Onyx

Onyx Healer

Bones age. They'll do it inside your flesh, with blood still pumping through them and the process of breaking down and rebuilding still going. They age, and before you realize it, it hurts to sit down and it hurts to stand up, and you could nearly cry for the pain of losing youth. And still, it is only a necessity of living too long. The mind ages as well. Moments lost to you, times when you forget the thing you just had in your hands, and when entering a room is like stepping into someone else's front door. The head drums, strumming along with pain and forgetfulness, as you eke out your days alone and lonesome. There are better days, and there are worse.

Onyx couldn't possibly be old yet, but he was. His mane lost some of its vibrancy, and his scales were permanently stained. A crick in his tail from a bad accident made it turn at odd angles when he walked. His teeth hurt so much that he had to chew herbs to ease the pain. There was nothing he could do about them now, the doctors told him.

He felt old, and so he is old.

Working kept him busy.

Living in a lair underground, listening for when the Emperor shook the earth, he cleaned, washed, and cooked. Onyx took good care of those who slept, keeping them from bedsores and making sure the magic allowing them to sleep remained full and hearty. None of them were things he could be particularly skilled at, but instead, all of them had a certain proficiency. Just enough.

When the dragons from the clan crashed, he could be there for them, giving them rest and sanctuary. Such is his purpose.

They come, tramping in dirt, and dust, and talking excitedly with each other or sitting alone, nursing a bowl of soup. He talks to one and all, even though he doesn't always receive replies. It's against his reclusive nature, but he prefers the well-being of others over his own. It has always been that way.

The sound fades from the stone caverns, and they leave behind treasures collected, experience gained, and plans unmade as the Emperor mercilessly carries on. He takes those who are unable to go and heals them. It is, you could say, the one thing he excels at. Knitting them back up again like a favorite scarf, he sends them on their way in groups with supplies and well-wishes so they may endanger themselves again in the reckless pursuit of knowledge, money, and meaning. He finds his satisfaction right where he is, sweeping the floor of dust.

He didn't really belong to the clan. How do you belong somewhere? Is it a place or a home you come back to? A sense or a feeling? If you went by sense, he would belong there, but he wouldn't because he only felt he did when they were around. Home stayed in his lair. If the other dragons were around, was it still home?

He didn't really care, he supposed.

Having them around is good, so they come. They bring with them good people, merchants, entertainers, and healers. Other dragons stayed awake and behind too. They helped with the chores and did tasks he couldn't do. His state before the clan came some months ago lay ever behind him as a reminder of darker times. His feet hurt.

He sighed as he flopped down. What could he do with all these blitherings and notions? Too much came to his head without a task or a dragon to distract him from his own thoughts.

Maybe he could write.

He found some crumbling parchments and left-over charcoal, and began to write letters to those whom he wanted to talk to or see but couldn't.

The first letter, ironically, was for his parents. He wondered how they'd been, if everything had been okay, and maybe about bringing some local food over. He considered sending it along when the next delivery came, but... who read letters anyways? Most considered it a waste of time, since you could simply fly to visit family or walk. But his back and wings protested when he stretched in the morning, and he felt quite sure they would fall off if he tried to fly all the way to the Highland Sanctum. The prospect of hitching a ride with a nomadic clan came to him. One of the moments his size came in handy.

The second letter came to him while he was cleaning the tables. He left the rag where it was, and someone else came behind him to finish while he scurried away to his rooms. The sparse furnishings and cold mat welcomed him when he came with the intent of scratching at a scrap of paper. He wrote to what could have been, talking to a Veilspun he glimpsed from afar as she entered the sleeping den. He looked, and she slept in the section for those who came and then went just as quickly. His hopes died.

He left his rooms and letters feeling empty but alive again.

So he wrote more.

If the others noticed his lack of participation, they never mentioned it. He had a more youthful step, and when you could hear it over the din, his laugh sounded more full than before. Even an old one, or at least one who feels old, can find something new and wonderful to enjoy.

There is more to life for him now.

Then, once, when a grateful dragon left him a present, as they so often did, he decided to keep it. Looking about his room, the fossil heavy in his hands, he resolved to build some shelves. For now, it went in a corner and was lovingly dusted every so often.

As he shuffled through the clan's stores, looking for material, the dragon in charge, the one he could never remember, came up to him and asked what he was looking for and if they could be of help. The conversation bled into writing and how to keep dust out when you live underground, and eventually stained into finding ink and someone to help him. He now had new shelves. The fossil never got onto one, but the others presents did.

He began a collection.

The turning over of them for cleaning—more fossils and stones and statues—made him notice the details on his new-found treasures. A strangely shaped speck, a scratch on the bottom. How it glittered when held in light. After he wrote a letter, it became a habit to examine and clean a random offering from the shelf, handling it in his claws like precious gems, which some of them were. They helped fill the emptiness left when the last word flowed.

Someone noticed his hobby.

Some important dragon, someone with connections and fancy words who knew what to say to make customers pay, came to see his growing collection. They cooed, and astonished. And offered to bring others to see his treasures. Onyx assented, not understanding or knowing what he really said. His collection must move to a gallery; he must be more presentable and knowledgeable about specific names and scientific terms; yes, he should still clean them and devote them care, but now he must do more and have more and always do something new to keep people looking and coming and paying. More treasure than he knew what to do with flowed in, so he gave it the clan's treasurer.

His work changed, and now he could not even come to the healing halls. He had no time to.

He did not even write.

Slowly, sure as a tide sweeping away the land one grain of sand at a time, age crept back in. His responses, already dull and uninterested, became more so, and the aches he thought were gone or at least ignored flared with new demands for attention. There seemed to be more on his plate than there was plate. He stopped sleeping deeply again. Sometimes, he would stay up through the night on purpose, trying vainly to remember names, categories, and facts.

He didn't care about the pieces himself, but the treasurer congratulated him on bringing more income to the clan, and he must keep doing it because this was a good thing. Much like his appearance, black and white crowded out the gray, and moderation fled in sight of obligation.

And so Onyx sat down to write the first letter he would actually send.

On his way to the drop-off for Auction House listings, his heart thumped with a strange excitement. The feeling of sending his first letter. It was almost too much for him to bear. The outflow of 'done' pouring over from his heart flooded his chest, and relief came like a sudden wind as he watched the delivery dragon disappear into orange skies.

His letters sat in a pile on the corner of his low desk, unsent, untouched, and unread, save for his own claws and eyes. With an exhausted sigh, he flopped before them and dug out a quill. He wrote a letter to himself.

And it was good.

And it was all.

Credits: Bio resources, PoisonedPaper, Tuath