Chapter Text
-I-
Gale surrounds the Sanguis Plateaus, winds howling ever since the Tempest Dragon spread its wings and caged the Dark Tide and its creatures within. Yet the tide never perished, the cries of the forsaken ever echoing, and when the storm eases up the slightest, miasma seeps through the gaps.
Septimont knows to thank the ancestral dragon for aiding them in battle years ago, but the ones who protect Septimont today are mere humans. Gladiators, the brave and the prideful, fueled by tales of heroics and promises of honor. Guided by duty, by promises of safety.
“Allow me to join you on the hunt.” a voice resounds from her terminal. “After all, I am this Agon’s Champion,” I’m one of your strongest gladiators. “and I don’t have the Order’s affirmation, but I’m still a Dragonrider.”
Augusta purses her lips at the last words, her gaze shifting from the erratic plateaus to her terminal.
“Is your dragon with you now, Lupa?”
“No, but if I were to call for her—”
Contender Lupa of House Silva, the crowned champion of this year’s Great Agon, a gladiator of pure heart and untamed passion. Her friend, who had approached her after the tournament to frantically recount a twisted tale of illusions and deceit. By the end of it, to only her ears and those of the few assistants left around, she revealed the turning factor: a dragon found her amid the rubble, guided her back from the abyss, and when she pieced herself together, it rested softly on her chest, forging a bond so rarely spoken of in Septimont.
They’re not like the Ragunnesi, avid believers of a holy pact between dragons and their riders, bonds already carved into the future of Ragunna by their divinities. They do not line up in front of the Order to receive the Primus’ blessing, nor do they undergo trials which supposedly only the worthy are meant to pass. No, in Septimont it is far simpler, even. Battles are fought and won by gladiators, and when divinity’s grace falls upon sullen lands, if the ever blazing spirit of warriors draws in the gaze of a dragon, then the battlefield decides on what bonds are forged.
Even at the end of her story, Lupa cannot say the name of her dragon.
“This is precisely why I need you to stay in Septimont, my friend.” Augusta begins, effectively stopping the upcoming ramble. “Regardless of the outcome of this battle, I want to ensure that our people, our city, is in good hands. I trust that if I am to fall, if I let the Dark Tide flow through the gale, then you’ll protect Septimont.”
Before departing years ago, the Tempest, one of the three dragons that guide Rinascita, the second of the Order’s two divinities, used its resonance energy to create a powerful current, which would henceforth only allow passage to gladiators flown through by griffrexes. A partnership between one driven away from home, and one driven by prophecies of victories and freedom.
When her vision clears, Augusta looks down, observes the sole structure still standing tall despite all the harsh battles. Tetragon Temple, house of priestesses who foretell Septimont’s future, protected by the grace of the Moon. West of it, down where bodies of water still remain clear of dark corruption, Tacet Discords litter. The Ephor’s Palace had received word that the Tideline Verge nest had erupted to the temple’s southwest, the monsters since roaming mindlessly, consuming anything in sight.
For glory, the gladiators follow their Ephor’s lead, weapons drawn as the griffrexes dive down. Night approaches, but it is hidden when the air crackles with electricity, Augusta’s blade streaking through discords. To her people, she brings with her the sun.
Rest lasts for mere seconds, muscles tight as the shadows grow taller the deeper they venture. Battle cries resonate through the open expanse, and when the last beast falls, everyone expects to see the heart of the nest, surrounded by blight and infested by countless monsters salivating at the influx of new frequencies to devour. Dark goo spreading from the center outwards, hiding in itself its discords, shielding them from arrows and blades, but if their feet were to sink in it, it’d drag them down, vehemently trying to drown them in illusions. As every hunt, they expect to hear the cries of the tormented.
Yet there’s none of that.
The moon is high up in the sky now, much larger than when it overlooks Capitoline Hills. Tacet Discords are spread out all around the nest, but their bodies lay punctured through atop clear waters, slight ripples spreading out when they walk closer. Moonlight shines down on them, illuminating the corpses. Augusta crouches next to a cyan-feathered heron, sees the faint sparks that flow upwards. It’s the same for all the corpses, sparkling as they decompose, bodies vanishing as their frequencies seemingly rejoin the moon.
She turns to her warriors, meets the eyes of each and everyone that leans heavily on their swords.
“Tend to the injured. Everyone else, we’ll set up camp here tonight.”
It should feel liberating, they did not have to fight needlessly. Someone huffs in the back, speaks of injured pride and stolen glory, but Augusta pays them no mind. There’s something strange brewing in the air, an uncertainty. She cannot call it a full victory if none of them know who caused this. An aid, when the plateaus is isolated from the rest of Rinascita? Or a far worse enemy born deep within the dark tide, rising to consume and feed itself?
Whatever the case, the Tideline Verge was not the only nightmare nest that was reported to the palace. There’s another in Rustblood Pass, and soon, it too will erupt, spilling forth more tacet discords. They’ll have to suppress it before they can return to the hunting grounds. Ensure no monsters are left to threaten Septimont. Steering clear of any potential corruption and setting up shifts, the camp falls silent under the moon’s cradle.
-II-
Someone plays the harp in the distance, the melody accompanied by humming. Augusta stirs, sleep sounding farther away than the music. She does not know of any gladiator in her team who can play the harp, nor does she remember hearing such a voice.
Something falls outside, then it tumbles against her tent. Electro dances at her fingertips as she pushes the flaps open, tracing the source of the noise. She sees Aquila jumping from one puddle to another, residue from the strange water that had reflected the moonlight earlier. Then the griffrex looks up, snout pointed towards the moon. Its wings thrash almost aggressively, causing droplets and debris to spread around. It looks confused, indecisive with the way to lifts a few centimeters off the ground then drops down again.
When Augusta reaches out towards it, the beginning of soothing words dies out on her tongue as it finally takes off, flying over the campsite and southward. Augusta curses under her breath, glances at the resting gladiators and then runs off towards the fleeing griffrex. She hears her title shouted, but the calls are drowned out by her own yell as her hand curls around air, the weight of her broadsword grounding as its length materializes. She slashes, electricity dancing above blades as they dislodge from her weapon and shoot forward, some impaling the ground and others the cliffside. Electro sparks from the tip of her foot to the top of her head and she lets it pull her towards the fallen swords.
When she’s just under Aquila, one of the wall magnets pull her up and she jumps from one hilt to the other, until with one final push, she grabs onto the fur of the griffrex’s neck and hoists herself up. There’s a cry as residue electricity dances from her fingertips, so Augusta tries soothing in with gentle pats. There’s no sign of any pain, but it doesn’t stop its flight, rather continues towards the Asphodel Barrens with the same frantic speed as before.
“What’s wrong—?!”
They’re quickly approaching a small lake, the leaves of the tree at its center gleaming softly. But it’s not what gives Augusta pause, no, it’s the creature that’s curled around its shoreline like a tangible representation of the crescent moon.
It’s a dragon.
Aquila lands gracelessly, still restless, motioning towards the dragon like it wants Augusta to understand something. And the dragon…
It sleeps, its head resting on its front legs, crossed and slightly dipping into the lake. The top of its head and spine are tinted by dark fur, soft looking as it’s rustled by the wind. The further down it goes, the fainter the fur becomes, until the tip of its forked tail and claws becomes a beautiful white. As if armor, scales protect the base of its large wings, which seemingly spread into three sections. Walking closer, Augusta realizes that scales cover much more of its body, over the hind legs and perhaps the chest and underbelly too. Then, the same dots of light she had seen on the corpses descent from the sky and onto the dragon, falling onto its front claws dipped in the water.
Except, Augusta notices, they’re translucent, almost formless.
The dragon breathes, the exhale rustling the white fur on its nose and Augusta focuses her gaze on its face again. Two sets of horns, one which curves forward akin to an olive crown, and one which extends backwards. She’s familiar with the golden crown, has seen it often on the heads of priestesses of Tetragon Temple.
It is not impossible, but how can it be that the Moonlight Dragon, an entity only mentioned in scrolls and teachings of the temple, the offspring of the Sea and the source of prophecy stands in front of her? It sleeps even, content despite her invading presence. And the defeated TDs from earlier, the ones that were gleaming? Had it been its doing? But why would such a mighty dragon meddle with their matters? What could it mean for Septimont—
Aquila whines and it frees her from her train of thoughts before it spirals any further. The griffrex now stands behind the dragon, nodding its head towards something Augusta can’t quite see. She walks around, her steps picking up in pace when she notices the reddened gashes between scales on the dragon’s hind leg and wing. Broken pieces of metal are stuck in between and Augusta reaches into the bag strapped to Aquila without a second thought. She pulls out a cloth and medical ointment they’d normally use on the griffrexes, but she doesn’t think much of it when only urgency steers her movements. She dips the cloth into the lake, brushes over the scales gently, cleans out the blood and the dark sludge. Throughout it all, the dragon does not wake.
By the time she’s done, Aquila, who finally found peace after guiding her to the injury, is already fast asleep. Augusta chuckles, running a hand along its back, before turning to the larger creature again. Her hand grazes its scales gently, the contact warm.
“Please be more careful, Moonlight Dragon.”
She does not remember closing her eyes.
-III-
Augusta’s eyes flutter open with the first rays of sunlight. She exhales slowly, a warm weight on her body. Looking down, a soft smile stretches on her lips as she sees Aquila’s head resting on her abdomen. She lifts her hand to run her fingers through its fur, but then hair tickles her shoulder as it falls down her arm. Silvery white, like the moonlight.
Augusta’s eyes shoot wide open and she’s quick on her feet, her fingers curling around the grip of her dagger. Aquila bristles as its forced awake, stretching its wings non-urgently, while the person she might have mistaken for a pillow doesn’t react initially. She extends her arms and stretches leisurely, the sun kissing her smooth, porcelain skin, ambrosia dipping into the valley of her breasts and down to the soft curves of her hips. Her hair, long and lustrous as if bathed by the hands of divinity, falls over her shoulders in dark waves and covers her body somehow more enticingly than the finest of silk.
Augusta looks up and away, a golden gleam mocking her as the sunlight reflects off of a crown she’s familiar with. Gladiators are not ones for modesty, battle doesn’t allow it, and camaraderie quite often has warriors bathing together, helping each-other. Augusta is not ignorant to a woman’s body, but it is different when in front of her is a priestess. Figures so intimately connected to the moon, their purity unsullied so they may become the catalyst between the divine and the mortal.
It’s blasphemous to take advantage of such a vulnerable situation, even if it was not of her own design. If the Moonlight Dragon were still here, it would have smitten her down for even daring to lay eyes upon such sacred vessel.
The woman stands up, bare feet gliding over the lake water as if she’s parting curtains, and Augusta doesn’t notice until she feels fingers on her chin, sharp nails digging into her cheek. It doesn’t sting, the woman is gentle when she directs her face, makes the heat rush faster up her neck. When her eyes still stray away, Augusta feels those nails dig the slightest bit deeper.
So Augusta looks at her, golden crown on her head, leaves sculpted so carefully, dark blue hair framing her delicate face, mismatched bangs fading over her eyes and oh—
Moonlight dust under the corners of her eyes, thick eyelashes fluttering over deep seas and the dark slit opening up an abyss in her irises. Her breath catches in her throat, the woman’s gaze tracing all of her face, pausing momentarily on her lips, then she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, the slits have shrunk, replicating her own pupils. The woman smiles, then lets go of her chin, not without letting her hand fall to her collarbone, fingertips ghosting over her skin.
“Miss Moonlight Dragon…” Augusta is thankful she doesn’t stutter the title, what with the heat in her cheeks and the lump in her throat. The dragon walks past her and towards Aquila, who stands alert as she approaches. With nothing to confine her, Augusta looks away, but she dare not turn her back to the dragon. She’s thankful for the long hair, but then the dragon lets out a soft laugh as Aquila nuzzles into her, and Augusta feels tethered.
“Call me Iuno.” The dragon says, almost orders even, but she sounds so beautiful. Augusta’s eyes stray onto her back for a split second, shielded by dark curtains as it is.
“Then please, Lady Iuno, allow me to do the honors.” she bows her head, hand over her heart, attempts to show her sincerest respect. “I am—”
“Ephor Augusta.” Iuno interrupts, annoyance teetering the line between the two simple words. “I know of everything that occurs under the moon.” she continues, turning around to face her. When the wind picks up with the movement and exposes the slightest bit more skin, Augusta drops her gaze so incredulously fast, she hopes the dragon does not see it as offense. “And I believe I told you to call me Iuno.”
Aquila leans its head forward and under Iuno’s hand, who looks down at it with a small smile as she gives it a few pats. “I reckon you must return to your people, no?” she asks, but there isn’t really a question behind her words, more of a reminder. Augusta nods, tries looking into the dragon’s eyes, searcher for something, anything, but a blush climbs up her cheeks again and she coughs into her hand. Yes, she says, stands confidently on her feet as she walks towards her griffrex. The dragon steps away, arms crossed behind her back as she takes steps around them and back towards the gleaming tree.
“Don’t keep them waiting, Ephor.” she says, and Augusta swears she hears it come from the depth of her mind.
-IV-
“Watch your steps.”
The wastelands are suffocating, remnants of the Dark Tide slithering through the cracks of Rustblood Pass. The contaminated river flows lazily down Murmurstown, leaving behind corrosion and no sings of its past livelihood. South of Tetragon Temple is another nightmare nest, one that could pose a significant threat if its creatures crawled out of the waters with wings on their backs.
The fog thickens as the gladiators near its epicenter, corroded land on the verge of being swallowed up by the tide. A faint glow anchors them to the present, calming the heart of each warrior as it takes on the shape of blades impaling a path for them.
The first sign of the nest’s awakening is a grating screech as the beak of a heron parts the dark sludge and crawls out of it with weighted feathers.
“For the eternal sun!” the gladiators shout in unison, weapons brandished as they run towards the tacet discord. Augusta watches them from the backline, her attention drawn by the rising tidal blight just beyond the pass. The tide doesn’t rest for long however, its surface rippling as predators rise one after the other. For glory, for the eternal sun, for Fabianum, it all holds the weight of her blade as she cleaves through a monster, electro propelling her forwards as she cuts another discord in half.
A gasp reverberates and she dashes between gladiators, strikes down the predator that lunges at a disarmed warrior. Augusta reaches out her hand, pulls them up onto their feet again. Out of habit, she pats them on the shoulder, small encouraging smile on her lips, but something pale rises in her peripherals. Coral-like veins shoot out from under them.
“It’s the Tidal Blight! Do not get close to the water!” she yells, yet shrieks drown her out as the water rises and swallows corpses and tacet discords. It swirls upwards into a sphere, while the corals snap and crawl around their feet, keeping them grounded. Without warning, vines shoot out from the tidal cocoon, parried by flying blades that crack under the pressure. Augusta’s eyes widen as she hears screams die out in a gurgle.
The cocoon ripples and the ground shakes, the vines retreating, but Augusta feels like it looks directly at her. She brandishes her sword, naked as it is, teeth grit and electro dancing from her shoulders to the fingertips, while a much larger vine detaches itself, tidal blight rising under it as it descents towards her.
She sees everything slower, calculates how to best take on the attack to spare her warriors. But as it is about to meet her blade, a silver warrior crashes it head on instead. The vine erupts, contaminated water raining down its path. A roar powerful enough to shatter the coral confines reverberates behind them, each warrior now freed, even those who collapse without the blight keeping them upright through their wounds.
Gasps and murmurs resound, someone stumbles and another bows down to the floor. Scales reflect the moon as the dragon lands on the corroded cliffwall, the light cleaving through the fog. Its wings spread, jaws parted as energy gathers in front.
“Iuno.” Augusta whispers the name and she imagines the dragon grins as the energy bursts into a multitude of arrows, each impaling the tidal cocoon until the final disperses it from within. Under the rain, they all see the rising Dark Tide creature: a corrosaurus. As if a newborn, it falls again and again, the sludge holding it down. A brave gladiator stupidly runs forward, sword held high to strike it down, but when the final droplets falls off its jagged crest, the corrosaurus roars, so intense the gladiator is flung away.
Augusta digs her sword onto the ground, holding herself and nearby gladiators, but even the weight of thousands of battles shakes. The earth quakes again, but this time it is due to the dragon that drops in front of them. One wing spreads out to shield the warriors, while the other curls around its chest, blocking Augusta’s view of the monster. The dragon does not shoot arrows at it, rather gathers and condenses the moonlight, then detonates it in a breath.
The corrosaurus wails, scales sawed cleanly off of its shoulder and hind leg. It turns tail and runs deeper into the pass, in a direction Augusta could never mistake.
“It’s heading to Murmustown.” She says, to herself, to the gladiators, to the dragon. Iuno huffs, slit eyes surveying the group of warriors, one more beat down than the other. She lowers her head, nudges against Augusta’s waist with her neck. Clear water spreads under her feet, pushes away the blight and soothes the pain. “Return to the hunting grounds.” she orders her people just as she hoists herself up on the dragon’s back.
“Who’s that dragon?”
“Did the Ephor just—”
The wind smothers the voices as the two fly upwards, ascending far beyond the pass, until they can overlook the entirety of Murmurstown.
(Augusta’s grip on the fur around the dragon’s neck tightens)
Through the cacophony, Augusta sees the blue creature trying to bathe in the dark waters. Iuno swerves down, the same energy as before gathering at the tip of her snout.
“Go on, Augusta. Impress me.” her words echo in the woman’s head, much like they did the first time they met eye to eye. The memory brings redness to her cheeks, but she swallows it down and pats the dragon as a signal. Condensed moonlight pierces through the corrosaurus, cutting its horn off of its head and startling the beast. It looks up just as Augusta throws herself, her descent a slingshot. She lets out a war cry, broadsword held tight in both hands, electro gathering from the sky to its tip. Augusta falls on top of the corrosaurus, her feet planted on its shoulders as her blade dives straight through its neck.
Its head rolls away and begins sinking into the dark tide, the water rising with the same characteristic laziness towards her. Iuno lands behind her, a singular wing section wrapping around her. Faint light forms a sphere around them and the dark tide is held back. A purr startles Augusta, but when she turns to face the dragon, the sound is already over and gone.
“Was that impressive enough, Miss Moonlight Dragon?” Augusta asks, a coy grin on her lips. Iuno’s nostrils flare, she huffs, then walks away, the barrier dropping and the waves sinking in again. “Hey wait— Iuno!”
The dragon is merciful enough to allow Augusta back on her shoulders, and the woman breathes in a moment as she splays her hand over the soft midnight blue fur. For Septimontians, dragonriding is a honor won through the battlefield, a pledge between two warriors of different species to strike down the same enemy. It’s for this reason that bonds occur between gladiators and lesser dragons. In Ragunna, on the other hand, under the watchful eye of the Primus and the blessing of the Tempest and the Sea, a nobleman bonds a noble dragon. If there ever will be one, then the rider of divinity could be none other than the Primus himself.
The Moon, the one who grants priestesses their fate seeing abilities, is a descendant of the Sea. In her own way, Iuno is divinity to Septimont, and she’s but the Ephor. The strongest gladiator, yet not one bathed under the moonlight nor blessed with future sight. It’s quite the curious thought, the blasphemy of her riding this ancestral dragon without the permission of the Order. A small laugh escapes her lips and Iuno’s ear swivels. It is humorous to think of the Order’s authority now, when they have never cared for it beyond diplomacy.
Is this what dragonriding feels like? Augusta wonders to herself, lets the gentle breeze ruffle her hair. Flying like this is much calmer than when she commands a griffrex, perhaps because of the sheer size of the dragon, or because she does not need to guide Iuno in any way.
Augusta is taken out of her musing when the dragon lands just outside the mouth of Atilius Canyon. Iuno flicks her wing against her shoulder when she gets off, and then looks up to the sky. Aquila draws closer a few moments later, while the dragon lies down on the ground, head propped on her front legs. She waits like that until Aquila carries her towards the hunting grounds and out of Iuno’s sight. Only then does the dragon begin her own flight back home.
-V-
It takes Augusta precisely two hours and seven minutes to come to an agreement with herself that she cannot sleep. After returning to the hunting grounds and rejoining her men, she completed a tally of all remaining resources and visited every injured warrior. After the tiring battle, despite the Moonlight Dragon’s healing aid, the gladiators decided to recuperate first and celebrate their victory the following day. Which brings us to the current cause of Augusta’s sleeplessness:
Iuno.
It’s not a curse or ailment, Augusta simply catches her thoughts straying to the dragon again and again. It’s fascination, perhaps. A fighter’s soul drawn to the power she had witnessed displayed against the corrosaurus. Curiosity borne from the presence of such a majestic creature in the Sanguis Plateaus, aiding mere mortals in their battles.
Creatures so majestic and yet they couldn’t help you save your hometown?
Augusta shoots out of her bed with urgency. She throws a coat over her sleepwear and pauses in front of the chest stationed inside her tent. She opens it and pulls out a spare tunic.
Your sire abandoned you like this. Left your mother to suffocate in the blight.
She whistles and Aquila is by her side seconds later, head titled to the left. “I was close to the Dark Tide for too long, it’s messing with my head.” she says to the griffrex, scratching it along the ear. “Let’s go for a ride and get some fresh air, yeah?”
It’s so that Augusta finds herself riding Aquila in the direction of Asphodel Barrens. She had been on the Moonlight Dragon’s back for but a brief moment, yet it left an impression strong enough that she finds herself comparing the experience to griffrex riding. The thrill is truly something else, it explains why even a gladiator such as Lupa was drawn to it.
As they near their destination, Augusta sees the gleaming tree draw closer. She swallows the disappointment when there’s no dragon curled around it, nor a woman resting on its trunk. Nevertheless, Aquila lands on its shore, almost impatient as it waits for Augusta to get off. She chuckles, hands on her hips as the griffrex trots away between bushes. Then her gaze shifts to the glowing leaves, a hand reaching out to touch one, maybe hoping that the contact would replicate the feeling of Iuno.
You found her here once and thought she’d wait for you here again?
In truth, Augusta isn’t sure where the home of the Moonlight Dragon is. Despite being native to the lands, no one can claim to know where any of the ancestral dragons reside. Perhaps the Primus could pretend, but Augusta isn’t kin on asking him. So it shouldn’t come as a surprise that the dragon, now healed and done battling, isn’t resting here anymore.
“What brings you back to me, Ephor?” a voice sings behind her, as an arm envelopes her waist, while a hand slithers up her bicep, to the elbow and then grips her sleeve.
Electro crackles at her fingertips and a shiver runs down Augusta’s spine, but she holds off summoning her blade when she recognizes the timbre and the sharp nails gently pulling her arm down.
“Iuno?” she asks, whispers to the night and the dragon’s body shakes with laughter. She holds her tight for a while, leans her head against her back, presses her ear against it and listens. When she parts from her, Iuno still holds her hands, though now she walks in front of her, starts pulling her into the lake. All the same as their first encounter, Augusta’s eyes shy away.
“Iuno, wait.” She stumbles on the words, but the dragon does listen, holds her hands even more gently, clawed fingers rubbing at the callouses. “I brought you something?”
“Did you?” Iuno’s head tilts to the side.
“Yes.” Augusta inhales deeply. “I apologize if I am overstepping your grace, for you have allowed me, a mere human, to bask in your presence so long and—”
“What is it, Augusta. Out with it.”
An exhale, then Augusta lifts up the tunic she’d taken from her chest. Iuno’s eyes narrow at the fabric.
“You bring me… human cloth?”
A nod.
“Why?”
Iuno searches for her eyes, but the Ephor effortlessly avoids looking at the moonlight charmingly caressing her skin. “For humans it is seen as improper and blasphemous for a gladiator to gaze upon the nude body of a priestess.” She answers in a breath, finally looking down into Iuno’s eyes at the end. There’s a faint shadow under them, Augusta wants to trace it, to ask, but instead she can only pout as she sees the dragon burst out laughing.
Nevertheless, Iuno grabs the tunic from her hands. “Fine, I’ll humor you just this once.” she squints at it, spreads the fabric between her fingers, stretches it out. Her lips purse and her brows furrow, while Augusta’s hands twitch. She reaches out, pries the cloth out of Iuno’s hold and rolls it up, red dusting her cheeks as she shyly motions at the opening. Iuno leans her head forward and Augusta carefully passes the tunic over her golden crown, lets it fall on her shoulders as she guides her arms through the sleeves. Then, she smooths it over, watches the fabric slip down one shoulder, while its length makes it look like a dress more than anything else.
Iuno looks up at her, moondust a shade deeper, while light swims in her dark eyes. Augusta’s fingers trace her slender neck, gathering her long hair and pulling it out from under the tunic. Like this, the rest of her neck is freed, but it’s not just the revealed skin that makes her gasp. Now that she can properly look at the dragon, she notices the small scales marking the base of her neck and spreading along the collarbone. Augusta rubs the pad of her thumb against a cluster, they’re cool to the touch. More trail the dip of her shoulder, a wave falling just above the top of her arm.
Iuno shivers and she grasps Augusta’s hands between her own, peeling the fingertips away from her scales. “Satisfied now, Ephor?” she asks, her grin exposing sharp fangs. Augusta’s gaze settles on her fondly, while Iuno tiptoes backwards, her bare feet not even touching the lake water as she slowly levitates, elegantly swims up the air until she can comfortably rest on the tree’s curved trunk. Augusta follows, slight surprise behind her steps as her soles do not sink.
“Stay and watch the moon with me.” Her eyes close and she reaches out towards the lake surface. “Since you brought me something tonight, this will be my gift to you.”
“What makes this place so different from the rest of the Plateaus?” Augusta looks up at the seemingly sleeping dragon, who begins humming a tune similar to the one that had awakened her the night before.
“Nowhere else in Septimont can one bear witness to two moons. One above and one in the water.” Iuno opens one eye, lazily looking into the reflection of the lake. Augusta’s own gaze does not shift from its epicenter. “And the moon is especially beautiful tonight, don’t you think?”
Augusta murmurs her reply, a gentle utterance to the wind. Iuno’s eyes stray upwards towards the women, meeting her own soft stare head on. The dragon lets a smile stretch on her lips, gaze narrowed at the gladiator. She glides off the tree, gracefully enters Augusta’s bubble, yet the woman never looks away.
“Aren’t you a sly one?” Iuno chuckles, fingertips ghosting over the lapels of her sleepshirt. Augusta voices her confusion through a hum, suddenly aware of how scantily she’s dressed. There would be uproar if anyone heard of the Ephor abandoning her tent to meet a dragon in the middle of the night, nothing but sleepwear on her back. No ornaments, no accessories to showcase her authority. To make matters worse, she hasn’t offered the finest of fabrics to—
Iuno’s lips are soft when they press against hers. She tugs at her shirt lightly to pull her down, just to leave a slow, quick caress. With her feet flat on her ground again, the corner of her smile tugs upward. “Keep your attention on me. Only on me.”
Augusta blinks, startled, but she doesn’t move away as Iuno’s fingers move up and interlock around the back of her neck.
“Okay.” she breathes in the air between them. Her eyes stray to Iuno’s lips, so pink, so soft, so inviting. She leans closer, Iuno does too, they meet in the middle, gentle, shy. Augusta lets out a gasp when Iuno steps closer, presses their bodies flush together, and the dragon slots her bottom lip between her own, bites into the tender flesh as they part for air. The moondust under her eyes has grown so dark, the cluster of silver forming a personal midnight sky for Augusta to gaze into. One of her hands presses on the small of Iuno’s back, while the other reaches out to hold her cheek. Like this, she can pull her in again, fit their lips together so perfectly, as if they were made to cling to each-other under the moon and sun’s witness.
A quiet moan, tongues brushing, Augusta slips as the water beneath her ripples and her feet sink in. Iuno falls with her, a gentle embrace as droplets splash around them. A laugh and the Moonlight Dragon looks at the Ephor oh so fondly before capturing her lips again. She presses her hand against Augusta’s chest, feels her heart drum against her fingertips.
Separating from her lips is almost painful, but Iuno traces a path along her cheek and into the swell of her neck, breathes her in. Fangs bite gently, just enough to leave a reminder of her behind without breaking the delicate skin. No, Iuno muses, Augusta is far from delicate. She may not be a whole dragon, but she’s still so, so very powerful. She shivers at the way the same hand that holds the weight of blades now softly runs through her hair.
The exhales and grunts she lets out after every small bite along her neck spur Iuno on. They’re far more melodic than music, but the fabric that keeps her away from the rest of the woman is grating on her nerves. Her free hand, the one that is not keeping up with Augusta’s heartbeat, slides under her shirt, nails dragging along the taut surface and over warm, smooth patches.
The drumming picks up in a staccato, it harmonizes with her breathing in a way that’s almost suffocating, while the caress ceases. A shaking hand pushes hers away and without any support, Augusta’s body is swallowed up by the lake.
A human dares to deny me?
Iuno’s pupils elongate into slits as a growl forms in the back of her throat, but when she sees the fearful expression beneath the water, all of it evaporates and she drags the woman out into the surface instead.
“I—” a cough as water falls from her lips. “I can’t!” she screams, yet her voice is so weak it carries no weight whatsoever.
“I’m sorry.” Iuno pulls her in, hugs the shivering frame to herself. She hums into Augusta’s ear, tries the shush the rambling. “I know.” she whispers. “I’ve always known.” her thumbs rub comforting lines on her cheeks, patiently waiting for the woman to calm down, to come back to her. Then, as gently as she can muster, she plants a soft kiss on her forehead. “You smell of the sun, Augusta.”
Not in the way gladiators revere the sun, rather in a much more primal way, a trail of fire spreading its wings.
“I should go.” Augusta’s voice still trembles the slightest bit. Iuno looks at her, a mixture of pity and sorrow in her eyes as she takes in her wet, disheveled state, ignores the swell of her bottom. Moonlight seeps out of her, golden crown extending, form levitating as if weightless.
Augusta’s grip on her tunic is steady, it gives her pause.
“Iuno…” her gaze still wavers, but the dragon listens, holds her jaw in her hand. “The gladiators celebrate their victory in the morning.” Will you come too?
A smile, then her hand slides up, covers Augusta’s eyes. With her vision obscured, she can only hear wings snap and the wind rustle. When the world comes into view again, she’s alone.
-VI-
Petals rain from the sky, bathing the hunting grounds a beautiful red. Glasses clink and alcohol swishes as gladiators dance around each-other. Even the priestesses have left their posts to accompany the warriors, some reading the fate of drunken men.
Augusta sits by the fire, roast in hand as she watches her people in their merriness. They’re set to return to Septimont after this, the Senate did not mask its impatience in the slightest. She takes a final bite as the festivity reaches its culmination point.
A shadow falls over them, a slender figure piercing the sky above. Then a roar reverberates as the majestic dragon lands on top of Tetragon Temple. Its identity is quite obvious to every onlooker, olive crown gleaming under the sun. Priestesses fall in worship, while the hunters that accompanied her bow in gratitude. The dragon spreads its wings, pivots around the hunting grounds, then dives behind the temple, disappearing from everyone’s sight.
The cheers return even louder now and Augusta’s heart beats the slightest bit faster. Gladiating weaves in thrill and danger, everyone is aware of that, but to bear witness to the Moonlight Dragon herself can only uplift each one fighting for a brighter future. Augusta shakes her head and walks out of the crowd, strolls her way up towards the temple. Maybe she’ll let one priestess look into her fate before returning home.
One warrior and then another intercepts her, each handing her a fresh glass of wine. She laughs with them momentarily, escape easy in their delirious states. She lets the liquor wash down her throat, hums a tune unlike any of the gladiator hymns. Her feet carry her to the outskirts, shadowed by high columns and deserted by jovial calls. There stands a lone priestess, a thin cape over small shoulders, but the near perfect attire cannot fool Augusta, not with the way her hair, tied up in twin tails, fades at the ends, strands gleaming constellations in a broad canvas of moonlight.
When the ‘priestess’ turns to her, she sees the midnight sky, the sea and its shores in her eyes. She breathes in, feels her lungs suddenly lack air.
“Are you not going to offer me one?”
Augusta looks down at the two glasses she holds, a laughable irony. “I’m sorry.” she begins.
“What for?”
An inhale, slow, deep, thoughtful. Then she exhales her worries with it. “Again and again, I fail to honor you. It is not every day that Septimont is graced by divinities, but I, presented with such a lifetime opportunity, still…”
The dragon clicks her tongue, a growl threatening to escape clenched jaws. A moment later, she schools her expression back to its earlier serenity.
“I come to you, even during the day.” She begins, low pitch that barely contains anything. “I present myself to you in this human form. Yet you, insolent fool, still dare treat me like an ancestral dragon.”
Did her mother go through something like this too, back then in Fabianum? Augusta feels like a scolded child, but the clarity hits her in splashing waves. Her expression softens, lets the guarded faux respect fall, replaces it with a smile and affection she cannot hide.
“Iuno.” she calls, chuckles at the way her eyes widen by a margin, while the rebellious lock of hair that stands upright shivers. She walks closer to the other, reaches out one of the glasses. “Bathe in the sunlight with me, hmm?”
Iuno takes the glass and much more, presses her lips to the tacet mark on her hand, makes goosebumps raise. What would it look like to people if they scaled up to the temple and saw their leader holding a priestess in her arms, drinking wine from each other’s glass? Can she be a little selfish? Let herself be consumed inside those eyes that reflect adoration, yet gaze so precariously?
She decides it doesn’t matter if it completely ruins her, if the unmended fragments pierce her, because in embracing Iuno, in the way she kisses her, she finds her one and only salvation.
Iuno parts from her lips and her nose scrunches adorably.
“You taste like fish.”