They say that before you are hatched, there is nothing. There is no sound, no colors, nothing. And I can tell you right now, they are wrong. I remember being in my egg. I remember the warmth I was constantly shrouded in, before I knew what cold was. I remember seeing light show through the membranes of my egg, sometimes in hues of purple, pink, and orange. I remember hearing clicks and hums, trills and shrieks, a constant vibration of comfort. I remember being comfortable, happy, warm, home.

And then I fell.

Have you ever been dunked into a freezing river? Or taken a fall so fast, it feels like everything inside you is suddenly in your mouth? It was like that, only a hundred times worse. My egg was nestled next to something warm and humming. I was asleep. I was happy. Then it happened. The floor was pulled out from under me, the force was monumental. I was screaming, writhing, crying out for someone, anyone, to help me. And I was plummeting down, down, down. A dragon egg is as hard as a diamond, but that doesn’t mean I was unaffected. The temperature dropped, and all around me I heard screaming mimicking my own. I knew I wasn’t the only one who had fallen. All around me, the screams of my brethren filled the air. Thousands of Dutch Angel Dragons fell that day. My egg was one of them.

It felt like I was falling for a year, a decade, a millenia. I screamed for the first part, until my throat was raw, and my voice was gone. Eventually, I stopped. Thrashing about proved to be ineffective as well. I went still, clouded in the dark, surrounded by cold. The only sound was the whistling of wind as I continued downward. At one point, the air shifted, the temperature slightly went up, and I began to pick up other sounds. Light slowly came back, illuminating the small space around me. I never thought I would be so happy to see the color orange again.

A thundering crash, snaps of something breaking, and then…. I stopped moving. Gray is the only color I remember seeing. The gray matched the cold I felt, seeping through my egg, making me shiver. Somewhere in the distance was the sound of what I now know as hooves running across the open forest floor. Tired, confused, and scared, I finally gave in to my exhaustion. And so I began my hibernation, in the heart of the Arizona forest, cold, tired, and for the first time in my life, alone.

When you sleep, you dream. Every sentient being knows this. I dreamt of a beautiful place, covered in clouds, with more colors illuminating the sky than imaginable. Vibrations filled the air, thousands of voices singing in different rhythms and tunes. And I am flying. The wind rushes to meet me, my wings easily holding up my massive size, and clouds part as I rush into them. This is heaven, paradise, and I feel it in my chest when the word finally comes to mind what this beautiful place is. Its home.

A dragon chooses when they want to hatch. We can stay in our eggs for days, weeks, a millenia. You could call us stubborn, but really, it comes down to our nature. We only hatch when our instincts tell us that it is time. In nature, deer will only have their young when the environment they live in is prosperous. If the land is desolate of food and water, the doe will naturally abort the fetus and absorb any nutrients left over. It’s just nature. So why in the hell my egg suddenly began to crack still floors me. I was asleep for years, accustomed to the cold, covered in the forest foliage when the first crack snapped through the air. My eyes shot open, trying to identify the foreign noise. And the light… it was blinding. Since when were the hues of orange, pink, and yellow so vivid? Another crack. I stretched out, twisting my body in multiple directions, trying to find out what direction the noise was coming from. And with a thud, I took my first steps into Terra.

Not the most graceful of entrances, but when you’ve been cooped up in an egg for gods only knows how long, you forget how to use your limbs. I fell smack on my back, wings angled askew, and my legs facing the upward. The first thing I saw was the sky. The sky, filled with clouds, and birds. My chest panged. Thats where I was supposed to be. So why was I down here? I imagine I looked an awful lot like a newborn foal, stumbling over long legs, disproportionate, wide eyed, and awkward. Right about then, my instincts caught up with me. I cried out once, twice, and waited. Another cry rang out, echoing through the trees. Where were the elders? Where were the humming vibrations that comforted me before? Why was everything so…. Well, cold? And I realized for the first time that I truly was alone.

To say those first few years were easy would be a total, complete lie. I hatched in the spring, when the Arizona forest was coming back to life. Trees were green, the fields were full of grass and wildflowers, and the wildlife was teeming. I trotted through the forest, a ghost amongst a sea of the living. The first living beings I came upon was a herd of elk, at least a hundred head, slowly working their way through a field. In that herd were small, long legged, wide eyed babies, who looked painfully similar to myself. I watched them from afar, painfully curious, but even moreso, cautious. For months I studied them and mimicked their behaviours. If the one with antlers on his head made his loud, yelling noise (I now know is called a bugle) I would trot with the herd, eyes and ears open for a threat. I watched the males clash with each other, mighty antlers smashing together as they screamed their defiance in each others face. I watched the mother elk (called cows) nurture their young, giving small nudges in the right direction. From a distance, I learned what plants to graze on, and which to leave alone. But oddly I didn’t get satisfaction from eating the plants. I gained no energy from eating them, but also lost no energy when I didn’t eat. I knew this was wrong, different, abnormal. I had seen other animals starve to death when they didn’t eat enough of the plants on the ground. Yet no matter how much or little I ate, nothing affected me. So I stopped eating the plants on the ground, leaving them for the animals that needed it to survive.

The first time I saw death, I was near six months in age. All the animals of the forest were agitated, nervous, fidgety. Something was on the air I had never smelled before. I followed the mood of the herd, constantly swivelling my head around, using my abnormally large ears to hear what my friends could not. We were deep in the forest, where the black paths that travelled over the land didn’t go. The paths made the elk nervous, and if we ever passed over one, we ran for a solid mile after passing. I never questioned why. We simply avoided it. Some things you just didn’t question, and the black paths was one of them. On the black paths travelled metal hunks, that travelled as fast as I flew. And those metal hunks were making their way into my forest, and scaring my herd.

It was an early morning, and our breath misted the air. The cows were grazing with their young, and the bulls were patrolling the edge of the herd, keeping them moving. I followed from my usual distance, always watching and listening. My ears must have heard it before the bulls on patrol. A rustling travelling across the tundra, slow and clumsy. Was this an injured deer? A baby hushcat (I later learned called mountain lion) learning how to stalk his prey? Quietly, I did what I knew how to do best. I watched, waited, and listened. Then the thunderclap filled the air. And I watched blood paint the rocks as our lead bull fell to the ground.

Panic ensued, and the herd ran, faster than they had ever ran before. Hundreds of hooves thundered across the tundra in a race that had no destination. I was stunned, though. I stood staring at the massive creature I had been following and mimicking for half a year now, who wouldn’t get up and run with the others. I screamed at him, my pitches getting higher and higher as I saw the unknown predator trotting up to claim his kill. Finally my nerve broke, and I ran to the bull, nuzzling his chest, head, and legs, trying to get him to stand. The first time I had ever touched another being, and he was dead.

The predator was a man, holding a long stick. How could this pathetic being take down the massive bull that had protected me for my life? I was enraged, seeing red, tasting metal. I charged at him, screaming my defiance, my rage, my frustration at this entire world. And then I passed right through him. There was no contact. It was like running through the morning mist. The predator kept walking up to the bull, totally unfazed by my charge. I rounded again, lowered my head, and charged, mimicking the movements of the once proud bull lying on the ground. And once again, I passed right through him. The predator took a tool from his back, and began sawing off the bulls massive antlers. Mortified, I could only watch as my once proud leader lost the instruments he used to protect his herd. The predator crowed his victory to the sky, grabbed the massive antlers, and walked away, leaving the body of my leader behind.

Years passed. I learned the routines of the forest. When mating season came and went, when the sky would cry water onto the ground and clapped light in the sky, and more importantly, when hunting season came and went. The predator, man, would sometimes come and sleep in the woods, in their flimsy homes that flapped in the wind. Man would make something using sticks and needles. It was warm, adding heat into the air around it. It triggered a memory stuck in my mind, from before I hatched. Warmth, heat, fire. Only man could make this flickering monster that enraptured my eyes. And when they were finished using the fire, they would kill it, like they killed everything.

I became the protector of the mountain. Not only my herd, but every herd had my eyes and ears watching them. I skimmed over the top of the trees, wings angled low, always watching and listening. I didn’t always beat man in their hunt, but I saved far more than I lost. The herds on the mountain knew to listen for my tinkling chirp ringing through the woods. To the hunters, I was another bird. To the animals, I was their warning.

The world was becoming cold again, the nights longer and the days shorter. I mimicked the behaviours of all animals I had watched over the years. I yawned and stretched out like the hushcat, pushing the sleep from my bones. Even though I didn’t need it, I took a drink from the nearby pond, enjoying the feeling of the water going down my throat. It was crisp and refreshing, another way to help me wake up. I had never seen a full reflection of myself, but I got a blurred image from the pond below me. Hues of purple fur in multiple shades reflected back at me, wings clapped next to my side that dwarfed most animals. I had no antlers or horns, but large ears swiveled with the sounds of the forest. Golden eyes stared back at me, curious and eager. I couldn’t see myself, but I knew the animals could see me. I was not something they were used to, colors that didn’t belong in the forest. But after years of seeing me fly above them, they adjusted to me. I was their guardian, their bull with no horns, their eyes in the sky.

I didn’t know dates, but I knew hunting season by the smell of the wind. Metal tinged the air, mixed with sweat and emotion. I lazed over the forest, giving small chirps to the herds beneath me. They knew which chirp meant danger, which meant peace, and most importantly, which meant run. I would not protect predator from prey in the natural world. Hushcats had to eat just like the elk. But man had an unfair advantage, with their loud sticks, black roads, and fast moving hunks of metal. Against man, I was the protector.

A clap rang against the trees. I winced, knowing the sound. Another animal I had failed to save. Wings tilting south, I flew to the sound, while other animals ran the opposite way. This was my duty to them. The animals of this forest taught me to run, hide, and speak. In return, the least I could do was be with them in their final moments. I couldn’t heal their wound, but I could comfort their soul before it left their body.

A large valley covered from one end to another with metal rods. Man called this place “Powerline road”. I called it the Valley of Death. It was open range for miles in every direction, and split the forest in half. To get across, you had to leave the trees, allowing everything within a five mile radius to see you. It was dangerous. It was where most animals met their death out here. Zoning in, I saw the dying elk on the ground, her herd over a mile away right now, and still running. Over her body was a small hunter man, a youngling, wielding her metal stick. Disgust made me pull my lips back, baring my teeth. Another habit I learned from watching the hushcats. Growling, I pushed myself to the floor and walked the last few feet. I knew the little female hunter could not see me approach. Undeterred, I approached, reaching out to nuzzle the dying animal before me. A moment before my muzzle touched the elks, the female flung herself down onto the elk. I growled, thinking she was attacking an already downed animal. The noises that came from her were not that of a hunter, though. It was mourning. Like the noise a mother deer made when her fawn fell victim to the hushcat. She was crying over the elks body, tears falling onto the elks brown coat. Perplexed, I sat down on my haunches, watching this little thing cry over her prey. Great sobs ripped from her tiny body, and slowly, over time, she stopped. She put her arms around the elks neck. Its spirit had left its body a while ago, whispering out of existence. She was muttering into its fur, and out of pure curiosity, I perked my ears forward, catching her muffled words.

“I’m sorry. I am so sorry. I hope you didn’t suffer. My dad says I should always thank my kill, because it is through you that I am able to eat and grow. I’m sorry I killed you. But thank you for providing me with meat to feed me and my family”.

She was like the yelping dogs, the hushcat, the lizard that comes out in the summer to eat the mice. She was hunting for food, not antlers or skin. I had seen a few hunters take the whole body before, leaving none to waste. But never one that had thanked the prey.

Slowly, she unwound herself from the animal. Gently put down the metal stick, and pulled down the hood covering her head. Golden hair spilled out, smelling of a foreign fruit, catching the sun. Her hair, my eyes, they matched. I had never seen another animal or hunter share this color that reflected my eyes. She was young, all gangly and awkward. We matched, somehow. This tiny human who was feeding her herd, her “family”, and myself. My chest suddenly panged, like the first time I saw the sky. I needed her. I had to know everything about her, her habits, her herd, her life. Curiosity brought me out of the sky, but it was instinct that led me now. Instinct had me sit with her for hours, as she prepared the meat from the elk. She cried on and off, but otherwise, was quiet. Instinct had me follow her back to the metal bulk (I now know as car) where her herd was waiting. I watched the golden haired child get into the car with the rest of her herd, the elk now packed into the back. And as she drove away, I flew over her car, instinct telling me to follow.