Chapter Text
He just—comes to be at some point. There's no particular start to this awareness, no moment of blinking into, he doesn't know, existence. Is he dead? Reborn? What is he?
He suspects the answers to these questions carried weight before, heavy weight. A burden he has no recollection of, aside the heaviness of what once was. He thinks he was in somewhat of an episode. Helplessness twined with despair, cloaked in misery. He doesn't remember the root of it, though the aftershocks shake his system, something nursing a non-existent wound. It felt like something monumental, larger than life, that it would never leave his bones, etched into his very being.
But. But. It's not there anymore. And this – absence – is so strange that he lazily marvels at it, thoughts syrupy slow, his senses muted and late to reaction, even to something like this.
The world is strange, after all. Around him is stone, the wind is howling somewhere far, not reaching his little shabby oasis, wherever it is. He is content with just leaning on the surface and staying like that for the time being.
He doesn't need sleep or food, though he doesn’t notice it at first, laying with surprising comfort in some sort of cave. Just— the gnawing hunger, which used to settle comfortably in his empty stomach, is there no more. The ever present tiredness that weighed down his body and clouded his mind is— absent. His thoughts stutter at this revelation. That's a new interesting development, he should note this, add to the growing pile of not-questions. He could sleep or eat if he wanted to, he thinks, it's just so low on his list of priorities, which he doesn’t even really have, that he kind of—forgets.
That thought proves that he’s not really human anymore. Because he was that, before. He’s sure of it. He had—parents, he thinks, he studied, had friends and opinions, all very human things. But that thought is too painful to touch, so he lets it go.
It’s fine. For the sake of comfort of his mind, he does curl up and doze for a while. (He stretches and feels something shift and pop, his mind slows and quiets, colours muting.)
—
On a separate day he finds out he can feel the mountains as a whole. Because that’s where he is. His cave is cushy and all, but there’s just so much more over the border of his humble abode. A full on mountain, stacked with corpses and roiling with deep-seated resentment, a gnawing hunger for vengeance of the poor and beaten. He sighs deeply once he feels all that, like it’s right up against his senses instead of somewhere far away from his cave. It’s strange but seems—familiar. Almost homely.
The ghosts shriek and roar and mumble and cry, and he can hear each and every one of them. Feels each toll and tragedy they carry close to their undead hearts. He doesn't talk, he doesn't move from his cozy sprawl on the stone floor of the cave, they come to him, and he listens to their sorrows. Something in him cracks and bends at each story, but most pass through him untethered.
Each ghost that finds peace leaves the place a little better, it gets easier to breathe through the avalanche of resentful smoke. He can feel it, reaching out to every rotting but quietly healing tree. And it might be wishful thinking, but he himself feels lighter after helping them pass.
He blinks another season away.
—
He doesn’t know how many years slip by with little fanfare (time loses its meaning when each day is like the last, filled with quiet turmoil of ghosts and their rasping soliloquies), until he can feel the first of healthy rain come to his mountain. Watering the scant greenery of the place, nourishing the dead soil that doesn't feel so dead anymore. It was ashen and barren — an empty battlefield — but now it's a healthy reddish colour, and first sprouts break through the earth to brave the sun that's just warm now, instead of scorching like nine hells.
He’s still deep in the cave, but he can almost taste the warmth of gentle sunlight on his scaly skin.
—
There's a village at the foot of his mountain. Different people live there, but mostly farmers, small merchants and the like. He learns all that from the chatter at the edge of his awareness. Excitable kids doing dares, egging each other on — who can come further up the scary mountain. He can admire the spirit, chuckling to himself, eager to monitor this mischievousness. Something pangs in his heart at this, memories threatening to swarm, but like always, they never come. The hollowness in his mind persists.
The mounds since then have become a prosperous place that brings joy to his heart, with luscious trees and other growth, small animals and critters come to live here too, keeping him company.
The villagers notice this, and now sometimes he can sense cautious people on his mountain, checking the growing trees and marveling at the flowers and berry bushes.
Small children run to play here, swing from trees and vines. Nothing is poisonous, nothing is tainted with resentful energy. And soon adults start coming without trepidation, to fetch their wayward kids and some apples and berries on the way.
—
There's one visitor who's probably a chief of some kind. He wasn’t the first to find him or his cave, the kids did, and though they swore to keep him their secret, the gleeful desire to share something their old folk didn’t know won out in the end.
The chief, maybe the mayor of the little village, stands out compared to the rest, not above, just more—present. He’s the one who starts the ensuing trend. When his solitude had been disrupted and the pilgrimage began, other people visited and bowed before him, like he’s some kind of— heavenly being or god, even — their scent tinged with fear and reverent awe that smarted and made him want to sneeze. He didn't do anything to deserve that kind of treatment, really, though the skies are clean, and his mountain has fresh produce, plenty to share among the poor folk here. Hm. Maybe the offerings make some sort of sense.
The kiddies are cute. The folk don't allow them to come close yet, but kids are curious — it's in their nature. All wide-eyed squealing and awe that's not reverent, but just 'ooh's and 'aah's over his form.
Yeah, that's also a thing. He’s not a human, not only because of lack of need for sustenance and rest but also — um. He’s gigantic. Easily the size of a house. And there's some decidedly non-human characteristics about him. The claws are, yeah, sure, fine. Pretty cool. The iridescent scales running down the side of his body are something else. As are the pointy ears, tall horns and a tail. The animalistic anatomy continues all the way. There’s nothing human about him, and he’s been like this since as far as he can remember, which is, admittedly, not much.
All signs point to him being a dragon of sorts. He's not sure if he can fly, though there is a buzz under his skin and a certain lightness that suggests the opposite. But he hasn't tried it yet because, well. He hasn't left the cave. It's nice in here. Dry and dark, which apparently is what he likes now. The fungi that grows on the side glows in all kinds of colours, adding to the beauty of the nature of this place. Pale blue, vibrant green and exuberant purple cast the stone in magical low light. It's very pretty. And his new anatomy allows him to space out for long periods of time just marveling at the pale light playing on the surface of the lake of the cave, thoughts slow and calm. It's nice.
Somewhere into the second week of the people’s acknowledgment of him, he notices that kids run around more freely near his cave, probably getting a blessing to spend time near a ‘benevolent godly being’.
Their delighted laughter reaches him through the fog still clouding his mind. He lifts his unwieldy neck to see the mouth of the cave better. It's darker outside, must be evening. The sky is brilliant with different shades of reds and pinks and purples of the sunset. Something stirs at the back of his mind and relaxes at the sight.
He croons at the little ones, speech difficult through the intimidating teeth and throat suited better for other sounds like growls and chirps. It's an involuntary sound of interest and appreciation, which kids understand and buzz with even more delight. Adults though, scatter and murmur in agitation and sour the air with a tinge of fear. He sighs. A lanky teen sneaks a glance his way, smile crooked and precious.
He starts being more present, after that. Takes care to see the day through and notice the time's passage. He doesn't blink days away, finding entertainment in the kids' shenanigans. They're trying to be sneaky and come closer to him each day. Not that it's possible, considering his senses make him able to track any being on his mountain. Parents are mortified, but seeing his reaction — or rather, lack there of — they let them, waiting with bated breath.
—
He decides to stretch his legs a bit. The cave is all nice and cool, but the world calls to him with its vibrant colours, its joyful laughter, and buzzing chatter. He shakes off his ever-present drowsiness and stretches deliciously, muscles shifting and burning with movement until his form—shifts. It’s a disorienting feeling, that. He’s left standing on two legs instead of four paws and it’s foreign now. He leans on the uneven stone wall to prop himself up until he can get his fill of looking at his new? old? body. It shines from the inside out in the darkness of the cave, a fuzzy glow dispersing the dark in a fascinating way. His limbs are long, with lean muscle. Hair is a bit dry and tangled, but that’s fixable. Besides the glow, there’s nothing non-human about him, as far as he can tell. Good.
He braves the world for the first time since—well, in forever, it feels like.
First on his itinerary is to feel the changes of the mountain first hand. His bare feet touch the grass, tickling the soles of his feet. The air is clean and carries the note of plentiful fruits and berries that started growing here some years ago. He spins in place, gleeful, breathing the scent, the air, the open skies by lungfuls. He can't get enough, and a smile comes, unbidden. What a miracle, he thinks, and keeps the flicker of this emotion close to his heart.
His robes are clean and simple, his skin has a healthy shine to it, the glow not that noticeable in the sun, but he snickers to himself at the thought that he can function as a make-do torch or a lighting talisman now if needed.
Soon he can't help it — he runs. Somewhere between the third and fourth step, his feet are in simple serviceable boots, and he can't feel the soil underneath his feet, but there's a spring in his step and running carries the delight of jumping and skipping just for the hell of it. He feels light and strong and free. It's like a faraway feeling, something novel, like the feeling is so far removed, as if this body hasn’t experienced anything like it in recent memory (like there wasn't much of this feeling to remember in the first place). He hums, but doesn't dwell on it.
He climbs a tree, while he chases a squirrel to its home, laughing at the absurdity of it all. Kiddies run somewhere close, their peals of laughter close, warming his heart. They skid to a stop by his tree, eyes wide and knees scraped. He smiles at them indulgently and reaches to a near low-hanging branch, heavy with juicy and plump pears, and throws a couple of them to the kids. They fumble with the gift, stumble over each other but manage to catch the fruit, staring at him, starry-eyed, smiles gap-toothed. He can't find his voice to say something light and silly, like he hoped to, instead he's tongue tied, chest tight at the sight. Something he's not going to ponder on. It goes with the rest, stored away somewhere in the back of his mind.
With shaky hands he grabs another pear for himself, to taste the labour of his mountain, he's gotta check it for quality after all, if he’s to be the guardian of this place, eh?
The flavour is sweet and rich, and it bursts on his tongue with such innocent delight that he laughs and laughs, forgetting his tight chest, the gaping absence in his head, the long years with ghosts as his only company.
He returns to his cave, full of experiences and feelings, and it's a lot, it's overwhelming, so he curls and quiets into the big scaly form he’s come to know and appreciate.