Chapter Text
The world is the sky. This does not change. Change is not a concept that exists for the dragon, because there is no need for such a word when there is nothing to describe with it. The earth below is yellow and brown and green and white and blue and gray and those colors are a cycle and there is no use in identifying when each color exists because it will only return again over and over and over and over again, so many agains that it is more simple to define the earth as all the things at once. The dragon flies the same path. The dragon flies the same path, the same loop, because there is no other path that the dragon flies. Distantly there are other dragons, and they are also flying in their own paths, but their paths do not cross with the dragon, so they are only a thing to see out of the corner of the eye.
The eye. The eyes. There is something happening to the eyes. They drip. It falls away and down to earth. There is no use in cataloguing where the drips land. It is the earth. It is all the same, or it will become the same again. There is nothing but the sky, and the sky is nothing but the path. The path. Forward, ever forward. The dragon can never be still. The dragon can never be still because a still dragon falls. There is nothing on the earth that is worth noting because it is not part of the path. The dragon must continue on the path so that it does not fall. The dragon must not fall because then it would cease to exist. It must not cease to exist because...? The dragon continues on the path.
The head carves the path. The head slices through the air, weaving in and out in its pattern. The head is heavy. There is something between the nose and the eyes. Something that is not on the other dragons' faces. There is something there. Something important...? It has always been there. It has always been there, so it should not be worth noting, but it persists, nagging like the dripping eyes. The more it nags, the more they drip. It should not be worth noting, but that's not right, it should...? It is...? It is... important. Important. The something on the face is important. The dragon must not cease to exist because it is important. The dragon keeps flying. The dragon flies the same path.
A patter of pressure on the dragon's head is miniscule but sudden, jarring. The something important briefly becomes the only thing worth noting. It fills the dragon's being like the path did before, some strange sensation, a new sensation (or perhaps not new...?) called pain. Pain makes the dragon thrash, the weaving faster and faster than ever before. It is pain but it is also perfect and clean and right like the lightning that brushes against the dragon. It is right. This is right. This is important. This is important. The patter brushes gentle as raindrops, and then it is gone, and the something important is gone with it, and it does not feel like a loss. The pain leaves with it. The path becomes the only thing again. The dragon continues on the path.
The other dragons are only a thing to see out of the corner of the eye. Their paths do not cross with the dragon. The head carves the path. The dragon flies the same path. The dragon flies the same path, the same loop, because there is no other path that the dragon flies, and there is nothing on the earth worth noting, except...? The dragon flies the same path. The same path. The same path. Their paths do not cross with the dragon.
And then they do. And that is the first change, the change that leads to all else changing. There is another dragon- a new dragon- and it is black and red and violet smoke streams from it and it is not following a path, it does not have a path, it is swooping and diving and opening its maw as if to eat something- someone- whole, and the existence of the dragon's path loses all meaning. Everything loses all meaning. The only thing that matters is the someone on the earth. And so, for the first time, the dragon leaves the path and its head cuts a path towards the new dragon.
The battle is fearsome. The pain that the dragon only so recently learned of returns in full force, but now it does not feel purifying, it feels like the idea of being still. It feels like the beginning of ceasing to exist. The dragon fights back, the tiny little patter that is someone landing on it and leaving, and sometimes the new dragon bellows with its own pain when the dragon did not harm it. The someone and the dragon are fighting together.
The new dragon screams and thrashes and becomes violet smoke, and in a blur of words and faces and glimmering, there is another change.
And then the dragon is falling, but the dragon is not a dragon anymore. There is no long body to weave through the air with, no way to continue flying. The dragon must not fall.
The dragon is falling. The dragon is falling.
The world ceases.
-
The dragon- the not-dragon...?- jolts back to consciousness.
This in itself is a very, very disorienting experience. Dragons do not leave the state of wakefulness. They are always flying with eyes wide open. But there is a definite gap, a black period where nothing seemed to happen but something obviously did, because the not-dragon is propped up on its side in the dirt and spewing up foul liquid that burns in its nose.
There are so many unfamiliar sensations happening that as soon as the coughing and gagging stops, the not-dragon simply rolls over to lay on its back and stare at the sky.
The world is not the sky anymore. That much is clear. The sky, that cool blue path, is now as distant as the earth once was. Rocks dig into the not-dragon's back as it is pressed down by too-strong gravity. Uncomfortably thick air seems to coat the inside of its lungs. Everything hurts, a new kind of hurt different than the sharpness of the new dragon's attacks. It's a heavy, deep sort of ache. The not-dragon cannot remember ever feeling this bad (except for when...?). Maybe this is what ceasing to exist is like. Maybe the not-dragon can just lie here in the pebbles forever.
Except someone leans over the not-dragon, blocking out the sky, and waves at it. Trying to get its attention, trying to say hello. The not-dragon doesn't know how it understands the meaning of the gesture, so it focuses on the someone instead.
It instantly knows that this is the same someone who fought the new dragon with it. They're small, with two enormous eyes that are the vivid blue of the frost dragon's spines and pale skin overlaid with whiteish pink splotches and stripes. They are noisily huffing out breaths in the same rhythm as the not-dragon. They are also soaking wet; as they stand there, hovering over the not-dragon, water drips from their brown hair and onto its face like raindrops.
The person starts making some kind of complicated gestures. The not-dragon is sure that they are trying to communicate, and the meaning of the hand signs tickles at the edge of its mind, but the overwhelm of the whole situation makes it impossible to think.
The person's signs slow down, and their frown deepens, but they shake their head as if to dismiss it and offer their hand to the not-dragon.
The not-dragon reaches back, but startles and jerks away when its own hand comes into its line of sight. It isn't scales and sharp claws anymore, but instead soft flesh with blunt nails at the tip of each fingers, just like the person's hand.
The person still stands there, waiting with their hand outstretched. The not-dragon scooches forward to be within reach, noting with something between horror and wonder that it has two lower limbs that end in flat feet with short toes. It tucks the feet beneath it and places its hand within the person's.
Without warning, the person pulls, and the not-dragon stumbles to its feet and immediately crumples again. The person dives forward and grabs it under one of its arms, but they didn't seem to account for the fact that they only have one arm themself, so the not-dragon keeps going down and the person goes down with it. The not-dragon lands half-resting on the person's torso instead of the rocky ground.
The two of them stay in that position for a minute, head on chest that rises and falls, before trying again.
-
If standing was difficult, then walking was impossible. By the time they're making steady progress through the waist-high grass, the sun is already setting. The person has their arm hooked around the not-dragon to support it in case it falls again, but now they're pulling it forward at such a precariously quick pace that it keeps stumbling. It wishes that they would slow down. Its feet hurt from repeatedly stubbing the toes, its knees sting from the scrapes, its thighs burn from going up and down too many hills, and there is such an overall feeling of heaviness over its body that the not-dragon would lay down and not get up if only the person would let it.
The darkness makes it even harder to keep going because the not-dragon cannot see rocks or ditches until it's already tripping on them. Being without light is eerie; it is accustomed to the glow of its scales illuminating the way, but it does not have scales anymore.
A strange clattering noise comes from ahead of them. The not-dragon watches as bleached bones are pulled from the ground by some invisible force and assemble to build a bipedal figure. The person tenses and crouches down quickly, releasing the not-dragon to sit in the dirt, before drawing the sword from the sheath on their back.
The not-dragon stares at the blade. Its silver metal glows slightly as the person swings it at the bone creature, knocking it back into pieces and then striking once at the skull. The bones disintegrate, and the person's stance relaxes as they glance around for any other threats. Their hand grasps skillfully, naturally, below the winged cross-guard of the sword. Even as they return the sword to the sheath, the not-dragon cannot tear its eyes away.
"Lnk."
The sound comes out of the not-dragon's mouth without any conscious process. It's slurred and clumsy and nearly incomprehensible, and the not-dragon has no clue how it produced it or where the word came from. But the person startles and spins around, staring back at the not-dragon with wide eyes.
It meets them and summons the courage to try again. "Link."
The person- Link?- does something strange with their face, stretching the corners of their mouth up lopsidedly and baring their teeth and crinkling their eyes, and the not-dragon somehow knows that it's an expression of joy, contagious enough to make its stomach flutter in response. Link starts signing again, now with excited flapping muddling the words further. When the not-dragon doesn't respond, their expression does not dim, but they haul it back to its feet, and the trek continues.
Soon, they hit a dirt trail worn into the ground, and balancing becomes much easier. Now that the not-dragon is paying more attention to the horizon than its unsteady footing, it can see the flickering orange of firelight from across the river the trail runs parallel to. Link fixes their gaze upon the firelight, and the not-dragon tries to match their speed so it isn't getting dragged along quite so much. The two of them cross a small wooden bridge over the river, and then go back in the direction they came from, until the settlement with the fire is in front of them.
It's a tall structure, peculiarly shaped like the head of some creature. Despite the late hour, a few people that look like Link are standing around. They are all wearing fabrics on their bodies; the not-dragon is suddenly grateful that Link wrapped something around its torso before they began walking. The person behind the desk, who was previously leaning against it and staring off into space, catches sight of Link and lifts a hand in greeting. Once the pair gets closer, though, he focuses on the not-dragon and his jaw drops. He starts speaking, a jumble of sounds that is too loud and rapid for the not-dragon to make out anything except a few repeats of Link. Link signs back at the man, and whatever they say makes the man stop and nod vigorously, gesturing at them to come inside. Link produces a few red coins and attempts to slide them across the counter to the man, but he pushes them right back, shaking his head firmly. Link acquiesces and tucks the coins back into their pocket.
It's warm inside, dimly lit by a few candles, and the not-dragon can stand no longer. Link steers it towards a small platform and eases it down; the surface gives slightly under the not-dragon's weight. Link partially peels back the thick fabric sheets and, when the not-dragon doesn't move, delicately slides its legs into the pocket between the platform and the sheets one at a time and then nudges it fully onto its back before replacing the sheets so that they cover the not-dragon up to its chin. Link makes a single sign at the not-dragon, rests their hand on its shoulder briefly, and then steps over to the next platform over.
The platform- bed? Yes, that's the word- is so soft that the not-dragon feels as if its heavy, unwieldy, aching body is sinking down into it. The world is entirely too still, with none of the swaying motion that has been constant for the not-dragon's entire existence, but with eyes cracked half-shut it can see the earth's shadowed surface passing by like it is flying the path still.
It is asleep before Link is even underneath the blankets.