Begin, always as new, the unattainable praising: think, the hero prolongs himself, even his falling was only a pretext for being, his latest rebirth.
T
he world I know passes by in fragments. I breach the surface of the sea in the claws of a dragon; and through those claws I watch the sea meet the land. Sand gives way to foliage; and foliage to thicker trees. A lake might wink brightly for a moment before we pass it by; and the trees might change in nature, from evergreens to thick cypresses. Then the water and the trees meet, and I am certain I must be dreaming or dead. I have never seen a swamp; and the trunks that rise so serenely from the water seem an odd reflection, as if they are growing from the sky. But then Damascus’s reflection flashes, too, and I am uncertain of whether anything is real anymore. I might have slept; I might have died; but when I awake it is to be surrounded not by Damascus’s obsidian scales, but by men and women I do not recognize. All around me there are trees; the branches form rooms and walkways, and I placed on a gurney and carried through a canopy.
I catch snippets of conversation.
“The wounds are bad. Someone has tended them some; they’ve staunched the bleeding so that he will at least not die, but there’s the onset of infection—“
“I’m worried about sepsis.”
“How did he get here?”
“What do you mean, did you not see that dragon?”
“Who is he, anyway?”
“I have no idea, but—do you see the lacerations? I can’t believe he’s alive at all. Whatever bit him nearly severed the carotid on both sides. If they had, he’d be dead—“
“I don’t even know where to start. Stitches? We need to clean the wound—“
“Ah, we need more doctors here. I know Elena is Champion of Community, but we could really use her experience. Someone go find her.”
Then, quiet.
There is someone—a nurse, maybe—carefully cleaning the wounds on my neck and shoulder. Everything is stinging. Everything hurts too fiercely. I suppose—I suppose I had gotten too drunk, at the festival, and gone back to the sea after talking to Seraphina. I don’t know. I don’t remember. The last—
I don’t know how much time has passed.
My head aches.
Fuck, it stings.
“He definitely has a fever. He’s fighting infection.”
“I think he was attacked by one of the kelpies.”
“That’s all I can figure, from the bite wounds.”
Quiet again. But even the quiet seems loud. I am left alone.
I might have slept, laying on that table. There is a constant creaking of wood; and outside, cicadas are crying into what I assume is the darkness. But it is too difficult to think clearly, and when I raise my head with the intention of standing, the entire room pitches and falls. I drop my head back down and groan.
Let me die, I want to beg. But when I go to speak, I cannot say the words aloud.
