Dragon's Lady

By: Neko-chan

I've always known that it would come to this. Deep down inside, I knew. No one has ever accepted me for being different; I never expected them to. I was too smart, too pretty. I was more intelligent than the lord of the manor that overlooked our small village. Combined with the fact that I was a woman and I wore breeches and a tunic (I went out into the woods with my bow and arrows whenever I had the chance; wearing a billowy dress with several layers hindered me too much) threatened the townspeople. They said that a woman had no right to do all of these things.

But I didn't care. I braided my thigh length red-orange hair, while most of the village women wore their hair loose, and my gray eyes didn't flicker down when a man talked to me.

I was different, and I was proud of it.

One day, on the least likely of days, I was making my way through the village and I noticed that a crowd was gathering in front of Widow Bride's house. At the front, Lord Keathen and his Lady, Gwendolyn, spoke in loud voices, gathering the crowd closer. Some people looked panicked, and their gazes darted from side to side.

I frowned and pushed open my home's door, walking into the cool darkness of my father's and my house. My favorite smell in the whole entire world assaulted my nose and I breathed deeply. Books. Books from different ages. Books about different subjects. The only thing that I cared about was the fact that they were _books_.

"Father, I'm home!" I caroled into the darkness. A thud and a muffled curse were my only answers. I grin to myself and wander into my father's study. He was a scholar and was the only reason why I was educated. He had tried to teach the lord, but Keathen (to me, anyway) was very stupid.

I practically skipped into the study--I had shot three rabbits today; we would eat well for supper. As I walked into the study (which also served as our library), I saw that my father was crouched close to the ground, nursing a bump on his head.

For this, I guessed that he had been reaching for a book on the top shelf when I had surprised him by calling out; apparently he had lost his balance and the book had fallen on his head. I grin softly to myself in sympathy and reached down, helping him up. That done, I then picked up the book that had fallen, dusting it off and giving it to Father.

"How many times does that make?" I asked him, grinning in amusement as he scowled and took the book, checking it for any damage.

He gingerly probed his scalp, then winced as his hands skimmed over the lump. "That was the sixth time this week," he grumbled to himself. My grin broadens and I lean forward, kissing him gently on the cheek.

"Well Father, you know that you shouldn't be reaching for those top books without a ladder," I said, scolding him slightly. "How many times does this have to happen before you learn, you silly old man?"

"I may be silly, but I am _not_ an old man," he retorted.

"Of course not," I reply. Then, I quickly search the shelves, looking for my favorite book. Finally spotting it, I grab it and make my way into the kitchen. Gutting and skinning the rabbits wouldn't take too long--Father had also taught me how to do that. But making the stew would take a while. (I hate cooking; I wish that Father would remarry. I keep on dropping hints that Margery Thatcher likes him. She's a good woman--she'd never be a mother to me, but I know that we'd get along. Also, her cooking was the best in the village.)

I was about to put the rabbits into the pot that I had prepared when someone knocked at our door. My father answered it; I couldn't hear what they were saying, the voices were too low for that and the kitchen was situated too far away from the door. But still, my ears strained for bits and pieces of the conversation.

Suddenly, there was silence. I waited, but neither my father nor the person who had knocked on the door spoke. I started to fidget, shifting my weight from one foot to another. I didn't have long to wait.

"Morgan?" Father called faintly; even to me, his voice sounded strained. He walked through the doorway and I noticed that his face was a pasty-white. Terror filled his eyes and white lines slowly formed around his mouth and at the corner of his eyes. "Morgan...I'm so sorry... They want to take you."

"Where?" I ask softly, never taking my eyes off of my father.

His eyes closed, as if a great weight settled on his shoulders. Slowly, a tear trickled out from the corner of his right eye. He breathed deeply, trying to calm his breathing. "They..." he managed to choke out before more tears overwhelmed him. "They want to take you to the dragon..."

TBC...