~ 28 ~

Two Dying Dragons Meet in a Cave (Sans Punchline)

In all my tenure of being in this world of Fulur, I'd never taken the time to contemplate my loss of memory. A hairline fracture between remembrance and haziness set on the precise second that I landed here. The period began in a bright white flash. My consciousness flooded outward into the body of a monster truck.

And my eyes had opened as they had never opened before.

Within a second, I existed, in another shape, far different than my own, collapsed in the depths of a cave. Despite the darkness, I could see a hint of light looming in the beyond. I attempted to rise on strange appendages—collapsing from the lack of flooding them with proper strength.

The one thing you never contemplate becoming a sizable monster is the usual strength and motion you put into things. When you're a baby, of course, you learn how much exertion basic actions require. When you walk, you don't kick or swing your legs, placing too much force into your stride.

Rather, one puts enough energy to bring them forward, with the proper weight to lower your foot. You learn how to function and operate as a human easily. Even things like driving a car, or using something beyond yourself, are still extensions of your primary, human movements.

But when I woke up in the body of a dragon, I had to learn how to walk again, to breathe again. My sniffs of air failed to fill my massive lungs. The slight weight I put to my legs caused them to always falter. I couldn't even lift my arms at first. Not because they lacked muscle, but neurologically, I had to learn how to connect to and lift them.

And, for the longest while, I thought I was going to die in that cave.

Lying there, newly existing in the body of a dragon, one at death's door... questions, then, had flooded through my mind. Will I be able to crawl out of this cave before I die of thirst? Will I learn how to use my strength before it fades?

Panic of becoming a dragon never occurred. It was as though a switch had been turned off. What good would it do me to worry about how I arrived here? It didn't matter how my consciousness seeped inside this beast—or the mystery of its previous owner.

If I didn't learn how to use this body, I would die inside it, with questions unanswered.

So I neglected the mystery of myself. Soon, I connected more with my nerves, learning how to raise my arms, slapping my claws forward, limply, dragging my carcass toward the light. I could roll, wiggling my frame, barely inch toward the light.

The cave loomed around me, and its entrance seemed so far away, like an impossible destination. Even when I crawled forward, it kept away, removing my sense of progress. Part of me wondered if it had been a spell of sorts. One last bit of torture before being sent to hell.

Crawling in a body not of your own, barely able to operate it, crawling toward an exit that retreats as you advance. My mouth foamed the closer I got. Hours passed before I gave up. Tired, muscles burning. The side of my head fell against the stone floor, and I was ready to become no more.

Until the breeze came.

It was cold, and fresh, carrying moisture within frigidness. My mouth opened, my jaw going slack against the floor. The wind born from the rain slipped between my dried lips, flushing life into my maw. Though I was dead, the touch of breeze fueled me for a touch longer.

Looking forward, I saw the gate of the cave, vast and open, a mere couple of steps away. White light washed inward, as did the light rain, dampening the stone flooring to a darker colour.

Had the entrance come closer once I closed my eyes and denied my sight? Or had I crawled close enough before giving up all hope? Was that breeze fate in disguise, persuading me to continue my story at my most critical moment?

Or was it all mere coincidence, without meaning or reason?

Even though the questions appeared, they didn't matter much to my dried head, as it lay defeated against the floor, looking outward to the storm. Grey clouds settled over a forest below and, beyond that, stone, ancient buildings, with a shore behind the area.

I still couldn't move and, at that moment, I still thought it to be my death.

I watched the dull sky, listening to the crackles of beginning thunder, a stranger in a strange place, set to expire before possible comprehension. There were two choices. One was to ponder the mystery of everything as I lay dying, hoping, somehow, to race toward an answer seconds before the Reaper arrived.

Or to clear my head, and all the agony within, to enjoy the view, to indulge in the breeze, and to roll out my tongue, wetting it on the light petering of rain. Treetops shook with their dense foliage of green. The bristling of distant branches soothed my ears—or whatever I had for ears.

And the last of the winds carried the scent of the sea with it.

It was then that I felt good.

That I had felt at peace.

It didn't come from having answers. It also didn't come from a lifetime of fulfilment or accomplishments as, before that flash, I could barely recall who and what I was. It was through that choice that I could ease into my demise. To indulge in the present, set my mind and body to as much peace as possible.

Before taking that last breath.

And feeling a shadow pass over me.

I snapped my eyes open from the ground, looking forward to seeing the quiet storm blocked, a creature looming over me. I failed to speak. Was unable to do much of anything. Danger flared in my head. I knew that I was fucked. I kinda had already accepted that.

But now I would be beaten and eaten before I died—which somewhat destroyed the peaceful feeling.

"Numor the Emearl?"

The dragon spoke in a different language, but somehow, even though I knew what he said was in another tongue—I heard his words in English. I cleared my throat the best I could. But nothing came from my dried pipes. I was barely better than sand at that point.

"No," the dragon cleared his throat. "You're not Numor. You're not even a dragon, are you?"

I looked at him blankly.

"Hmm." He stood on four legs, and his head lowered to mine. I couldn't see the colour of his scales in the darkness—only that his eyes were pure white. "You're not the one I needed. It seems like even humans could get the best of you. Green, huh? Born into the weakest of us all. Yours is a dying breed."

His monolithic claw collapsed onto the back of the neck, burying his talons into my scales, slicing my flesh, which, because of the pain, I felt for the first time. His claw lifted my head, which hung. "Best favour I can do for one like you is to end you right now. Quick and easy. You don't die from thirst. No other monster will chew you while your lungs draw breath. Let me see into your eyes. I'll know the answer for sure."

He lifted my head higher, my chest rising from the ground, my form still limp, arms hanging from my sides. Then he peered into the side of my face. I don't know what my eyes reflected at the time. Fear was there—but only a touch. Tired peace half-lidded my eyes. I looked more into him than he stared into me.

We saw each other, the consciousnesses that piloted these bodies, for but a moment.

"You're ready for death," he said upon lowering my body to the ground, his claws still digging into my spine. "But your story is still not told. One such as yourself has no desire to make a change, much less can create anything of effect. You're not the one I need."

The dragon stomped forward, a blast of dust exploding from beneath his foot, lazily dragging me. Wetness licked the underside of my frame, and my jaw unlocked again, my tongue flopping onto the stone, pulled across it, capturing whatever moisture that wasn't attached to filth.

"But I don't have any time left."

Diluted light overwhelmed my vision as the coolness of the open storm consumed me. Winds struck harder on reaching the outside. The dragon stopped on the edge of the cliff, dragging and dropping me onto it. He faced the coming storm with a deep inhale, as I laid limp next to him.

Both of us looked to the beyond from the cliffside.

"Death will not welcome you just yet," the dragon spoke in a deep, powerful voice, one that blocked the winds with the cast of his lungs. "For there is more to your story, Messenger."