The morning is not the dawn. Dawn's light brings with it warmth and motion, the steady rotation of the celestial vault heralding the inexorable course of the day from one moment to the next. But I wake to starlight and still-black skies, to the shrill scream of alarms I do not trust myself to rise without. They pierce, they ring, and it is a well practiced motion that ghosts my finger over the screen to turn them away. There will be another, in ten minutes' time. Because I know myself. I know my habits.
Today, though, I will take another moment. There is a weight at my side, cradled softly in my arms. It emulates a dream ever beyond my reach. Echoes fantasies closely held for all they cannot be fulfilled. I curl in upon it, feel and hear the shifting of my body against layers of loosely draped fabric. I move awkwardly, sluggishly; there is more of me than I expect, and the blankets are a tangle overtop. But my dreams were vivid enough that whispers drift through to the waking, and so I pay it no more heed than I must.
Another alarm trips, and it almost hurts to let it go for longer than a few moments. I fumble, something catching against the sheets, but I manage to lift my phone and lift my eyes, and were it not for the alarm I would have stopped for a good, long moment. As it is, I hesitate, wincing at the anthem of wakefulness that slips into its fifth stanza. The screen protector is scored deep by the point of a talon as I hurriedly slide the notification aside, dismissing one more notification among dozens. I lift my blankets, throwing them over to the other side of the bed and looking down at my erstwhile sleep-aid, still grasped beneath a wing I did not have when I finally fell asleep.
A violet dragon plushie looks up at me, innocent and inanimate. My wing twitches and withdraws, as I idly consider the grace with which the muscles of my back and chest and in the newfound limb itself pull and twist like another arm in its own right, and just as naturally as any limb with which I was born. I reach for the toy, holding it against the scutes of my belly, laying my head down beside its own. I hug it close, snugly, tightly, proving my digits as dexterous as my claws keen. My tail wraps around, the tip within easy reach of my forelimbs, and I just take a moment to drink it all in.
There is a weight to my body, not of pure mass but in tightly-corded muscle and a softer layer that cushions my frame. There is a shimmering sheen to my scales, not simply in the hue of my armor but in subtle markings I can just make out in the starlight - so much brighter than it has any right to be - playing across my body and spanning my wings. There are a multitude of scents that commingle in my room - the two strongest being my own; one from before, with an oily tang I decide I do not much like, and one newly minted: softer, subtler, filled with information because somehow I understood what the layered notes convey. Warmth flushes my cheeks as I make another realization, a flicker of glee stirring the loose heat that pools within my chest. A scent and taste I know in my heart as dragonfire - my dragonfire - stains the room, embers and vapors escaping the nares of my snout as I giggle, shaking with the attempt to contain myself. I can hear my own breath, stuttering with mirth, and the way my movements cause my bed beneath to groan and grumble, wood and steel holding firm.
My laughter fades away as a tension I'd forgotten I always carried finally loosens. I yawn wide, a quiet, keening whine escaping my throat before a low, rolling rumble sings a rhythm of joy into the early hours of the morning. A brief stretch leaves my tail smacking against the dresser by the far wall and my wings bumping against the walls, and I idly muse that I have a wider range of motion than an obligate quadruped before it hits me that I'm probably going to be relearning how to walk, rather than deftly striding out reborn.
That's the thought which grounds me.
Because even if I'm not hallucinating with such vigor to have broken myself, today I won't be making it to work; can't, even. Brilliant, beautiful wings does not a gift of flight yet make, and I doubt I would fit in a conventional car seat anymore. Let alone carry the backpack which holds my computer and the trappings of my trade. And while I could still use my computer - at least, probably - my poor phone disclaims the assertion that I might do so with any ease.
I reach across my bedside table, finding the pencil cup and my collection of writing implements, finding one of the handful of pens that had a stylus tip. My hands are deft, but it takes a second as I settle on my side - one wing splayed awkwardly behind me - to arrange my device and type out a request to my supervisor. Slow, steady, but precise.
It'll probably be more than just today, but I can navigate tomorrow when it comes. I grab my plushie, and hold it like a precious hatchling as I wait for the sun's brilliant gaze to peek through the window and warm my scales, settling first back on my side, and then rolling and adjusting until I found something that felt more right, more comfortable, and which didn't threaten a limb with pins and needles. Horns I hadn't noticed before jabbed into my pillows, but thankfully not the wall. My nest would need to be remade, anyway.
romaincrisis
2087
baratheonpilled
yousharknotpass
tangentwithtanner
ellievsbear
prguitarman
