Dust

In theory, he could deduce his downfall to the single moment in which he realized he was special. Whether his abilities had arisen due to some catalyst (highly unlikely, for the day he had learned of his odd power - or a curse? - was the most ordinary out of days there were) or he had simply been born with them was unclear, Papillion would condemn them all the same until the day he fully faded from existence, from both world he could not leave no matter how much he tried.

The prospect of two worlds terrified most. To fade away once and for all, to see the world as you knew it but with less opacity, without yourself remaining to fill the little responsibility you had over the way of the world, sounded horrific. To be forgotten, to have your status in life permanently shift in the split second, to see your own body lying in the everglade grass, something deemed impossible unless one was blessed (or cursed) with many pairs of eyes instead of one. And Papillion? He'd always been carefree, a happy hatchling fluttering around the trees, hatched from a constructed egg. Maybe that was what had made him different in the long run, allowed him to willfully break the barrier between life and death, the real world and the place where shadows lingered as remnants of those unwilling to truly part with whatever they had left behind.

It had happened so suddenly, the very first time. At one point he simply was , and in the next he wasn't , as if he had stepped over an unseen threshold. His ears did not detect any sound, a wave erupting from the ground from his movement, the bright purple and cyan now mute colours, a light blue trail of the movement of his hind legs fading as he finished the step he had just taken. He stood, mesmerized, looking around at the landscape he had remembered clearly before, the rustling of the leaves silent, unmoving, a mouse that had been running through the grass now a blur of gray. His eyes widened, not in terror but in wonder, for he was a dragon much too young to be acquainted with death. Still, he exercised caution (an ability which he, at some point, had lost and dearly paid for), closed his eyes, taking a step back. The senses hit him like a strong gust of wind, the constant bird calls and squeaks and ever-present waving of the trees filling up the air. The young dragon smiled, hopping in his place once before stepping forward again. This time, he tumbled into the weeds below where he stood, as if the gray world was never there.

He didn't know it then, but he was hooked, curiosity edging on pride that he was likely the only one able to do this, gazing upon the wonderful world as a reflection of the real one. And while after the slow passing of time in the later realm, the gray dusk setting in for hours, he could get a bit unsettled, the gust of life hitting him again once he stepped back always made it all worth it, the euphoria of being alive trumped by no other feeling. And so, his visits got more frequent, and at any moment he ever felt boredom would he step into the other world, simply by willing, and when he'd get bored of that he'd step right back and be hit with every single marvel life had to offer in its cradle. Papillion was too careless to think of the impact of his visits, for it wasn't like he ever brought anything back with him - all wilted flowers picked in the gray realm would not come with him to the dimension of colour. And if the gods themselves be discontent - so be it! He was too little to cause any real trouble, and when he did come across a shade he only chuckled in a mixture of fake pity and defiance before stepping away. Nobody was there to accuse him of unethical practice or cruelty, except perhaps whoever had granted him the ability. But that someone was long gone, in the Arcane realm, likely slaving over a book. So Papillion, justifying his own means and ends alike, pushed on. But what else was there to do, for a curious wildclaw such as himself, a wonderful new world presented to him on a silver platter. The other side called him.

It wasn't long before his mind settled on capitalizing off himself. His first initial use for the power - to escape pilcos in the blooming groves, for upon an encounter he knew he'd rather not participate in, the dragon would simply step forward and laugh at the confusion in their eyes. His body, unlike most, traveled with his mind to the other realm, not left to flop on the ground when he entered or exited. Now that he had had a while to think about it, Papillion would have much rather preferred if his body was confined to the realm it was originally made for. Still, held back by nobody, it got easier and easier to step into the realm, and, reverse proportionally, just that much harder to step out. The first few times he had visited he could step out even against his will, yet now, with the allure of exploration, could stay for hours. Not like the length of his stays had an effect on the complexity of both transitions, physically, just that sometimes his desire to leave would make it just a bit harder to do so. Blinded by lack of foresight and marvel at himself, Papillion pushed on.

And later, to an audience - dozens flocked from far and wide to see the dragon disappear, to step forward and vanish completely, from the snout to the tip of the tail. The first time he had done it, he had stayed in the gray for a solid twenty counts, before closing his eyes and stepping back. He did not hear the sound of their cheers, the wave of air breathed into him. He opened his eyes to find himself in the very same sea of gray, frowning, before stubbornly trying again. He was not used to being defied. And this time, the barrier complied, parting for him as it had thousands of times before. Despite their wonder and adoration, the wildclaw could not ignore the memory of fear that had chilled him to his bones when his first attempt had failed. But in the end, his will to be known and marveled at triumphed all sense of self control. He said he'd be careful to himself, one time, but just minutes later was showing it off to some hatchlings again, to see the wonder on their faces, to feel the warm content spread in his chest when life rushed in his veins again when he didn't need a second try to pry himself out. The blue wisps following the movement of his tail in the corner of his eye were written off as a trick of the light, although a sense of impending doom told him that soon, he'd pay.

And he did, not too long after an era of respite, slowly used to trying twice or thrice to step out, adrenaline rushing through him consecutively to the breath of air. He wasn't hooked on the feeling, just liked to triumph against the odds of making it out, he told himself. "Watch me," he said to others, stepping in with one leg, feeling the coldness and silence in the air, their faraway voices expressing amusement and surprise.

When he stepped back, the world coloured but no gust of wind came. He could see, hear, his heart was - maybe - beating, but there was no usual breath of life into him as it had been before. A fae hatchling cried out in horror at the creature in front of him, no longer alive nor dead but both. Its parent followed soon after, hiding their wide eyes, alerting the entire nearby village of his ghastly appearance. Papillion tried for a smile, but could not, watching with lost eyes as every head in the nearest radius turned and gazed upon what he had become.

He did not look back, scrambling into the woods, running until his legs could not carry him any longer, toppling over and looking down at himself to find his right leg a transparent gray, able to see the dirt beneath it, blue wisps of movement following the twitching claws. When he passed it over the grass, it went straight through him. Desperate, he stepped forward, but no answer came from whoever had granted him entry all his life. He tried to step back and fell, imbalanced, one of his wings no longer where it belonged. The dragon cried out in terror at himself, crawling to the nearest stream to gaze upon himself, to thrust himself into the water to feel *anything*, his beautiful purple cyan replaced by pale blue and gray, an uneven half of his body no longer in existence, the entire left side of his face, one eye ghastly black. Gods help him, he cried as he ran further past the creek, and did not stop crawling - for he had no control whenever one of his legs or even part of his torso would give in to the evershifting colorlessness - until he dragged himself against an ancient dead tree, deep in the shrieking wilds, a grove where the moss muffled all noise but the drops of water from the canopy of leaves above.

There was no use to vow to never again to step into the gray. He couldn't do so anyway. Or maybe, what was more terrifying, was that he could no longer step out. Still he would rather join the shades than be stuck between two worlds, if he had to pick.
If.
He would never get to pick, most likely, living out the rest of his miserable days isolated, seeking comfort next to the ancient tree, the wispy foxfires mimicking his own aura he emitted when he moved, trails of motion stretching behind him, and no matter how much he commanded his black eye to close, the trails of his own misery remained. He could not control which part of his body was real and when, bleeding blue mist even as he lay still to minimize the fear and pain within himself.

Perhaps he would never die.

Every dragon's dream, to live forever, to have one's name be sung far and wide.

But not like this. Please, gods, not like this, he whispered, for only the rock towers to listen.

Nobody came.