He isn’t exactly sure how long it’s been. The days and nights have all blurred together into one long...existence, and he isn’t sure if it’s because of how shaken and confused he is or because of-- because of what he is now. He doesn’t regret this choice. He can’t regret it, because he can’t take it back. He knew what he was doing the moment the heretic in his hooded robe handed him the vial of blood. At least he saved some of his brothers.
But...he isn’t human anymore. Every time he moves his new body shifts, and he remembers anew that he has a tail, that his arms have become wings with vestigial claws, that he has fangs and teeth and that he is everything he used to hate. It doesn’t scare him as much as he thought it would. But he’s sober, he’s bone-achingly sober, and being unable to hide in the blessed haze of inebriation is...
He hasn’t spoken to anyone, in either tongue he now knows, since he and the brothers he’d saved arrived here, and he’s slept more than he’s been awake -- in part because that’s how dragons heal, but in part because he doesn’t have to deal with the ramifications of his actions if he’s asleep.
But...he can’t pretend to be asleep right now, not when he’s being visited -- for the eightieth time -- by one of his brothers. They come to see him often, trying to see if he’s still the man they know, trying to get him to say anything, to look at them, to see if Guerrique de Montrohain still lives behind these eyes...it hurts. Normally he ignores it but this time...this time he wasn’t able to keep from moving when he heard footsteps, so whichever one it is knows he’s awake.
His exhale is audible, but he doesn’t turn or look up. Just...acknowledges the other is there. Gods, he hopes it isn’t Zephirin again.
