X392
The years blurred.
Fafnir no longer remembered how many times he had fought Acnologia. Once. Twice. Five times? The details melted together like magma. Their battles were short but catastrophic two dragons born of men, clashing with the weight of worlds behind them.
Fafnir never won. But he never died either.
Each encounter pushed him further into what he feared.
The wings once small and veiled were now vast and majestic, unfolding like glaciers breaking the sky. His body was fully draconic white scales like moonlight, horns spiraling back like polished ivory, golden eyes that had once glowed with youth now radiant and terrifying. He had not been a man in form for decades.
But his mind remained his own.
He isolated himself in the frozen north, away from humans, away from temptation and terror. He still remembered Voltigern's voice, low and wise: "There is strength in restraint, my son. Not everything must burn to be seen."
He clung to that wisdom as centuries passed.
Until fate called again.
---
X765
Fafnir watched from afar as Acnologia rose in dominance, dragons vanished into time, and a certain girl with scarlet hair was born. The world shifted without him.
But something else happened.
Irene returned.
The whispers reached even his icy domain: the Queen of Dragons had taken human form again through enchantment magic. Not by miracle, but by mastery.
He had to see her.
---
High in the Eastern Mountains, where ancient magic still lingered, Fafnir landed in a clearing as wide as a city. His wings folded slowly. His massive head bowed low. His breath stirred leaves into storms.
There, beside a stream under a sun-streaked canopy, stood Irene.
Human again.
Her red hair shimmered in the light, her eyes sharp, wary but no longer alone in their pain.
When she saw him, she did not run.
"Fafnir," she whispered.
He lowered himself gently to the ground, his voice a deep rumble that still carried warmth. "You're the only one who still says my name."
Irene smiled faintly, brushing wind-blown strands from her face. "You're hard to forget."
She placed a hand to her chest. "I suppose we're the last of our kind... except from acnologia."
"You've changed," he said, golden eyes studying her. "You've… returned."
"Yes. Enchantment magic." She sighed. "It wasn't easy. I spent years studying it again. I was desperate."
He tilted his great head. "To be human again?"
She shook her head, her smile cracking. "To understand. To make sense of it all… before I made a decision I couldn't take back."
A long pause.
Fafnir shifted, his claws digging softly into the dirt. "Your daughter."
Irene's shoulders stiffened.
"I've heard the story of your... unusual pregnancy," Fafnir said, not unkindly. "I can imagine you considered… taking her body."
"I didn't consider. I planned it," Irene said coldly, then softened. "But I never went through with it. I saw her. I… I saw something in her. And I realized I couldn't steal that light."
Fafnir didn't judge. He simply watched her.
"I never knew my mother," he said quietly. "But I would've wanted her to hesitate. Even once."
That drew a laugh from Irene dry, sad, but real. "You're still a philosopher, even in that form."
He rumbled a little. "It's easier than roaring."
They sat together in silence for a long time. Despite his size, Fafnir's presence was calming an odd contrast to his mythic power. When he finally spoke again, it was careful.
"You seem... at peace."
"Not entirely," she replied. "But I'm not running anymore."
"I want that," he said softly.
She looked at him then, with something different in her eyes. Not curiosity. Not pity.
Understanding.
"You want to be human again."
He nodded slowly, wings folding tighter. "Not because I hate this form. But because I miss the world I once held in my hands. The feel of wind on skin. The sound of footsteps on stone. Laughter in my own voice."
Irene approached him cautiously. Her magic was delicate now, nuanced, sharp like a tailor's needle. She placed her hand on the white scales of his snout.
"You've held on for longer than anyone. You deserve to come back."
"I don't want to rush," he said quietly. "But if there's a way if enchantment magic helped you…"
"It can help you too," she finished. "But it won't be easy. Your dragon body isn't a shell it's your true form now."
"I know."
"And the emotions you've preserved… they'll make the process painful. But they'll also make it possible."
Fafnir's eyes closed briefly. "Then teach me."
She nodded.
---
X766
The months that followed were long and exhausting.
Irene worked carefully, preparing a ritual of soul-form alignment, blending ancient enchantments with the stability of spirit magic. Fafnir, despite his massive body, learned to channel his consciousness inward, reaching the human shape within.
Each session brought pain—bones trying to remember shapes they'd long since abandoned, emotions clawing at the walls of centuries of isolation.
Irene stood by him through it all.
And slowly, carefully…
The change began.
---
Under the aurora-streaked sky, in the ancient altar of the eastern peak, Irene completed the final glyph with precision. A circle of silver light pulsed beneath Fafnir's massive body.
He lay within it, wings curled, golden eyes watching her with quiet fear.
"You're ready," Irene whispered.
"I'm afraid."
"I was too," she said. "But you're not alone."
He gave a slow nod. "Then… let's begin."
She raised her hands.
Magic poured through the circle not destructive, but guiding, like hands molding clay. Fafnir roared once, low and guttural, as white light swallowed his form.
The wind howled.
The mountain shook.
Wings folded inward. Scales dissolved into mist. Horns withdrew into flesh. The power compressed, coalesced, reshaped.
Then the light dimmed.
A man knelt in the center of the circle, breathing hard, body trembling.
Tall, lean, dressed in white robes conjured by enchantment threads, with long silver-white hair falling around his face and shoulders. His golden eyes blinked against the night, wide with disbelief.
He raised a hand smooth, five-fingered. Flesh. Bone. Human.
"I…"
He stood, unsteady, and looked at Irene. His voice cracked for the first time in centuries.
"I'm… me."
She stepped forward slowly, eyes glimmering. "Welcome back, Fafnir."
He took a breath... and wept.
Not from pain.
But from release.
He fell to his knees, clutching her hand with shaking fingers. Irene knelt with him, her arms around him before he could speak another word.
"You stayed with me," he whispered.
"You never stopped being worth it," she said.
Their eyes met.
And something shifted.
No declarations. No sudden kisses. Just understanding. The unspoken pull between two broken souls who had clawed their way back from the edge not alone, but together.
They sat in silence for a while, Irene leaning gently against him, his warmth no longer scaled but real.
Later that night, he would learn he could switch between forms at will though it required effort. But now, he had control. Balance.
And someone to share it with.