4.3 - Remara and the Book Thief

Fever takes Ha'Drak within a day. There is badness in his eyesockets and he has to kill it. With rapidly-weakening limbs, he lowers himself down the bookcase one shelf at a time. Once down, he presses himself against the wall and makes his way around the edge of the room until he finds the Merchant's desk. There are spaces of different heights under it. He feels out these spaces with raised wings and lashing tail and jams himself into the smallest space he can find, declaring it his new cave.

The Merchant returns and leaves a sun-dot near his new lair without a word. Ha'Drak knows it is there as his scales respond to the energy. He pulls the dot in, setting it on his body to bathe his scales in its bound light. He directs incoming energy toward the mess in his eyesockets, dimming the pain and scourging the filth trying to grow there. Eventually, his strength fades as the energy stops coming. He gropes for the sun-dot, but all that is left is spent, woven cord wrapped in a sphere.

Winked out.

He does not try to rebuild his eyes. Better to leave the eyes useless and avoid the touch of those terrible gloves. He will only rebuild enough to keep out the sickness. He shivers, moaning at the ache in his head, and tries to think.

The Merchant's chair creaks and Ha'Drak imagines him settling into it. Maybe pulling out a book and writing in it.

Dear diary. Today, blinded tiny dragon who can't do anything about it. Ha ha ha. Am big, strong human that does what I wants.

Ha'Drak is surprised at how cold and hard that thought is, like a ball of ice settling into his guts. It makes him feel just a bit stronger, like the sun-dots, but different. He wants to poke at that thought more, but his body shakes from the fever and he can't hold onto any thoughts. He drifts between favorite fragments of stories and things he'd like to shout at the Merchant. His teeth ache as sleep takes him.

He is not sure how long it has been, or how many sun-dots he has had. Sometimes he pokes his snout out and there is a bowl of water there for him. He drains it in great, slaking gulps. Sometimes the Merchant drags him out from under the desk to prod him all over and stretch his limbs out. Many times he feels the Merchant's hands crawl over him, replacing the flameweave harness. Ha'Drak endures it all, waiting for the Merchant to release him back into his little lair.

"How do you keep getting rid of the harness?"

"Still sick? Yours is certainly the longest recovery on record.

"You have some leeway for now, Little Flit. Make the most of it."

Ha'Drak has no extra energy to snap at him. It's cold inside him and it's cold outside him. He passes from waking to sleeping to waking, hardly knowing whether he's still dreaming. Often, he wakes to find himself, not under the desk, but on top, curled around the little glass statue. Breathing is easier closer to the statue, and he feels just a little better whenever he can sleep next to it.

Finally, Ha'Drak wakes clear-headed and focused. He is on the desk again, curled up around the statue. Uncurling is a slow, painful process. There is weakness in his limbs and every joint aches.

He tilts his head, listening. No sound of the seat creaking, or the Merchant breathing, or the scritch scritch of a quill over paper. Satisfied that he's alone, he stands up on the desk, extending his wings, stretching the membranes and his neck as far as they will go. Next he lies down on his side, stretching his limbs and tail.

The sickness is gone from his eyesockets. Both sets of eyelids are rebuilt. The wounds under those eyelids are closed up, but he does not give the rebuilding efforts any further energy. It is like a horrible un-scratched itch to deny himself healing, but he will not be burned by those terrible gloves again.

Will survive. Not be a Na'Shad, not givings up. The thought of the Merchant's last pet adds a layer of ice to the cold ball in his gut. No. Will be different. Will hurts him. Hurting him in his special thing. Make him just like me.

This determination loans him strength. He will find out what the Merchant's special thing is and take it away from him forever. He would endure anything to hurt the Merchant like that. Even a house full of deathspill.

So cold.

He shivers. The fever chills are gone, but the chill in the air is the same. He turns his body in a cautious circle, slowly swiping his tail across the desk until it slaps up against the glass statue. Immediately he doubles back to it and recurls around the base. Here, it is a bit warmer and easier to breathe.

Now that he can think straight, he's not even sure how he found his own way up to the top of the desk. Most of his recent memories are fuzzy. He'll have to explore the front face of the desk. Carefully.

Lifting his head, he uses his snout to trace the outline of the statue. He remembers how fearful it looked, but if he nudges his nose just right, tucking it up against her… it's like she is bent over his snout, now, comforting him. Not cringing away from some horrible sight. He keeps his head like that, making small whimpers in his throat.

Footsteps. Feets on the way.

Ha'Drak scrambles to his claws, scrabbling forward in panic. The desktop vanishes under his forelegs and he pitches head over tail to the ground. The door swings open. Which way is lair?!

Hands seize him around the middle before he can scramble off. His scales sizzle, but it's only the weak darkweave gloves and by now they're little more than a sharp irritation. He hisses, thrashing and snapping his jaws.

"I admire your spirit, though if I were you, I would consider that my master could be a touch less merciful and change into better gloves."

Ha'Drak clamps his jaws shut, driving his claws into the gloves as hard as he can.

"A little better. You're looking good. Let me see those eyes."

Balefully, Ha'Drak opens his eyelids. Let'im see. Nothings left to burn.

"Well, well. Holding back, eh? You're certainly smarter than the last several. Good sign, good sign. Have you found it in your heart to reveal your name, yet?"

Ha'Drak lifts his lips back from his teeth and growls.

"Not yet. That's alright." A touch like needles caresses his head and neck tenderly. "We have plenty of time to earn trust and get to know each other. I'm going into town today, and you're coming with me. I expect you to stay on my shoulder as best you can. I'll forgive the occasional slip, especially if someone else has been clumsy around me, but do your best to refrain from any mischief, hmm? It might shatter our rather fragile bonds of trust."

After fitting yet another flameweave harness on his body, the Merchant brings Ha'Drak to the stables and sets him on something smelling of oiled leather. "Examine it," the Merchant orders. "This is the shoulder saddle. You have fifteen minutes to get familiar with it, then we're leaving."

Ha'Drak growls, but if he doesn't sit right he may be punished later. He spreads himself out and rolls around on it until he finds the edge, then traces the edge all the way around twice—first with his snout, then with his tail. He follows strange straps and buckles on the edges out and then back, then finds where there are two thick, metallic loops at the center of the slab. On a hunch, he slides each of his foreclaws into a loop—just right. He pulls his foreclaws out and continues memorizing the shape of the saddle. It is pitted and slashed all over with gashes that fit the tips of his claws perfectly.

It isn't long before the Merchant returns, grabbing the shoulder saddle out from under him.

Grunting. Snaps and straps.

The sounds cease, and those prickly hands lift Ha'Drak onto the Merchant's shoulder.

Maybe bites his neck out.

He scrambles to find the anchoring loops, quickly inserting his claws and gripping them. His hind legs bend into a crouch and he spreads his wings for balance as the Merchant walks ahead.

It only takes one off-balance tilt, sending him crashing into the side of the Merchant's head, to recognize the agonizing burn of heavy darkweave by the Merchant's throat. Ha'Drak yelps, cringing to the far end of the saddle.

"Do you like it? Most of my clothing is light today. Ah, you can't see me. Shall I describe myself to you?"

Ha'Drak refuses to answer him.

"Ten percent cloak and gloves—a concession to you, my dear pet, for gentle handling. Forty percent scarf, to discourage any errant notions about my throat that my dear pet might have. Worn under the chin, though, not over the face. The hood of the cloak is down as well. It is good for the townsfolk to see my face."

"So, is rest of you naked worm?" Ha'Drak asks spitefully.

The Merchant laughs, delighted. "Ah, no. That was only what was of consequence to you. No, I have a fine pair of trousers, a solid white tunic, heavy leather belt, fine boots of burrower's hide."

Ha'Drak stiffens, clamping down on a screech at the thought of dragonskin boots. Maybe joking. Maybe not. Merchant want your scaredness. No giving it. Anger. Anger. Anger!

"I'm sure you'd appreciate them. Later, I can set you down and let you sniff the boots to determine their authenticity. It's amazing the sort of unique items you can only find at my Market. Darkweave, dragon parts, dragons. On top of that, our Skyte-crafted items are cheaper than anywhere else. I searched town after town, yet I never could find what I wanted anywhere. I asked about, just in case I'd missed a signpost, and often found myself… asked to leave town. So. I established my own corner of the woods for such things and it's been quite the profitable venture."

The Merchant concludes, "And now? Nobody ever asks me to leave when I come to town. Even when I ride in wearing all these things that nobody else dares sell. Funny how that works, eh, Little Flit?"

The Merchant spends good half-day on errands throughout the town. By the time he returns to the study and sets Ha'Drak on his desk, the voidflyer's foreclaws are cramped from his death-grip on the loops and his hind legs quiver from the strain of keeping himself from banging into the Merchant's head—or worse, his scarf.

His head swims with strange sounds and smells from the Merchant's town, Evenward. But there, right there, captive on the Merchant's shoulder, Ha'Drak won his first little victory. He knows the Merchant's whole name, and the Merchant can't say the same about him. If only he had someone to crow that to, it wouldn't feel so hollow.

The desk chair creaks. "Move. I have work to do."

Ha'Drak scrambles aside, too tired to hiss, and nearly bowls over the glass figure. The biting hands seize him, squeezing too tight, and toss him.

It is only a second and a half in freefall, but for a second and a half he is swallowed by the horrifying expanse of the unknown.

He hits the floor. It isn't a hard landing, but he rolls once before he finds his legs. His tail lashes, but there is only soft carpet. No idea which direction he is facing or where in the room he is.

Wait. Merchant's chair squeak. He lifts his earfins, craning his neck first in one direction, then another until the creaking sound is easy to pinpoint. He turns to face that sound, marking the Merchant's desk in his mind. Front of room.

Carefully, he creeps toward the sound until his snout rams into a hard wooden something. He rubs his face on it, twining his neck around it to get an idea of its shape and size. It is a round thing, a wooden pole. The creaking is directly above him. Round pole is part of chair.

He sidles to the left a few paces and noses his way forward, flicking his tongue out with every step. Phlagh. Plagh. Phlagh. His tongue slaps the wood of what must be the desk a few seconds later. He turns sideways, pressing his whole side against the desk and dragging himself along it, mapping the surface of everything at his height.

Left side desk. Two clawed feets in front. Raised off ground, space as tall as me. Is lair? Ha'Drak pokes his nose into the space and flicks his tongue out, tasting the air. Not lair. Unused space. Right desk-side is lair.

He rises up on his hind legs, curling his claws inward and brushing his knuckles across the lowest parts of the desk between the short clawed feet holding it up. He quickly hits a curved metal piece that swings out. Handle. Handle on drawer. Tentatively, drawing on muscle memory, he pulls himself up on the handle with a claw and stretches his neck to find the next one, clamping onto it with his teeth. Ah. That how gets up on desk. Climb handles.

He does not want to be up there. Not with the Merchant working. Part of him wants to curl up in his lair, but he needs to begin filling in a detailed map of this room. Releasing his grip, he drops to the carpeted floor and continues dragging himself along the edges of the desk.

The desk is deep. It takes him several steps to get from the left corner to the wall. Turning left again, he follows the wall many many more steps and encounters the door—shut, of course.

Another left at the corner of the room. Then… Skinny poles. Four. Maybe small table. Small claw-feets holding up soft cushion. Is chair for dog? No, chair for feets? Stupid humans. Bigger claw-feets holding up… big chair. Abruptly, he recalls the big chair next to the book he last tried to collect. He'd leaped through his last shadow, there. His lungs pump quickly, pouring fear into his body. He curls into a ball as his pulse thunders in his earholes, his every nerve screaming for him to flee.

Is nowheres to fly to!

Sensations crash through his head in flashes. The sight of his most beloved new book. The snap of a trap. The pain of a beating. Surrounded by bars! The crack of the other voidflyer's body, captured mid-flight. That terrible, monstrous mass of walking deathspill, scooping up his cage. Gloved fingers hovering over his eyes. Pain!

He trembles as if fever-stricken again. Run! Fly! screams his body, but he dares not leave his new map of known space. He exists for an eternity between each shallow, gasping breath, reliving the moment when the world went dark.

Many eternities pass. The sounds change. The creaking of the chair ceases.

"You had plenty of good sun out there, so no sun-dot today. There's fresh water by the desk. Sniveling?" The Merchant clucks his tongue. "Well. Still adjusting, it's to be expected."

The study door opens. Shuts. Clicks with a key-sound.

Immediately, Ha'Drak presses against the wall and retraces his steps, stumbling over his claws and ramming his snout into the wall, the desk, the chair legs in his haste to get back. Back to the top of the desk. He seizes the lowest drawer handle and uses it to lunge up, snapping the second one in his teeth. Straining his neck, he is able to reach the second handle with his foreclaws and hook his hind claws into the lowest handle. Snap! His teeth close on the third handle. With desperate lunges, he spills up and over the edge of the desk.

Need… need… phlaghphlaghplagh…

His tongue brushes glass. Immediately he draws his body around the glass statue, coiling tight and thrusting his snout into her arms. His body shudders with relief, even as anger rolls out from his gut.

Coward. Coward. Coward.

Now his lungs slow their frantic rate and his heart relaxes. Liquid leaks from between clenched eyelids. He rests like this for a time, gathering pieces of himself together. It takes many, shuddering breaths for him to find them.

When he can think again, he pulls his head back a little ways, as if he could look at her, and says, "I won. Little bit winnings today. Went to town on monster's shoulder. I hear big fear wherever he goes, more than Wing Market fear. Is in the mutterings all around, in the voices he speaks to. He buys food. I smell. Orders nails. Talks to somebodys about givings them first-time gloves, pretty pretty ladies glove, 'Only ten percent.'"

Ha'Drak's scales crawl at that memory. "Goes talk to records-humans for the needing information. Tells his name. Big long stupid name. Done too many things, moved too many times. Scale Fist Pour Warp Healland Grenville Evenward. Merchant is stupid title, like King. King of Wing Market." His claws dig into the wood desk. "Knows his name. Doesn't know my name. Never tells him my name, never. Is mine. If I keeps it mine, I win."

Better. He feels better saying it aloud to someone, even if it is only a statue. Still, it's a special statue that drives away the gloom. He remembers the sight of that clear space around her, even if he can't see it. It is certainly warmer here. He rests his head on the desk.

First time ladies' gloves.

Burrower hide boots.

He shivers.

"You scared?" he demands loudly of the statue. "Scared of what, of dark? Dark not bad. Well, this dark bad, but, nightdark is safety. Shadowdark is escape. No be scared. Scared is for hatchlings only, not full dragons. Be neverscared, like me. Here, I tell you hatchling good story. I read you…" he falters. He can't read. Not ever again.

He rakes his claws across the desk, then stands.

"Can read. Can reads you story. Will do."

He flicks his tongue out, scenting. Fresh ink stains the air. He follows the scent to a row of small books the Merchant keeps on the desk, the ones he scratches up with the quill and ink. Ha'Drak seizes one by its spine with his teeth and drags it back, sweeping his tail behind him as he goes so he doesn't fall over the edge of the desk.

He returns to the statue and lies next to it, flipping open the book. He cranes his neck, bending over pages that are probably full of tedious numbers. In his mind, a different page from a different book unfurls its comforting words. "Once, long times ago, was a proud, proud prince of humans…"