After what felt like hours, Meya's sobs subsided. She allowed Coris to help her back to the bed, and they slept with their backs to each other, as they usually did. Unlike the previous few nights, however, Meya had left her Lattis medallion on the bedside cabinet, and she had shoved Coris off to the opposite edge of the bed, as far away from her heat as possible as she sulked herself to sleep.

Yet, even from this distance, Coris could feel the dragoness's faint heat beating against the back of his linen nightgown. This time, though, it was cold heat. And he felt it was all rather unexpected. Underwhelming. Yet alarmingly so.

Perhaps he had been expecting flame and fury. Flying objects and resounding blows. Screeches of denial and sobs of despair.

All would have been only natural. All would have been justified. All had been his own reactions upon being told that his internal injuries could not be cured and would go on to torture and kill him, six years ago, as he reclined on this very same bed, recovering from his bout with the vomiting poison.

Through it all, Mother had held him when he'd let her, and simply stood by his side when he hadn't, waiting. And Zier was there, in the dead of nights when Mother had been forced to retire to rest by Father.

Days later, once he had calmed down somewhat, lost in a stupor of hopelessness, Bishop Frey had sat down before him and explained to him of a philosophical term dubbed The Cycle of Acceptance.

The old sage told the unresponsive Coris that he had now walked past the maelstrom of denial and the flames of anger, and was now lost in the night of despair. He told Coris of the parents and siblings and companions he had lost, splotches of tearstained ink from letters bearing dire news, dotted throughout his long journey. He also predicted that that very journey was probably ending soon, just like Coris's. That was when Coris had asked him if he was ready. To which the old man shook his head.

"None, not even the most learned sage, or the most meticulous mathematician, or the most tortured soul, would ever be truly ready for such a thing so certain, yet so unpredictable as death. Few would wish for it. Few would choose it if it were a simple choice of life and death, without any other stakes."

"The best we mortals could strive for is therefore acceptance. Acceptance leads to action. And action itself sets apart that which is alive and that which is not. Once you have happened upon the crossroads of bargaining, know that there is no right or wrong path, so long that it leads away from despair. You need only to keep taking in one breath at a time. Think one day at a time. Stronger as you go. Let hope and love surround you, if you feel you could not manage it alone. So long as you keep breathing and thinking of tomorrow, you will remain alive."

Hope will keep you alive much longer than any elixir would.

A sweeter, clearer, much more youthful voice interjected his memory of the enlightening conversation. And Coris felt his heart seizing up at the sudden realization.

He'd thought he had achieved acceptance. Had fully escaped the claws of despair dragging him back into its festering quagmire. Had faced the crossroads of bargaining and chosen his path. But he may have chosen the wrong path. In Meya's eyes, his acceptance was tainted with despair and pessimism. He had always been pragmatic. Realistic. Logical. But would it be perhaps better to courageously nourish a little hope until the end, even when a miracle would never happen? To risk the gutting disappointment that would follow?

Yet, There is no right or wrong, the Bishop had said.

Coris flipped over, studying Meya's backside. In the dark blue-black shadows beyond the reach of moonbeam, her willowy frame pulsated in the slow, unsteady, shallow rhythm of fake slumber.

She was probably slogging through the same arduous journey he had completed, for better or for worse. Though much less violent and prolonged than his had been, the denial was there. The anger was there. The despair had been the present. And he longed to help her out in whatever way he could. To let hope and love support her the way Mother and Zier and Bishop Frey did for him. But he had wronged her so cruelly, so twistedly. Ironically, in giving her the honesty she was long due, he had destroyed her trust in him.

Yet, Coris did not regret telling her the truth. In fact, it was exhilarating. All that worried him now was witnessing her silent yet deep-reaching pain. Caused by something out of his control. Her fury at his deceit, he could help alleviate by his honesty. Her despair at being a creature she believed despicable, on the other hand, was something he couldn't rectify. Cruel as it may seem, she must step past it herself.

But that does not mean she had to do it all alone.

Perhaps feeling the prickle of his dithering stare, Meya finally shifted then rolled around, her glowing eyes like large, unnaturally still, twin fireflies gazing at him solemnly from the shadows.

She crept into the moonlight. Her eyes were still puffy from crying, and her button nose was still tinged darker than her normal complexion. And Coris couldn't resist himself any longer.

"Can I hold you?"

For perhaps a second there was silence. Then, to his surprise and relief, Meya gave a loud sniff then edged further towards him. Gently, he gathered her into his arms, breathing deeply as her heated skin burned against his, but never once flinching away.

He pressed a comforting kiss on her swollen lips salty with dried tears, and felt a fresh teardrop on his cheek. Yet, he was sure it had not traveled there from his eyes.

"I don't want this. I don't want to be a dragon. I don't want it. And I dunno how to make it go away."

Meya begged, her trembling voice choked with sobs. Coris nodded, telling himself not to contradict, to lecture, but to simply understand.

"Neither do I. It's unfortunate, isn't it?"

"What's going to happen to me? To Greeneyes like me? Once they learned what we actually are?"

Coris had half a mind to lie. To appease her fears with idealistic solutions. To be the ultimate problem-solver, the knight in shining armor of every fair maiden's dreams. But he remembered Bishop Frey's advice. He remembered how he got past his own despair. It was not through false hopes. It was through having a steadfast friend by his side.

"I've no idea." He admitted, simple and straightforward, then added with every ounce of will he could muster,

"But I'll be with you. You'll be alright. I'm a genius. And you're a dragon. Big and bad and busty and breathing fire. The wet nurse of Zier's dreams."

If he had expected to feel the low rumble of a giggle from Meya's neck pressed against his shoulder, he was to be let down. Sighing, Coris shifted uncomfortably as her jugular vein beat a tattoo of heated pulse on his skin. Unfortunately, Meya sensed it. Sitting up, she slithered away towards the cabinet.

"Lemme get my Lattis. Or else you wouldn't be able to sleep. I assume we have an early morning awaiting us?"

"Good idea." Coris mumbled, hating himself for agreeing as he did. While alone, Meya had convinced him to let her wear the coin when they make love or cuddle, for his comfort. And again, Meya seemed to sense his dismay. Sighing, she slumped back down beside him as she fumbled with the clasp at her nape.

"It's alright, Coris. It's just a coin." She shrugged, her normally lively and snarky voice still somewhat subdued, "I'm still a monster once I took it off. Now you can do me whatever way you like, Dragon Fetish."

After dubbing him yet another alias, she flipped to her side, facing away. Coris wrapped his arms around her body, now of normal temperature, but he wasn't in the least inclined to go any further than clasping her hands in his, as Meya's tears splashed silently onto them.