Chapter Text
Godfrey Lessan cringed as he pulled the bandage tight across the palm of his hand, sweat beading at his forehead. He checked, double checked, and then triple checked the runic symbols against the ones burned into the forefront of his mind.
It turned out you only needed a dragon to think something loudly into your head once to remember it perfectly. The ritual circle was complete and sat quite innocently considering it was a bunch of magic symbols drawn in blood, now all that was left was the hard part.
He summoned the palace guards and told them to bring the Patrician, the ex-Patrician, from the other room.
Red already stained the bandage. A small part of him wondered at the blood on his hands, and perhaps if he were a man for symbolism it would have gotten through to him.
It must be said, for the benefit of the audience, that the dragon giving orders was the second true dragon Ankh-Morpork had seen in the last ten years. It was a great white monster with black eyes, no difference between pupil, iris and sclera, and larger than the red dragon that once claimed the same palace as her own.
While from Godfrey's point of view he had learned from Lupine Wonse's mistakes, the sheer audacity of repeating his predecessors plan step by step told a different story.
Snatching the book out from under the Watch and Librarian was an accomplishment, as was finding something with enough magic to sustain a dragon. A very foolish set of accomplishments.
It must also be said that although dragons may not share many human concepts, such as friends, this one in particular had an all too human tendency for self indulgent cruelty.
Godfrey lived comfortably on his palace staff salary, but comfortable wasn't satisfied. He wanted, craved, more. The dragon was his chance. It had to be his chance.
People had died for this chance.
The doors opened, and Vetinari was escorted inside.
Godfreys eyes flicked to the white dragon without his consent. He couldn’t always hear it, or it didn’t always speak to him, it didn’t matter, he felt its presence no matter what.
Its eyes were fixed firmly on Vetinari as the guards ducked back into what remained of the palace corridors. Godfrey wished he could follow, but he had precise instructions and no one in his position would dare disobey.
Vetinari, wisely, did not try anything more than a glare when Godfrey, with the strength of a man who knows only success stands between himself and a fiery death, dragged him to the bloody circle.
”What–!“ Vetinari began to struggle at the sight of an extremely obvious dark ritual, and Godfrey felt panic clawing at his insides, or maybe it was the white dragon, pushing at his soul. He held firm, so firm he could feel Vetinaris blood drip down his fingers, wetting the bandages further.
The blood flared with a horrible red glow, and Vetinari screamed as Godfrey forced him to the floor.
The red glow came from somewhere else as well, and Godfrey felt his gaze trail upwards to meet the white dragons. Its own great eyes, usually black as night, were red, red, red-
The screaming wasn’t just something Godfrey could hear, he could feel it, in his bones, his blood, and then it stopped. Something worse made itself known to every atom of his being.
Godfrey felt something trickle out of his ears.
Vetinari was still struggling, pulling at Godfrey’s arms. He looked down, anything to avoid looking at the dragon.
He was still screaming, as well, but all Godfrey could hear was the white dragons pleased hum.
He held firm.
-
There was a red light, somewhere. Everywhere. Nowhere.
More than light, a presence, a something.
It was in his head. It felt-
It felt-
It hurt.
He could feel a part of himself that didn't really exist being torn open as the presence tried hesitantly to make room for itself, but it didn't fit, it wasn't meant to be there-
It all stopped at once, but Havelock could feel every unreal movement as it withdrew from his mind.
I will make space. But slowly. The words rumbled through Havelock's entire being, and he felt, rather than heard, himself whine like a kicked dog. I do not want you to break.
His eyes finally started sending the things they were seeing to his brain again, and the light of the room washed away the red glow that still covered his vision. The ceiling was partially obscured by Godfrey, but mostly by Havelock's own tears.
He didn't dare look at the dragon. He stared past Godfrey, at the ceiling and into nothingness, and tried to breathe in a way that didn't feel like he was dying.
Because it did feel like he was dying, bleeding out from a wound that didn't exist.
When Godfrey let go of his shoulders, Havelock made another pathetic noise at the feeling of fingernails removing themselves from broken skin.
Havelock dug his own nails deeper into Godfrey's arms, a petty vengeance that came from the desperate knowledge that Godfrey was about to leave him with it, but it hardly mattered; Godfrey easily pulled out of Havelock's hands and made his escape.
His legs kicked uselessly against the floor as claws settled into the stone with a scraping rasp, he thrashed under the dragons heavy grip.
‘Slowly’ wasn’t better. It prodded, pressed, withdrew, over and over again, and Havelocks voice soon scraped out of his throat, a cracking wail that couldn't possibly match the pain in his head.
The dragon made another atom rattling noise, and the world fell away.
He felt something twist and snap in his mind. Whatever it was, it was gone, or broken, but he felt-
He was somewhere soft, skin on silk-
But he was on the floor, bleeding-
Someone was touching him. Something was hurting him.
“Stop-!”
-prodding, pressing, withdrawing-
“-please-”
In the real world, the dragon lowered its head.
In his mind, a tongue pushed between his thoughts. It curled, forked at the tip, around the sharp spikes of pain and smoothed them down.
It hurt, and he couldn't feel it. The absence of pain was such a contrast that he moaned in relief, his body limp against the weight of the dragons claws. He could feel the scales against his hands, clinging to the dragon, and he felt them gliding against his mind.
The parts of him were moved, pulled from their foundations, to make room for it. Carefully built walls torn down and the debris scattered to the far corners of his mind, everything they contained left to spill and mix and muddle with everything else.
The presence, the dragon, licked its way into a memory; building pleasure as someone traced patterns against his thigh, and then his fingers, twined with the silk sheets, being gently forced open, to twine with his partners own-
“Rufus…!” He sobbed it into the open air, and he moaned it into the sheets, and the dragon tilted its head in interest.
It pushed, it rifled through his memories for more. More pleasure, more intimacy, more secrets.
Minutes-
Hours-
Time passed.
The dragon pulled itself from his mind sharply and his body seized, the pain returning tenfold. Then the weight holding him to the floor disappeared. His ears attempted to tell him that there had been a deafening noise at some point between now and then.
Havelock breathed, teary eyes half open but unseeing, as his body tried to adjust and stop twitching.
The loud slam of large doors being opened caught his attention, and then there were hands, solid and human¹, checking his pulse and pulling him against a warm body.
(¹Or at least human size and shaped)
The voices were muffled, as if he were far away. He couldn't understand the words, could only hear a sense of urgency.
Havelock turned his head to nuzzle into Rufus’s familiar hand. He couldn't tell if it was real or not, but the warmth seeped into his face nevertheless.
Almost immediately after, the self preservation centre of his brain took over and shut down everything.
Being unconscious felt like bliss.