Most nights, Oliver was so exhausted after a day of politicking, organizing, strategizing, and going for at least a quick ride on Percy that he barely had the energy to return Erik’s kisses, much less dream once he fell asleep. When he did dream, it was a vision of dragon-sight, sharing the view with Percy from up in the clouds. Sometimes it was through Percy’s eyes, memories or drake imaginings. Other times, like tonight, he was in his own skin, helmeted and armored, astride Percy as they plunged through clouds that shredded around them like damp parchment.
The strangest part was that he knew he was dreaming. The drake dreams were nothing like normal ones, in which he was generally stuck somewhere cold, dark, and unpleasant, surrounded by strangers or monsters, petrified of some formless malevolence that left him startling awake in a cold sweat. Nightmares, truly, and the most frequent of nocturnal wanderings, save the rare, pleasant occurrence he dreamed of strong arms and a deep voice. There’d been a dream lover before a real life one came along, and though he’d not been a Northman with long, braided hair and a mantle of wolf fur, he’d been as stalwart and gruff and big-handed as Erik.
Funny how dreams turned out for the best, sometimes.
Funny, too, that he could feel the sting of cold wind against his face, and feel the working of Percy’s great wings in the muscles along his back.
He could hear something, too, beyond the whistle of air past his ears. A kind of shrieking, distant but growing clearer. A bird? He faced forward and scanned the cloudscape that lay ahead of them, searching for the source of the noise. It sounded again, louder, shriller than it had seemed at first. Perhaps a hawk, then. A messenger falcon?
The stomach-grabbing thought that it might be someone who wished him ill struck the same moment a cloud just ahead tattered to bits. Through it came a sleek, pointed head with backward-curving horns, and a long neck; a pair of flexing wings, white and bat-shaped. A figure lay low along its withers, gripping tight to the spines along the drake’s neck without aid of saddle or bridle.
Oliver recognized the drake and human pair the same moment Percy did, and had his knowledge reinforced by a sharp surge of joy through the bond he shared with his dragon.
Percy bugled a greeting.
Oliver cried, “Náli! Valgrind!”
Valgrind screamed a hello, undulating through the air toward them as he accelerated – and nearly unseated a cursing, wildly-clutching Náli. “Stop! Stop, you – oh, fuck you, you fucking lizard – stop!”
Oliver laughed as Valgrind swung wide behind them and then swept up alongside. But his laughter died as Valgrind settled into a steadier pace and Oliver got a look at Náli’s face. He was nearly as white as his drake, his eyes huge, his expression terror-stricken. It was not, Oliver could tell right away, fear of flying that gripped him, but something much more urgent.
Oliver pressed his knee into Percy’s side so that his wings lifted high and he was able to glide in closer. Father greeted son with a nuzzle of noses.
Oliver fixed his attention on Náli. “What is it? What’s wrong? How,” he said, brows flying up when the weight of what was happening struck, “are you here in my dream right now?”
“It’s not a dream!” Náli was panting, shouting to be heard over the roar of the wind in their ears. “We’re in the Between!” When Oliver started to ask why, he said, “It’s another plane! Where the dead pass through!”
“That’s…alarming!”
Percy gave a trill of warning, and then angled his head down into a graceful dive. Valgrind must have done the same, if Náli’s curse was any indication.
As the magic dials up in the Drake Chronicles, the characters come to rely on it more - to varying degrees of success. We see more of the "Between" in Fortunes of War, and there, under the tutelage of an unlikely mentor, Oliver learns what's possible through the veil.
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