under the water. It wasn’t dinner that drove me then; it was curiosity. I was compelled to catch her and have a see.
I had a moment where I wondered why none of my brethren go diving under the surface to catch mermaid delights. But that’s when my talons closed around her, that’s when I knew I wanted to keep her. Then she touched over my heart and the pair bond arced between us, and that’s when our fates became one.
The Elders teach us not to touch our food—but what they didn’t spell out for us when we were soft-scaled fledglings is the concern that if we touch our food, there’s a rare chance we could bond with it. Of course I learned the reason behind the rule when I got older, but I’ve played fast and loose before and never been caught in the bond yet.
In a perfect world, food would be very firmly separated from the category option of ‘mate.’ Nature wouldn’t pair me with a sheep, for example. Yet there are lots of edible items who could also activate a mate bond, and because of this, they’re avoided at all costs. Take a human for example. My dragonkin try to stay as far away as we can from the creatures to prevent accidental bonding. If you come upon one and you’re very hungry—cook it first, then pick it up. Never attempt to reverse the order because to be accidentally paired to a human is to limit your lifespan to that of your addlepated mate’s.
And all humans are addlepated. No dragon in his right mind wants to be latched to the two-legged food.
Yet here I am, in my right mind, and rather than cursing myself with a mere human, I’ve outdone myself by leagues. I’ve linked my soul to a half-human, half-fish.
This creature I’m holding is the stuff of fable and legend. I initially hunted her with the intention of consuming her body.
My mate was to be my dinner.
My stomach pitches, the heinousness of that momentary possibility literally revolting me now that she is my mate.
The mating bond is a strong thing between dragons.
But if a dragon ends up bonded to a creature other than a dragon, then the mate bond can be lopsided. The dragon will still adore their mate...
While the mate may feel nothing for her dragon at all.
The only crumb of comfort I have at the moment is that my mate is displaying plenty of feelings for me. Unfortunately, they are all expressions rooted in fear.
Fear of me.
I tell myself that it’s a start. Surely, a patient, devoted male can turn fear into love.
Carefully caught between my hands, my mate begins to weep. The sound of her sobs makes my heart squeeze painfully.
“Shhh,” I soothe. “I’m not going to hurt you,” I vow.
“Then take me back! Please, please, take me back to my sisters,” she pleads.
I hate to hear anything cry. I’ve returned fauns to their herds and a toddler troll to its home bridge, because I didn’t know it was so young, and the guilt wouldn’t let me eat it once I found out that I’d snatched a mere toddler from where it had been foraging beside its mother. This is why I try to never give my meals a chance to talk. My heart is sometimes too tender to listen to them cry only to fill my belly with them after. This is why I should always cook my food straightaway. But oi! In a good bit of news, now that I’m bonded I won’t activate with anything else. This is especially uplifting because sometimes I like a little kick to my food.
I’ve reached the rockface that is home to my home, and I beat my wings to give me lift as I extend my rear legs to catch the jut of rock that forms a landing perch. I try not to jostle my new mate, but she gasps and sobs harder, likely expecting her end to come soon now that we’ve landed.
The sound of my mate’s terrified tears heaps worlds of self-reproach on my head.
When a Crested Merlin dragon—that’s me—takes a natural mate, she’s our own kind, or near to it. When a dragon takes a human by accident—which doesn’t happen often, not in recent memory—well, for those pairings, a dragon can take on the form of a man to match his wingless, short-lived mate. The bond could (in theory, I suppose) be a happy one, with both the dragon in-man’s-form and it’s