ORIGIN

click, tap, click. click, tap, click. testing, testing, one-two-three.

the child’s claw resounded softly in the watery dark, keying an arcane morse code into the inner wall of the chrysalis. they twisted slightly, craning their head against the side that always seemed to hum the loudest. this was the one that mattered most, they'd decided. the movement came with a tiny whimper of effort; their fetal poise spiraled tightly, tail arcing over their head, wings wrapped cloaklike around their fragile frame, and to disrupt it meant rearranging the whole precarious affair. were they upside down or right side up? impossible to say. gravity was a stranger to them still.

it was warm in here. snug, safe. their own private microcosm … — and they’d been content with that, once, when they were little more than a cluster of cells in blissful suspension. but the more they moved and listened and strained to see, the more they came to realize: that was all it was; a lonely little world, a blip in the scheme of a greater expanse. there was something more out there, they knew, something worth seeing. they sensed it in the swim of light against the amniotic red of their crystalline cage, the way its embrace closed tighter and tighter around them every time they shut their eyes. and yet, what enthralled them most was the low tempo of sound, faint and flickering but palpable nonetheless. weight on the floor, one surface rustling faintly against another, and ... an intricate melody they couldn't quite describe, rising, falling, circling around them. sometimes, a rare moment came when its whisper flowed clearer through the barrier, and the child wondered if this dazzling song was meant to serenade them.

now they stretched against their confines, tufted ear pricking at the slow pulse of presence that began to draw nearer. for just two beats, it fell into synch with the roaring blood inside their skull, and they felt a bitter pang of yearning.

the child flattened their entire foot against the wall and applied a steady push, harder than they ever had before, feeling for weakness. was that a little bit of give just there, or — no, yes, a hairline fracture, beginning to crack from the stress behind it. fear and doubt sparked and died in a brief, frantic shuffle of claws. once this thing broke, there would be no putting it back together, but their mind was made up. this was it. time to act.

their eyes slid shut and their chest swelled deep. the stone between lungs flared at the contact, and for the first time, they felt it thrum as pressure built, built, built around the coiled trigger of their kick, surging, coalescing — and dissolved into the rest of the reservoir. their foot glanced against the wall, which cracked farther, but did not yield; pain lanced hotly up their leg, and they cried out, losing breath, gaining fluid. their ribs were heaving now, limbs, wings, tail thrashing, voice bubbling out in a muffled cacophony of screams as thuds and scratches echoed dully around them. there was too much membrane, too much air, too much them.

they could only struggle as pockets of oxygen churned around them: all the cage's contents, together in a plea for release.

they were drowning. they were dying. the child fought and fought — raking teeth with jaws stretched wide, flailing wings abroad at the walls, kicking out with their unhurt foot until it, too smarted — and even then, giving up all endeavors at self-preservation and beating with them both. bruises ruptured, blood welled, and they felt none of it, only the all-consuming cry for air. their lungs pumped in vain, trying and failing to extract what they needed from the fluid that filled them. the jasper in their ribs had gone quiet, nothing more now than a cold red rock that bit moodily at the panic around it. the suspension of the chrysalis swirled around them in an oil-and-water mix of membrane and pressure that could not arrive at armistice.

a voice of reason reminded them of the fracture — urged them to narrow their focus, stop wasting energy on this pointless battle — but in their thrashing, they had lost all idea of where it was. their claws scraped blindly, rapidly at the walls, only to find the same solid pleats that had always been. they reeled, shuddered, heart pounding loud in their head as their lungs ate up all the space they could find.

but there was none left.

the child felt a growing delay between synaptic order and muscular action — crushing weight, pushback harder than any they could muster, like punching in a dream — limbs wavering in exhaustion, and they knew with finality: this was what it was to expire. had they brought this on themself, acted too soon? yes, they swore, they should have waited, even if it meant forever. an eternity of longing was better than this. they sagged, fell silent, body sinking into alignment with the stone within. only their lungs howled in protest, but those — those were powerless. bone-white eyes rounded into perfect circles, shaking in their sockets.

said the dark, do you surrender?

yes, i do.

and then, the whittling.

their ears whipped forward at the sound — not their teeth nor wing- or foot-claws, but something outside, and they bent towards it at the same moment that a part of them inexplicably recoiled away. stop it! stop it! we don't need help, it's not too late, we can do this ourselves, it promised, to which the rest replied, no, we cannot.

with what little strength remained, the child reached towards the sound, squinting to the light that cracked through the shell. fluid was draining, a little of the air slipping away. they thrust their muzzle by way of its escape and nosed at the wall in feeble, forceful jerks, as though desperate to assume some part in their own salvation. they were fading, almost gone, but the glimmering suggestion of survival drew them forth. as the fracture widened, their nostrils followed in imperceptible snorts, thirsting for the traces of oxygen that offered themselves up —

and all at once, they spilled free in an amniotic bundle of soaking feathers and bone underneath; but the body was unmoving, scarcely breathing, eyes little more than rolling slivers of silver between pain-slack lids. what little of their consciousness remained was hazily aware of a gentle authority scooping them up, then laying them down — a settling sensation of heat like they had never known — and a stroking motion against their coat, rasping revival into the purgatory within. a moment passed, two, three ... and at last, after what felt like altogether too long, the child came to life. they sputtered, then heaved great, trembling gouts of vomit, gasping deep in a rush of flaming lungs and renewed panic. all of them ached for want of wind streaming through their veins. they twisted their head around, dizzied by the sensory crush of the world's enormity, and scrabbled their limbs in a weak attempt at righting themself — only to find a firm presence holding them in place. their eyes blinked up at the bleary figure looming over.

a swarm of questions (where? who? what ... ?) flurried through their head as they panted and shook. this other creature, it was so impossibly colossal, it could crumple the breath back out of them in an instant. but as the heavy drumbeat of their fear began to ease, recognition flickered between their eyelids. they couldn't say how they knew — it had been silent since its apparition — but they did, with certainty: this was the being that had come to them, given its voice for them. if there was anything they could trust, it was this. their distress subsided in minute measures of their heartbeat, an unruffling of feathers and relaxing of sinew as they drank in the air and sighed into the cocoon of warmth around them.

maybe the fight had been worth it after all, in the end. beyond the shield that was their rescuer, a realm of discovery awaited them, and they would explore every corner of it. soon, very soon. they would not be sleeping for quite some time; their stillness was more temporary recovery than true acquiescence, and once it passed, they would wriggle loose and see what all this struggle had given them. but for the moment, they would rest. just a little while.

a small purr faltered in their throat.

what a different sort of chrysalis this was, formed not of stone, but of feather, with thin air flowing freely and solid ground beneath; warm, soft, alive. the child didn't see the smile beaming down on them so much as feel it, absorb it, bask in it, purr rolling long and low in a puff of contentment. but the sound hitched and died with a sharp intake of breath overhead, and they pushed themself half-upright, wiggling from side to side until space was granted, resting on one wing and their legs. their head lifted, then tilted as they sought out the source — and found it in the larger creature's expression, tight with emotions they could not yet name. they followed along with mingled interest and confusion, soon giving up on the strange, watery ritual that seemed to play out and concentrating instead on what, no ... who exactly this being was.

their earnest, unblinking gaze took in a narrow white face, dark and gleaming at its tip; a streak of black that seemed to drip down like fluid; and a coat of red-and-black feathers, thick and dry and enviably clean, lengthening into pinions along wings wide as starless galaxies. the hatchling registered a certain danger in the sharpened point of the beak and the massive talons that stood behind them, and yet they knew that these would never hurt them. no, those sharpened edges embodied safety, each of them a paradox in keratin. and there was something else, something they seemed to catch on: a pair of polished horns over fiery eyes, short, blunt, assuredly harmless, but so wildly familiar. where had they seen that crimson color before? of course, the only other place they had seen at all. figments of their shell's inner surface sprang to their senses, that exact shade of deep jasperous red —

"hello."

— and he was their father.

the child's eyes opened wide, spellbound by a sudden cascade of speech, touch, and revelation. a gentle nuzzle came to their cheek, and they returned it at once with a heartfelt bump to his jawline. another purr rose up for a couple of breaths; then, they withdrew with a gasp, quelling themself in a sudden rush of precocious self-consciousness.

this was what they'd heard in their sleep, and this was how it was made: a beautiful symphony of mouth, tongue, and throat, working in harmony. hello. the word flared like neon, crackling in midair, so simple and yet so full of meaning — and they knew what it meant, grasped it in its rising-falling cadence and the tenderness he gave to it, and in some inner well of understanding that his voice seemed to tap. as he continued, they studied his movements with rapt attention, memorizing which shapes made which sounds, tucking them away to call upon later. every second was a lesson with no time to lose.

"nice 'n warm out here, huh? here's to hoping it lives up to your expectations."

out. hoping. ex-pec-ta-tions. each word fell into their head with a ripple; that last one took a moment to sink, but finally it came to rest at the bottom, heavy and inexorable. a moment's hesitation and they nodded, ardently, eyes meeting his with clear comprehension.

a set of wing-claws rose unbidden to their face, moving in time with their reappraisal of his. no beard, no beak, but they had the same convex, tapered shapes — a smaller, more feathery pair of ears that flopped over at the contact, then flipped back up — and a modest downy crest bristling at their nape. moving on, they let their eyes sink to ... the puddle of vomit that sat nearby. their muzzle wrinkled in a cringe. oh. they'd done that, hadn't they. after casting a guilty glance skyward, they did their best to put the accident aside and finish their familial venn diagram. their neck twisted snakelike as their eyes combed down from their chest to their toes to what felt in comparison like a worrying amount of tail. everything seemed to be in order otherwise, but were they supposed to be so little? a frown played at their lips. the sheer gap in size seemed too great to bridge.

no matter. they'd worry about that later.

slowly, carefully, they shifted weight onto their feet, then winced and thought better of it; the chrysalis had left them swollen and slightly bloodied. the hatchling adjusted their stance instead to all fours, leaning on their wings for support. hardly a natural position, they knew, but for now, an acceptable alternative to sitting immobile or stumbling in pain. they inched a few fractional steps forward, testing. wobbly, but satisfactory.

steeling themself, they nudged their way past the penumbra of their father's wings and into the light — but not before swiveling 'round and mouthing, hello.

the greeting felt like sparks on their tongue, even without the force of their vocal cords behind it. that choice was a calculated one, born of caution and worry; much as they yearned to hear their own music, a part of them feared what it might sound like, they wanted to be absolutely certain of its competence, and the first and last time they had used it — ... their lungs had filled and nearly failed.

they would try it again. just not yet. besides, they had no way of knowing if their mimicry of the word's simple shape had even approximated the precision they had hoped for. their father certainly didn't seem impressed.

but the hatchling was walking, now; and as they took those baby steps, they became aware of a staticky sensation of pain, shivering not just in the exterior wounds of their feet but farther down in their muscles. not so much a product of atypical activity, but more the panic that had spurred it. even now, they felt themself trembling invisibly with effort and, yes, residual anxiety, tired and tense with an aching dwelling marrow-deep in their bones, and that feeling kindled a successor in its wake: would it go away, as their father promised their other mistake would? or would it keep gnawing, carve out space and make itself at home? what had happened then, would it happen ... again?

their ears flickered to banish the thoughts, and the child forged ahead into open air, inhaling softly at the flood of stimuli that welcomed them — only to find a veritable pillar of a leg planted in their path.

"hey — hey, your feet will hurt more if you walk on them."

a glimmer of consideration flashed in their face. correct, they hurt, that much was clear. and yet, at the same time ... they'd only just gotten started; couldn't they have one moment to feel the pull of gravity beneath them, embrace the ground in their toes, enjoy what it was to carry themself on their own four limbs? they strained to peer around their father's outstretched leg. the two of them stood in an enclosed chamber of stone. a wall towered up at their right, stacked up and up, alight with an ambient glow of faint fungal blue. beautiful. their jaw drifted slightly ajar in wonder, even as the angle of their ears signified simultaneous attention to their father's case.

he spoke sense. their eyes clouded as apparitions of water floated before them — startling at first, but their resistance faded as they came to recognize the concept's appeal. cool waves lapping at black-and-blue feet, rivulets in a throat that suddenly felt so dry, maybe even a salve for the anxiety still pattering at the roof of their skull ... yes, that sounded very nice. their head dropped a little lower in silent acquiescence. walking could wait.

"do you mind if i carry you there?"

after some deliberation ("do you mind if i," not "may" or "can i"; that's a no, right?) they shook their head, peering up at him like the good, quiet child they were. the hatchling shuffled to the side, a little closer to their father's reach —

and spotted something else in the new field of vision the movement unfurled, something they had missed, despite it being square in front of them. a yellowed shape it was, sharp and round and hollow all at once, stretched in repose over the darkness of the floor. their pupils pinned in and out in fixation. it seemed awfully uncanny, somehow, and in the span of a second, the reason why clicked into place: its form was almost exactly that of their father and far too similar to that of themself, broad, still-feathered wings and two crumbled legs and a head with a hook and two gaping holes. and, tucked beneath the crook of an elbow, a leaking red shell that could only be their chrysalis.

their gaze switched swiftly from the shape to their father and back, weight weaving briefly side-to-side, mind moving at a mile a minute. what if he stopped them? no, no, they had to look, had to know. having bitten back a burst of trepidation, they willed their stone to life.

they weren't entirely expecting it to work. they could sense ... almost a simmering irritation within the jasper, perhaps at its defeat against the wall. but to their surprise, it rose to the occasion, albeit faintly.

as they broke into motion — wings lifted, two legs only, acutely aware that while all fours was safer, it would not carry them as far — a small breeze swirled at their feet to lessen the pressure on their injuries and drive preternatural speed into their sprint. it was about as clumsy as you'd expect from a newborn chick; they blundered narrowly past their father's leg and stumbled, nearly fell with every stride ... then tumbled headlong as their magic evaporated in the home stretch. they landed partway on their cheek and actually skidded for a couple of cartoonish inches, garnering what would shortly become a fresh stroke of bruising. the impact squashed a squeaky little sigh of frustration from their mouth.

very slick, kid.

they picked up their head and subsequently their body, giving themself a shake to chase away the dizziness, and raised their eyes — directly into the skeleton's yawning stare.

the hatchling's pupils jittered in place as they met blackly impassive sockets. their regards were level only for the fact that one being stood and the other could not, despite the sheer differential in size. there was a strange equality in it, like looking a judge in the eye from the other side of the bench.

maybe this could be you someday. maybe it will be you someday.

drawing in a sharp breath through their nose, the child took a wobbly step back ... and felt the ungainly length of their tail swing with a jolt into their father's leg. he'd moved? when had that happened? nothing else had escaped their notice. ears swiveled backward and hackles prickled high, but they did not turn to face him; no, they stood very straight and very still, scarcely daring to breathe as the unwinnable contest wore on. they took comfort only in the contact between them, a lone tether to unequivocal safety.

"that's the bone king before me, darling."

now their ears truly pricked, taking in every word, every phrase for careful dissection. the title loomed in the air like an omen, dark and foreboding even in the softened mouth that released it. but that wasn't what this was anymore; once, no longer. their father held that power now. he was bone king. so what did that make them? darling ... ? was that what they were? it was the first thing he'd ever called them. their rigidity lapsed in a subtle shuffle of feathers, then seemed to remember itself and retake its commitment.

as he continued speaking, his voice receded into a sort of cinematic narration. this intricate articulation had not just a late sovereignty, but an identity: his, aza'zel's, their father's father's. at the mention of their stone — a fraction of a fraction, echo of an echo — the child's wing floated absently to their chest, claws pressing into neonate down, feeling for the telltale rabbit-thump of their heart that meant the flake of jasper was only a moment's exhumation away. they thought they felt an infinitesimal flare of energy in response. this living thing inside of them ... had once belonged to aza'zel. their very existence was a memento of the grand figure before them. they, too had a place in this family, the bonebound, it was called; and a third named relative, giggle. a grandmother and a listener.

and yet, and yet ... it was all in past tense. what had happened to shift aza'zel from is to was? now that they were focused, they could hear the careful measure in their father's voice. what wasn't he saying? a furrow developed in the child's brow as gears turned and questions churned behind the searching silver of their gaze, still fastened firm to the skeleton's hollow face. maybe they would ask those questions in the end. but they would seek their own answers first.

there was a magnetism between themself and aza'zel, they could feel it in the air. whether it was attraction or repulsion was the matter that warred within them. their instincts were screaming: no. no. this isn't right. get away from here. now! but despite that voice's volume, it was not at the forefront. lower, calmer, stronger was the one that said: but we need to know.

their claws dug deep into the thin skin at their sternum, very near to drawing blood, but the pain only hardened the inscrutable resolve in their expression. come on. come on. their eyes slid shut in concentration, pleading pleading pleading for the stone to muster itself one more time, and ... they stepped forward, leaned in, and touched the tip of their muzzle to the skull.


the child came to with a gasp, convulsing once against the stone beneath them. their eyes stretched wide to gulp in the world around them — the real world, as it was today — anything but the skeleton looming overhead; they were the same, now, sprawled prone over the floor. how much time had passed ... ? their gaze shifted to the chrysalis tucked beneath that awful wing, the exact color of the blood they had seen, its blooming petals still visible around the dripping cavity that their emergence had opened in its side. it lingered in their sights a moment. then, they dragged their head around to peer up at their father, everything in their face trembling in a tremendous effort to hold back tears.

the jasper nipped at their lungs with every panting breath. their chest was hurting, badly. no hatchling was meant to push their magicka so hard so fast. but they forced themself, staggering, to pick up their body (this body) with aid from both wings, turn to their father, and take a single crawling step in his direction.

i'm ready to go, now.