storytime!

[little_lady_d]

Sofita had never feared dragons. She believed in them, for all that the years transformed them to rumors of wings and scales and smoke -- they were long-lived creatures, solitary, strange. Their fickle natures were a matter of historical record. But Sofita wasn't a herdswoman, whose herd could some night be snatched by dragon claws, or a monarch with a treasure-house to be warded against dragon-fire.

And she wasn't a princess or prince. To be sure, dracologists disagreed on what drew dragons to royal blood, on whether they craved them as symbols of status or preferred their refined conversation, but Sofita had neither status nor refinement outside her education. Her vocation sometimes brought her to the tables of nobles, but it also brought her to the cooking pits of poor artisans. Her skin was as brown from her days under the sun as from her birth, and her fingers calloused to the curve of a stylus.

So: Sofita did not fear dragons. She did not expect the thundering wings, the glistening scales, the grip that swept her into the sky. When she screamed, she screamed outrage. "Enough of that! Put me down!"

Leagues later, wings-and-scales put her down, dropped her in a cavern in the mountains. Piled silks broke her fall, brocade shining through the low cave-light. "What," Sofita began, "is the meaning of this --"

Her captor peered down through serpentine eyes, and for an unflattering moment Sofita was too stunned to speak. She saw a creature of legend -- or of historical record -- and the creature saw her. Opal-white, sinuous and hulking, neither bird nor snake, with a man's (or woman's) intelligence -- this was a dragon.

"I have heard," the dragon said (in a woman's voice, smooth as curling smoke), "that we are kindred spirits."

"I very much doubt that," said Sofita. Sitting up, she saw --

Around her lay treasures beyond counting. Statues of heroes half-recognized, tapestries intricate as spider webbing, painted icons warm with color, gem-laden instruments, wood-carved thrones. Above her the dragon uttered a hissing-snorting sound she soon realized was laughter.

"So modest! But I know your holy halls; I know your devotions to Creation and Beauty. I know your collections of that which shines, not only on the surface but in the soul. I know your human muse-house, and I know you, its curator."

"A curator," she corrected. What else should she say, but the correction?

"A kindred spirit. I, too, adore the Beautiful! I, too, have made a home for Beauty to dwell in. But though my lair is full, it feels lonesome. I have no one with which to share my adoration."

"You can't keep me here," Sofita said at once. "However lonely you may be. I've a life, I've a calling, and you can't keep me from that."

"No, no!" The dragon's great wings shifted at her back, and she climbed forward cat-like on her claws. "I want you to show me your calling. I want to make a muse-house of my own."

Again Sofita saw the dragon's treasures, and found herself wondering how many, how vast, how varied the hoard was. She released a sigh, and released her irritation alongside it. "You'll need more than a curator. You'll need scholars, conservators, guides, guards ...."

Drawing up, the dragon huffed smoke. "I am all the guard I have ever needed."

"With due respect, Madam Dragon, some circumstances require finesse." Was she arguing with a dragon? "You could tear a vandal to pieces only to stain the artifact with his blood."

"That would be ... undesirable," the dragon conceded.

"Yes." Sofita's eyes fell on on a woman wrought from brass, balanced before a halo, slender limbs lifted in a dance. "That's not an idol, is it? Did you take it from a temple?"

"I took it from a war-king," said the dragon, "glutted with plunder."

"Twice-stolen is still stolen, and I've a low opinion of thieves. We need to find the craftsman, or the craftsman's people, and find out how they feel about their work being used. We need to know the meaning all your Beauty's been imbued with. Then we can teach others."

"Then you will teach me?"

"So you can ask instead of taking." Sofita's lips rose like the sun into a smile. The record was right. Dragons were fickle. Dragons were long-lived, solitary, strange. And still they did not scare her. She rose to meet those serpentine eyes. "I'll teach a kindred spirit."