I hope we both die

Depression (Part Two)

Arctic

The rain is back, and a fog has sunk over the whole kingdom. Foeslayer tells me that all day on guard duty, they can hardly see in front of their faces.

It's horrible, making my scales damp and too warm all day, and making whatever illness I've caught from this evil place even worse.

I cough into my wing, groaning.

Braveheart clears his throat. "Well, at least Foeslayer and I aren't sick," he says from the other side of the room. Ever since I got sick, he's been  keeping as wide a radius from me as he can in this tiny godawful cave, and acting as though he'll die if he breathes in the same air as me.

"What?" I snap.

He laughs weakly. "At least–" he sighs, shakes his head. "Never mind."

"What are you drinking?"

"Coffee."

"You gonna get sent to actually... fight in the war soon?" Is he ever going to stop breathing down our necks?

Braveheart stiffens at that. "Probably around the same time Foeslayer gets sent out, yeah. It takes a while, you have to get seniority."

"I was supposed to lead armies into battle," I mutter. "Princes are supposed to become high-ranking generals, and defend the IceWing territory with their lives."

I know it never could have been. But I imagine a world where I never had to leave my home, where I was a king and Foeslayer was my queen. She would have been the one out of her depth. But she would have gotten used to it, and we would have lived like royalty.

A NightWing, queen of the IceWings. The aristocracy would riot.

But at least no one would be fighting in a war.

I can't help but laugh at the thought of it.

***

I toss and turn all day, trying to focus on a single point on the ceiling, watching water drip onto the floor.

My mouth is parched, the air is stuffy and thick.

Maybe I'll die here.

Maybe no one will care, or remember me.

The quietest voice in the back of my head whispers: Maybe this is your fault.

I try to picture the dragon who made me feel crazy, who seemed beautiful and impossible and just out of reach, what feels like years ago. Try to remember that feeling, frantic and gripped by the knowledge that if I didn't leave with Foeslayer, then I'd never see her again. I'd spend the rest of my life, haunted with regret.

It's hard to beleive I ever felt that way.

I cough. My throat is scratchy, and I feel like I've been shaken to the core.

I lean against the wall, standing up. Our corner of the room is just a pile of blankets, Foeslayer's old jewelry collection jammed into a heavy, locked box. Over the years, gifts from her mother added up. Foeslayer thinks she'll sell them, and get us somewhere to live of our own. I doubt she'll ever get up the courage.

It's too hot. I'm gonna die here–I bet that's why I'm sick.

I close my eyes. With every labored breath, I keep hoping it'll change.

I breathe the most pathetic blast of frostbreath on the blankets, the walls. I keep going, even as my throat burns, and my vision starts to blur, until everything is cold and sharp.