down. But Bertie put his hands under Arthur’s ass and lifted Arthur partly up against the arm of the couch before sliding down over him. For one heartbeat Arthur was cold and shivering and then Bertie’s fingers found the trail of blond hair at his navel and Bertie’s mouth was on his chest. When Arthur pushed up there was finally pressure, burning against his tight jeans and trapped dick. Bertie’s body, everywhere, skin and bulk and fire.

  “No. I did. No. What?” Arthur panted without any kind of thought. He wanted to defend himself, but he gave up the cause as smoky breath hit his nipples. He jerked and reached out until he found more of Bertie’s skin. He touched the back of Bertie’s neck, the line of his throat, but it wasn’t enough, so he gathered up bunches of Bertie’s dress shirt and tugged until the shirt was out of Bertie’s pants. Then he pulled again until he felt more buttons give. He almost didn’t hear Bertie’s growl, but he felt it slip under his skin. He couldn’t tell if the sound meant Bertie was pleased or angry, but at the moment he didn’t care.