You would never really know that dragons get apprehensive, unless you’ve seen it a hundred times. Their facial muscles pick a different tune to humans. It’s only really their body language, which is as readable as a cat or dog, that gives some clue as to what’s going on in there. And they’re not likely to tell you, being stoic and prideful creatures. At least, a lot of the old ones used to be. Hard to pierce. They wouldn’t deem a human worthy of their emotions. The younger pups have less of a tether to the past. They understand the modern world a lot more and so are less bristly about it.
Sinia is my first client of the morning. I like to get the first-timers in early so they don’t have to sit sweltering in anxiety for the whole day. She bows her head slightly as she steps through the warehouse doors, as if she might bump her head on the frame. But the doors are designed with much larger, older dragons in mind. You could fit two Sinia’s through that massive portal.
I smile and invite her into the shop, trying not to be overly friendly. They pick up on things a lot faster than we do and it doesn’t serve you well to patronise a dragon. She follows behind, her shadow covering me.
All dragon species are exceptional and Sinia’s is no different. A Gwerwinkle, once ungraciously named a Wartwrym, on account of their warthoggish faces. It’s really only the flat nose and small eyes. The rest of a Gwerwinkle is more koi-like, similar to Asiatic dragons, despite descending from East-Europe. They’re a relatively populous breed across the continent and used to be a favourite nemesis in the old tales of yore. Depicted as evil and ugly, when they are neither.
I unlock the doors to the gem room and step back to get a look at her reaction. What is hard to understand about their faces and body, is made up for in the expressions of their eyes. That is where humans and dragons are most alike. There is nothing quite as deep as the hunger in a dragon’s eyes when they look upon a hoard such as this.
These kinds of hoard don’t exist in caves and dungeons anymore. They exist here, commercially, in the hands of humans. All part of the accords drummed up two centuries ago, when they realised coexistence required some heavy compromises. There are some ancient dragons, long dead, that would have torn this whole city apart to get to what lies in front of Sinia now. She’s containing herself well.
We prowl up and down the piles of gems - cut and uncut - gold - amulets, rings, coins - silver, platinum and all other material manifestations of wealth. Mostly gems, which tend to best serve the practical and aesthetic purposes of my work. Sinia drinks it all in, her black pupils alight with the starlight twinkle of the hoard.
I offer some suggestions when asked. Mostly Sinia is quiet, her eyes darting here and there between the various stashes, which have been organised by colour and material. Her scales are between grey and white, which makes her decision harder than more vivid dragons. They can get away with truly garish designs and make them look regal. Paler dragons have to be more subtle in their selection.
To my relief, she is wise in her decision.
I bag up some of the gems and ask her to help carry the rest. I could probably do this myself but it helps solidify some pride, knowing that they can do things we cannot. Especially for the vulnerability that comes next.
Inside the pressing room, I ask Sinia to lie down across the lining of silken pillows and blankets. I can feel her watching me, as I first lay out the jewels and gems, and then my own tools on the table next to the furnace, which is already roaring. I put on my goggles and gloves, then set about heating the heartstone she has chosen. A sapphire, the size of my fist. I heat some silver and mix it with copper, before applying it like adhesive to the back of the gem. It would burn my skin clean off, were I to touch it.
I cross the room with the sapphire gripped in iron tongs. I can see Sinia flexing with uncertainty. She lies on her side with her white belly facing me.
‘Ready?’ I say.
Sinai nods.
This part is the most important. The heartstone is the centerpiece of the design and traditionally cannot be removed once placed. Naturally, some traditions crumble with time. There are cases when, for medical or practical purposes, the heartstone has been replaced or moved. But dragons are sticklers for tradition, so it doesn’t happen often.
I rotate the sapphire so its longest angle follows the length of her body, then align it with where her heart sits. I ease in the stone, pressing with slow but steady force. The hot metal hisses as it contacts the cool, soft underbelly. I used to wince at that sound, before I came to fully appreciate how little heat bothers dragons.
Once the heartstone is set, I remove the tongs and move closer to Sinia with a setting iron, which I use to hold the gem in place while I scrape away the excess metal that has pushed up and around the sapphire. Then I stand there, pressing, for several minutes, making sure the heartstone is fully set within the flesh.
This is the most critical moment. It is a moment that Sinia must trust I will not push any arrow, blade or even the heartstone itself, into her unprotected underbelly and through her still-beating heart. It is also a moment I must trust she will not bite my head off or incinerate me into a small pile of ash. This is the original intention of the practice; to temper a bond between human and dragon in the fires of vulnerability.
Before the accords, dragons did this for themselves. Since then, it has gone from a tense tradition of testing faiths, to an artform of its own. The dragons no longer worry about slayers seeking out weaknesses in their gem-encrusted bellies, just as we no longer worry about having our towns burned down over two gilded goblets.
Sinia’s heartstone is set and a deep blue version of myself is found reflected within its many angles.
I finish up the rest of the design across her belly over three hours, pressing smaller sapphires, alongside some pale aquamarine and darker azurite, with trims of silver and white steel. The work is easy now that the heartstone is placed. It orients the rest of the design and sets aside the largest anxiety of the session.
I wipe the forge-induced sweat from my brow and stand back to admire my handiwork. Then I grab a large mirror and pace up and down the length of Sinia, showing her the completed design. Her eyes alight. She runs a claw down the middle of her body, as if to check the gems are really there.
The assembled materials mimic the undulation of an ocean teeming with life. It waves across her body in a crucifix with the heartstone at its centre.
‘Happy?’ I say, already knowing the answer.
‘I…’ she says. ‘I- yes. Could you-’
Sinai reaches into the small satchel she has brought with her. From it she pulls a phone, caught between her massive claws. Dragons are remarkably dextrous with small objects. It comes from their long history of inspecting tiny diamonds and ruby rings.
I take the phone and spend the next few minutes taking photos from various angles before handing it back to her. There is nothing clearer in the room than the elation in her eyes as she scrolls through the images of her newly hardened underbelly.
Dragons really love Instagram.
Paddy Dobson
3rd August 2020