Fancy Dress

A Small World

Darkness. Warmth.
Soft beating.

Lighter darkness. Warmth.
Soft beating.

Pink-edged darkness. Moist warmth.
Soft beating. I think it is my heart.

The darkness is dark again, the warmth still moist.
The darkness comes in cycles; darker and lighter dark. I recognise the lighter dark as always being slightly pinky-red now. The warmth is always there; but sometimes it feels drier, more uncomfortable, and sometimes it is wetter, the humidity soothing.
The beating is definitely my heart. It is loud within this small world.

And this small world is getting smaller.

I want to stretch, to unfurl my wings and arch my neck, but this small world encases me. A thin layer of shell surrounds me. Through it I can see shadowy shapes and hear muffled sounds.
I wonder if any of the shapes is my mother and if any of the voices are hers.
If I concentrate really hard, I can hear rhythmic beats that echo my heart. Do I have more than one? No, because when I focus my eyes against the shell I can see the dark mounds of other eggs. Perhaps I have brothers and sisters then.
I hope mother is pleased.

The desire to stretch is stronger. I want to flick my tail, but the rigid shell constrains me. It never used to – I could swim and roll in the warm fluid that bathes me. So is the egg shrinking or am I growing? What will happen if it gets too small or I get too big? Already I must press my snout against my bell, my tail wrapped around my flank.
I can feel my skin thickening and coarsening. Scales rub and slide as my legs twitch in the confined space. Every movement is difficult now. I want to move. I want to swim free, to spread my wings and wriggle my legs. I wish my small world would grow big again.

The shadows outside my shell still wonder passed and the sounds are more distinct now. Deep, soft voices.
It takes a while, but I learn to differentiate between them and realise there are two entities. One, older perhaps, his is a deeper, huskier voice, is the authority. His charge (child? ward? apprentice?) has a softer voice, masculine but uncertain and wavering. A youngling then.
Are they dragons too? Their shapes are hazy blurs against my shell, but they seem to walk upright and I cannot make out the lines of their wings.
Why would mother allow non-dragons near the nest?

For the first time my mild concern turns to fear.

The shell is unbearably small and I have concluded that it is I that am growing, not my egg that is shrinking. Once or twice the entities outside my shell have lifted me up and I have felt the heat and claustrophobic press of their hands.
“How much longer before they hatch, Master?” It is the younger voice. The uncertain one.
“Soon, boy. Soon.” The master is confident. There is something reassuring, even soothing, about his somber tone. “Keep them well sprayed, Bann. We cannot allow the clutch to dry out. I want as many to survive the hatching as possible.”
The uncertain voice lowers me back into the nest and I feel a blissful blast of hot moisture on my shell. Fortunate, since my entire body is pressed tight against the thin barrier.
Hatching. That sounds, interesting. I wonder what it means and whether I will enjoy it.



Word count: 588
Prompt: Be a fantasy creature or person.



For more of this dragon's world, please visit "Bann's World"