Sabrael
Time makes him bitter but not broken.
Instead of resigning himself to being alone for the rest of his miserable existence, Sabrael lets loose the beast (lets loose his anger and fire, too, and borrows his wings) and takes off for a place he should have forgotten long ago. He drags himself into the sky without gusto, like it is a task he is forced to complete rather than a passionate endeavor. There can be no passion in loneliness, he’s learned over the years. There can be no enthusiasm in the insanity of his mission – of doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.
Still, the island remains his homing beacon.
He comes back to the spit of land time and time again, scouring the shores for any of the faces he might know. Leathery wings work the warm air easily, keeping the dragon aloft on tropical air that is as familiar to him as his own mother. He looks down from the heavens first and then proceeds to land to take in the rest of the kingdom by foot. Ischia is very much a wild thing but small; it doesn’t take long to push past the tangle of vines and see that he is still alone. Everyone he had cared about is gone from or a lingering ghost in the place they once all shared.
So he leaves Ischia, time and time again. He finds other places to live, other places to hunt. He hones his skills and forgets his manners. The beast is free more often than not and they become one and the same. The line between them blurs and disappears almost altogether. Now, he understands the benefit of the cold reptilian clarity he’s always muddled up with his fiery emotions. Emotions stamp weaknesses into one’s bones, making them brittle and frail and easily broken.
He comes back one more time and vows to never return again.
The wind changes as he pushes his scaled snout into the Ischian airspace. There’s the smell of the salt-brine sharp and punchy, but also something else, something that shouldn’t be there. A sick sort of smell that reaches down into his guts and makes them twist with wrongness. Sabrael still searches the island high and low for signs of familiarity, but again is disappointed. At one point, he thinks he smells her – but the trail stops cold at the water. Up in the air, he had seen another sand-ringed dollop of land that hadn’t been there before. Perhaps there had been a migration of sorts?
~
There is no festering, diseased smell on this island, at least.
He remains a dragon until he can figure out what is going on, just in case. The beach roars behind him, seemingly incensed by whatever has plagued the land. Is all of Beqanna different now, too? Or is Ischia destined for bad luck? Grinding his teeth, he looks out over this new island, wondering where to begin.