breathless - Printable Version

He wakes with fluid in his lungs and an endless dark stretching everywhere he looks. No up, no down, no left nor right—just an endless abyss. Nothingness.

Perhaps that's why he was late to hatch; perhaps that's why his chrysalis disgorged him only when he physically could not fit anymore, for even now the shards of pearl that once held him now drift down into the deep.

For a moment, he floats unaware; childish innocence hiding him from the danger surrounding him. He is not a fish—he is not meant to live down here. Not meant to breathe in the depths.

But for that single moment, he looks down into the closest thing the caves have to the infinite stretch of the night sky and wonders, eyes wide with that naive awe.

And then the urge to breathe hits him.

All at once, he realizes that this is not a place for him to be. Instinctively, he tries to cough out the amniotic fluid that fills him, sustained him once but now no longer, only for nothing to rush in but water from the bay when he tries to breathe. Panic grips him—the one thing, the one instinctive that can take hold of any creature which lives, even those who should not feel fear, is the fear of suffocation—and this is a very present fear for him indeed, as wings whip out and he flails in the dark depths, unsure of where to go.

Light! Up above—but even as his eyes lock onto it and his chest screams and aches for air, the panic grips at him, weighs him down. Little fledgling wings beat against the water but have no weight, do not push him any higher; all the movements serve to do is to cause bubbles to trail his movement, floating up to the surface.

He opens his beak to scream—help! help me, save me—but no sound follows.

In almost comedic levels of contrast, and perhaps irony as well: Kaimana was out fishing. She was dead set on being capable of giving herself a bellyache with all the fish she was going to catch today. Not that she would want such an affliction, but she ought to be able to give it to herself given agency (check) and sufficient resources (in progress). Ever since Levi stopped being a food concern, Kaimana had made it no chore to beat any past records of catches — such a supply would be wasted on her alone! But where Kaimana was going, there would be others, perhaps fish-likers... plenty of birds should like fish, right? And just in case they didn't, or the fish didn't last, they were certain to be bone-likers, and fish corpses had lots of those.

Pearly whites descend to an ocean floor.
They dither as a leaf in autumn does.

Besides that, she supposed she could try and bring a gift or two, small enough to carry within a fish. That would be a fun surprise. If Damask was there, they would probably evade any sort of offering, but there were others... there could be more children. Had the children there grown as Levi had? Oh wow, how had Kaimana never considered that? Once again she was hit by the passing of time, a pounding wave upon her chest. Perhaps she would bring a gift. She just had to think of one.

Something inky black unveils; stirring, writhing.
Experiencing survival, and soon, death.

She began the swim to the shore, her speed and grace proving that you needn't be a fish to swim. Misfortune was the one true obstacle — but then, to Kaimana there was no such thing, not truly. Bad omens were the heralds of good, and vice versa. If anything, an omen or a prophecy was the privilege of being able to tell what unavoidable part of life was to happen next. An interesting deviation from the ideology of many tragic heroes who had met their end by taking either one as a sign to act. Although I suppose they couldn't be blamed for that; without acting, there is no play.

Gnash and roar as it might, the world is a bigger fish.
With bigger jaws.

Be it by pressure or darkness or asphyxiation,
Or the realization that it is not alone,

Those pearly whites will encase him yet again.
He will be tragic, but no hero. An Ophelia - drowned.

If only Kaimana could have had the omen for this: time caught up to her. She saw, in the water, a small, faltering shape. If it was a fish, it was full of errors. If it were seaweed, it appeared to be struggling. Kaimana decided to approach. If you were to graph her change in velocity from the beginning of that decision to the end, you would find it tilting upward dramatically at the second marked: "Realization that that is, in fact, a living creature." Not a fish, not a seaweed ball, not any living organism that could exist underwater. Not yet.

Kaimana's jaw went agape, any fish within slipping out of it. Her pearly white teeth snatched up the little creature quite like a kitten, and up they went, up to the light it sought. Breaching surface tension, she quickly made it onto shore and laid the bundle down on land, amongst the air its form had adapted to hold within and ride upon. How much water had entered the lungs? However much, it all had to come out. There was no place for this one in the sea, nor a place for the sea in this one. She would help the little one expel that remnant of the sea as best she could.

He registers the dark shape coming towards him in the water with a kind of distant knowledge. The realization that this is some large creature, flying through the water towards his form with fluidity; blue eyes sharp even through the waves with knowledge, blue eyes locked upon him with urgency.

He registers it, but he does not fear it. Does not really understand it, much, for his lungs are pounding and his vision is swimming with dark spots and there's something to be said about how the knowledge of immediate death is... almost calming, to his young mind. There is nothing he can do, no way he sees to escape, so now acceptance rushes in. The abyss looks as beautiful as a grave can be.

And then the jaws of life clamp tight around his form, and acceptance pops like a soap bubble on the film of sudden, shocked panic. Another instinct—something's holding me and I don't know what it is! Once again his beak opens in a silent squawk, bubbles rushing up with the movement as tiny black wings buffet the leopard's muzzle.

This isn't how it's supposed to go, is it? This isn't what he was expecting—but as he's hauled up, up, finally out of the water and onto dry land, any philosophy that his little mind could heave up is put on hold for the sudden hacking fit that overcomes him. His body registers that he's a) now on dry land, and b) able to breathe again, and the ferocity with which his lungs fight for air shoves any other thoughts out of his mind.

It would be almost comical were it not coming after a near-death experience; the sight of this little crow rolled back on the sand, soaked to the bone, wings flapping against the sand with every choking cough of breath and every heave for air.

If anyone knew how long the struggle to replace water with air lasted, it wasn't him—all he knows is a burning pain descending rapidly down his throat and scraping against his lungs, and the form of a savior in front of him, watching with blue, blue eyes.

He meets her gaze and hiccups. A small array of bubbles come floating up out of his beak.

What a greeting.