Born in death with eyes and lips sealed black—she should not have survived.
She was born as were all others of the Witch Queen's broods: still. It had been dawn when the quiet chirrups had begun to sound from the eggs, the first crack appeared on the shells, but it became the time when the day fell into the cold embrace of the next coming and the eggs had only become quiet and quieter still.
The Queen had already been defeated. Her first brood with the grey prince had sought to bring a much desired heir to the clan. The prince had gone and the hatching day had come, but it had born no fruit. She'd then thought to breed one of royal blood, to be promised to the fire prince (descent of the clan's black prince, though born to another god). Once again, the nest bore nothing but empty shells.
This was the second brood the Imperial had sired, third for the Fae. She may be magic, but he was Plague, and Plague dragons are loathe to admit defeat. When she'd left, he'd set to work to reveal the small bodies within. His talons worked deftly, more delicate than thought possible of a massive dragon upon the tiniest of eggs.
It was something of a surprise to discover the minute Imperial cub coiled within. Perhaps less so the black sap-like substance that seeped from the mouth and eyes. It was not uncommon in Imperials, though as with Emperors, no one knew why. The body was set aside without a word. It would have to be burned... dragon or dragonet, Imperial bodies were to be handled with care.
He returned with mantles, to prepare them for the death rites, as had been done for the one before. The little Fae kit was stiff, the wetness from the egg drying to reveal dull scales which shed as she was swaddled in her shroud. The Imp cub still glittered. He wondered if he had bothered to break the shell sooner, if she may have survived. There was movement, he thought, but it was shallow. He could have imagined it. He stroked the slick skin with the pads of his talons. The scales did not come away. There was a slight hint of a breeze against his paw, but being in the Wind domain, that meant nothing—gusts and gales would arise anywhere. Still, he sat back and prodded, inspecting for signs of life.
The mantle was dipped in hot water flavored with herbs. It was not meant for bathing, but custom was disregarded. The drake was trying to clean the cub of the black sap, but it always seemed like more would bleed out. It wasn't much of a wonder why this one didn't make it out of the shell—it had been suffocating! He'd finally lain the cub inside the now half-empty bowl, where the heat and the spice found its way to dissolve the substance that clung to the insides of the frail body. Black tinted the mix, moving in slow swirls like freshly-spilled oil on water, though without any sheen. Blacker than shadow, he thought, Strange.
The black suddenly reverted direction as it was sucked back in through the maw, then expelled with force. The cub arched, cries literally drowned out. Though in shock, the larger dragon acted with haste. Removed from the water, the cub finally found breath, but it was a rough, wet sound. The remaining black sap still impeded proper function. It was not an easy task to flush the sickening substance from the tiny creature, but it was done. She'd begun life dead, and then drowning, but somehow she'd broken through the veil.
AUTHOR NOTE(S): Stillborn. She should actually have a real name, but when she was first born, I’d went: Oh, cool! I got an Imperial from them. Too bad it’s the wrong sex! *Prepares for exaltation.* Wait a minute.... Anyways, I still haven’t got a name.
stormborns
germansingergirl
