Virion stared blankly at the mass of snow and sharp ice shards hailing down from the wrathful skies above, not quite believing what was before him. This was not possible.

Where the evening before had been angry and tumultuous, the raging storm had since doubled its efforts, now yielding lightning strikes that caused red flames to ripple within the skies.

Never before had Virion seen such a fierce storm.

“If you are simply going to stand there and test Ythene’s hand, at the very least close the door behind you,” Zirkhlon drawled from somewhere within his ‘nest’, his tone a candid testament to his annoyance. “You will put out the fire, letting those winds in.”

A response of the dragon simply having to rebuild it himself if that happened was on the tip of the prince’s tongue, but he found himself unable to look away from the ghastly sight calling itself reality before him, let alone to speak the words in his mind.

Virion did not often feel panic. As a prince, there was no reason to fret over issues that could merely be adjusted to his needs or taken care of by another, so it was rather peculiar for him to contend with the flittering anxiety penetrating his very being.

In Virion’s mind, this could not be happening, except it was.

What was supposed to be a slight delay was turning into an unexplained absence that would cast the most deplorable light onto not only himself but, more importantly, the Anael faction and his household.

A Great Assembly, when called, was done so with enough time for each respective delegate to arrive at their meeting hall. When Virion had been leaving, his Mother had mentioned a storm, so the dragons had, in fact, been aware and called the meeting with ample time for travellers to arrive without risk of harm or delay.

Virion’s whining had cost him greatly, and now he was missing the Great Assembly; only one did not ‘miss’ a Great Assembly. It was unheard of— unseemly— worst yet, as a member of a royal household, it was intolerable. Arriving late would have been a great enough offence. To miss it entirely? No defence would suffice.

“There must be a way,” Virion whispered, which had been meant only for himself, but there was a dragon just a few paces behind him with exceptionally sharp hearing.

“There is,” Zirkhlon replied casually, compelling Virion to spin to face him, his jewelled eyes wide with hope. “If you wish to meet our Ythene in spirit.”

The hope was smothered out of Virion in a heartbeat. He turned his attention back to the storm. “You are not helpful.”

“I would be if there were a way through,” the dragon replied as he stood to his feet and joined the distraught prince within the doorway. “I wish for your departure as greatly as you do, but as you can see,” he paused to survey the still-incensed storm, “there is no way through.”

Virion knew that, but he had always been stubborn when challenged, and right now, he felt most challenged.

It wasn’t only the matter of the Great Assembly, it was the premonition of what would happen to his psyche should he not leave this very instance.

Virion had made it through the night but only by his own constant, internal reminders that when morning came, he would make his escape and never have to see the brusque, unkempt dragon again or spend another night in his wooden box.

Their evening meal had been tolerable, likely because they had not shared very many words, and when they finished, Zirkhlon had prepared his chambers for Virion and left him within them. The room was small, with nothing more than the enormous bed, a small shelf with a number of readings, and what appeared to be a closet— if one were inclined to grant the depressing thing such a designation.

Virion had been hesitant to sleep in another’s bed, even more so a dragon’s bed, but he was tired, and there was no reality where he slept on the floor. Eventually, he’d climbed in, but he might as well have taken to the floor with how obscenely hard the bedding was. Virion feared his knees would scrape and open against its roughness, and had almost sobbed as he lay down on what could only be gravel in disguise.

When the morning hours came, his body ached all over, and he was nowhere close to well rested, but he was ready to get as far away from the isle as he could. That was what led him here, at the entrance of the wooden box, watching the storm further seal his fate to endure this hell for some time more.

No. He would not— he could not.

To accept defeat would be to face the most uncomfortable reality that he might be stuck with Zirkhlon for another night at best, and at the worst, an unknown period of time.

Ythene forbid.

“Perhaps if we join forces,” Virion tried, turning his attention to the stationed mass of muscle behind him. “If I were to focus my magic and create a path, and you flew us—”

A sharp, unamused bark of laughter cut the prince’s scheme off before it could even see itself finished. It stunned Virion to be silenced in such an abhorrent manner, but Zirkhlon seemed determined to shock the prince with the extent of his rudeness.

“I would tear my wings in any attempt to leave,” he stated briskly. “And if I were to carry you, you might slip through my claws with the torrents as unforgiving as they are, or see yourself crushed in my jaws— that is, if you were to even let yourself be carried within my jaws.”

Virion struggled not to snarl his disgust, “I would not.”

Zirkhlon tipped his shoulders up in a defeated gesture before he turned back to his nest. “Then I believe you ought to shut the door behind you and take comfort here, as this is the only refuge you will find.”

Virion had learned to cease whining in front of certain company as a childling. Mother said it was unseemly for a prince, so he’d culled the habit, but right now, there was not a force in all of Ythene’s Realm that could stop him from wailing in frustration while his fingers curled into tight fists.

“I must go!” He insisted, closing the door in the hopes that he might stir the dragon’s favour.

Yes, there was a risk to his wings, but Virion would surely compensate him greatly and ensure they were fixed by his own magic, if not his best healers, in the case that they did endure the brunt of the journey.

“Is there some party you can not miss, Virion?” Zirkhlon asked dryly as he settled himself in front of the unidentifiable meal he’d been fixing all morning. “I assure you, there will be another.”

“It is not a party,” Virion hissed as he tried to swallow the annoyance that the dragon seemed insistent on prodding. “I have a rather important event to attend. One that goes beyond my personal affairs, and I can not be late.”

Though Virion was already late, quite late, in fact, and by now, news surely would have reached his mothers that he’d never arrived on the hosting island. His Wona would fret, but his mother… well, she would worry about locating him after she conjured the perfect method to introduce him to Ythene several eons early.

“I’m sure whatever it is, your host will understand your absence,” Zirkhlon replied carelessly. His voice was gruff with how greatly he simply did not care. “You are a prince after all, aren’t you, Virion?”

Virion glared at Zirkhlon’s back, fingers twitching at his sides. If he was quick enough— quiet enough too— he would be able to slip behind him, jump, and yes! Lock his hand around the demon’s throat and squeeze!

“The weather will not change,” the dragon continued dismissively. “Fretting is only a waste of one’s strengths.”

Virion sighed, not quite defeated but sadly approaching that point.

Zirkhlon was showing absolutely no signs of budging, which Virion supposed was understandable since it was his wings at stake with his poorly-structured plan. Perhaps if he could tell Zirkhlon the stakes in question, the dragon might understand the situation and, at the very least, fret alongside him, but he could not.

The elves that were on Colony were peacemakers of sorts, each a representative of the harmony kept amongst the realm, but that didn’t mean that every one of them was needed for every decision to be made.

They were factions for that— royals, chieftains and warriors— and they were the ones who dealt with the more serious issues that were presented in a Great Assembly; to to stop unnecessary conflicts or to intervene when needed on behalf of their clan-mates on Colony, and throughout the realm. Thus, when one was called, it was not a matter of public knowledge. It was rather forbidden to discuss it, in fact, so Virion was at an impasse.

He had no way off this island, and the only being who might just be able to help him, thought him a flighty prince longing for festivities.

Virion sighed again, only just managing not to stomp his foot.

“This will be a very unpleasant feen if you intend to sigh for the duration of it,” Zirkhlon commented in a drawl as if he were already exhausted by Virion’s very real distress.

“It will be a very unpleasant feen regardless,” Virion snapped back, unable to cull his ire any longer.

To his surprise, the dragon only paused his twiddling before he huffed a breath in agreement. At least they agreed in that respect.

Well and truly defeated, Virion dragged his feet back to the dragon’s maroon furnishings and dropped unceremoniously onto it. He could no longer behave the proper prince when things were as dire as they were. If he could not leave, then at the very least, he could be frustrated about it.

Virion felt the dragon’s fiery gaze on him but refused to meet it. He was in no mood to contend with the creature’s mockery or foul manners. It was bad enough that he was stuck with him a feen more. He couldn’t even make it back to his carrier with the state of the storm. He’d considered it earlier, when he’d first seen how the skies’ temper had worsened, and a moment later, he’d watched lightning slice a row of trees in half.

“I give it three feens,” Zirkhlon said after some time. Virion looked at him then because, for the first time, he’d spoken without malice or mockery. And when Virion met his red-rimmed eyes, he half-thought he found compassion within them. “The storm—” he gestured skyward, “I give it three feens.”

“Three?” Virion echoed hoarsely. The dragon nodded, and Virion thought he might cry.

“None will be travelling across either of the isles in these conditions,” he continued before Virion could emit a wail. “It is a dire one for dragons and elven folk alike.” He looked away but muttered, “Whomever you were meant to see will understand.”

The prince knew that dragons were capable of kindness and sympathy like any other elven folk, but considering their meeting the night prior, he almost believed Zirkhlon to be impotent to such sentiments. But here, for the first time, the dragon spoke to him kindly, and Virion had not realised just how desperately he’d needed it until he’d received the small gift.

“Let us hope,” he replied, straightening from his slouch and returning to his proper posture. “In the time that passes, I thank you once again for opening your nest to me.”

Zirkhlon glanced back just long enough to share a nod with Virion before his attention was fixed back on their warming breakfast, as if he were physically unable to be kind for more than a moment at a time. The prince smiled at the probably true presumption before he rose to his feet, feeling a little bit more like himself.

“Shall I fetch our plates?” He asked, determined to be useful even if he had never done such a thing in his entire life.

“Do you know where they are?” The dragon asked with far too much amusement.

“I would not have asked if I did not,” Virion retorted while he glared at the creature’s broad back.

“Then yes, that would be helpful.”

With that, Virion turned and marched straight into the makeshift kitchen. It was small but had all the workings one required… but it was small, and Virion couldn’t help but wonder how the dragon fit in here without getting stuck.

Using a spec of his magic, Virion sought where his presence lingered amidst the secret nooks and was quickly directed to a cupboard containing a conservative number of plates and bowls, some of which they would’ve used the night before.

Curiously, he wondered why a dragon— a notoriously desolate creature— required more than one of each utensil, but he wasn’t about to ask the current dragon such a thing. Zirkhlon’s tongue was far too quick, and Virion was barely contending with it as is.

With two plates and matching utensils in hand, Virion returned to the living room to display his findings to Zirkhlon.

The dragon had the gall to look surprised as he lifted his hands to take them with a subdued, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Virion replied, pride lifting his chin to its proper height. “Is there any other manner I can help with?”

“No,” he dismissed with a casualness that still grated on the prince. He was well aware that Zirkhlon did not respect his title, but it still felt like a blow every time he demonstrated it.

“How long have you lived here?” He asked as he stood near the fire, watching the flames dance across the dragon’s skin.

Zirkhlon’s jagged brows pulled taunt, “Why do you ask?”

“Well, if we’re to be together for three feens, I would like to know more about my host.”

Zirkhlon eyed him with mistrust, which was wise. Virion sought more than just fodder to consume his impending boredom. He wanted to know more about this curiously unkempt dragon that claimed an entire island for himself, and still chose this hut as his nest.

Odd did not even begin to describe it.

“I have lost track of the time,” the dragon replied rather smoothly, his serpent’s tongue easing the way. “Longer than you have lived, I suspect.”

“In the time of the Nyphilims?” Virion pressed.

“No,” Zirkhlon replied quickly enough for Virion not to suspect foul play.

“And you’ve always lived upon this land?”

“Your meal is ready,” the dragon diverted as he started plating food that looked much like what they’d eaten the night before. It hadn’t been as foul as it looked, so Virion didn’t need to pretend to look pleased this time.

Letting the dragon slip from his questioning, Virion thought to visit the archives once he returned home and maybe broach to those at the Great Meetings— if he ever was allowed to attend another— that they needed to train their dragons in proper etiquette.

With the storm raging outside, Virion ate quietly opposite the dragon, not a word spoken between them. As he was used to conversation while he ate with the others in his brood, this dragon’s silence was as jarring as his uncouth responses when he did speak.

“Do you have something to drink?” Virion asked when the silence grew so heavy he wanted to scream, if only to fill it.

Zirkhlon paused with a forkful between his lips, his dark gaze lifting to him. He chewed and swallowed before he spoke, “Something other than water?”

Virion fought not to roll his eyes. “Yes, something other than water. I have water right here beside me, thanks to your generosity.”

In its left corner, Zirkhlon’s lips pulled high with his amusement, “You’re slipping.”

“I beg you to repeat yourself,” Virion choked out as he glared at the dragon.

“You are slipping, Your Grace,” Zirkhlon repeated, being sure to be slow about it as if Virion’s tipped ears had folded inward. “Your feigned politeness. Your polished manners—” his smile widened some, revealing sharpened teeth, “their veneer is washing away.”

“My manners are not a veneer!” Virion snapped, quite truly out of patience and in no rush to find more.

“Then who is this before me?” The dragon challenged with a wide gesture. “This person differs from the one who pretends to like the scruffed nest around them. This person doesn’t hide behind their pretence of manners.”

“They are not a pretence,” Virion rejected vehemently once again. “I was simply raised with them, unlike you. I know dragons are a lonely kin, abandoned as soon as you hatched, but I truly believe some, such as yourself, deserved extra coddling, if only to save the rest of us!”

Zirkhlon’s smile lowered some, and Virion was happy for it. Setting his plate down, he faced the brute head-on, meeting his red-rimmed irises with all the resolve a prince such as himself had to wield in order to survive.

“I only meant—“ The dragon started, but Virion would have none of it.

“You only meant to be rude!” He snapped. “As you’ve intended since I landed on this wretched isle!”

“I only meant that I preferred your company without the pretences,” the dragon continued, his gaze a hardened, burning thing. “It makes this more bearable in many respects.”

“Well, if you so wish for it, here it is,” Virion rose to his feet so that the dragon was forced to look up at him. “You do not want me here. I do not wish to be here, but I am here nonetheless. As I am here, I would have preferred us to be something close to civilised at the very least, but you have proven that to be impossible.

“You are uncouth, abysmally dressed, an absolute bore at conversation and entertainment, and in desperate need of a shave, or rather, a maiming of the beast you are growing on your face.”

The dragon’s mouth parted, and as he stared up at Virion, it was not outrage in his eyes, but simply raw shock and by Ythene, how it pleased Virion to witness.

Virion would wager his entire wardrobe that no other creature had ever spoken such truths to the dragon, or been brave enough to nip his unbridled disrespect in the bud, but Virion had, and for that, he’d done all the realms a favour.

“I once again thank you for your hospitality, but seeing as it comes attached to you, I will be returning to my carrier and taking my chances with the storm before that creature on your face is given the opportunity to attack me as well.”

Leaving the gape-mouthed dragon precisely where he was, Virion stomped his way to the doorway, in search of the boots he’d left there the night prior. He managed to slip his foot into one before he heard the overgrown bastard rushing to his feet, and Virion prepared his magic for a fight.

“You will die out there,” Zirkhlon said instead as he ventured closer.

“Then at least this torture will be put to rest,” Virion snipped in response as he worked his other boot on.

“…I have been unwelcoming—” Virion huffed a laugh before the dragon could finish and swivelled to look at him. “I am trying to make amends.”

“Well, try no longer,” Virion replied as he glared at his annoying host. “You have been horrid, and I am leaving.”

Zirkhlon’s frown was a serious thing now. “It is not safe.”

“I am well aware,” he retorted before he finally donned his remaining boot. He pulled its lacings taut, and tested them both before standing once more and freeing his coat to wrap it around himself.

“Virion—”

“Your Grace,” the Prince corrected in a snarl as his magic rode the edges of his words, shattering his glamour to reveal the true depths of his anger towards the dragon. “Not Virion. You have lost the right that, may I point out, you never deserved.”

And with that, Virion yanked the heavy door open and faced the howling storm once more, only this time, he welcomed its violence. Leaving the dragon at his back, he strode into it headfirst with one mission in mind—

Make it to the carrier.

—————————

Virion said Zirkhlon has a beast on his face lmfaooooooo

Thoughts????????

THoughts on Virion finally blowing up?? On the storm still raging??? On the two of them butting heads, AGAIN??

This is a couple I adore so I’m loving reliving their story this way. As always, if you want the full thing outside of weekly updates, its up on Patreon and my website for paying members!

Another Aiasthlyn update will be out this weekend, with the last extra of the month out tomorrow!

Until next time,
Byeeeeee Humanssssssss