Anagnorisis

Anagnorisis is written for CloudedDay's Fanfiction Genre Contest. The prompt was Horror. 
Written by Mezepheles.
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The vision first made itself known on a sleepless night in early fall, when the heat of summer had yet to abate. Calamity almost assumed himself dreaming, the apparitions of flames dancing under an empty night sky nothing more than a nightmare fueled by the temperature.
It was a nightmare. Then, a recurring dream. Then, a hallucination. It wasn't until the flames framed the face of someone he knew that he had to admit what it was.
A prophecy of his death.
==Zero==
The sun bleeds languid and red into the horizon, highlighting reddening leaves and imbuing each with its own glow. The chill of autumn has yet to set in, lingering heat still laying heavy across the landscape. The dimming light and long shadows sap green from the meadows, leaving them dark and purple like enormous, blooming bruises.
In the cemetery, it looks like another death. One fresher than the body buried under loose soil, the headstone carved mere days ago. The funeral was yesterday, but already it has seen more visits, bundles of marigolds laid with wilting stems and browning leaves, petals still as warm and bright as the noonday sun. They're being replaced with a fresh cutting, the old flowers held too delicately with shaking talons. She hasn't seen Calamity, not yet.
He considers leaving, slipping away back to the town while her eyes are still entrapped upon the headstone, informational and pristine with neatly spaced letters. It does not list the cause of death. It should, he thought, deep into the hollow darkness of the previous night. Put the blame where it should lay.
He whispers an apology to the deceased, and by the time the only other living thing in the graveyard turns, he's gone.
That night the vision creeps in, flames as red as the bleeding sky, sparks bright as flower petals, air as suffocating as the summer night. Calamity opened his eyes to the black of night, his room suffused with the quick tempo of his own breath. Ever so slightly, it evens and smooths out, and his thoughts follow. There is a lingering pain in his scales, a rawness in his throat, odd chills running down his spines. A bad dream. He is tired and stressed and worried and afraid, and it's affecting his psyche now. His own mistakes. He should have been more careful, if he only took a moment to double check— his thoughts are strangled as sleep reaches up to claim him again, and he lets it.
He can hide from the consequences just a little longer.
==One==
It returns to haunt him in the night, each time growing a little more complex, lasting a little longer before he wakes, choking on air that tasted of smoke, unblemished scales singed by fire. Fire that frames a dark purple sky, scattered with so much silver dust. A depth that seemed impossibly bright against the empty branches splitting the heavens, fractures revealing an infinite void.
Calamity returns to his work at the ward each morning, plastered smile and dark scales barely hiding his sleeplessness. He is moved off of active duty, something that he fully expected. He is shattered, anyway. He can do better, He did do better. He knows better than to beg. It was his mistake and it could not be undone. He is lucky, perhaps, that he wasn't fired.
As he offers water to a RainWing with a broken wing, their name already forgotten, he offers up another invisible apology to the dead.
Every day Calamity returns home, walking along the same worn path he's walked for a decade. Every day, he notices the same unfamiliar faces, loitering near his door, glancing towards him a bit too long in the market. The Enclave is wary of him. They interrogated him for barely a day and let him go, yet their eyes track him anyway, hovering behind him, watching him. Just waiting for another mistep.
He tries to ignore it. He has nothing to hide, anyway.
That night he is standing outside the fire, talons half buried in fresh snow. A pale, sparkling blanket wrapping the night in a gentle comfort. He regards the strength of the bonfire before him. There is an unfamiliar sensation in his chest—anger, relief, satisfaction—coiled deep in his chest. He stands in those twisting emotions until the flames spread, surrounding him, filling the sky with smoke until the stars are blotted out. The sensations disappear before he fully wakes.
He breathes out a small cough of flame, sputtery and faint. It lights up the room just long enough for him to locate the window, and he pulls aside the heavy curtains to let a sliver of the sky in. It's dark, as dark a blue as his dreams, but a slight stripe of brightness hovers over the treeline.
It's close to dawn. Calamity signs, and prepares for the day.
The routine is crushingly familiar now, leaving his thoughts to spin free, uninterrupted. He should visit the cemetery again. He hasn't been doing that enough. Maybe it'd be enough to show the regret that prickled in his chest, all the unspoken pleas for forgiveness from a corpse that couldn't give it— that wouldn't give it if it could. He wanders around the clinic. He engages the patients in small talk. One has three beautiful little dragonets that he excitedly describes despite the illness leaving him sick and delirious. Another swears there will be a storm that night even though a glance at the sky outside revealed a cloudless sky. Calamity makes a bet with her about it. One of the staff is a new hire, and he's far too nervous, uncertain, asking questions that Calamity can barely keep up with. He accepts the rushed thanks. It all slips from his mind within minutes.
He is meandering mindlessly down the halls when it hits, bursts of red and orange flashing behind his eyes, licking at his scales, flames scorching and caustic, chanting death over the sound of flesh sizzling. He is dying, staring blankly upward at muddled stars, cushioned with snow that was far too warm.
When his mind clears, he's collapsed against the wall, claws buried deep in the treestuff. He pulls himself up, taking a few deep breaths to clear the taste of ash in his lungs. No one saw him, he thinks. He hopes.
It's just a bad dream. He's lying to himself. It can't be just a dream, not when it mauls him in his waking hours. His talons are still trembling, refusing to still even as he subconsciously digs further grooves into the treestuff. He focuses on his breath again. He just needs to get through the day, get back home before he can let himself think. It's a hallucination, a conjuring trick by a tired mind. He breathes. He continues on.
Calamity is interrupted through his usual rounds by his supervisor. Her name is a complex one, too many syllables that he fails to recollect. She expresses concern, asks him if he's all right, assures him that no one would blame him if he took time to rest. Of course he isn't fine, not when his sleep is flitting and incomplete, the stains of death on his claws only a few weeks old. He knows how much time has passed far too well, but he recoils from the thought. A few weeks. Just call it a few weeks.
He's still in a conversation. He smiles wearily, accepting her words, only half remembering what she said. She asks again if he'll get some proper rest, wanting him gone like all the rest. He shrugs in a way he hopes is noncommittal. He knows he'll be back tomorrow. She won't be able to chase him away, no matter the ways she attempts to obstruct her intentions.
SandWing eyes follow him as he leaves. Nuthatch finds him too, their pale scales cool as a river as they brush up against his wings. They walk with him, wordlessly, a quiet support beam that he leans into. He can almost feel their worried glances, but they don't bother to speak. Anything either of them could say would be insufficient.
Perhaps they guided him there, or perhaps he simply redirected himself, allowing that subconscious urge to bring him back. The cemetery, the open fields on the edge of Possibility, marked with too many corpses. One too many. One that shouldn't be there. He finds his way to his own mistake, again.
Summer has vanished, and with it the heat. The wind blows chilly, and what little warmth Nuthatch has kindled in his chest is all too easily stolen away. Clouds roil low over the sky. Brilliant red leaves are already browning, some already giving up their perches on the branches to crunch under his talons. The marigolds are wilting away, but the cutting is still new. She has been here not long ago.
"I'm sorry," He tells the headstone. This time, he's apologizing to her, too—the ghost of her presence by the grave.
Nuthatch is by the entrance. They lingered for him. He whispers some sort of half formed thanks. There's a question in their eyes that he can't interpret, but he nods. It seems good enough for them, and they let him lean close to them as they leave.
Tonight, Calamity's sleep is unusually restful, and it's birdsong that wakes him this time.
Tonight, he is once again burning, the taste of desperation and death already familiar.
Tonight, there's a face, distorted by the mirage of flames, one that he recognizes. 
He finds an astronomical calendar from the year he hatched in the library the next day, buried among countless others. It's dusty, pages crinkled, and the archival room far too dark, but his eyes manage to focus on the faded ink. 
Oracle was full that night, painted red with the shadow of the planet.
==Two==
Calamity arrives at the clinic late, and he's greeted with a tired smile. He remembers her name today. Nasturtium, full of ugly and grating sounds. "I thought you finally decided to take a day off," She says, with a wan smile. It barely conceals her concern, but he can see past all the buried layers. His continued presence isn't good for business. The manager should have fired him weeks ago. Put him on trial for medical malpractice, maybe. He remembers that she was saying something to him. He mumbles something vaguely. 
She seems to glean more meaning than he put into it, because she laughs, her tone playful, "You should just give me your off days at this point. I could really use a vacation." She mentions something about a new patient, named Byblis. A dragonet who injured himself and seems intent on doing it again. He keeps escaping his nest of blankets to flap all over the walls. He's just learning how to fly.
It's her subtle way of forcing Calamity into babysitting duty.
The dragonet immediately settles when he enters the room. A little LeafWing of perhaps no more than 6 months old, one wing bound tight into a splint. He ends up fiddling with his blanket most of the day, stealing glances at Calamity. The room is quiet, leaving far too much room for reflection.
Born under a blood moon… it was a rare event. He knew little about it, beyond the excited splash text along the bottom of the calendar: Did you know? Prophets born under a blood moon foresee disasters with far more clarity!
Is that what he sees? The heat, the fire, the blanket of snow. A vision of the future, the face of a dragon watching him through the smoke. He closes his eyes, trying to focus on the details. They were jeering at him, weren't they? Laughing, celebrating his destruction. They knew he deserved to die in pain. His claws seize unconsciously, aggressively, still slick with imagined blood. 
The dragonet squeaks nervously, across the room.
He blinks, his eyes focusing back into the bright sunlight filling the room. The LeafWing curls up behind the sets of pillows, staring widely at Calamity's clutching claws. He's tearing into the treestuff again.
He gently frees his talons from the torn material, awkwardly patting it back down. He awkwardly shuffles closer to the dragonet, trying to pull a question that'd appeal to a child. He asks about names, about families, hopes and dreams and regrets. The dragonet answers, but soon realizes that Calamity isn't listening. The silence stretches on again. 
Calamity's a terrible conversationalist, and a terrible doctor too. He doesn't linger on those truths long before he starts imagining Oracle, glowing crimson in a black sky. He can't remember if he's ever had a vision. This is just… a sign he's tired. That he does need a break, to recover and set his mind on the right path again.
He desperately shakes his head. No, that's Nasturtium's insisting words seeping into his psyche. She wants him gone, but he can't leave. He needs to prove himself, he needs to be here, to get things right, even as she sighs and writes another letter to their manager across Possibility to discuss his continued employment. He's wandered close enough to her desk to see the things she says.
…And she hates that, doesn't she?
The realization dawns. It's her face behind the flames. She's tired of him, she's seeking revenge. Revenge for the hindrance, the irritation, the useless public relations nightmare he's been over the past few weeks. The dark green she is blended far too easily into the night in his memories, but he can see it now, sharp in his mind.
It feels… triumphant, almost, to figure out her tricks.
He pauses in his mental victory lap as another fact hits him. She's going to kill him. Stage it as an accident, maybe, a tragic house fire, but his blood will be on her claws. She's going to watch him die, until he's nothing but charred remains.
It was a twisted sadism he didn't realize she was capable of. He needs to stop her, without letting her know he figured out her plan. 
He hears faint grumbling. The dragonet plaintively complains of hunger. He nods and smiles, slipping from the room to go get a meal. Perhaps two. Calamity hadn't realized how empty his own stomach felt. He'd need to thank the dragonet for that. He needs to stop Nasturtium.
As if she could hear his thoughts, she appears, looming in the hall before him. She asks him how things are going, comments on how tired he looks. the normal, cyclical conversation that he stumbles his way through. He tries to push past her when she catches his shoulder.
"I can tell you're not doing well. Calamity, please take a break." He flinches sharply under her touch. Her talons retreat, but his scales already feel branded from the touch. She stares at him, her eyes so gentle he almost forgets the derisive sneer he saw in his dreams. "Calamity," She repeats. "Take your lunch break. Go outside. Take a walk around town, it'll help your mindset. I'll watch over Byblis for you."
He feels like he should recognize that name. Pinned under her gaze, he nods, "Okay."
"I don't want to see you in these halls at all for the next hour, all right? Now shoo. Remember I'm spending my lunch break on this for you!" She's not even subtle about her distaste for him. He remembers to thank her before he leaves. He'll go outside. Maybe she'll reconsider murdering him.
The thought almost makes him laugh as he leaves the clinic, the world opening up into an unusually sweltering day. A SandWing across the street notices him, and her eyes briefly meet his before she looks away. He lingers on her a moment longer before turning away.
Nasturtium, his supervisor. She always complained so much about getting her breaks, and here she was, shoving him out into the streets. Sacrificing something she loved so much just so he wouldn't be in her space anymore. Was that what bothered her so much? To be in such close proximity with a mistake, with him and his horrendous mistake.
He wanders out into the town square. There are still dragons out here despite the heat, advertising whatever homemade wares they've managed to stockpile. Fresh crocodiles, bearskin rugs, wooden sculptures of seahorses… he peruses the stalls, barely paying attention.
"Hello sir!" A voice declares behind him, with a volume that has him immediately flattening his ears. It's a RainWing, scales displaying colors so bright Calamity finds himself squinting. "Good sir, you look like you could use a vacation!" The RainWing shoves something into his talons, as that awful, cheery voice prattled on. "You'll never get a deal this good! Half a year in the greatest rainforest in the world, with weekly tours of the Rain Kingdom's most exciting historical sites!"
He stares blankly at the scroll, painted with such a mess of color he can barely make out the words. It doesn't matter anyway. He can't possibly leave—
His thoughts click together.
"How much?" Calamity asks.
==Three==
His thoughts blur as the RainWing rattles on. By the end of it all, he has a small pile of paper, each of a different size and texture, and a much lighter pouch of coins. There's the advertisement scroll, a signed ticket, an entire packet of information, a disclaimer written so small that the ink bleeds together…
Six months. Six months would mean returning in spring, long past all the snow has melted. Six months in the rainforest, so bright and warm and full of wildlife. A perfect way to relax.
He rushes back towards the clinic. At the door, he shivers, the sense of being watched sending a telltale shiver up his spine. A glance around—two SandWings conversing behind him, a SeaWing pushing a wheelbarrow of fish, a few SkyWings soaring overhead—leads to nothing. No malevolent gazes at all. He's just skittish and giddy, his senses playing tricks on him.
It's much cooler within the treestuff, much to his relief. He moves quickly through the hall, half wishing he could literally fade into the shadows, hoping that he isn't caught rushing past. Thankfully, everything is empty. It's still lunch break, and the others have little reason to be wandering about. 
Stumbling into the offices in the back, he drops all the fragments of scroll unceremoniously on a desk. He fumbles with an inkwell, the note he ends up making spattered with black and barely readable. Still, as he stands back, he can feel himself relaxing. He can already feel his breathing even out.
There's still work to do.
He finds her in the room he was in earlier, engaged in idle conversation with the LeafWing dragonet. She looks up at him as he enters. He can tell she's displeased, even as he stares at a spot on the wall past her head. It hasn't been an hour, and they both know this.
Still, she waves goodbye to the dragonet and starts to leave.
As she does, he swallows his fears and intercepts her path. "Hey… someone dropped something off for you. You might want to go take a look?"
"Oh?"
"It's on your desk," he mumbles, before moving aside again.
She nods thoughtfully before leaving. He takes up his position across the room from the dragonet. The little LeafWing seemed much more animated in Nasturtium's presence, but he's quick to fall silent again. The rest of the day passes, calm and agonizingly slow. By the end of it all, Catalyst almost regrets not eating anything during his lunch break. It's worth it though… maybe.
Despite waiting and almost looking forward to it, he doesn't see Nasturtium for the rest of the day. He can only hope that things worked out.
As he leaves for the day, he waves goodbye to the dragonet. Never learned that poor thing's name, though he doesn't give the realization much thought. On his way out, he stumbles across one of the staff members working there. There's a SkyWing, packing up her belongings. He asks if she's seen the supervisor, in as offhand a tone as he can manage.
She pauses, and leans close conspiratorially, "Heard rumor that she has a secret admirer." She plays along with his attempted mimicry of disbelief, grinning with teeth that's far too sharp. After a long and dramatic pause, she adds, "Don't tell anyone else, but I saw what they gave her. A full vacation, for just her! I bet they're planning a confession, though."
Catalyst thanks her, shoving down the excited tremors in his stomach before they can grow too agitated. What was that about a vacation, anyway? The SkyWing shrugs. She doesn't know much else.
"I will say, I bet she won't be back for a long, long time. Always complaining about how sick she is of working here, hah."
Another nod, another awkward thanks, and Catalyst slips out into the evening light. Nasturtium took the bait. She's gone, well and truly gone, at least for half a year. She can't kill him from so far away, and he does know her, to some extent. She wouldn't fly back from so far away just to set him on fire.
He doesn't see Nuthatch at all that afternoon. It makes sense, even as his stomach twists. They're busy, too. They've been busy. Their presence yesterday was a rarity, something he had been missing for… he knows exactly how long, before then. He misses them more than he thought. 
The walk home is uneventful. He finds a stall to get a quick meal from. He walks, he reflects, and he tries to forget. When he returns home, his pillows are initially cool against his scales. It feels safe, like he can finally get a proper rest.
The flames are still there when he closes his eyes. The snow is still there. The trees crowd close around him, branches twisting into each other, forming jagged faces with squinting eyes that laugh at his demise. A dragon looms above him, watching him burn. 
He awakes with a start in the middle of the night, scales hot underneath all his woolen blankets. He tears them off himself, trying to cool down, trying to calm down, breathes short and staccato. It's not them. Anyone but them. Please, let it be anyone but them.
It's just a dream. It's just because he was thinking of them before he slept. He's just tired, like Nasturtium said, and on edge, and it's all just crowding his mind with inaccuracies and fears. Yet… with some finality, he needs to admit it. It's real. The dragon watching him die is very, very real. 
And they have pale orange scales, smooth as pebbles tumbling in a stream.
He continues to whisper in denial, the room filling with his desperate pacing. Yet, even as he tries to will reality away, the thoughts sneak in. This does make some sense, doesn't it? Nuthatch is a friend. They're a friend, but… they know what he did. They know what fate he truly deserves. They…
He reawakes early in the morning, a chill working its way through his bones. He fell asleep leaning against the wall, his pillows scattered across the floor. He's sore, the imprint of the wall pressed into his underbelly, but he forces himself to stand anyway. To fix things. He ignores the buzzing of his own thoughts, refusing to even think before he arrives at the ward.
The supervisor is different, a SandWing cloaked in faux gold jewelry. She gathers everyone and introduces herself, though the name is quick to slip from Catalyst's mind. The rest of the meeting… occurs. A passive nothingness before everyone needs to go back to work. Nasturtium was quick to leave. This is her replacement. That's all Catalyst knows.
By the time he settles down, he's already forgotten what revelations he came up with in the night. Still, the conclusion remains clear and defined in his head: Nuthatch is his true murderer. 
Perhaps Nasturtium was planning to do it herself, but it equally could have been paranoia getting to him, trying to place a face into his visions when the thread of prophecy wasn't willing to show him one yet. Now he's certain that he knows who the culprit will be. He still has time to sort that out, convince Nuthatch that he isn't worth killing. He has months. Until winter.
…He almost, almost hopes Nasturtium enjoys the free vacation she got.
==Four==
Calamity's shift passes as slow as it always does. He shuffles around on little errands for the patients, organizing records, nodding to others as he brushes past them in the halls. It's easy enough to distract himself from the vision, falling back into a rhythm that almost feels normal. Like the days he worked before everything started going well… he treasures the mundane more than ever.
Of course the peace couldn't last.
He's helping a patient, bringing her the medication she needs, when a presence looms behind him, placing one uncomfortably warm claw on his shoulder to still him. 
It's the new supervisor, the bangles around her wrist digging into his scales as she shoves him aside politely. She steals the herbs from his claws, gently dismissing him from the room. He barely hears half the words she says, and they only register after he stands, staring at her, for a beat too long. Go. You're not needed. She mentions something about a dragonet too—the LeafWing? Again?
He must have frozen up for too long, because she starts talking again. He recognizes the snarking, venomous tone and quickly leaves the room, stumbling towards the dragonets room. 
"You're not needed here. Nor are you wanted."
She said it to be cruel, on purpose. She looked at him like she knows, and of course she knows. Everyone knows. When he's a living poison, his newly gained reputation a blight upon everything he touches, of course everyone's heard about it, by now. Everyone knows the rumors.
He spends the rest of the day in silence. The dragonet is uncomfortable, but he can't find the energy to be entertaining. He'd probably just scare the poor thing more than he already is.
The weather as he leaves is a far cry from yesterday's, the skies cloudy and lethargic, as if the world itself wants to remind him that winter was crawling ever closer. Nuthatch shows up that day, waving. They're a little more talkative than they were last time, mentioning that he's acting a little different from usual. Calamity's not sure what 'usual' means anymore. They're bolder, trying to poke at him for a reaction, to get some sort of conversation flowing. They always try to do what's best for him, considerate and consistent. That's what they want to be.
Perhaps they had—or will—convince themself that murder is the best way to help him. It's hard to reconcile the dragon beside him, with the one that haunted his vision. Nuthatch does haunt him in his waking hours, always able to find him, but they're a comforting specter. It's hard to imagine them as anything else, despite what he knows. If he could just puzzle out their motivations, he could figure out how to stop them.
He realizes that the two are meandering down the streets in silence. Did they give up on talking to him? When? He's so distracted all the time, it has to be frustrating. Did Nuthatch get frustrated? Did they even care? Did Calamity ever spare a thought for them?
He always knew he was a mediocre friend, but perhaps that had slipped into being a bad one over the past few weeks. Maybe they are sick of him, even though they were the one seeking him out every few days. Hypocrisy, but one that he could almost understand. They felt obligated to watch over him, to watch over his pathetic and mistake-ridden life. Who else did he have left? They were the type of dragon to take up that mantle.
There's only so much a dragon can take. He can see it now. Put him out of his misery and remove a heavy burden on their life. Why wouldn't they take that offer?
He can't remember if he ever saw their face in that vision. He decides that they were sorry, mumbling apologies as they left him to burn alive. That means he can still talk them out of it. It's a nice fantasy to believe, one he quickly commits to.
Yet, as he opens his mouth, the words escape him. Nuthatch long closed the gate for conversation, and Calamity doesn't dare shatter the dead air. He reminds himself he has months. There's still so much time before the snow arrives.
It's an excuse he uses to let the next month pass unhindered. The prophecy continues to replay the same scenes, refusing to ever form itself into words or something more developed. It feels more like a recurring nightmare than anything else. He doesn't pay much attention to the details anymore. He knows what's coming. 
He does his work, he goes on walks with Nuthatch, and it all slips through with the steady march of time.
At some point, he learns that his new supervisor's name is Gild. He quickly catches onto the fact that she doesn't like him much, either. Perhaps less than the other one did. She likes holding his employment over his head quite a bit. "Calamity, just get it done. You know the boss only keeps you around because of your performance reviews." She says it with so much bitterness he's surprised she doesn't choke on it.
Still, the days wash away and he manages to ignore the prophecy. Until it forces its way back in.
The day starts with just another one of autumn's little squabbles, with roiling blankets of gray clouds and sharp winds. It's not weather to be wandering around in, but Nuthatch does anyway. They find Calamity, as they always do, and the ritual of wandering through town starts as it always does. Always the same visit through the town square—it's empty this time, with the early morning threatening rain, the lingering by the cemetery gate, and the trek through Possibility's outskirts.
They wander into the forests a lot. Navigating through low hanging tree branches and through the shadows of mountain ridges.
Always so similar, the walks could be identical. Calamity likes that. He grows so used to it that the flash of crumbling rocks in the back of his mind doesn't register. It was buried among his dreams of fire in the night, and he doesn't realize—or remember—what it meant until he sees them start cracking above him.
He hears his own shout before he feels the impact. He's thrown to the side, bruising his talons and wings as he tries to stop his fall. As he finally stumbles to a stop, he realizes that he hasn't been crushed under the avalanche at all. He looks up.
Nuthatch. 
Their breaths are shallow and ragged, wheezing in pain. They manage a smile when they notice his gaze, even as another shudder travels up their spine. "I'm okay," they start.
They don't look okay. It was less an avalanche and more a couple falling rocks, but one still managed to land on Nuthatch, pinning one wing and the back half of their body down—it's where Calamity was just seconds prior, he realizes. He can already see the slow oozing of blood. He scrambles forward, instinct kicking in. He needs to survey the damage, to stem the flow of blood—he needs to fix this. He—
It hits out of nowhere. The images crash through his consciousness like water in the rapids. The fire and snow and trees reaching for the stars, sparks of light in the dark, pale talons pacing as he's scorched away.
"Calamity, I'll be okay. Just go get help."
He can see the dragon's face this time, through the smoke, just like when he first saw Nasturtium's. It's smirking, reveling, joyous. He can't think straight. Cool talons find his, the touch making him flinch. They're going to kill him. He can't stop them.
"I will," he lies.
==Five==
Nuthatch doesn't return. Calamity waits for them, staring into the forest, but they never materialize from those woods. He needs to remind himself that this is what he wants, the best possible consequence of the decision he made. He stares, he waits, and he watches as the sun reaches a lower angle in the sky with every passing day. Winter's still not ready to give its snow, but he can feel the biting chill grow a bit braver.
He stops taking walks. The transits between his house and the ward are the shortest they can be, his visits to the marketplace ever more scant. He's rarely hungry. No reason to get food he'll never eat.
The nauseousness never seems to leave. Nuthatch had always been in his visions—that was them, he was sure of it—but their presence has crept into his nightmares. Their face is pained, worried, almost resigned. The creases in the ridges of their face, the glossiness of their eyes… he can't find the sneer in his memories anymore. They're holding back the pain, hanging on just for him. He's lucky to have someone like them.
He pushes the boulder off them. He calls for help, and a SandWing responds. She's always nearby, and she doesn't try to hide it this time. She'll offer her assistance, this time. He needs to run into the town to find some dragons still out in the storm, but they follow him into the forest. Nuthatch smiles as they're rescued, wiping the droplets from their eyes. They stumble onto their front talons. 
The damage is less than he thought, just some bruising and a few unlucky scrapes. They shudder as they shake out their wings, but everything is fine otherwise. They'll recover soon enough. 
The damage was exactly what he predicted it'd be, and he feels almost proud of his skill before smothering it with guilt—Nuthatch needs help, and he doesn't have the time or the right to celebrate that victory. 
The moment he sees them properly he can feel his heart drop. He didn't realize it was this bad. Crushed scales and broken bones, he can see how shaky they are. Blood flows in a thick and sluggish river. He's surprised they haven't passed out yet from the shock.
They look at him with cool blue eyes. It's the cold stare of resentment that wakes him. Always that sorrowful gaze, too exhausted to be angry. He can't escape it. It's been—what, weeks? Months. It's been nearly three months now and yet he can't—
It's not a face Nuthatch should be wearing, but it fits them well enough. He knows exactly what it means. It's what it always means.
This is your fault.
Of course it's his fault again. He's messed it up, again. The vision taunts him with that same realization, the face in the fire jeering at him more than ever. That's not Nuthatch. Of course it's not, it never was. He was wrong, and they paid that price. After all of that, the only consequence they have for him is disappointment.
Pale scales. That expression. It's so obvious that he almost doesn't want to do anything about it. All the signs were there, even warped through the flames and hot air. His new supervisor isn't secretive about how much she despises him.
The cycle has shifted, but it's much easier for him. He works in the ward, and he returns home to sleep, or to stare passively at the ceiling. He's back on his normal duties. The little LeafWing had long recovered, and without that excuse to shove him aside, everyone's stuck letting him do what he's meant to. He tends to his basic needs when he remembers.
Her name's already slipping from his mind too easily, and it seems to anger her more every time it comes up. She's upset about his recent routines, too. He's not committed enough, he's too useless, he's not worth having around. It's not a difficult normal to adapt to.
"Calamity. My name is Gild. Can you at least try to remember it this time?"
It's lunch break, and she's decided to corner him while he's alone. He doesn't have time for this. He mumbles in acknowledgement, but she doesn't seem to accept it this time.
"Use your words, Calamity."
"Okay. I'll remember."
It's still not good enough. He's not good enough. He doesn't even remember what comes out of her mouth when she finally starts snapping at him. It was a long time coming. Perhaps she gets something out of yelling at him when she knows he won't absorb any of the words. 
Oh, she's sick of him. He'll never manage to live up to her standards. It's all things he's heard before.
"I—I just don't know what to do with you. You're always so spaced out, you don't follow directions half the time, and you don't even seem the slightest bit interested in improving. Nasturtium had so many good things to say, but you've only been just—just here. You come here every day and you do nothing and I don't know what I'm meant to do."
The venom in her voice makes his spine crawl. He takes to tuning her out as her enraged words continue. He wonders idly how she'll try to kill him. It won't be here—no fire, no snow—but he has to imagine that the attempt will come soon. 
"Please, just take the time to try. That's all I'm asking. I know you've been through a lot and it's been stressful, Calamity, but if you're blaming yourself for Amaryllis's—"
That name shatters the peace of his internal noise. Of course. His claws are on her throat before he can think, and he's barely able to understand his own words as he tries to choke them out . Don't bring her up. You weren't there. You know nothing about it. Phrases that he tries to force out, but he's not sure how many of them make it out of his mouth.
This SandWing knows nothing about that. How dare she bring that up? To hold another threat over his head? His claws dig in, and all he can think is that she wants her to hurt for this. She won't get her chance to harm him. She doesn't deserve the triumph of killing him.
He hasn't reviewed anatomy for months, but his muscle memory works well enough. He doesn't have the tools, but he knows how to do this. She's fighting back, clawing at his underbelly, but he doesn't feel the slashes. He's barely thinking at all.
By the end of it, she's unconscious, and his scales feel stiff with dried blood. Tearing the fire from her throat was… messier than he wanted it to be, but she'll survive. She can't start the fire without hers. She can keep living, knowing that she'll never be able to do anything to him again.
He drags her up near a bookshelf that toppled in the struggle. Arranges it like it was all an injury from a bad accident. Like… Nuthatch. He throws that thought out, searching for a subject only to land on his own injuries.
He's… bleeding. Scratched and brushed, and part of his tail is hurting far more than it should. There's black leaking from that cut—she tried to expedite his demise. He should have expected that. She can keep her tail barb. A reminder of her failure, the same gift she's so kindly given him.
==Six==
When Calamity leaves the clinic, it's noon, still lunch break. All the other staff members are still out. The cobblestones are spattered with wet spots, and he spots an ice crystal drifting down upon his scales before it melts into nothing. There was snow after all… the first of the season.
He patched himself up as much as he could, though the clinic's plumbing was starting to give out on him. The bandages are fresh and his claws clean, so he considers that good enough. Digging up the brightsting cactus was more frustrating than it should have been. He's surprised that Gild hadn't woken during his ransacking of the shelves. He holds onto that little twinge of amusement as long as he can, before it winks out like a snowflake on his scales.
He sets out onto the street, unsure of where he's going.
The snow is still light and drowsy, some flakes blinking out under the light of the sun before they reach the ground. Still, a pale crust is starting to grow over the grass. There aren't many dragons out and about, but there's a familiar face lingering outside the clinic. She stares at him a moment too long—noticing the injuries, he's sure—before looking away again. The Enclave weren't ever good at subtlety.
He ignores her, trudging on.
His wandering brings him down a familiar path. How long has it been since he's visited? It must not be very long, but it's enough that it's hard for him to be sure. He should have come by more often, but at least he's here now, right?
The cemetery looks sorrowful, snow collecting on yellowed grass. The trees are bare, their branches ink dark against a sky slowly filling with clouds. He sees her immediately.
It's been so long.
Her name catches in his throat. He clamps down his jaw, grimacing. He doesn't deserve to see her again. Yet this is where it all started, isn't it? He can still feel the flames. He's still not safe, and as much as he wants to pretend he's escaped fate, he hasn't. He can't be sure. He moves closer, his talons crunching over fresh snow. He sees her ears twitch.
"I'm sorry," he finally starts. She doesn't grace him with the kindness of turning to look at him.
"I told you I never wanted to see you again."
"I know," he sighs. He can hear his own heartbeat. It's fair fainter and quicker than it should be. Is there something wrong with his—he's distracting himself. He can't keep doing that. "I just, I—she deserved better. If I could go back—"
"You can't, Calamity. Leave." She's trying to be as monotone as possible, but she was never good at that.
He ignores the command, finding the strength to step forward, "We both know it was an accident. She's gone, and I…I regret that so, so much. I just want to fix what we still have."
Silence stretches for a long time.
She finally turns, eyes bloodshot with exhaustion. He expected disappointment and bitterness, but the sheer strength of the anger in her gaze feels like a physical slap. "You never liked Amaryllis anyway. Such a simple and easy mistake, and oops, she's dead. They never even put you on leave, did they? You can't imagine that I wouldn't read into that."
The vitriol in her voice is so thick and heavy that he wants to fade out again, buffer himself in his own mind away from her words. He can't shut out the present this time. The lingering pain in his injuries keep him frustratingly grounded, and it feels like her eyes are trying to bore holes in his skull. He needs to face it, even as it drags needles across his heart. He looks past her stare, focusing on the silver teardrop that curves behind it."I'm sorry," he tries again.
It's not that she doesn't forgive him. She despises him. Any apology he can make will never be enough.
She's the one that steps forward this time. "How many times do I need to say this? 'Sorry' won't fix anything."
He can feel his stomach twisting. 
"You care so much about family?" She says, "Then give me this. Just do the one thing I ask, Calamity. Leave me alone."
He can't. He's already messed everything up, and he's stopped being able to fix it a long, long, time ago. He should be cold, snowflakes starting to last as they land upon his scales, yet he feels like he's burning up again. The vision dances in the back of his mind, constant flashes of fire and of that face. He can't give up now.
He's come this far.
Her eyes widen. She puts together the pieces of his plan before he does, but her preemptive attack comes a moment too late. He's meant to keep the dragons under his care alive—do no harm—but desperation tears away that inhibition as it laces through his blood. 
Blood. His own flesh and blood. It's everywhere, seeping into soil already feeding off death. He can tell that some of his wounds have reopened, every movement making him wince. He looks down as his sister.
"I'm sorry," again. As if it means anything.
He backs up. Clouds have rolled in, but the sky is still too bright. The trees are too sparse. He looks around, and he can already see the dragons crowding in by the entrance. He can already pick out that SandWing, as she looks towards him from across the cemetery. 
The Enclave. 
There's more than just her this time. He thinks he recognizes the other faces, but he's not sure.
"Calamity—" one of them starts, but he shuts the words out of his mind before they can register. He already knows what they want. They've seen it all, witnessed plenty enough of his mistakes. He can't hide from the consequences anymore. It's over, isn't it?
He hears the word "Nuthatch" and it violently drags his mind back from its wandering. The dragons are closer than he realized—or maybe they moved—of course they moved. He should know that. He needs to—it's too hard to focus. He can't think. Everything hurts and all he knows is that he's faced with death. Again. 
He's sick of it all. He grasps onto the first solution he can find.
The flames erupt from his mouth, spraying out across dried grass and dead wood that catches despite the growing layers of snow. There are shouts, scattering dragons, a chaos that he doesn't bother trying to navigate as he turns from the mess he made and runs. He leaves it all behind.
At some point he started to fly. It's dark by the time he finds his thoughts again. He's deeply alone in the night sky and he's exhausted.
He can't go home. He has nowhere to go, nothing to return to. He's… drained and weak. He spirals down into a patch of forest, talons sinking into the snow. He's cold, but he's tired, and all he can manage is dragging his way to a slightly drier patch of land.
The trees crowd close around him as he closes his eyes.
==End==
The night is dark and muddled by clouds, stars clawing for their moment of glory amongst the undulating blue. All the moons have cloaked themselves in darkness, even as the snow reflects enough light to brighten the gloom.
Calamity rests. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knows that falling asleep in the snow is dangerous, yet he welcomes the ice as it seeps into his bones. It's a comfort, his nights so full of charred wood and burnt scales. He doesn't miss the raw, feverish warmth that haunted him.
He can feel himself forgetting everything. It's so solemn and quiet that there's little for his mind to hang onto. His bandages grow soggy, darkening the blood already drying on them. He should check on his injuries. He should drag himself back up, to find proper shelter. There's so much he needs to do, so much he needs to process, yet… it's so easy to just sink into the icy embrace the world has offered him. Why does anything else matter? He's safe here. He needs some rest, and he has all the time in the world for it, now.
He looks up towards the sky, a blue so deep he'd have thought it black if the branches didn't manage to take on an even darker shade. The trees are numerous, huddled together around him, but without their leaves they too look alone. They reach up, frozen in their futile attempt to grasp the stars. He lets his eyes fall closed. The slow crawl of exhaustion that drags him away, cradling him as he fades into his subconscious. The vision doesn't greet him this time. The creases in his face smooth out.
Somewhere in the forest, despite the chill, a spark alights. When the flames come, he doesn't feel them. He dreams of Amaryllis's face, eyes closed and pale in death.
Category:Fanfictions
Category:Fanfictions (Completed)
Category:Content (Mezepheles)
Category:Genre (Horror)
Category:Genre (Tragedy)
Category:Genre (Prophecy)
Category:Fanfictions (Fanon)