Lazarus

T

here is no small amount of confusion on his face--rather, it's quite large. As of late, he seemed to have been floating in some weird state of limbo, with some vague threads of consciousness that ebbed and flowed....And then he woke up. Again. His whole body ached, and he found himself covered in layers upon layers of moss and flowers that had overgrown over him as if he were a stone facing the sun. His luxurious coat was scraggled and his joints felt like glass.

...But that had been days ago. Over time, he has regained the youth in his step. The limber feeling in his joints, the flexibility of his form has returned in a manner that feels unsettling. As if his slumber had been little more than a dip into the fountain of youth, and his brief submerging and subsequent drying has left him just a tad bit better off than he was when he'd slipped off into sleep. Or death. Surely, it had to be death? Last thing he recalls in a war, an injury, a portal, a bottle-- Sundstol.

How could he ever have forgotten? No, no it isn't that he's forgotten, it's that somehow, it had=d been buried. And now. it's returned in full force, unearthed from the recesses of his mind much the same way that he had unearthed himself from his overgrown gravesite. And since then, he has been on a mission. No clue what the day is, no clue what the year is. The very foundation of the land has changed, and yet he seeks out the crimson trees, because that is where he has felt the most warmth and comfort in his turbulent and violent life.


...But Sunstol's shack is not here. It is little more than a crumbled mass of rotting planks and mossy stones, the farmland overgrown and uncared for. There are no chickens, no spices, no fence.
...Something in his heart threatens to shatter, but he buries it deep in his gut beside the bitterness and spite that keeps him fueled, and eventually finds himself a large, beautiful oak tree. The leaves are a lovely gold, rather than the overwhelming red that permeates the surroundings--and it's view, atop a tiny hill, is nothing to sneeze at. So here, he settles, plopping down a bit harder than needed. And alone-- without even his ever-present cat at his side-- does he finally let that shred of emotion break through.

When his parents died, he was..upset, yes. He grieved, as any child would do. But he had siblings then, and the 4 of them together were a tight support net that saw him through the first war, and onward after it. And then he had left them, to come follow the promise of those in need. And ended up in a strange land, with strange people--alone. And in this strange land with strange customs, he had found comfort and warmth and love in a manner he did not think he'd ever be worthy enough to receive-- and lost it.

Do not cry in front of others. Not a core tenet, but something burned into him from quite a young age--he is a dragon, after all. Dragons do not shed tears needlessly.
...But there are no others here. None at all. Not even a bird roosting in the trees.

So, of course, there is nobody there to hear him wail, uncontrollable sobs that drag all the air from his lungs and make his throat hoarse. He has no idea how long he'll sit here and cry--perhaps until he runs out of tears, or runs out of breath. Whichever one comes first.

art and code by Yahtzee-Penguiduck