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It’s been so long since he’s been on the surface. Decades at least, maybe a century. He didn’t want to come back up, but it’s so loud down in the sea, and it’s only gotten louder and louder with time. Do humans really only have one life? Must each new body require a new soul and new voice? And must they imprint so deeply into the water? He’s nearly insane, unable to find a single place to himself, and last he remembers, the surface was somewhat quieter. Not much, but that little difference will be enough, right? He hopes so, because that’s where he’s headed.
Of course, a dragon on land would be… well, disastrous is putting it lightly. He doesn’t even want to imagine what the humans would think or do, and those gods that that… that usurper put in place of him and the other sovereigns? If they know he exists now, it will be a bloodbath, he’s sure of it. Those dreams felt too real to simply be dreams, they must be memories. Shattered, fragmented, but memories nonetheless, and he will make sure they don’t repeat in this life.
So, under no circumstances will he come to land like this. Not in broad daylight, where anyone could see. Not even in the dark of night, or with a heavy fog. No, he needs… he needs that other body, a mangled copy of these quite frankly poorly made humans. Was there no care put into their creation?
Ah, no matter. In a swirl of hydro, his form twists and shrinks into something far more appropriate for the surface world as it is now. Truly, quite poorly made, but there’s nothing he can do about that. With a body now made for land instead of water, he swims slowly to the surface, even with the help of the currents. So slow, so clunky, but he does eventually make it to a secluded shore. Better safe than sorry, after all.
When he first steps on land, the air feels like feathers in his throat and lungs. Odd… it may have been nearly a century ago, but he had been on land before, and he doesn’t remember the air feeling like this. Has the usurper further changed this planet to their liking? It saddens him, but it wouldn’t surprise him if that were the case.
It is marginally quieter up here, where the emotions only have the droplets of water vapour to exist in rather than a whole sea to batter against his mind. But, he wants to see if there’s anywhere up here that could possibly be better. He starts his search for an even more secluded area. He doubts that will help much, if at all, but being far from those obnoxiously loud humans is better than accidentally running into one and having to hear them out loud as well.
He makes his way down the shore, keeping an eye out for particularly dense forests or caves as he goes. That feathery feeling in his throat doesn’t leave, but it feels as if those feathers are starting to clog up his throat. They must have done something to the air, because this… this just isn’t right. But it’s quieter up here, even if it’s just marginally so, and he doesn’t want to go back to the bombardment of noise he knows he’ll face in the water. Not quite yet.
A little ways off in the distance, he finally spots a cave. It’s rather shallow, but considering how empty this place already is, it should be fine enough to stay there for a while. Not long, no, he doesn’t want to stay out of the sea for too long. Just a little bit, just enough for this excursion to be a bit of a breather. Hah, a breather, and yet it’s getting more and more difficult to breathe with every step he takes. It’s fine, he’ll just rest when he gets to that cave. He’s so tired anyways, even more so now that he’s on land, it’ll be good to sit and rest this weak body.
His lungs start to feel heavy as he gets closer to the cave, and his breaths only grow more and more laboured. His lungs are full, but not in the same way they are when he’s in the water. It’s… it’s wrong, it’s so wrong. He coughs to try and clear his chest and throat, but all that does is hurt his throat. Hurt… why does it hurt? Why does it–
He stumbles against the entrance of the cave, a wave of nausea crashing into him and making him double over. But even despite holding himself up against the edge of the cave, he still feels as if he’s spinning in free fall, the world starting to blur as if that motion were true.
Rest. He just needs rest. Keeping a hand on the cave wall, just in case, he ventures deeper inside. He’ll go to the back of it, somewhere safe and cut off from the world, and rest. That’s all he needs, right? Right?
Another cough begs to differ, as does another, and another, until every other breath brings something ragged and painful out with it. And with them, eventually, blood. Blood? Why…
He’s… sick. Why is he sick? He doesn’t get sick. Nothing from the animals, nothing from the humans, nothing ever makes him sick. So why is he coughing blood onto the floor of this cave? Why can’t he breathe?
He tries to take a deeper breath, and instead falls into another coughing fit. And oh, it still hurts, it still hurts so much. His throat is still stuffed full of feathers, the blood trickles from the corner of his mouth now, and every breath now bubbles in and out of him.
He falls to the ground, curling up as small as he can and trying to hide from the pain in his chest. It doesn’t help any; the growing, splitting headache as he gasps desperately for breath is more than enough proof of that. It’s futile, childish, but he can’t think of anything else to do.
His breaths grow more shallow, more rapid, and this… is this really how he dies in this life? Will he die? He doesn’t want to… oh please, please, he doesn’t want to die. All he wanted was some quiet, he didn’t mean for it to go like this.
Nearly a century ago, he had parents that had held him when he fell and scraped his hands and knees on the rocks he climbed. Nearly a century ago, he was cradled and sang to when they treated cuts the way humans must, with the sting of medicinal alcohol and bandage plastered snuggly to the skin. Nearly a century ago, when he was hurt, he was given comfort.
Those parents are undoubtedly dead by now. Humans live such short lives. But still, he craves the comfort they gave him, however brief it was. They’re dead, but he still wishes they could hold him just one more time, tell him he will be okay. It’s wildly immature, but he wants that comfort just one more time. Just one more time, while he lays here on the cold stone floor, every breath he takes simply renewing his agony.
“Please…”
Tears start to blur his vision, and he swears he hears the gentle pitter-patter of rain outside the cave.
~*~
One week. He spends one week curled up in that cave, crying out for parents long dead as the blood pools in his lungs, in his throat, in his mouth. He spends one week choking on breaths that used to come easy, one week listening to his own rattling breaths and wretched coughs echoing off the stone walls.
It takes one week for his breaths to finally slow, for the coughs to die away, for the blood to trickle to a stop. One week for his head to stop pounding in time with his pulse and for his chest to feel light again. One long, gruelling week where all he could do was simply wait for his body to stop falling apart.
When the nausea finally fades away, he pushes himself up on weak arms, propping himself against the closest wall and staring out the mouth of the cave to the grey sky. He can still hear the rain, but it slows to a slight drizzle as he finally takes a deep breath and rests his head against the stone behind him. This breath, finally, is free of blood and pain and tingly little feathers. This breath is finally clear.