The path continues on the other side of PantsFish's lair, winding steadily upwards, and soon I can see a pale sequin of daylight up ahead. It draws me on so that, weary and sore as I am from the fight, I find the will to keep going. And so I come stumbling at last, beyond hope, under the sky and freedom is mine. But the years of waste I will never forgive nor forget. I am in a strange place. The path emerges from a hole in the rock not so different from the one through which I entered the cave system but the mountains here are a different color than the ones inside Old Jormun, being made of far more reddish stone and the sky overhead is not gray and shrouded but clear, a brilliant eggshell blue. Eggshell. My mouth twists up in grim satisfaction, reminded of the recent trials I've overcome. And then there is the sun overhead, it's light and angle indicating that we have just passed dawn. It shines directly down into the cleft in the rock where my cave opening lies but has not yet risen high enough to extend to the lands beyond. Below me the earth is still. A winding path leads down over barren stony ground, the desolation of the dragon, but, when it reaches the levels, the arid, poison scarred rocks yield rapidly to moss, and then to bush and finally, in only a few yards, to great spreading trees.
The wood below is still in shadow but, as I watch, the first rays of light touch it. The day begins. The world is waking. The faded gray green leaves are changed to a brilliant verdancy, translucent, veins like liquid emerald, and tears well up in my eyes as I realize I had forgotten what true color was and, more wonderful still, a wild chorus of joyous bird song bursts from the living land at my feet. I feel the wind on my face and breath again as I never thought to do, great gulping breaths of vital air, heavy with the smell of fresh, sap filled-flora, of years of fallen leaves lying thick, of wet soil and wood and, just on the edge of scent I catch a hint of blossoms, of berries, as if the bounty of all seasons is in a riot of fertile profusion in the forest below. Sight, sound, scent, and skin all alive, almost to the point of blessed pain, I stumble down the path as if in a daze only to find the final sense has been provided for as well. A trickle of water spills over a ledge of rock into a natural basin below, so flawlessly clear that only the tremble on the surface from the tiny fall reveals the hollow is filled with liquid instead of air. I stoop down and scoop with hands, the water refreshingly cold, then raise my cupped palms and the taste is clean on my tongue, washing away the weariness of my past ordeal.
Refreshed, I continue on my way down out of the mountains, a most pleasant walk with the lure of the verdant forest ahead. I have reached level ground and am about to cross from dead stone to living growth when I see it, a wooden stake embedded in the ground just within the bounds of the wyrm's domain. The rocks about it are poisoned stained, scored with discolored grooves of acid venom and, amongst them I now see ominous curves and angles. Bones, human bones, broken and yellowed, the remains of past victims. It is a place of sacrifice where whoever lives near would leave offerings for PantsFish. A cold shudder passes over me and then another when I look closer at the stake and realize I'm not alone. A figure is bound to the wooden upright, slumped forward, only the arms stretched behind the back and around the stake keeping it from falling prone, head bowed, long tawny hair falling down over the face.
Oh shit. They made a sacrifice to appease the monster, a fucking virgin sacrifice. And here I am, the dragon slayer, so, according to the story, she's mine now. As her rescuer, I'll be expected to marry her and relive her of her offering worthy virginity...by fucking. And what the hell am I supposed to do about that? Sucks to be her that, instead of a suave and dashing swain who would be more than willing and able to do the deed, she got me, who is neither willing nor able. So sorry princess, or shepherdess, or whatever you are. You're going to have to cut your finger on our wedding night to bleed on the sheets and save your honor or whatever variant of that horrible trope is current in this locale, wherever this is. I sure as hell am not going to do it for you. Okay now, stop stalling. At the very least I should untie her and let her see as soon as possible what a cruel joke fate has played on her.
I approach, sax drawn in preparation to cut the ropes, the limp pose giving me some vain hope she's fainted and I can just cut her free and vanish into the forest, sidestepping the whole sorry business. But my hopes are dashed when, at the sound of my footsteps, the figure's head snaps up. Huge hazel eyes, seeming to fill the whole face, peer through the mass of hair, taking in the shape of an advancing figure, bloodstained with tangled hair, mail clad, bearing a naked blade, and a look of abject terror comes over the fine soft features of the face, what I can tell would normally be a sweet pink complexion washed to ashen pallor at the overwhelming threat that is me.
And my heart stops at the sight. All the blood absent from those pale cheeks comes rushing into my own. I am lost, captivated, entranced, until, with the next breath, my too stunned to beat heart drops like a stone into my guts and I am on fire, lust contracting every muscle of my body. For the bound figure before me is no maiden but a youth, smooth faced and slight to be sure, but clearly a young man, not a boy and, most absolutely, certainly, not female, though he is deliciously feminine with his long hair and his great swimming eyes. "I'm here to set you free," I say. I can't quite bring myself to say that I won't hurt him, that he's safe with me, for as soon as the words enter my mind, I am helpless to escape the image that come to me of him contorted in an agony of overwhelming pleasure. Instead, I bend to my work, hiding the burning want in my glance, having to use every last bit of my will to keep my hands from shaking as I cut his bonds.
And then he half sags forward against me, completely exhausted after being so long bound upright in fear of his life. Keenly aware of his body against mine, the feel and smell of his hair as it brushes against my face, I guide him over to the nearest of the large rocks and help him sit down, then go and bring him water from the fall in my cupped palms, his lips brushing against my hand like butterfly wings as he drinks, and I feel a shiver pass over me, somehow miraculously not spilling the water in the process. I wish I had some food to give him. I never seemed to be without down in Old Jormun's nether regions. But now, we are both tired and hungry from our respective ordeals and I am unsure what to do. "Your people are near here?" I ask. He looks at me, golden green gaze still filled with awe, then quickly drops his eyes again but nods. "Take me there."
We cross back into the living lands and pass under the canopy of the forest. I watch the way the shifting motes of light and shadow dance over his long fall of hair, beautiful in its vibrant richness, the way the green cast of the light filtered through the leaves forms a harmonious overlay to his pale skin. Everything is so still, so alive. The old leaves rustle about our feet and I cannot stop myself from imagining instead the sound they would make if, rather than just walking through them, I had him down on his back among them, having my way with him. I feel my hands shake and my palms sweat with the urge. He is within arm's length but I never reach for him. I've been rejected so many times in my life, I couldn't bear it again, not to mention that he is by far the most unspeakably perfect and desirable man I've ever imagined, much less seen. There is no way on earth, or off it for that matter, inside Jormungand or out, that someone as beautiful as him would want someone like me and being confronted with the unmitigated truth of that would break my heart. I look over at him as he walks beside me but his eyes are lowered and will not meet mine. The demureness sets me on fire but it also sends a chill down my spine. Is he behaving this way to uphold the proper dynamic between between sacrificial victim and rescuer or is he doing it because he wants nothing to do with me? I should do or say something so he has to look at me, make an attempt at flirtation to gauge his reaction. But I have no idea how. I never got to see an example, much less had someone teach me, how to play at courtship games where I was the aggressor, rather than the enticer. Not that I was ever any good at that either.
©Amanda RR Hamlin 2026
