A Dragon's Dawn

chapter three; of dragons and dresses

SHE STANDS UPON THE block as the seamstress dances around measuring the skirt. Arelle holds up her arms like a dutiful lady. The woman drapes several differently patterned fabrics across her waist, all shades of red or silver. Her legs ache and Arelle wobbles a little, but braves the pain with a steady smile.

"Oh, this dress is going to look beautiful!" says Roslyn from behind Arelle. She stands behind her lady, examining the delicate stitching of a vermilion silk.

Arelle smiles into the mirror, a mixed expression flashing towards the handmaiden. "Thank you, Roslyn." Arelle ignores the pale, sickly look upon her skin.

"Oh, my dear, the red and sliver is going to look ravishing upon you. You'll be a sight to sore eyes when you walk down the aisle on the morrow," the woman adds.

Nausea presses itself at her stomach and rises up her throat, but she pushes it back down with a determination that would rival any knight on the battlefield. A part of her doesn't believe Roslyn's words. Silver will not go with her umber-coloured hair, and red doesn't complement her skin or eyes.

The dress may look pretty, but it won't be her. It won't be Lady Raine - but then again, she's not going to be Lady Raine ever again - tomorrow she'll be Lady Aren. The dress shall be perfect, then.

"Lord Aren will love it, my dear," Roslyn gushes to the busy seamstress. The seamstress looks up after tossing back several different fabrics. She smiles at Roslyn politely but quickly goes back to looking between two vermilion silks.

Memories of the night before flash in her head, and she blushes prettily, attempting to hide it by looking down. She hasn't told Roslyn about what happened in the yard - she hasn't told anyone, and she won't ever, for lady never tells.

To her irritation, the handmaid looks at her with narrowed eyes in through the mirror. "Why do you blush, child?"

"I-I..." the girl stutters. "I am not blushing."

"You are, my dear, and with your complexion, it makes you look like a pomegranate," Roslyn says knowingly. With a daintily raised eyebrow, she asks, "Does this have something to do with your and the lord's absence at the feast?" She says it like she is expecting Arelle to confess, as if it is a sin to kiss ones betrothed.

Arelle blushes even harder, turning so red that it rivals the dark crimson silk the seamstress has chosen for her skirt. The bodice is sliver, embroidered elegantly with red stitching that the woman sews in. Arelle has no idea what the stitching depicts, but waits patiently for the moment when it is finished.

Arelle focuses herself back onto her handmaiden. "He is very gallant," she forces out in an almost giddy tone. "And handsome." She's almost angry at herself, the ways she thinks of him. He's not her saviour, her shining knight like the songs sing.

He was the man she was being married to; given away like an animal grown to expensive to care for anymore. Her parents marriage was a nice one, loving and happy, and the children they had were bred from love between the two. Arelle knows she'll not have this hope, gallant lord husband or no.

"Roslyn," she begins quietly. "Can you tell me a story?" It's like her childhood all over again, like asking her mother to read another song just before she sleeps.

Even though she's a woman grown and betrothed to a high lord, a part of her still yearns for the simple life she led as a little girl. "One of dragons, please." Her voice is so soft, so afraid that she wonders if asking of her sigil is some sort of treason.

"Of course, milady." The maid smiles, and makes her way around the block to sit in front of Arelle. She doesn't hold a book or anything else to help her tell the story, but something of a forlorn look washes over her face.

She studies the girl for a few moments, and then says, "You know, in these mountains, there is a dragon cave?"

Arelle stares at the maid in shock. "But the dragons are dead..."

Roslyn shakes her head with a laugh, folding her hands together over her lap as she sits down in the armchair near the bed. "No, my dear. That may be true for the North, but here, there are dragons. Many of them in these mountains alone."

Arelle smiles widely at Roslyn, all thoughts of her impending marriage forgotten... all but one, "And behemoths?"

Roslyn shakes her head again. "No, the behemoths are all dead, that much is true, killed by the King Senre and his knights hundreds of years ago. But it seems that the dragons prefer the hills and caves to the forest and woods."

She's almost shaking with happiness, but forces herself still when the seamstress glares at her. "Have you ever seen one?"

Roslyn nods slowly, something of a forlorn look about her face. "Yes, twice I've seen them," she begins, a sigh parting her lips. "The first time I saw one, I was only a girl, not much older than you, my dear, when the dragons came. They rained hellfire on the town, burning and destroying everything. The same happened the second time. It wasn't as bad, as we rebuilt the town with stone, but they burned even that, and every time they came, they took a maiden with them, not long of from marriage."

Arelle catches Roslyn's eye, and the sad spark within it.

"The last lady to be taken," Roslyn says, "was the Lord's sister, Lady Aela. She was to be married in a week."

Arelle then stands up stronger, taller, knowing that Roslyn's words are not to be told to anyone. Even though they are true, they insinuated defiance against House Aren. "I'll be no maiden, not when the morrow comes," she says in a steely voice. Like a true lady. Your mother would be proud.

"All the more reason, my dear; all the more reason to liberate you."

A tension falls upon the air, and the seamstress continues to work at Arelle's feet, stitching some final threads through the skirt.

"Lady Arelle, Lady Roslyn." Her voice breaks through the silence like glass. "I am done. You can turn to look in the mirror now."

Arelle turns away from Roslyn after a moment, and faces the mirror. Her mouth drops slightly and her lips part when she looks at her reflection. Even with her hair plaited plainly down her back, she still looks regal. The bodice is silver, with red gems stitched so close together that it seems like there is a sea of them.

Intricate lace lines her décolletage, switching across to her arms and stopping at her elbow, where it hangs down like silver leaves. But it the skirt that is the most impressive. It is only vermilion, but the silver stitching at the feet tells a story. Dragons are embroidered within it, flying in the sky like the rule it, against the mountains on the dress. Behemoths battle in the forests of the ground.

And, so small it can hardly be seen, there is a little lady on the highest mountain. She has the wings of a dragon on her back, and a tail swishes from behind the skirts of her dress. She is draped in blood from head to toe, a sword in her hands and a behemoth dead at her feet.