[OOC: This one's a read and a half (1300 words). Fair warning. I let my prose run loose, but I had so much fun writing this~]
"I found you."
Their breath ghosts through the air, foggy in the light that pierces through layers upon layers of blue, frigid ice. Even with their warmth, they can feel the cold, nipping at their nose, the tips of their fingers, muffled into mittens for the rare times that they've ever worn them. They bring them up to their mouth, drag the scarf down just long enough to breathe onto their palms lightly, a short break while they watch the shadow ahead of them.
Ink-dark in an otherwise pastel-light cavern, the abyss sucks every light and colour that comes too close, hides it away until nothing but shadows remain, hushed and still as a moonless night. Nothing but a void, and the slight rasp of cavernous lungs that seep each breath between a cage of bones.
Talons as long as they are tall have gouged these walls, broken into this prison of ice and rock and settled, a nest to cradle this lost god once and for all. Now he rests; a broken discarded shell, dreaming softly on his throne of rock, in his house of ice, in this cage of bones. They could not be less in awe of him, even as tired and broken as he is now.
They smile as they approach, a light uprise to their lips, listening to the purr of something so gargantuan sleeping as soundly as a kitten. Briefly, they wonder if this is how he felt, watching them rest; a fondness that is both relieved as it is bittersweet. The sound of their footsteps is almost entirely swallowed by his breath. There isn't even a twitch when they press their knitted mitten to the leather of a wing.
"Ammy was worried." They pause, their hand still on the fragile limb, close enough that they can see the maze of veins stretch across the vastness of the skin. They remove it. Remove their glove. Bronze skin presses against the abyss, fearless, unabashed. Warmth meets warmth in a world too cold to bear. They trail their hand along as they approach.
"I was worried." There's something heavier in their throat at this, something that catches, but that they push aside. The other mitten is tossed aside, and their opposite hand comes to press against magic-warmed scales, the dragon's breath rattling through the enormous snout they've just touched. His eyes remain closed, dreaming, dreaming, lost into dreams that never end.
They nod, leaving it at that. The bulky clothes that have sheltered them so far into this domain of ice and snow are sweltering here, next to the sweep of his lungs, the heat of a behemoth pressed to the slope of rocks on which he rests. The cloak was bulky and irritating, and they breathe deeper to shed it, scarf and hood and all, moving more nimbly now, spreading their arms out and about. There is still no movement from the dragon, but they did not expect there to be any.
“Tadah~” they cheer, whirl on themselves like the sproutling they'd been before, when they'd last seen him. Nothing more than a child, to this ancient being; still so young compared to his millennia. Amarantha had told them Melchor had been one of the first hatched, once, long, long ago. Before the gods had birthed the other races. Before the first moon had shattered, before the stars were scattered from its broken eggshell.
Listen to the Wind. Listen to the stars.
“I made it to soar wing.” They snicker, laughter caught at their shoulders and in their throat that doesn't quite make it out of their lungs. “I would say 'no broken bones,' but you would absolutely call that lie out.” Another cheer, something light and fluttery as they step closer to the slumbering giant, a hand drifting across the scales that they can reach as they step along.
Melchor's chin rests on the crook of a wing, and they duck underneath it, into a darkness so pitch black, only the broken light that flutters at the gaps are indication of where they can go. They shuffle in the darkness, encounter a wall of the abyss that seems out of place. A running start gets them the leverage to climb atop it, feeling young, so young next to this ancient being who had been by their side for so long. It had ripped open a hole when he'd disappeared.
Their head pops over the wing joint, arms supporting their entire weight as they blink the blur from the sudden light that assaults them. Shards of blue dance along with sparks of buttery sunshine across their eyes, and they have to heft their weight up onto the wing, half blind to the world while they adjust. The entire limb shifts with every breath, slowly, a soothing lullaby for someone slumbering so deeply. They keep going.
Leather is impractical. It shifts and bends underneath their feet, threatens to move at every steps, but they remain confident; assured that the giant won't wake.
He is dreaming, they know. Dreaming of nothingness. Dreaming of tomorrows. Dreaming of a day where he will forget that he is dreaming, and where death will catch him gently by the hand, leading him out of this cage, out of his house and off from his throne.
Until his veins become silver and gold, until his bones crack and spill into precious stones. Until his horns and claws harden into diamonds. For a dragon's tomb is always a magnet for all the riches of the earth.
Cradled near a horn, an arm wrapped around its bulk, they rub their chin against the hard bones, a soothing gesture meant to comfort and reassure. It doesn't quite work the same when they are the one to do it, but it's enough. It has to be enough for now. Their breath catches in their throat as they smile, fill their heart with hope and brightness, as they share this gift. It's not much-- they can't ever return what has been given to them. But it's something; a little shard of the past that they can share.
“Would you like a bedtime story?” They ask, joy in their voice even if their heart sinks with the nostalgia of the words. “I know many; which one would you like?”
They do not expect an answer, smile when a soft rumble of a sigh seeps out of the great bellows of his lungs. He is asleep; but there are still gifts to give away, and he is listening, even if he is not aware of it. It doesn't matter which story they choose in the end; just that they are here to share it.
They take a deep breath.
“Listen to the wind. Listen to the stars.” They murmur, a lullaby to a dreaming giant.
Bittersweet – Dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before (CW: Mentions of Death?) [OTA]
"I found you."
Their breath ghosts through the air, foggy in the light that pierces through layers upon layers of blue, frigid ice. Even with their warmth, they can feel the cold, nipping at their nose, the tips of their fingers, muffled into mittens for the rare times that they've ever worn them. They bring them up to their mouth, drag the scarf down just long enough to breathe onto their palms lightly, a short break while they watch the shadow ahead of them.
Ink-dark in an otherwise pastel-light cavern, the abyss sucks every light and colour that comes too close, hides it away until nothing but shadows remain, hushed and still as a moonless night. Nothing but a void, and the slight rasp of cavernous lungs that seep each breath between a cage of bones.
Talons as long as they are tall have gouged these walls, broken into this prison of ice and rock and settled, a nest to cradle this lost god once and for all. Now he rests; a broken discarded shell, dreaming softly on his throne of rock, in his house of ice, in this cage of bones. They could not be less in awe of him, even as tired and broken as he is now.
They smile as they approach, a light uprise to their lips, listening to the purr of something so gargantuan sleeping as soundly as a kitten. Briefly, they wonder if this is how he felt, watching them rest; a fondness that is both relieved as it is bittersweet. The sound of their footsteps is almost entirely swallowed by his breath. There isn't even a twitch when they press their knitted mitten to the leather of a wing.
"Ammy was worried." They pause, their hand still on the fragile limb, close enough that they can see the maze of veins stretch across the vastness of the skin. They remove it. Remove their glove. Bronze skin presses against the abyss, fearless, unabashed. Warmth meets warmth in a world too cold to bear. They trail their hand along as they approach.
"I was worried." There's something heavier in their throat at this, something that catches, but that they push aside. The other mitten is tossed aside, and their opposite hand comes to press against magic-warmed scales, the dragon's breath rattling through the enormous snout they've just touched. His eyes remain closed, dreaming, dreaming, lost into dreams that never end.
They nod, leaving it at that. The bulky clothes that have sheltered them so far into this domain of ice and snow are sweltering here, next to the sweep of his lungs, the heat of a behemoth pressed to the slope of rocks on which he rests. The cloak was bulky and irritating, and they breathe deeper to shed it, scarf and hood and all, moving more nimbly now, spreading their arms out and about. There is still no movement from the dragon, but they did not expect there to be any.
“Tadah~” they cheer, whirl on themselves like the sproutling they'd been before, when they'd last seen him. Nothing more than a child, to this ancient being; still so young compared to his millennia. Amarantha had told them Melchor had been one of the first hatched, once, long, long ago. Before the gods had birthed the other races. Before the first moon had shattered, before the stars were scattered from its broken eggshell.
Listen to the Wind. Listen to the stars.
“I made it to soar wing.” They snicker, laughter caught at their shoulders and in their throat that doesn't quite make it out of their lungs. “I would say 'no broken bones,' but you would absolutely call that lie out.” Another cheer, something light and fluttery as they step closer to the slumbering giant, a hand drifting across the scales that they can reach as they step along.
Melchor's chin rests on the crook of a wing, and they duck underneath it, into a darkness so pitch black, only the broken light that flutters at the gaps are indication of where they can go. They shuffle in the darkness, encounter a wall of the abyss that seems out of place. A running start gets them the leverage to climb atop it, feeling young, so young next to this ancient being who had been by their side for so long. It had ripped open a hole when he'd disappeared.
Their head pops over the wing joint, arms supporting their entire weight as they blink the blur from the sudden light that assaults them. Shards of blue dance along with sparks of buttery sunshine across their eyes, and they have to heft their weight up onto the wing, half blind to the world while they adjust. The entire limb shifts with every breath, slowly, a soothing lullaby for someone slumbering so deeply. They keep going.
Leather is impractical. It shifts and bends underneath their feet, threatens to move at every steps, but they remain confident; assured that the giant won't wake.
He is dreaming, they know. Dreaming of nothingness. Dreaming of tomorrows. Dreaming of a day where he will forget that he is dreaming, and where death will catch him gently by the hand, leading him out of this cage, out of his house and off from his throne.
Until his veins become silver and gold, until his bones crack and spill into precious stones. Until his horns and claws harden into diamonds. For a dragon's tomb is always a magnet for all the riches of the earth.
Cradled near a horn, an arm wrapped around its bulk, they rub their chin against the hard bones, a soothing gesture meant to comfort and reassure. It doesn't quite work the same when they are the one to do it, but it's enough. It has to be enough for now. Their breath catches in their throat as they smile, fill their heart with hope and brightness, as they share this gift. It's not much-- they can't ever return what has been given to them. But it's something; a little shard of the past that they can share.
“Would you like a bedtime story?” They ask, joy in their voice even if their heart sinks with the nostalgia of the words. “I know many; which one would you like?”
They do not expect an answer, smile when a soft rumble of a sigh seeps out of the great bellows of his lungs. He is asleep; but there are still gifts to give away, and he is listening, even if he is not aware of it. It doesn't matter which story they choose in the end; just that they are here to share it.
They take a deep breath.
“Listen to the wind. Listen to the stars.” They murmur, a lullaby to a dreaming giant.
“They have stories to tell.”