Enceladus

There's something of a fallen star about him, ozone still sizzling on every breath. Like water he can revive throats parched with inexperience and fear, but also like water he can drown arrogant lungs. With the awe- and guilt-inspiring majesty of ancient trees he walks the land.

There is a lady, one that laughs breaths of helium. Her songs brush his feathers and makes Enceladus long to rise in flight again. But alas, he is burnt, had given his life to the transience of reactionary hydrogen.

When they talk, though, when Erria stretches her wings in embarrassment and folds them over her face like a mask, when Enceladus gently nudges them apart to see her boldly embarrassed gaze underneath... When they talk he feels parched and drowning at once, and it's the magic of shooting geysers in space.