Cancer

Pronouns: he/him or it/its

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Does anyone truly know what death is like? Is it kind, is it gentle? Does it weep for the lost, does it wait patiently for the dying? Can death love life, can it lay quietly in the aftermath of a storm?

Or does it always rage, lethal and furious? Does it howl in anguish, clawing at itself in the darkest nights, alone and feral? Does it rip the lost apart with teeth of gold and rust? Is it angry and hateful, equal parts deeply feral and hideously intelligent? Does it hate life, loathe her for her beauty? Who knows, truly.

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Cancer is a dragon better left alone. It rarely speaks, preferring to observe and learn it's surroundings. Lurking at the edge of the clan meetings, rotted jaws stained red in the light of the lanterns, it pays close attention to every dragon that speaks during the meeting. Whether that be Arthfael of the Disgraced, the gleaming, glittering imperial with the sad eyes; or Ammit of the Divine, bloody and glass-like, the wildclaw with eyes of righteous wrath; or even Halliwell, the true leader of the clan, the old but kind, the limping but firm tundra with a mane of gold.

It watches them all. Learning, listening, yearning and craving. It latches on to the words they all speak, repeating the phrases in it's head. Some they can understand. Hate, pain, agony, strife, despair. These are words it knows very, very well. It is often the cause of most of these words and emotions, though it has seen on occasion that life can also cause them.

Cancer is not sure why. Surely it is more deserving of angrily shouted words, curses and screams than what makes their heart beat, what makes the grass grow green. It is the end of all those things, after all. It is what comes for hatchlings that cannot break free of their eggs, for elders too weak to stand, for warriors beaten in battle. It rots their flesh and withers their skin, it exposes bone and sinew. Nothing will grow for it. And yet, there are some that prefer it over life.

Perhaps it has been too gentle? Perhaps it should scream and howl, dig it's claws in and show it's decaying, rotten core.

These thoughts are quieted, however, whenever it's Reaper arrives. Spine is it's reaper, it's soul harvester. He brings the souls home, to the silent jaws of living death. It revels in his presence, rumbling deeply and reaching out with bony claws and bared teeth. It wants him. Cancer desperately wants it's reaper, safe and tucked away from sight beneath a crumbling wing.

But Spine will not stay. He never stays for long, too much to do. Another time, he tells it.

It wonders if that time will ever come.