~ Lydia and the Dragon ~

by Alexander de Barr

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It was a cold and starless January evening. The setting sun was obscured behind black storm clouds. High up in the mountains, the heavens hounded the Profiterole School of Arcane Mysteries with relentless snowfall. Lydia Weatherlee and her friend Rachel were seated in the third row of an old lecture hall, deep within the bowels of the castle, each preparing for their evening class: alchemy.

“Professor Heiliger is late,” Rachel said in a hushed tone.

Lydia glanced up from the notebook on her lap and checked the door: she was hastily copying her friend’s homework assignment. “Another few minutes should do.”

Toly Verdier, the head prefect, saw what Lydia was up to. As the most promising student in the school and as a role model to others she would not—she could not—stand for this. She had to lead by example.

Lydia saw her coming out of the corner of her eye. “Oh no… What does little Miss Perfect want?”

“Young lady, this is university,” she said haughtily. “You should have outgrown this sort of behaviour by now.”

“Mind your own business,” Rachel interjected.

“You shouldn’t indulge her, dear. It won’t do her any good.” She turned to face Lydia. “This sort of behaviour hurts the school’s reputation.”

“What are you? My mum?”

“No, Lydia. Unlike her, I actually care enough to teach you the right way,” Toly replied with a prissy smile.

Lydia curled her lip.

“At least your pixies look healthy,” the head prefect said, pointing a finger at the bottled spirits on their desks.

The doorknob turned with a creaky groan. Toly skipped back to her front-row seat. A willowy man dressed in a grey robe entered the hall. He clutched, under his arm, a purple box bound with leather straps and sealed via a brass locking mechanism.

“Eww! Who’s that?” Lydia whispered in Rachel’s ear.

“I’ve seen him once or twice…” she murmured back, muffling a giggle all the while.

The robed figure moved towards the podium, followed closely by the professor.

“Quiet please! Class is about to begin,” Professor Heiliger said with his deep, booming voice.

He was a tall, imposing man in his late forties, solidly built, with a firm jaw and golden blond hair that had begun to grey around the temples, giving him the air of a wise elder. When he taught, he was like a great feline lording over his domain. Lydia liked his classes. She habitually blushed when he called on her.

The dozen or so students hushed their conversations. A couple of girls in the front row adjusted their uniforms. Lydia continued copying her homework under her desk whilst feigning attention, an art she’d mastered after many years of practice. She and her friend were high up above the podium; it would be hard for the professor to notice her wrongdoing.

The lowest levels of the castle had been carved out of the mountain itself. On a nice day, even this room would have offered its occupants a gorgeous view of snow-capped peaks and heavenly clouds shrouding the valleys beneath. As it was, the snow was blowing against the tall windows with such ferocity that it made them rattle in their porous old frames. Every now and then a cold breeze would come to lick the girl’s ears or tickle their thighs.

“Someone draw the curtains,” the professor ordered.

Toly, ever one to please, hopped to it with gusto. Darkness crept into the room’s corners. Only the blue and orange light of the bottled pixies on the student’s desk kept it at bay.

“Thank you, Miss Verdier.”

Lydia was not pleased; it was too dark now for her to keep copying her friend’s homework.

“Professor? Could you turn on the lights, please?” she asked.

The professor flicked an old light switch by the door: dozens of candles above the blackboard and on various chandeliers around the room lit up spontaneously. Satisfied, he took his place behind a carved eagle lectern.

“Now, ladies. Some of you will already know Professor Blackett. For those who don’t, he is our master of mirrors.”

Professor Heiliger turned to his associate, who gave a courteous bow. His face showed deep calm but little else. His features were so plain as to be hard to describe. He had pale but taut skin, small black eyes, a thin mouth, a straight nose, and no creases were to be found anywhere on his face: from a distance, one could mistake him for a mannequin come to life.

“Professor Blackett is going to assist me in teaching you about alchemical transmutation. Now, transmutation is a core concept in alchemy. In fact, one could say that it is the core concept of alchemy. We’ve touched on it briefly in the past. Today we begin our deep dive into the subject. Pay close attention to today’s lecture.”

The professor stepped aside to make room for his colleague. Blackett placed his little box on the table before turning to address his audience.

“You’ve probably all heard the saying ‘to turn lead into gold,’ yes?” he asked as he undid the latch around his collar.

The students were quiet as mice. He paced back and forth across the floor, as if weighing the quality of the air, before stopping in front of Pollyanna Delling, a second-year student. He put his hands on her desk and leaned in.

“Yes?” he enquired.

“Yes, professor. Of course,” she answered, a little uncomfortably.

“And what does it mean?”

She hesitated. He pulled back, resuming his pacing. “Anyone?”

Toly raised her hand. Blackett beckoned her answer with an open palm. She stood up, her hands joined behind her back, and began confidently:

“All matter is born from the bursting of stars, and all matter is composed of a handful of simple elements arranged in a myriad of different ways. Everything that surrounds us, even dirt, could be turned into gold with the right alchemical process. That is the essence of transmutation,” she said with a conceited smile.

Blackett paused, then chortled. “If you want to be a materialist so badly, miss, I suggest you return to the city, find some chemists in a basement somewhere, and huff fumes with them until your face turns blue.”

Toly, so self-assured, was mortified. Lydia snickered, as did a few others.

“We are occultists, miss,” the professor added. “We do not lust after trinkets.”

Heiliger interrupted his colleague. “Professor Blackett,” he said with an amicable tone. “Please. Most of these are first-year students. Be gentle. It was a good guess, Toly. Well formulated.”

The head prefect sat back in her seat, her ego more than a little bruised.

Lydia was most pleased. “Maybe this Blackett isn’t so bad?”

Toly spotted her grinning with glee at her humiliation: she saw red.

The Master of Mirrors resumed his lecture. “The idea that a common element might be turned into gold is a pitfall occultists have kept in place since the beginning of time, to divert those who aren’t worthy of hearing our teachings away from us and back to their incessant warring. Besides, if it was possible to turn something common into gold, gold would instantly become worthless. How many of you have taken Professor Beringer’s class on the theories and principles of value?”

The howling of the wind outside made it hard for Lydia to hear Blackett’s lecture; his raspy voice didn’t carry far. It didn’t take long for him to lose her attention. Besides, she still hadn’t finished copying Rachel’s homework. But there was too little light under her desk to see properly. She looked at the pixie lamp before her. The two creatures within were sitting quietly in their respective compartments, glowing contentedly. She pulled the lamp closer, but it wasn’t enough. She needed more light from them, and she could get that, maybe, if she could rouse them with the lure of coupling.

The contraption had two glass compartments, open at the top like two oil lamps but built on the same base, and each compartment contained one of these incandescent little spirits: the blue one was male and the orange one, female. As long as they are kept close together, it is said, pixies can burn for a hundred years or more.

Every now and again, the blue one would run back and forth, waving at the orange one from behind his glass prison, oblivious to their captivity yet yearning to be with her. And between the two glass compartments was a brass connector tube like a tunnel with a small faucet, which, if turned, would incrementally open a little glass gate that kept the pixies separate. If Lydia opened it only a tiny bit, the blue pixie would get excited and light up, giving the mischievous student enough illumination to finish her cheating. She turned the faucet; it was stuck. She applied more force. It budged by a smidgen. She strained it with both hands. A loud, rusty screech filled the room. It had yielded suddenly. Lydia froze. The middle gate was wide open.

“Miss Weatherlee!” Professor Heiliger exclaimed. “What are you doing? We don’t need the pixies yet!”

Seeing the gap, the blue pixie lunged for the orange one’s pen and dived into its arms: they danced in circles, getting closer and closer, spinning faster and faster before melting into each other, turning into a bubbling purple flame that erupted into a wild cacophony of sparks and light. Fiery bits shot straight up into the air and rained down onto the girls. Rachel shielded herself under a book. Lydia ducked under her desk. Their neighbours tripped over each other and scattered. Myra Hansberry, who was sitting in the second row, had her hair catch on fire.

Professor Heiliger came storming up the stairs, one arm above his head to shield himself. By the time he’d reached Lydia’s seat, the commotion had died down: The blue pixie, exhausted from copulating, squeezed back through the brass tunnel so it could rest in its pen, whilst the orange one stayed to nurse the five new little flames at its feet: there was plenty of light now. Lydia’s desk was pockmarked with smouldering little craters.

“Miss Weatherlee, you were supposed to wait! You needed them for what we’re about to do,” the professor said sternly.

Toly interrupted, obsequiously, “None of this would have happened, sir, if she hadn’t been trying to cheat.”

Heiliger picked up Lydia’s half-finished homework, some of it lightly burnt, that lay scattered on the floor, then turned to her with a displeased look in his eyes.

“This isn’t grammar-school, Miss Weatherlee. You should have outgrown this sort of behaviour by now.”

He paused, eyeing her, then Rachel, disapprovingly.

“You and your friend will be excluded from today’s experiment. You will be content to watch.”

He grabbed Rachel’s pixie lamp off her desk and made his way back down to the stage, gesturing to his colleague to continue.

Rachel was peeved: she’d get in trouble for this. Lydia sank into her chair as her heart sank into her chest. Toly smirked at her from across the room, her confidence renewed.

“Today you will be taking your first step on your journey of personal transmutation, something that is essential for all those who study the arcane,” Professor Blackett said as he removed the leather straps wrapped around his box. “You will be given a taste of what is to come in the many years ahead when you will be studying with me and my fellow mirror masters.”

He produced a tiny silver key from his lapel. It gleamed in his fingers. He inserted it into the brass lock and turned three times clockwise. The lid yielded. Professor Blackett turned to face the girls; he was holding in his hands a golden mask.

The students leaned closer. Hollow black eyes and a snarling fanged mouth stared back at them. The mask was in the likeness of a dragon. Two small horns protruded from its temples. Between them, on its forehead, was a cup-like protrusion. Its scales were lifelike, some speckled with minuscule rubies and emeralds. It drew all the attention in the room to itself. The girls were transfixed.

“This mask represents the dragon of chaos.”

Blackett’s tone and demeanour had changed. He moved with grace whilst his previously blank face was now adorned with a faint smile.

“The dragon represents all of the low and untamed energies in all living things, even within you. As an aspiring alchemist, you will have to confront and subdue these energies if you are to claim the treasures they guard. And those treasures are well worth it, I assure you.”

Heiliger grabbed a wooden stool from the corner and placed it centre stage.

Blackett continued, “You will come, one at a time, with the pixies you’ve collected with your alchemy professor, and sit here. You will wear the mask for a brief moment with my supervision. It will reveal to you a piece of your true self, one that is obscured from you. This can be quite a shock, but there is nothing to fear.”

Heiliger put on a pair of thick white gloves he’d pulled from a drawer, then walked up to Jiselle, a first-year transfer student from the mainland.

“Let’s start with you, Miss Deblois. Please take a seat.”

She took her pixies and made her way onto the stage, seating herself with Blackett standing behind her. Heiliger took her lamp. He reached one gloved hand into each compartment and grabbed the pixies, careful to keep them apart and not to smother them or let them escape.

Jiselle looked nervous. Blackett lowered the mask over her face and pressed it slightly against her skin. She twitched reflexively at the cold of the noble metal.

“Relax, my dear. We haven’t started yet,” Blackett said smoothly.

He looked at his colleague and nodded. Heiliger stepped forward, bringing his hands together. He released the pixies into the cup, first the blue one, then the other. They danced around for a bit, then lunged lovingly at each other: a bright flame erupted, but this one was more controlled. The mask drank in the fire and light. Jiselle let out an audible gasp.

“Here we go. This will only last a minute or two. Try to breathe and relax. Remember your meditation classes,” Blackett said.

“I just transferred a month ago. I haven’t done those yet,” she said with her thick French accent.

There was an awkward pause: “C’est la vie.”

Blackett let go of the mask just as the flame turned purple. It clung to her face on its own. Jiselle froze, then gasped. Blackett rested his hands on her shoulders. There was silence, and then, suddenly, the mask became animate: the dragon had come to life, its mouth opening then closing, its eyes scanning the room.

It let out a slow, powerful snarl at Miss Delling, who was only a few feet away. She recoiled. Jiselle let out a deep sigh, then another gasp. The dragon stirred, turning her head as if to see where it was. The girl leaned forward menacingly, trying to stand up. Blackett eased her back onto the stool.

Now the dragon examined the room. Jiselle’s arms lifted: Blackett motioned them back down to her lap, keeping her steady. She contorted, clasping at her belly, then she put her hands on her hips. She twisted and turned, sometimes gently as if in a trance, other times stiffly like a rusty machine. Then she began to weep softly. This lasted a minute before the flame died down. The dragon’s liveliness dissipated. Blackett put his hands at either side of the mask just as it detached.

Jiselle was back, a few tears drying on her cheeks.

“Are you alright, Miss Deblois?” Heiliger enquired.

“Yes, professor. That was amazing,” she answered softly.

She was still in a daze. Blackett helped her up and back to her seat. Heiliger took the mask and blew the ashes out of the cup on its forehead.

The room was quiet. Even the howling winds had stopped.

“Where did the pixies go?” Toly asked.

“They are consumed by the process, Miss Verdier,” the professor replied.

“That’s awful,” said Rachel.

“Quiet, Miss Hadad. You and Lydia are not participating,” Heiliger said firmly. He pointed at the two girls. “Be sure to see me after class, both of you.”

Blackett returned to his position on the stage.

“Miss Delling, you are next.”

Rachel closed the office door on her way out. Lydia was left standing, alone, in front of Heiliger’s desk. The professor faced the window. At his sides were his colleagues Pangborn and Fullington.

Pangborn was the professor of plants and brews. He was a short, portly man with a greying moustache and plump cheeks. His robes were olive green, embroidered with leaves and other white-coloured motifs of nature. He gave Lydia a look of deep consternation.

Fullington was the head of the hermetical teachings department. A tall, thin woman with a proud demeanour and black hair that gleamed auburn in the moonlight. Her robes were covered in intricate patterns of co-mingling black and white, dotted with gold and red embroidery.

“Miss Weatherlee,” said Heiliger, “you are putting me and the faculty in an awkward position.”

He turned to face her, radiating a deep fierceness, tempered with calm and discipline. It was everything Lydia liked about him, but having it aimed at her was more than disquieting. A knot began forming in the pit of her stomach.

He continued, “This is not the first time that we’ve had disciplinary problems with you.”

Fullington interjected, “I caught you cheating like this one week into the semester. And I’ve never seen you arrive less than ten minutes late to my lectures on the hermetical teachings of ancient religions. Those are very important…”

Professor Pangborn chimed in, “I confiscated notes that you were hiding under an exam paper last month.”

Lydia tried to plead her case, “Does it really matter so much?”

Pangborn was taken aback.

Heiliger interposed, “The study of mysticism requires honesty above all else, Miss Weatherlee. This sort of behaviour is counter to what we do here.”

Fullington again, “Dishonesty and the arcane arts make for deadly bedfellows.”

“But, it’s just a bit of harmless cheating. Everyone does it,” Lydia said, unaware of how brazen and insulting she was being.

“Young lady, I expected more from you,” Heiliger said sharply.

Pangborn spoke, “You should follow the example of the head prefect, what was her name…”

“Miss Verdier,” said Heiliger.

“Yes, that’s it.”

Lydia didn’t know what to do. She stayed quiet, hoping this would all go away somehow.

Professor Fullington leaned in and gave her a concerned look.

“I’ve received various other complaints, big and small, about your behaviour. You’ve been here less than a year. You’ve been given second chances and more. And now you’re dragging a friend down with you. What’s more, she’s the daughter of a faculty member. That, miss, we cannot tolerate. I’m sorry.”

The knot in Lydia’s stomach was reaching all the way up to her chest now.

“You know what happens if you are expelled, don’t you?” Fullington asked.

Eyes down, Lydia shook her head.

“You cannot be allowed to go back to the normal world with memories of what you’ve seen here. We’d have to erase it all. It’s a horrifying procedure. The subject loses a piece of themselves, forever. And do you really want to go back to the normal world?”

The girl went pale. She felt faintly ill. Professor Heiliger came up to her, put a finger under her chin, and locked eyes with her.

“You know me as your professor of alchemy, but I have another title. Do you know what that is?”

“No,” she replied sheepishly.

“I am the master of order.”

The air became so intense that Lydia felt her knees quiver. The firewood crackled, letting out puffs of musty smoke. She inhaled deeply to steady herself, but the smell made her nauseous. She felt she would agree to anything to set things right.

The professor continued, “My duties require me to administer disciplinary measures to unruly students. You were let in to our hidden world under unusual circumstances; this I know.”

His eyes narrowed. “You clearly come from an undisciplined background.”

He paced around her slowly. “This is no ordinary school, Miss Weatherlee, yet this is only your first year. You have no idea how deep our world goes, nor the nature of the powers we commune with.” Heiliger glanced over to his portly colleague.

Pangborn took a step towards her. He spoke with a husky voice, his hands clasped together as if pleading her to see reason, “He’s right, Lydia! This behaviour is not acceptable. Not here. What we do is too serious.”

Now Fullington spoke sternly, “You must choose, young miss. Either you leave us forever…”

Lydia’s eyes grew wide.

“Or,” Heiliger interjected, “you are taken under my special tutelage for the foreseeable future, and I will correct your intemperance.”

Lydia was stunned. Her mouth agape with incredulity, she felt warmth bubble at the base of her spine and swell until it reached her groin. Her thighs clenched. She felt the flutter of arousal touch her breasts, where it commingled with deep anxiety.

The professor turned to her once again. He looked so imposing. She wanted to drop to her knees and beg. But for what? What was this feeling? She was speechless.

“If you hurry, you can still make it to the dining hall for supper. Have a light meal. If you choose to stay, you will come back to my office at eleven o’clock, on the nose. If you choose not to, or are late for any reason, consider yourself expelled.”

Tonight’s supper began with a cream of mushroom soufflé, followed by a slice of vegetarian lasagna, salad topped with fine grilled goat cheese and, for dessert, a serving of floating islands with custard and raspberries.

Heiliger’s words played over and over again in Lydia’s mind as she ate, alone, in the near-empty dining hall. She’d left his office without uttering a word. Her thoughts turned to her old life: the cold, the abuse, the hopelessness, and how she’d sworn to find a way out. The hunger was the worst. She contemplated this, seated before this feast, barely able to eat a morsel because of her pangs of worry.

“How could I not have seen this coming? What would I do with myself? Can they really take away my memories?”

She spotted Rachel leaving another table on the far side of the hall. Her friend stared straight ahead as she walked out, pretending not to notice her.

“I’m so sorry, Rachel. I hope I didn’t get you into too much trouble.”

Lydia had no choice. She had to put her trust in the professor. Anything was better than going back. Well, there was time to visit the baths before heading back to the professor’s office, at least…

It was a quarter to ten. The many schoolgirls hurried back to their dormitories as the winter cold was busy making the hallways its own. Lydia didn’t mind it: she’d befriended the cold on the many occasions that she’d run away from home.

The baths were in the lower parts of the castle, near the boiler room. Lydia’s bare feet pattered against cerulean, zaffre, and pearl-white tiles. Marble statues of nymphs and other water deities of old myths adorned the facilities, whilst the ceilings were masked by a dizzying array of winding copper pipes that twisted and wrapped around each other like frenzied snakes. Lydia particularly appreciated the outdoor baths that overlooked the valley. The sensation of being in warm water whilst it snowed was ever so soothing.

But there was no time tonight. In any case, the storm was too intense. A quick shower would do. A turn of the knob, and her naked body was doused in freshly heated mountain snow, a feeling she welcomed, oh so much. On occasion the fleeting moonlight would reach through the stained-glass windows and caress her youthful figure.

She recalled the professor’s words: ‘I will correct your intemperance.’

A flutter of warmth rushed to her loins. The first-year student looked about and, seeing that she was alone, reached down between her thighs and slid a finger in her flower. She stroked and fondled herself gently, her moans veiled by the sound of the running water.

In the dark, she let herself drift into fantasy, closing her eyes and letting the torrent wash away her worries, dousing herself in reverie as to what the professor would be doing with her. Maybe things weren’t so bad? She just hoped she could set it all right.

“Hello there!”

Lydia screamed and jumped, catching herself before slipping.

Toly had crept up behind her, along with two of her friends: Miranda was slim and pretty with long black hair and an elegant nose but always had a faint look of revulsion on her face. Penelope was of average height, with freckles and deep black eyes that glistened with malice. The two trailed Toly everywhere, like hounds.

Lydia raised her arms to cover her breasts.

“What are you doing?” she cried, flustered.

“I overheard the professor,” Miranda said with a sinister grin on her face.

She grabbed at Lydia’s soapy wrist, which slid from her grasp as she pulled away.

“Lydia. You’re too vulgar. You don’t belong here,” Toly said, taking a step forward.

Lydia was boxed in. She moved towards her towel, which was resting on a rack near the wall. Penelope got to it first and, having rolled it up, whipped it at her bare flesh: Lydia recoiled. The gang moved in. Toly grabbed her by the hair, but in the scuffle her face was scratched. Lydia lost her footing and slipped, banging her knee. Miranda and Penelope pounced, grabbing her by the arms. She kicked and screamed as she was dragged towards the changing room.

They brought her to a supply closet in the back and threw her in before slamming the door shut.

“No! I beg you! They’ll kick me out! I’ll freeze!”

“You’re going to spend the night in the closet, Lydia. That’ll teach you not to do your homework, you cheater!”

Lydia yelled and kicked the door. It was no use. The girls had pressed a chair up against the knob.

“No! Please! Let me out! Toly!”

“Don’t worry, Lydia. You won’t remember a thing!”

Toly cackled. Her laughing faded along with their footsteps. Lydia was left trembling like a leaf in the dark, wet and naked.

“I have to get out.”

She leaned against the wall and whimpered. The image of her step-parents came into view: their disdainful faces, their daily cruelties, and the relief that came when, finally, she knew that she’d seen the last of them. Her stepfather was fond of taking Lydia over his knee and birching her when he’d had a bad day, whilst her stepmother enjoyed depriving her of meals unless she did as she was told. Going back to that world, to the capital and its sooty cobbled streets, was unbearable. Her whimpers turned to sobbing. Then her sobbing gave way to anger, and as time passed, anger became despair. The cold took advantage and invaded her. Time passed, and hope faded.

Then, a door opened. Someone was coming. Lydia could hear footsteps. She banged on the door.

“Here! Help! Please!”

Someone came walking up to the closet. The chair made a grating sound against the floor. The knob turned with a rusty creak.

“Lydia?”

“Rachel!”

Lydia jumped into her arms.

“I’m so glad you’re here. How did you know where to find me?”

“Toly and her gaggle of witches came back to the dormitory late. I heard them bragging about locking someone up in the baths. Then I noticed that you weren’t back from supper. What’s going on?”

“Rachel, I’m so sorry for getting you in trouble; I really am, but I don’t have time to explain.”

Lydia hurried to her clothes bin.

“Rachel! What time is it?” Lydia asked breathlessly.

“Half past eleven, I think…”

Lydia pressed up against the oak office door and yanked at the handle. It was locked. She knocked urgently.

“Professor?”

Her breathing was shallow and panicked. Was it too late?

“Professor, please!”

She slammed her fist until it was red and sore.

“Please! I’m here!”

No answer. She was alone in the dark. It was almost midnight. The air was still, the halls quiet. Lydia’s heart sank. Warm tears streamed down her cheeks.

“I didn’t do anything wrong, please. Don’t punish me…”

She sat against the door, curled up into a ball, and cried softly. She cried until her mind went blank and her senses dulled. There was anger towards Toly, then towards herself, followed by deep despair, and finally, acceptance that it was over: she was expelled.

“Did any of it matter if they erase my memories?”

She felt her chest cave in. She lost all hope and stopped caring…

Footsteps. Someone was coming. They got louder. Lydia didn’t care to look up.

A large figure stood before her and spoke with a familiar voice: “Miss Weatherlee.”

Lydia looked up, her sight blurred by tears. She wiped them away with the cuffs of her school jacket.

“Professor?”

“You’re late,” Heiliger said flatly.

Lydia got on all fours at his feet. “Professor! Please. I’m so sorry! I came as fast as I could, but I was…”

Toly’s nasty cackling rang in her ears. Lydia sobbed, mumbling and slurring her words. Heiliger knelt and put his hand on her shoulder. It was heavy and firm, the muscles of his fingers powerful. It made her feel small and safe. She calmed at once.

“It’s alright. I can see your sincerity.”

“I’m so sorry I’ve caused so much trouble. I want to be good. Please, professor. Don’t send me away!”

He smiled protectively. “Of course not. Come with me.”

Heiliger offered Lydia a small orange cushion, embroidered with the symbol of the chalice, and pointed to a specific spot on the floor. “Sit here.”

Lydia obeyed dutifully.

He had brought her to a ceremonial room, located in the deepest levels of the castle. Rooms like this were strictly forbidden to unaccompanied students. Most would not see one until their third year, though it looked ordinary enough. The floor was old hardwood with a few deep scratches and burn marks. It had a large metal stove pressed up against the wall, which was the only source of heat. The ceiling was normal stone. A couple of chairs were strewn about. It looked, for all intents and purposes, like an old storeroom. But the air was different: softer, easier to breathe, devoid of moisture. One’s body felt lighter here.

Heiliger was busy making a small altar. All students learnt to make these in their introductory course on ceremonial mysticism. He laid a simple bit of cloth on the floor and dotted each corner with a fat white candle. Their sides were thick with dried clumps of wax from previous uses. Altars like this could be simple or lavishly decorated, with flowers, precious stones, or trinkets; it all depended on the user. What really mattered was having a central point from which the energy in the space was overseen by whoever was leading.

“We’re going to do magic, professor?”

“Yes.”

He took a purple cushion, one embroidered with a sword, and seated himself behind the altar. He would be the master of ceremony. He sat with his legs crossed, his back straight.

“This is where we open doors,” he said succinctly.

Lydia felt intimidated. She didn’t know of any other first-year students doing this with a professor, and she’d never heard of a one-on-one ceremony. She had no idea what to expect.

The professor reached for a small stash of items behind him and produced a box that Lydia recognised immediately: it was Professor Blackett’s, the one that contained the dragon mask. He placed it between the candles and looked her straight in the eye with a piercing gaze.

“You have a problem with discipline, Miss Weatherlee,” he exclaimed bluntly.

Lydia felt exposed but safe. Some part of her was relieved. “It’s a new feeling… to have a mentor care for me.”

She kept silent and let him continue.

“Something happened to you in the past. Now, ordinarily it takes many years of dedicated work to overcome traumatic conditionings…”

He flipped the lock on the box and produced the mask.

“…but I am the master of certain arts that will hasten your recovery,” he said with a gleam in his eye.

He brought the mask to her.

Lydia reached to grab it, but he interrupted her. “You will have to trust me. I have done this with a handful of students before you. I promise you will enjoy it. However, you will keep what happens here tonight to yourself. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Lydia said truthfully.

“Good.”

The professor handed her the mask and collected a glass jar from his stash. A plump salamander with bulging eyes was darting around inside. Heiliger took off the lid.

“Press the mask against your face and hold it firmly,” he ordered.

Lydia acquiesced. The metal was cold against her cheeks. Little golden scales pressed into her forehead.

Heiliger reached in to grab the lizard. It scurried about looking for an escape, its sleek skin leaving trails of viscous mucus on the glass. The professor took it by the tail… “Stay still, young lady,”…and deposited it in the indent between the mask’s horns. At once the lizard froze, as if possessed, then curled into a ball. The air stilled. Time stowed. A small flame blossomed around the lizard, who didn’t seem to notice or care.

Lydia heard a thud in her ears. Her heart skipped a beat. The world around her sank. Her thoughts and worries abated. She felt her arms and legs evaporate, then her belly, then her chest. All tensions dissolved.

Heiliger’s words echoed distantly. “If you get scared, you can always open your eyes.”

A bright orange sun floats in the stillness, beating synchronously with my heart. My body is like water, rippling with each pulse. I’m gazing upon the stars, innumerable brushstrokes of silver and gold strewn in all directions. I’m so small, like a seed, a droplet, a speck. Then, he rises from the abyss: an ancient deity from some long-forgotten civilisation, towering over even the grandest celestial bodies.

With the back of his hand, he brushes away the stars and planets, as if clearing a cluttered table. Galaxies are born and destroyed with but a gesture. I feel his titanic power. Never have I felt so small. All this creation and destruction so he can have access to me.

His flesh is gold, perfectly smooth, polished with atomic precision. His size is beyond words. I am like a grain of dust, suspended in air, gazing up from his navel. His wrists are wrapped in chains of molten rock that climb all the way up to his rippling shoulders. Around his neck and chest is an ensemble of feathers made of diamond dust, blasting out colours I’ve never seen before. His head is in the shape of a lion, stern and fierce, vigorous and eternally patient. And his eyes are the purest and most intense white: their light should be blinding but isn’t. The intensity of his gaze shrinks me further. He peers into me. There is no hiding. He sees everything and rejects nothing. Suddenly it’s all made clear: I am not a body. I am a full experience.

I turn and look at the sun. I was knocked off course so long ago. I was floating away into the blackness this whole time, and I never even knew it. Fear seizes me, filling everything. Panic! I am lost! I want to be in its orbit, to feel its soothing warmth again. I reach out to grab it, but it’s so far away and moving even further.

“Please. I’m adrift. Someone help me.”

The deity brings his open palms up under me. The angst wells up. The pressure is unbearable, yet it grows and grows and keeps on growing. Dread is all I know, all that exists to me. I want to scream, but I can’t. Everything goes red and black. The very atoms of empty space are fighting each other, devouring each other.

“For the love of all, bring me back!”

An inferno of black and white erupts from my centre and shoots in all directions. My boundaries dissolve, then mend. The relief is orgasmic. Everything fades, then appears again.

I’m standing on his open palms, which form an arena, the limits of which are guarded by a deep red fire. It’s hot, and the air is hazy. The sun is hovering just above my head. I look down and see my breasts, my tummy, my feet. Now I look up at the deity. The lion is no longer looking at me; its gaze is fixed on something in the distance. Through the heat haze, I can make out a shrouded silhouette standing beside a tall wooden post, and I understand that I must go to it.

The figure’s robes are black and white, his face hidden behind a mask I’m now familiar with: the golden dragon. Somehow I know that this man, despite appearances, is the same man as the deity and means me no harm. I feel safer, but this feeling soon fades, for he holds in one hand a set of manacles, and in the other, something that brings back a torrent of terrible memories: a birch rod.

Images of my stepfather flood my mind. I’m vulnerable. He grabs me by the scruff of the neck and yanks me over his lap. It hurts. He wants it to. He strikes me again and again. I see his twisted smile, his red eyes bulging with rage as he takes out his frustrations on me. He says he’s doing it to teach me manners, to teach me discipline, to be good, but it’s a lie. Something in me constricts: I resist. A savage knot against life takes shape in my gut. A part of me closes to the world. I’m choking.

Then it hits me. It’s all so obvious. I look at the man in the mask, who is waiting patiently. He gestures towards the wooden post. I know what I must do.

I walk up to the pillar and press my breasts against it. The splinters caress my bare flesh. A tear escapes me. He manacles my wrists and fastens the chain to a metal hoop, high above my head. The fires around the arena erupt. The ground beneath my feet hums subtly.

I am naked, my arms fastened so I cannot move. I feel so vulnerable. I press my forehead against the column as the masked man with the birching rod takes his place beside me.

He rests the rod against my bare bottom. The prickly twigs scrape against my skin. It was nothing more than a bundle of sticks tied together with string, but the touch of it elicited such deep dread. My stepfather made them from a hazelnut tree; it was exceptionally painful. He would sit in front of the fire some evenings, working on one. When I walked by, he would say to me:

“You’ll be naughty one of these days, just you wait and see. And then, this one’ll be for you.”

The robed figure raises his arm. I clench my thighs together and brace. My eyes close. Another tear.

The pain rips through me like nothing I’ve ever felt. I scream. Tears gush, seemingly from every pore. I gasp for air. So much sorrow, so much anguish. My head spins. Nothing makes sense. I try to find my footing in this mad ocean of torment. Some time passes, things settle, and I rise above it. And now it’s done: I laugh. Maniacally. I want more.

“Again!” I yell.

He strikes me. The same thing. The pain courses through my being, ringing me like a church bell. But it’s not me it’s tearing through; it’s this dread, anguish, and resentment. The horrible wounds my stepfather put in me, that clung to me like dusty webs and dimmed my light. “More!” I cry.

The vibration clears it all away. And underneath the pain is joy and craving. I feel the care and love again. I crave it. I want to be disciplined. “Please care for me!”

Without prompting, I spread my legs wide and arch my lower back. I present to the man with the dragon mask.

I can’t see his face, but I know he’s pleased. I can feel it. I smile seductively. “Shape me.”

He nods, sets the birch rod to his side, raises a free hand, and snatches a comet that was flying through the red sky. He crushes it between his powerful fingers. His palm bursts into flames, and with one brisk motion, he sets his robes alight and disappears in a blaze of red and blue fire and thick black smoke.

The heat is overwhelming: I shield myself as best I can. The smoke clears, the flames recede, and then they emerge. Tall and thin, two of them have jet-black skin like the night, each with a dragon mask, one of green jade and one silver. The third has skin of the whitest pearl and a mask of pure gold. He is decorated with brass bangles and black chains. All that remains of their robes, now turned to cinders, is hanging from the waist down. Their rippling muscular arms and chests are laid bare.

I can feel these creatures. I can feel the sensual, lustful, dark, and playful aura that emanates from them. As if possessed, I lick the air, calling them to me with my tongue.

“Play with me. Please.”

The white one moves in front of me, whilst the other two take their places behind me. One produces a frightful whip of black diamond; the other, a sharp rod of pulsating red and purple light so condensed it seems to cut through space.

Fear. Dread. Hopelessness. And anger. So much anger: all take their turn flooding back up. My mood changes so fast I can’t keep up anymore. I burst into tears again.

The white one looks at me a moment as I sob uncontrollably, then places his palm on my forehead and begins to hum. The deep sound and low vibrations travel through his arm to my mind and clear it in a flash. Then the colours invert. My bare skin explodes in agony. I shriek. Everything hurts from crippling abuse and neglect. I’ve been swallowed by a void of empty agony. My body craves attention.

“I want your touch. Please!” I cry out from the depths of my soul. “Make me yours!”

The whip cracks, lashing at my back. The strike sends bliss through my heart. A rainbow of colour engulfs me. Then the pain of neglect returns. I’m submerged. It’s hell.

“More!”

I’m lashed, again and again and again. With each strike, I’m filled with love and ecstasy. I feel that I’m being cleansed, deeply. It’s like breathing for the first time. With each menacing crack of the whip, I’m lifted to heights of joy I never fathomed. A pause.

The one with the rod steps up to me. He runs his hand up my inner thigh and gropes my butt. I arch my back to reveal my flower. I want him to enter me, but everything is so intense: I am afraid to ask. If only I could reach back…

He strikes me with his rod, right at the thighs, like a headmaster would a schoolgirl. The pain cuts through me like a sword. I let out a deafening howl. He strikes my thighs again and again and again. The thwacks echo in my ears. A thick haze of misery and despair explodes within me and leaves with my wails. My sight is buried under a kaleidoscope of gold, magenta, and emerald. What I see no longer makes sense. There’s no sight: only sensation is left.

I gyrate my hips at them, like an animal.

“Take me! Make of me what you want!”

The one with the rod comes in close again and runs a muscular finger up and down my flower. I’m gushing. He pulls away playfully, tapping his fingers around my haunches, then down around my sore thighs.

“Please! I beg you! I want your love inside me! I don’t want to hate you! Please love me!”

Finally, a finger slips in. I feel it reach all the way up to my head, between my eyes. Time stops. My body is no longer my own. I’m captured. The whip starts cracking. I cannot move. Everything is spinning. I’m lashed over and over and over again, on my back, on my butt, on my breasts. Each strike freezes in time as it hits my skin, the bliss barely contained, bubbling over, waiting to be unleashed. Again, and again, and again, I surrender.

The finger slides out, and worlds collide as time thaws and flows again. I am doused in pure awe. The lashings impact me, all at once: I am a lagoon and they, raindrops, making myriad ripples on my surface. With all tensions gone, the would-be painful thrashes turn to soft caresses.

It’s all so cool to the touch. I am released, suspended in air, penetrated by thousands of smooth ripples at once, golden feathers of light: this is love.

My sight returns. I come back into my body, panting like some savage creature. Here, in this strange place, which feels so real, I can let go. I think of Heiliger, how I wish he could feel this, how he cares for me, how much I love him…

I love him?

 The pillar and the chains around my wrists burst into dust and are blown away by the wind. The three dragons encircle me as I fall to my knees. I’m intimidated, vulnerable, and aroused. Some dark part of me wants what I know is coming next. The white one takes a step forward, ‘til my face is at his belly. My gaze runs up his powerful musculature, his rippling abdominals, his chiselled chest, his sinewy neck until my eyes lock with his, yellow and black, veiled behind his mask of noble gold. He inhales deeply, then vents a bit of fire and smoke through his nostrils.

With their muscular hands, the three dragons grab the remains of their robes and tear them effortlessly from their waists, casting them aside. Their movements are perfectly synchronised, as if in a dance. The tattered fabrics shred like paper and disperse in the breeze. I’m kneeling in the dirt, before these gods, their members exposed and pointing to me. My dark part stirs louder: I feel the power in wanting them, in receiving them. I no longer fear that they might damage me. I see the strength in surrendering. I’m not afraid to submit to their authority.

I open my mouth and gently wrap my lips around the white one’s phallus. My tongue presses against it, hard, hot, and pulsating. I feel his heartbeat as I please him, back and forth. The heat is intense. He rests a heavy hand on my head. The weight forces me down a little. I feel smaller, but safer, in his care. I see the power in giving willingly. No longer does anyone take from me by force, or give me poison and tell me it’s wine.

I look up. The white dragon has his head tilted back. Plumes of fire exude from his open maw. I work harder, using my hand. The plumes turn to gusts. The dark part of me craves his boiling seed: it’s willing to slog and toil for it, for him.

Now the black dragon with the silver mask steps forward. The white dragon, the solemn one, is pleased: he’s breathing a constant jet of fire into the air. He takes his hand away, releasing me. I slide him out of my mouth, bowing politely, and briskly switch my care to the second one. His member slides into my mouth, black like tar, pleasantly warm. My lips feel every throbbing vein. He rests his hand on my head and caresses it softly. I spread my legs and kneel lower. My hands press against the floor. I want to be a good girl for him. He has so much to offer me. I just have to be worthy.

I lean my head to the left, then to the right, to vary his pleasure. I must feel so good to him: I know it! And if I’m not pleasing, I’ll try harder.

I steal a glance as I work my mouth. The caring one’s head tilts back, and a stream of fire jets out, its tip meeting with the solemn one’s like the points of two red swords.

Finally, the black dragon with the jade mask steps forward. The silver-masked one stops petting my hair. I take my mouth off, give his member a loving little kiss, and move softly to the last one. I’ve barely had time to open my mouth before the third dragon grips me by the hair and forcibly rams himself down my throat. I gag and choke; it hurts. His member, hard like a rock, is piping hot. Scalding even; it chafes my mouth.

I raise my hands to push him away, to which he lifts his left hand, forming a circle with his thumb and index. Some unseen force brings my hands to their rightful place, behind my lower back. It’s a struggle to breathe: sometimes I’m afforded a little air through my nose in between his unrelenting thrusts. My mouth is sore, but I endure the discomfort. Sometimes life hurts. Growth comes with pain.

“I can accept that…”

I’m pulled up by my hair to ease his access. My knees are lifted above the ground. I moan with the pain but know it will be over soon. I just have to endure…

At last the rigorous one is satiated. He drops me back to the ground, fire jetting from his mouth. I bow down, low to the ground, in submission. The three dragons are now breathing their fire fully. The air feels charged with some unseen force. I can feel it permeating me. The jets of fire grow more intense, changing from red to blue to black.

I’m kneeling in the centre as they bring down their Stygian fire on me. The dark part within stirs and writhes. It takes over. I roll around on the ground like some wicked creature. My eyes close. I lose my sight. All is feeling beyond measure.

The three dragons take me in their arms. They wrap around me, their hefty bodies pressing into mine. The black ones seize me with firm grasps. They pull me to and fro by my arms and legs. I loosen, becoming like clay. I want them to mould me. We merge. They wrap around my limbs like vines, like serpents, like chains. I feel shackles form around my wrists, my ankles, my neck. I’m controlled, submitting without inhibition. Finally, I feel cared for and safe. The white one spreads my thighs and takes me. He makes his way to my womb. I moan with delight. I want to be the cool earth made fertile by his boiling seed. I want him to grow in me; I yearn to bare his treasures, so I yield to his thrusts. Chains wrap around my arms and waist, pulling me to the ground, keeping me firmly in my place. I am his malleable vessel, longing to be filled.

“Lydia!”

Lydia opened her eyes. Heiliger was standing in front of her, one hand on her forehead, the dragon mask in the other. She was kneeling at his feet. Her vision was blurred, and she could barely form a coherent sentence.

“Everything’s fine. It’s over. Don’t try to speak.”

Her breathing slowed and softened.

Heiliger took a step back, put the dragon mask down on the altar, and straightened his collar.

“Stand up, young lady,” he said briskly!

The instant Lydia’s mind registered the command, a flood of goodness and pleasure rushed into her chest. She jumped to attention without thinking.

“Good,” the professor said with a pleased grin. He pointed to a chair against the wall. “Sit, young lady!”

She obeyed dutifully, again without pause or hesitation. Heiliger walked over to her methodically. The hard soles of his shoes made deep clacking sounds on the hardwood floor. She focused on those to steady her mind. Her eyes opened timidly to look at her professor.

“You did very well, Lydia.”

“Thank you, professor.”

He put his hand to her cheek and smiled.

“Do you understand what happened to you?”

“Yes, professor. It’s clear now.”

“Good. For the next three months, I will assume control of your mind. Every day you will study, do your homework, and attend to various chores around school that I’ll be assigning to you. You will find that there is great pleasure to be had in service and obedience. There is a lot to learn.”

“Thank you, professor. Thank you for caring…”

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Short story 1/2 in the Profiterole School Series. Read 'Toly and the Dark Apollo' next.