Morg, the Dragonologist
Chapter 3: the Christmas Party (Part 3)
This series is a cosy collaboration with Morgan nic Aoidh <3
Missed the previous parts? Check them out here:
Thirty minutes to midnight.
Deleiri looked like she was having the time of her life, which was a relief. What a strange thing to feel at a party. Relief. Mael’s eyes continued to flick up to wherever she was from time to time, quick checks to make sure she was alright.
About an hour ago, a runner came by announcing that the King was making his way over, and sure enough he soon arrived… along with a hoard of elves from the town that he had been visiting. Somehow, everyone managed to fit within the halls of Morg’s Cavern, as though the walls of the main hall shifted to accommodate them. Wendrenaetris’ remnant power at play, perhaps? She was very good at manipulating the earth. Or… it could have been the King’s own power, for Mael could feel a shift in the air. The Wind, he was sure. Yes, come to think of it.
The crowd ooh-ed and ahh-ed as the seven dragons in attendance stood together and bowed to the King. They spread their wings, touched them to the ground. Great heads lowered, crowns and horns swept in the dirt, right, and then left. The King accepted by embracing each one of them, and the crowd cheered, for some reason. Elves were strange.
Then the elves from the town decided that some song and dance was in order. About ten of them set themselves up beside the hearth, and the sound of drums and wind instruments began to fill the air. Mael had a feeling Chlo had a hand in amplifying the volume and enhancing the acoustics, but he could not be sure. It was a lively tune that rose above the din of conversation, played loudly and with pomp. A new spirit seemed to settle upon every heart. Even the dragons. Even the King.
One elf began to dance, light on his feet. Then another, then another, then another. It was the dance of dragons, which involved a lot of stomping on the ground, twisting of the neck, and flapping of the arms—the elves did not have wings. Whoever had longer hair undid their braids so that it would hang loose like a Silver Dragon’s mane.
Of course, Deleiri was the first dragon to join, dragging Mael along behind her. “Come on! It’s the dance of the dragons! What are you doing, moping around.” And she laughed, loud and wild, as she joined in with the elves and humans in their orbit about the hearth’s fire. “Dance with me!”
Mael fell in behind her dutifully. Tried not to laugh himself as the Red picked Morg up by the scruff of her coat—she shrieked—and set her down in the ever-growing circle. As expected, Morg was a fast learner. Or perhaps she had studied the elf/human version of this dance before. Either way, she quickly fell into step, her long, dark-red dress flowing about her easily, the fabric of her sleeves almost like the wings of a dragon. Sken was ecstatic, twirling and banking between Mael and Deleiri and Morg; most definitely an impromptu dance of his own that complimented his friends.
Mael really admired the skills of that bird.
Fifteen minutes to midnight.
Deleiri excused herself from the dance, saying that “she had to get ready” to the people who knew about her surprise, and that “she was feeling kind of tired” to those who did not.
In all honesty, there was nothing more that she could do for the surprise except to wait for it to play out. The real reason she had to stop dancing was because…
Well, it was a funny feeling that was hard to explain. She focused on it, tried to figure out what she was feeling, exactly.
It had started when she was watching an elf dance, from across the fire. You were supposed to make direct eye contact with the one across you from the fire, see. They shook their heads, bent down low, arched their necks, and roared, circling. Nothing out of the ordinary about that.
Yet out of the blue, she started to have this funny feeling that it was she, at the other end of that fire. No. That’s not it. It was the feeling that sometime ago… a very long time ago… she had moved through the steps that the elves were taking. She had danced this, somehow, not as a dragon, but as a… as a…
They roared, circling the fire, circling, circling, circling, like the universe around them.
She felt a tingle, or a prickle, across her skin. Then her bones began to ache. Sken stopped dancing and sat on one of her horns, head twitching this way and that worriedly. “Skid-Dearie. Skid-Dearie change-sick,” he said. “Tell SkMorgsk. SkMorgsk knows change-sick.”
“What? No, I’m fine. I just need to—” There was a wave of what could only be described as an intense itch that rippled from her chest outwards, a prickling under her scales. One wave. But that was enough to make Deleiri step out of the dance circle. “Ugh…”
“Tell SkMorgsk! Tell SkMorgsk!” declared Sken, and flew off to do just that.
Ten minutes to midnight.
Mael thought it odd that Sken had abruptly stopped his dance to sit on Deleiri’s horn, crowing softly.
Then he saw the tell-tale ripple, flowing through her hide of scales. Deleiri stumbled. She limped out from the dance-circle, and the raven flew off in a flurry.
Cold fear struck him.
He went after her, and ushered her out of the cavern without a word, using both his wings, partially open, and his own body, to herd the dragon twice his size out into the open.
Deleiri gasped as the frigid winter air hit her. Her breathing, which had been rapid moments before, slowly eased.
Mael watched her panting, wordless. He knew that he ought to say something. Are you alright, or how are you feeling would have sufficed. But his throat was clenching, and he could not get anything through. Which was just as well. Deleiri suddenly gagged, and vomited.
“Urgh,” she groaned. “I thought that fish tasted a little funny.” She lay down on her side in the snow, exhausted. Steam wafted up from around her.
“I’m alright, Mael. I feel better now.” A pause. “Definitely not touching fish for the next few days, though.” She sniggered weakly.
He had to tell her. He had to tell her.
“Deleiri, there’s something—”
“Deleiri!” Morg came running out from the cavern. “Are you alright??”
“Skid-Dearie change-sick. Change-sick!” The raven flapped about his Red Dragon, frantic. Then he landed and began grooming her scales.
“I’m just sick-sick, Sken. It was the fish.”
Sken gave the dragon a look that clearly said she was being stupid. She scoffed.
“I’m alright now. Honest!” She growled, and heaved herself up from the ground. Sken took off with a squawk, and landed, feathers ruffled, on Morg’s shoulder.
“It was the fish.” Deleiri said again, firmly.
She stalked back towards the cavern without another word.
Morg and Mael and Sken were left outside, flabbergasted.
“Wha—what was… I had never seen Deleiri like that before,” said Morg.
Mael nodded. His heart breaking within him. “No… Neither have I, not since she came out of that circus.” That was, in a way, truth.
“Her intent was so…” Morg searched her mind for a suitable word. “So walled-off. Did you…”
“Yes. Yes, I felt it too.” He was going to cry; his eyes were stinging. He groaned inwardly. “I… don’t know how to tell her,” he found himself admitting.
Two strong arms gripped his foreleg and tugged. “We will find a good time and way and place to do so.”
Mael looked down at the elf, who stared back up at him with certainty.
“For now, she needs us next to her,” said Morg. Morg, as Morg. Not their Dragonologist.
He blinked with a start. “Yes. Yes, you are right, as always.”
He nodded. “Let’s go.”
What happens when the clock strikes midnight?
You’ll find out soon… (Like, in about 7 hours.)
Check out the Dragonologist’s very own Substack page here:
Going to part 1 first now !
🙃
https://thecircusdragon.substack.com/p/morg-the-dragonologist-46b