His eyes widen, seemingly beyond what should be capable of any living being, as he pauses mid-flight.
Me?
The word almost escapes his lips, but he manages to snatch it back just in time. The shock of being addressed directly mollies the temperature that had been building in him since watching Rajah's life slip away before he could do anything to help.
But things are moving too quickly and shortly after he comes to a stop, the Stratosians begin to meet their fates. And like everything else that has come before, it is no pretty sight. His chest tightens painfully, as though iron bands have cinched themselves tightly around his ribs. Nausea burns, an acid on his tongue, as their bones shatter and breach their flesh, as blood spills freely into the air. Their expressions are those of sheer terror and agony, haunting mirrors of the oceanbound Baltians he was just ripped away from.
The dragon speaks to him again, which only adds to Andrew's confusion. Though his memories are still muddied, he can only shake his head in disbelief, for surely he would remember suffering death as horrifically as the scaled creature describes. But then, the air is suddenly permeated by the screams of the flying army. He winces, disturbed as, if it is even possible, the soldiers are crushed more tightly by the dragon's invisible magic. He's not sure how much more he can take.
Suddenly, the dragon lunges and Andrew no longer has time to think of his discomfort as the flames flicker and flash as they build within the creature's mouth. Time seems to slow for just a moment as his wings stretch to their limit, seeking to propel him as far and as quickly as possible. In reality, it is only seconds before the stream of fire comes roaring towards him, and he only narrowly escapes their onslaught.
He banks hard just as the dragon does, and without realizing it (at least at first), he summons a magic he had never known before. The air around him bends to his will, adding bursts of speed where he needs them, clinging to the dragon's wings in vain efforts to drag it down. As their battle rages on, Andrew becomes aware of what is going on and manages to gain better control over the magic, using it to build invisible walls like his adversary's, though they are not nearly as effective against its massive frame.
He delicately probes the air with the magic, seeking a different angle of attack to use. Somehow, he can ‘taste the atmosphere's composition and he begins to play with it, trying different combinations until he finds one that manages to smother the spurts of fire that keep reaching to sear his flesh. It cannot quite fully extinguish the blazes, but it does enough to give him a bit of wiggle room.
Desperate for something that might actually take the beast down, he experiments with crafting weapons. The first round of projectiles are far too dull, and they bounce feebly off the tough, leathery scales. But he continues working doggedly at it, grateful for the invisibility of his creations, until one finally finds a home; it lodges deeply into the eye, rupturing the gelatinous globe and sending a thick spray of blood into the air.
Excellent.
The dragon begins to spiral toward the earth, and Andrew races after it, continuing to send the sharpened shafts of air rocketing after their flailing target. Though he'd never participated in any wars or even minor conflicts, the sounds that escape him suggest otherwise. They express the anger and determination that has bloomed dynamically in his soul. They make him over, turn him into a nearly unrecognizable legionnaire, fixed on the victory that he can nearly touch.
But then his world explodes.
The heat is unbearable as the flames begin to sweep over his body. He'd been caught unaware, fooled by the dragon's feigned defeat, and so, had not placed any kind of buffer between himself and the falling enemy.
As quickly as it had exploded, the world goes dark as his eyes, delicate and unprotected, are the first to go. The stench of his cooking flesh reaches his nostrils, gagging him nearly as much as the sensation of his skin crisping and then melting away, of his musculature contracting and pulling away from the bones they had so recently mended. If the tissue of his throat had not already burned away, his endless screams would have joined the Stratosian chorus, but nothing comes.
Until it does.
A long, heartrending scream shatters the silence and surprises him. Eyes that should not have been there snap open and he takes in the hazy sight of the familiar beach. The caustic residue of smoke still stings his nose, scratches at windpipe, burns his lungs. He blinks repeatedly to clear the fog from his eyes as he, yet again, stares up at the towering black demon. The laugh rankles him at first, but, as so many times before, he can barely process the scene, and the feelings that go with it, before something else demands his attention.
In clouded flashes, scenes begin to play behind his eyes. A black, red-eyed mare, myriad emotions dancing across her face as she b stares down at him. His mother. Their relationship had always been odd. On one hand, he was the only child of the one man she had come close to loving, and a son, at that. But on the other hand, a lifetime of neglect and the destructive ‘relationship’ with her half-brother had limited her nurturing abilities.
So his childhood had been rather unremarkable, and as such, his next memories are of adulthood. Of the modest home he had claimed, of the handful of lovely women he had endeared into staying, of the children that he had tried to love and nurture in ways he himself had been failed. He had done a fair enough job of it, but something had always been missing.
Lucian.
The girl who had entranced him in their youth, but had had a habit of disappearing on him. And yet, despite her frequent absences, she always came back to him, and they built a deep but unstable love. At least, until that last time, not long after the birth of their son. That permanent loss had broken whatever decency and desire to live that had dwelled within him. From then on, he had lived recklessly, abandoning the remaining family he'd had, taking women whenever he pleased, stirring up trouble as readily as the small-town drunk that lives and thrives at the local dive.
Somehow, none of that became his end. Instead, it was the carelessness regarding his health. He grew careless with his body, bruised and battered it, then failed to fulfill its needs to replenish itself. He died alone and emaciated.
What a sad life.
All the while, he felt the tension growing, feeding on the pathetic memories of his wasted life. It spreads like wildfire, consuming every inch of his being, until true fear blinds him again as it rages rampant in his soul. He cries out again, not wanting to continue this way. He cannot stomach the thought of enduring this parade of failures for the rest of whatever remained of this hellacious existence, but at the same time, he is terrified of what is still yet to come, because he knows that somehow, it will be even worse than this.