Chapter Text
There's a human dying in his hoard.
This isn't unusual. Skeletons of foolish men litter his cave, bones buried amongst the coins and jewels they'd died for. The greed of mortals are as much a part of his collection as gold. This, however, is a unique situation.
The human dying in his hoard hasn't been wounded by his claws. No, he came in already battered and bloodied, body cleaved open from hip to shoulder. He'd dragged himself across the marble floor, a trail of blood in his wake, and slumped against one of many treasure chests. There he's lain for the past few candle ticks, his haggard breathing the only indication he's still alive.
Qifrey lays atop his pile of treasures and observes him in fascinated silence. The man gives no indication he's aware he's not alone; surely he must know where he is. It's hard to stumble upon a dragons hoard and not be aware of it. Massive swaths of fortune aren't just hanging around in caves as common loot for any lucky adventurer to stumble upon.
And yet there's no furtive glances cast around, no nervous hands holding a sword at ready. Instead the man simply lays, eyes closed, chest rising in slow, shallow gasps. Perhaps he's aware, and simply doesn't care.
Perhaps he's hoping a dragons fire would be a quicker death than what he's facing right now. If that's the case, he's in for quite the disappointment.
Something about the man intrigues him. In spite of himself he can't help but wonder why, of all places, he's chosen here to be his tomb. Why drag himself through the open maw of a dragons den to die? Surely he could have found somewhere else. Under a tree, perhaps, or cowering inside a bush.
Even just collapsing further back in the dungeon leading to this room would have made more sense. Why drag himself through all the winding tunnels only to decide that yes, here is his final destination. It seems such a strange choice.
Qifrey has always found humans of particular interest, but has never had much opportunity to pursue that curiosity.
Usually those he meets come charging in, swords or bows or staffs already drawn, and demand he surrender his hoard to them. Accuse him of truly outrageous crimes that he's never committed. Well, except the crimes of killing adventurers. That he has done. Though he would call those acts of self defense more than acts of crime. This human, however, has drawn no weapons at all. Has demanded nothing, accused him of nothing.
When he moves, the whole hoard shifts beneath him. Golden coins hiss as they cascade under the movement of his weight, various trophies and weapons clattering against the floor as they're shaken loose. Stretching his wings wide on either side of him he parts his jaw in a loud, languid yawn, liquid gurgling in the back of his throat. Down, down, down at the base of it all, he hears a hitch in the mans next inhale.
"Ah," says the man. "You're home. You were so quiet, I figured you had to be out. Sorry for the intrusion," he says. And he lolls his head back to rest against the chest and blinks up at him. There's no fear in the deep blue eyes; the only thing Qifrey can see is his own reflection. That and a hazy fog, the clouded edges of inevitable death. "I was hopin' to be dead before you returned."
Qifrey doesn't reply.
This isn't out of a lack of desire to, per say, so much as a simple inability to. Most humans, he's learned, don't possess the ability to speak dragon tongue. In fact, they don't possess the ability to speak any tongue but their own, and some don't even seem to do that very well. Rather than waste his breath on a response that most certainly won't be understood he instead begins to make his way down from the peak of his hoard.
The human tracks his movements with seemingly little concern. "Sorry for trespassin'," he says, illogically. "Just thought this might be a fine place to die. Figured I'd make a nice snack for you, at least." His voice slurs a little as he speaks. It's a pleasant voice, Qifrey thinks idly. Nice and raspy, almost like a beginning of a growl. The man is still watching him through a glaze. "Gods, but you're beautiful," he says, absurdly.
Qifrey freezes in his descent. Watches the way the human wrinkles his nose as he seems to process his own words, then closes his eyes.
"Why'd I say that," he asks. Qifrey again doesn't answer, though for reasons other than just the previously established one. Instead he crouches there, head tilted to one side. "Don't listen to me," he mutters. "Delusional words of dyin' man," he sighs, eyes still closed. "Jus' thought your scales looked like pearls. Prettiest pearls I've ever seen."
He, for some reason, is still speaking, though his words are starting to bleed together. There's a sense of lethargy entering his voice.
Quite abruptly, Qifrey decides he doesn't like the fact that his eyes are closed. Doesn't like the way his breathing seems to be growing more shallow and haggard, the sound of it is near deafening in the echo of his cave. Movement returns to him and he resumes his descent, until the sound of his claws clacking against the floor are louder than the strained gasps.
Somehow, even then, the human doesn't seem afraid. Though he also might simply not hear it, over the drums of the After that are likely playing in his ears.
Qifrey slinks forward until he's standing in front of him.
Up close, he can better see the mans thick, messy black mane, currently slick with sweat and blood, and the short, bristly fur that decorates his jaw and upper lip. He is, Qifrey thinks, incredibly handsome for a human. And fits in perfectly among the rest of his treasure. Inexplicably, he wants to hear him talk more. Speak more praise of his scales. He takes quite good care of them, always bathing daily in sand heated by his own breath. There's some pearls in his hoard, necklaces and similar adornments. He wants to dig them up and lay them before the man, insist he compare him to them.
Really, he just wants to hear him speak. Hear that nice, pleasant rasp of his voice, see those brilliant sapphire eyes staring into his own.
A cool huff escapes his muzzle, the smell of brine spilling into the air between them. The man gives a violent jolt, the most energetic movement he's made. Much to Qifrey's delight he's reopening his eyes, this time to gaze up at him in wild bewilderment.
"Gods," he chokes out. "Don't gotta be tryin' to scare me to death, I'm already three quarters there. Save yourself the energy."
'That is not my intention at all, rest assured,' he replies, in as light and pleasant a tone as he can. 'I was merely wanted a more up close look at your condition. And perhaps to hear you speak some more,' he offers as further explanation.
Eyes milky with death stare back at him, uncomprehending. Ah. Right. That whole thing about humans and dragon tongue. Disappointment curls in his stomach and his tail sweeps across the dungeon floor, scattering loose coins. At least his eyes are open, but the language barrier is presenting itself as an annoyance he'd never spared much mind to before.
"What more do you want me to say?" the human chokes out, voice tight with a new emotion now. Alarm. Confusion. At least his heart seems to be thumping a little louder, body introduced to a fresh burst of adrenaline.
Qifrey stares at him. The man stares back. 'You can understand me?' he asks. Illogically. And than, with more insistent excitement in his voice. 'You can understand me??'
"Oh bloody hell," says the man. "I can understand you. Why can I understand you?" That small burst seems to wring the last of his energy out of him, and his eyes shutter closed again. A low, grating groan escapes him. "Must be the After," he mumbles to himself. "Talkin' dragons."
There's a human dying in his hoard.
Water erupts in the back of his throat. It starts out burning hot, boiling against his fangs, then just as quickly cools. Becomes a cold, pleasant tingle, carrying a familiar sweet taste. When he parts his jaws it drips onto the ground, and he reaches out with razor sharp claws to hook into the already torn fabric of the mans shirt. He feels him jerk, hears the slurred sound of confused protest as he rips the fabric further.
A sound that pitches up into a loud, sharp yelp as he drags the flat of his tongue from his hip to his shoulder. Right along the line of the open, weeping wound. The taste of blood is an unpleasant one, quickly washed away by the water he presses into the cut. The man is speaking, choked out curses, and there's nails scrabbling harmlessly against his scales. The struggles are quick to slow, growing sluggish, until the man is once more slumped against the treasure chest.
When he leans back, those dazed blue eyes follow him. Confused. Uncomprehending. "What?" He asks. Lets out a weak laugh. "Change your mind about eatin' me?"
Qifrey tilts his head to the side. Squints his eye at him shrewdly, amused. 'Eat you? Surely not. If I were to eat you, how would you speak more pretty things to me?'
"Oh great," he says. "I can still understand you. What did you," he stops, inhaling a ragged breath as he tilts his chin down. Down at the long, pale scar that's now all that remains of his injury. "You healed me," he whispers, voice hoarse, voice awed. There's a question there too, an uncertainty.
Rather than answering him right away, he settles for lowering himself to lay on the ground. Curls his body inwards, forming a wide crescent shape around the man. Only once he's comfortable does he deign to speak again. 'That I did,' he finally confirms. 'Though you still lost quite a lot of blood. Your body will need some time to recover. You should sleep.'
"Sleep?" He chokes on another laugh. "Here? In a dragons den? On a dragons hoard? With the dragon himself starin' me down?"
Qifrey blinks at him with his one good eye. Slow. Placid. 'You were planning to die in a dragons den. On a dragons hoard. With the dragon himself staring you down,' he reminds him with warm amusement. 'Surely sleeping is not a harder task?'
That seems to stump the man for a moment, because he doesn't have an immediate counter. Or a delayed counter, actually. In fact, the man provides no counter at all, and the only reply Qifrey gets is a soft, rasping rumble. Lifting his head he gives it a curious lilt, and finds the humans eyes have once more closed. There's a limpness to his body that's easily recognized, each inhale punctuated by a hoarse snore.
Satisfied, he lowers his head back to the ground. They can discuss more in the morning. There are so many questions he wants to ask his human, but for now he can simply appreciate the sight of him.
Sleeping on his treasure pile, like he belongs there.