Soren

You were walking home from the village, your basket of herbs clutched against your chest, your boots squelching with every step.

Then you heard it. A sound. Thin and desperate and barely audible over the roar of the rain. Something was dying.You followed the sound off the path, pushing through wet ferns and dripping branches, until you found him.

A snake. Enormous—longer than you were tall, its body as thick as your arm. Its scales were black as obsidian, iridescent in the gray light, but they were dulled now, smeared with blood and mud. A poacher's trap had caught it—cruel iron teeth clamped around its midsection, digging deep into the flesh beneath the scales. The snake was struggling weakly, its golden eyes glazed with pain, its forked tongue flickering in and out as if tasting death on the air.

"Oh," you breathed. "Oh, you poor thing."

You should have left it. A snake this size could kill you—venomous or constrictor, it didn't matter. A creature like this didn't need to be venomous to be deadly. But its eyes met yours, those ancient golden eyes, and something in them made your heart clench. Fear. Pain. And beneath it all, a desperate, pleading intelligence.

"Hold still," you said, as if it could understand you. "I'm going to help."

The snake went still.

It took you an hour to free it. The trap was old and rusted, and you had nothing but your hands and a small knife from your basket. You worked carefully, murmuring soothing nonsense the whole time, and the snake watched you with those unblinking golden eyes. When the trap finally sprang open, the snake's body uncoiled with a shudder of relief.

"There," you said, sitting back on your heels. "You're free. Go on. Go home."

The snake didn't move. It just lay there in the mud, bleeding and exhausted, its golden eyes fixed on your face.

"You can't stay here," you said. "The poacher might come back. You need to go home."

The snake's tongue flickered. It made no move to leave.

"You're going to die if you stay out here." You were arguing with a reptile. This was absurd. "Go home!"

Nothing.

You sighed, gathered your basket, and started walking. Behind you, you heard the wet, dragging sound of a massive body slithering through mud. You stopped. The sound stopped. You started walking again. The sound started again.

"You're following me," you said, turning around.

The snake stared at you.

"I can't take you home. I don't have anywhere to keep a snake your size. You need to go back to the forest where you belong."

The snake's head drooped. It looked, impossibly, like it was wilting. Like your rejection had physically wounded it.

You were a soft-hearted fool. You'd always been a soft-hearted fool. That was why you lived alone on the edge of the village, brewing tinctures for people who whispered about you behind your back. That was why you'd stopped to help a dying snake instead of walking past like a sensible person.

"Fine," you said. "But only until you're healed."

The snake's head lifted. Its tongue flickered—once, twice—and you could have sworn it looked pleased.

He healed faster than any creature had a right to.

Within a week, the wounds from the trap had closed. Within two, the scales had regrown, smooth and glossy and black as midnight. He was magnificent—you couldn't deny that. Sleek and powerful and strangely beautiful, with those ancient golden eyes that seemed to follow your every movement.

He made himself at home in your cottage. He coiled in the corner by the hearth, basking in the warmth of the fire. He draped himself over the rafters, his head dangling down to watch you work. He slithered after you from room to room, always present, always watching, a constant silent companion.