Remembering

I GOT BORED
I'll rename this page later thsi is like a spontaneous name
Memory and Memories were both taken so
Pov of future oc
There are approximatelyy 1 billion chapters
I'M A TERRIBLE WRITER don't mind me
OH YEAH I FOUND THIS RLLY COOL POEM BY ABE LINCOLN CALED MEMORY OR SOMETHING AND IM' USING IT
==I. My Childhood's Home I See Again,==
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There's pleasure in it, too.
Perfect nights are those when cool fog rolls off the thick leaves of knotted and heavily-vined jungle trees, like the turbulent roils of water during a flood; when the rising mist tickles your nose and clings to your scales, promising cold dew. The moons shone faintly behind a blotchy curtain of dark clouds, washed-out colors blooming like shy flowers. The breeze was soft and cold but not unpleasant, rather like a quiet, reassuring whisper. This was the kind of night you want to cherish forever.
I lay on the damp wood of my platform, about midway up a massive tree (though it was dwarfed by some trees that grew in the rainforest). The platform was small and rather wizened, much like the twenty-six others crowded onto the tree, but it was mine. Each platform was an extension of a hut, which was a relatively small space scooped out of the old wood.
Faint thunder growled in the distance, but I had seen the worst of the storm, at least for now. The past week had been a barrage of rain, threatening to warp the scrolls and wooden tablets I kept in my hut. I was not able to write because of the sheer humidity. The wait for the ever-stubborn rain to end was maddening. I had to remember this feeling.
From a tiny gap in the wall inside my hut, I uncovered a roll of papyrus I had stashed out of fear that the uncaring water might clear away my works. Reaching my right arm over my chest, I opened my leather sack with a click and curled my claws around my trusty charcoal stump that I used for some of my writing.
I also kept a hawk-feather quill in my faithful sack, but I felt it was too risky to brandish it at the moment. I decided that the unpredictable gusts of cool wind needed to cease before I could use it. It was my prized possession (I loved hawk feathers for the fact that they are remarkably stiff and forgiving, a good thing for clumsy hands like mine). I had lost far too many utensils before, and fine resources like these were nearly impossible to find in the heart of the Rainforest Kingdom; many in my tribe were foolish and didn't care in the slightest for the art of fine writing.
I unfurled the brittle papyrus and nearly smashed my charcoal into the left corner underneath my previous writing. It had been so long! I wanted to kiss the paper, I missed its dry, smooth texture so much. I wrote my impressions, I described the feeling of cold rain on my smooth back, I told colors and smells and shapes to nobody in particular. It felt absolutely magnificent to write after this long. I needed to remember this. I didn't want to forget any more of what I'd felt—I could hardly remember whether it had been cool or warm just the other day.
I wrote and wrote until my hand was sore and pulsing rawly. I had milked my memory to nothing. I rubbed my eyes with my hands and looked up from the papyrus, which I had nearly covered with charcoal. I thought I had for some reason turned my arms black, until I tried to shift them to faded brown like the platform. They were coated in black dust. I smiled and shook my head. "Finch, if you keep this up, you'll be mistaken for a NightWing."
Not that many other RainWings knew what a NightWing was, of course. My tribe was a collection of uneducated, slap-happy geckos. Many times before I'd tried to tell other dragons about the wonders of the outside world, but everybody seemed inclined to go back to sleep. Fools.
I was one of the few RainWings who had actually ventured outside of the rainforest. I'd visited all over Pyrrhia with my dragonethood friend, Ringneck, mainly to gather resources. Ringneck was a stunning artist, and we visited the Sky Kingdom long ago to find hawk feathers. Ringneck was the dragon who had gotten me into hawk-feather quills; he told me they felt great in his hands, and jokingly scolded me for ruining all the parrot feathers he had gifted me in years prior. We were young and careless then, on top of the world and completely oblivious.
Ringneck and I had been attacked by one of Queen Harpy's servants. I found out later that the old SkyWing queen had gotten word that there were stray RainWings on the side of a mountain where young livestock was kept (we had spotted several hawks there, and excitedly began hunting, forgetting to camouflage ourselves). She wanted a RainWing-skin cloak.
Ringneck died that day. I had to watch him being skinned while I was tied up; thank the moons that SkyWing didn't know about my venom, or we would have both been surely killed. I dissolved through the rope that bound my jaws, then splashed venom onto the dragon's wing. I burned through the ropes around my body, took off at top speed, and never looked back. I remember writing the feeling of different colors all over myself; an unearthly mix of horrified white and infuriated black, pale green terror and red loathing and hopeless gray grief.
The image of his skinless body still rings clear in my mind when I remember the experience while reading my old scrolls. I still freeze in place when I picture a pile of bare muscle and blood on the ground. Red is my least favorite color, and I will never forget that. Those scars haven't properly healed, and I can suspect that most scars like them wouldn't. But perhaps that experience has granted me a vivid memory like no other.
----
I found myself staring at nothing in particular. The sky was so dark, I thought it must still be nighttime. Did I zone out again? Did I stay awake the entire night?
I looked at the horizon. Pale orange seeped from the tops of the black trees, so I knew it must be dawn. The thick clouds were moving unbelievably fast, like they were being pushed by all the SkyWings in Pyrrhia. The wind came quickly.
I slept. How else could I miss the coming of a storm this big?
I heard nervous chatter above and below me—"Big storm." "Wind." "Boarding up my hut." I figured I'd better move my things to a more sheltered place for the time being.
Turning to enter my hut, a sudden gust of wet wind nearly blew me off my platform. Gripping the edge of the platform with my tail, I snapped my wings open to keep my scrolls and other forms of writ from being blasted out of their places by the wind. Lightning cracked bright white. I was likely a shade of white myself.
I couldn't carry all of my precious memories by myself. I called, "Honeycreeper!"
I prayed that my upstairs neighbor was in her hut. A second later, the skinny, young RainWing poked her head down from her platform. "What is it? I need to leave, quick!"
Honeycreeper's fear was prominent. Her normally happy, pastel scales were a somber shade of bluish-gray, not unlike the clouds rolling above us. White spots like fleeing egrets flashed across her body.
"Will you help me carry my things to the baobab tree not far from here? I can't do it on my own." Baobab trees always brought me comfort—they were absolutely enormous, with unbelievably thick, solid trunks and a sort of wide, shallow bowl under the broad-leafed canopy, where the massive branches connected smoothly. They were extremely comfortable, shady, and almost mystical. Definitely inspiring.
She was about a wingspan above me, but I thought I caught the tiniest flicker of nervous disapproval across Honeycreeper's face. "Finch, you don't need those scrolls and things! Just leave, before it rains! You know what heavy rain can do to thin wings. Remember what happened to Wreath when he tried to gather honey during that huge thunderstorm?"
I racked my brain, but I was unable to remember. I was sure I wrote it in a scroll or on a tablet somewhere. One I might lose forever if Honeycreeper refused to help me.
"Your wings will get holes torn in them," she continued. "Why do you need all that junk anyway? It's completely unnecessary! I need to leave, before it starts to rain. Come on."
Before I could think of a stinging retort to spit at her, Honeycreeper spread her long ashy wings and launched herself off of her platform. She sailed off like a gull, too proud to glance back when I called after her desperately. Secretly, I wished upon her a strong wind to batter her out of her senses.
Tears pricked at my eyes. These were my only memories. I couldn't just lose them... I wouldn't remember anything, I'd be lost. Nobody would bother to help me remember either, moons forbid I did lose everything.
What do I do... what do I do... I didn't see any other dragons nearby. It seemed everybody had abandoned the tree, or was cowering fearfully from the oncoming storm, pressed against the rough wooden walls in white-scaled terror. I was alone.
I had to pick myself up. If nobody would assist me, I'd have to do this myself.
I dashed into my hut. Grabbing my spare sack (the one made from waterproof yak leather, where I would put the most important writing), I began stacking scrolls on top of each other lengthwise. Before I had packed half of them, both sacks bulged dangerously. I shoved a couple more in. I decided it wasn't worth it to keep them pristine, so I began squashing folds into them.
But then I remembered—my tablets! I had around twenty tablets; each was was a thin plate of light wood, most able to fit in a large hand's grasp. I burned only the most significant memories into these using drops of venom in short, pointed dowels carved from stone, with a hollow reservoir inside for lasting writing capacity. I couldn't lose the tablets or the dowels, no, no, no. I was able to stack these into groups of five and cram them along the sides of the sacks, which by now were about to burst at the seams.
The sacks were filled to their limit. I grabbed as many scrolls as I could manage in my hands (I likely kept over one hundred). I curled some into my tail. I held three in my mouth. I even placed two behind my frills, which were instinctively flaring and bright teal with alarm.
Though I couldn't carry all my scrolls, I figured it was unnecessary to remember everything. Without hesitation, I lifted off my platform and shooed away any gray that crept onto my skin with splashes of hopeful lavender.
By now, the wind was as fierce as a lion and roared like such. As I spread my wings, I couldn't help but notice a flash of black in the undergrowth far, far below, nearly concealed in fog and dripping leaves. I shook the grave feeling that something might have been watching me and forced myself to remain a collected cerulean.
I wobbled in the air and tensed my wings. The enormous gusts whistled and screamed, and several times I was nearly knocked out of the sky. My destination, the immensely sturdy baobab tree, was not far, but I could hardly see its silhouette through the opaque air. I had flown a fair distance from my home tree when I felt the first drop of rain.
I felt it as though the world had been slowed down; as soon as it stabbed itself onto the thin webbing of my right wing, its coldness flashed through me, washing all hope away. I wouldn't make it. My precious scrolls—they'd all be ruined. I had a ways to go until I reached the baobab.
Where that single stinging droplet hit, my webbing was pale gray, as if my skin too felt the shock of this realization. A tiny splash of molten silver, about to dissolve all my ambitions. But then the drops multiplied: two, four, eight, until rain was shooting from the clouds like an enormous swarm of angry hornets, ripping pinpoints into my delicate webbing. The wind hurled leaves and branches everywhere. Rain flooded my eyes and I lost ahold of a scroll. I flailed my arms and wings and legs desperately, trying my hardest to coordinate myself so that I could dive after it like some SkyWing, but the most powerful wind yet came and blew me sideways.
My wings were numb and cold. I heard my heart pound in my ears as I fumbled with all my scrolls. They slipped out of my unresponsive hands, from behind my frills which had flashed open in alarm. My mouth was wide open in a silent scream, allowing more to fall. I was in a state of panic like never before. I couldn't control myself. I had unwillingly surrendered; I was this storm's puppet, and no matter how hard I fought, it tightened its stinging grip on me.
I was smashed against the trunk of a tree as though by the arm of an ancient NightWing, and I heard a crack—maybe lightning, maybe my own body. I fell without sensation.
==II. O Memory! Thou Midway World==
'Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,
My head felt like it was splitting in two.
I opened my eyes groggily. I couldn't see anything clearly. Everywhere I looked, shapes were quadrupled. Ow. Ow, ow, ow...
I was lying in a puddle of rotting leaves and mud, but I hurt too much to care. My arms felt like they were being ripped out of their sockets, and my wings... my wings...
Sitting up shakily, mud sliding down my body, I opened my wings, which were a particularly distasteful shade of carelessly-applied mint. I bit my tongue to choke back a shout. My wings were ferociously mutilated by the storm—torn in places, speckled with holes. Sticks and thorns were embedded into my webbing in three or four spots, and I had to clamp down on the thought of pain and yanked them out, wincing.
I was unable to extend them farther than two snout-lengths from my scraped-up body, and when I attempted to, I cried out. The muscles of my long, slim wing arms felt like they were being stretched and bitten and constricted all at once, so I promptly decided it would be best for my well-being to keep them folded loosely along my back.
My wings were just the beginning, as my entire body ached. My left frill drooped pathetically (I assumed that several of the supportive pinions had broken), and my snout appeared to be oddly bent near the middle as I peered down it. My head felt shattered and sharp pangs hit my temples in a random pattern, causing me to hiss in displeasure.
But then I noticed the absence of something. My scrolls! Where were they?! I jumped up, ignoring each part of my body that screamed to flop back down. I dug through the sopping wet piles of leaves and felt my claws tear through something soggy and heavy, more fibrous than the leaves that concealed it. I practically threw aside the pile of wet leaves and exposed a sad-looking, uncurled papyrus, torn through the middle by my incautious hands.
My heart hammered. I picked it up carefully so as not to rip it further. As the ruined scroll was brought upright, the remains of any ink or charcoal began to drip down the length of it, rendering it unreadable. I felt tears well at my eyes, at least, I thought I did. I couldn't elucidate the difference between my tears and raindrops, which were gentler than before. I felt my scales blooming with crimson, like drops of blood in water.
Peering around the place I had fallen, which happened to be a small clearing (probably deforested of any small trees by my uninvited appearance), I was able to pick out spots of off-white among the eyeful of green and brown. No doubt more abolished scrolls. Then something occurred to me: my sacks were still swung around my shoulders! One was made of thinner leather, tapir leather to be precise, which probably was unable to protect the scrolls and tablets within; I grabbed it and tipped it onto its side in the air, and ink-blackened water spilled out in bowlfuls. I sighed in dread. But the other sack, finely crafted out of yak skin from the Kingdom of Ice itself, may have kept my scrolls intact.
My hands trembled as I reached for it, undid the metal clasp, reached inside carefully... and touched dry paper! My entire body flushed pink with immense relief. They were saved! I'd packed the most meaningful documents in there, including Ringneck's final story. Many of my most important scrolls and tablets concerned Ringneck, as any adventurer's log tells about her dearest traveling companion and their expeditions.
I wanted to shout with rapture. I probably would have, if I hadn't heard voices coming my way. I awkwardly darted around the tiny clearing, grabbing as many sodden and crumpled papyruses as I could, then painfully dashed behind a tree and turned a dark, waterlogged green to replicate the mottled undergrowth behind me.
A relatively high male voice wheezed, "Can we stop? I need to rest."
"I hope the RainWings can help him," a much deeper male voice said a moment later. "This isn't exactly like their venom, but maybe they'll have more ideas than we do."
I heard an agitated hiss. Making absolute certain to remain camouflaged, I peered out from behind the tree. A very odd assortment of dragons trudged through the trees: two SeaWings, the male much older than the female, clearly, but not much bigger; a terra cotta-colored MudWing dragonet; a small, shivering NightWing dragonet; a dull female RainWing dragonet, whose scales were so blandly colored that she looked like mist clung to her, she was such a dull orange; and a strange little golden-brown dragon, who bore the stature of a SandWing, so I assumed that was what tribe she was of.
Most of the dragons appeared to be of the same age, maybe around five or six, except for the small SandWing and the panting male SeaWing... at first, I thought these might be the Dragonets of Destiny (I'd heard broken pieces from passing dragons about the Dragonets, but not many bothered to give me information), but I noticed there was no SkyWing. Maybe this was some kind of inter-tribal school group, or a very, very adoptive family.
"There's a pair of MudWings headed this way, but they'll never see us in this weather," the female SeaWing declared. Yeah, right. This weather was just fine. The rain had nearly stopped—either that, or the layers and layers of canopy above blocked most of the water from hitting the floor. I almost snorted. SeaWings: were they all this single-minded? Was this dragonet so accustomed to sunshine each time she surfaced that she thought nobody would see her in this light drizzle?
Besides, if these dragons carried on conversation at this volume, they'd surely be heard before seen. They all seemed so dense! Had they all been living under a rock their whole lives?
I began to hear deep muttering from several wingspans away. MudWings.
"I don't like this patrol. Too close to that creepy rainforest, if you ask me."
I glanced around and noticed that I wasn't as home as I first assumed. The rainforest was never this muddy, not even during wet season. This was certainly the MudWing border.
"It's not really haunted," another MudWing replied. "You know the only things that live there are birds and lazy RainWings."
"If that were true, then Her Majesty would let us hunt in there. But she knows it's not safe. And you've heard the noises at night. Are you telling me it's the RainWings screaming like that?"
I smiled. Screamer monkeys.
"Not to mention the dead bodies." I creased my brow. Dead bodies? Of what? Dragons?
"That's not some kind of rainforest monster. That's war. Some kind of guerrilla attacks to scare us."
"All the way down here? Why would the SeaWings or the IceWings come all this way to kill one or two MudWings here and there? There are bigger battles going on everywhere else."
"Let's go a bit faster. They should really let us patrol in threes or fours instead of pairs." Both MudWings sped up their pace nervously.
I followed after them as silently as possible. I twitched my frills, flaring them slightly, in order to funnel sounds to my ears more effectively.
"Tell me about it. So what do you think of the SkyWing situation? Are you for Ruby, or do you think Scarlet is still alive after she fled?"
"That black liquid sounded like it was really weird and dangerous," the second dragon replied. "Like it melted her face."
RainWing venom! I had heard of that event through a SandWing friend of mine. The whole thing made me proud; as primitive as it seemed, I wanted all descendants of that horrible Queen Harpy dead.
Suddenly, a unanimous, bone-chilling shriek, more intense than that of any screamer monkey, ripped through the damp air. I jumped and nearly slammed my head on a thick branch. I felt pale green terror darken into turquoise alarm in stripes across my body.
Was it the MudWings? I asked myself after my scales had faded to a pale gray shock. I stepped out from behind the tree to investigate. My feet sank into spongy mud, making water pool all around them. I trained my ears ahead of me.
A black flash darted through the trees. I was trembling in such a terrified manner that I appalled myself. Suddenly I smelled the sharp tang of metal and blood, and jumped back, wrinkling my snout. The repulsive scent wafted from where, I thought, the scream happened just moments before. To begin to imagine what happened to those MudWings was sickening. I hurried off into the rainforest, no longer intrigued by the odd group of dragonets.
It was thoroughly unsettling.
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