Skies of emrub

Nightmare

(Minor s4 spoilers)

Odate wakes to the sound of little sniffles, padding feet on a carefully coated wooden floor, feca shields flaring up as the little dragon made his way into her bedroom. He's crying, dark circles around his eyes, feathery hair puffing up like a scared crow. Her adopted son just sniffles, scared to stir her husband, snoring beside her. She reaches out, pulling the little dragon into her lap as she sits up, ignoring the little burn he leaves on her hands.

"What, Moonbud, what's wrong?" She brushes a strand of his feather-hair behind his long ear, cupping his cheek. Nazalath lets out a little sob, hugging tightly to her. Odate soothes him with little whispers, unsure of how to help him. Naz cries harder, muffling his sobs in her ratty nightshirt as she pets his hair behind his horns. She turns to the side, fumbling to turn the light on her nightstand on, stopping when she catches sight of her son again, looking older this time, smoke spiraling out of his eyes. She can almost tell something has happened, as his eyes look dead and empty and shell-shocked, like he had survived a war and hadn't come back the same. She glances down, and her arms still hold the shaking figure of that same little dragon, though considerably slowed. It's a vision, she realizes, and looks back up. In place of where the little boy was is a full fledged man, that same black hair falling down his shoulders. He looks at her with a panicked look as he's pulled to his knees, and she can do nothing to help as chains envelop him in their grasp. He screams out silently, reaching for her to help him, eyes panicked and wide and looking at her with such fear that Odate can't look at him. She can smell blood as it spills on her floor, turning slowly to gold, worming its way into the cracks of the wood.

" Mother ," she can almost hear him scream, can almost hear the sobs that rack his chest. " Save me, hold me, help me. See me." She looks back at him, as he's crying and restrained down, purple chains forming around his neck and wrists, ankles and tail. Odate feels herself tearing up, her son, her little moonbud. That's what will happen and she knows it without a doubt. She looks down at the shaking child on her lap again, to distract herself and the purple light gradually fades.

She looks up again, and sees the same man again, older and tired, hair shorn to his neck, eyes sunken and tinged with purple, stubble beginning to grow on his chin. She watches idly as he places a hand on an eliatrope lying in front of him, who she had not noticed in her single mindedness, an eliatrope with sandy blonde hair and tan skin, a child. Her son digs his claws into the sandy flesh and she winces at the fleshy squelches and gurgled screams that assaulted her ears. She watches Naz as he slowly begins to suck the wakfu out of the eliatrope in front of him, his pupils shot wide and hungry, like a starved wolf. He winces as he lifts his hands up to gently lap at the wakfu, letting out a small whimper as he swallows the substance, cringing at the burn it leaves, igniting his throat from the inside. He looks over past her, and she turns too, facing a... thing. She can't begin to describe what he looks like- white hair and purple eyes and a body that is... wrong, in every sense of the word. He's like a mummy, she realizes, and he looks at her son with a twisted expression, one that she can't name. Naz seems to perk up though, and the figure behind her moves through her to walk to her son's side, placing a hand on his head, ruffling his feathers. That's when Odate realizes- it's like a more twisted version of Atoroi's behavior, mirroring the little headpats he would give their children when he felt affectionate. Naz leans into the touch, a ghost of a smile dusting his face. The wakfu burns in his gullet, and he looks complacent, and entirely unlike himself. Odate blinks back tears and looks down at the child on her laugh, feeling disoriented as something shatters.

She blinks once more, and suddenly everything is normal speed again, and her son is a child, younger then all of those hopeless dragons. He looks up at her with steaming and teary green eyes, clutching at her torn and ratty nightshirt. His comfort doll, lovingly nicknamed Lena, lays discarded on the wooden floor, limbs pathetically sagging. He sniffles and wipes his eyes.

"Mama," he starts, in that shaky voice, slightly raspy with sleep, the voice of an ordinary little boy, not a dragon. "I had a bad dream, and you were in it." Odate pets his hair and pulls him close.

It wouldn't be fair to tell him. She presses a kiss to his head, hoping desperately that that was not a vision of the future.

She knows better than to hope.