Blighthealer opened his eyes. It was still dark in the room, but he could see dim outlines of shapes and the objects around him. He blinked, wondering what time it was.
"A snowflake floats alone on a cold breeze...no one knows where it goes, no one can see...that although that snowflake is just like all of the others, that snowflake is lost, within its uniqueness is undiscovered…"
Blight pricked his ears at the sound of the silvery voice coming from the windowsill; It was soft, slow, and eerie, and full of sorrow. The violin accompanying the voice matched it perfectly, and spoke in volumes of emotions that could never be put into words.
"...Because all snowflakes melt, their beauty is forgotten...No one remembers a lost snowflake...But some snowflakes hide something rotten, underneath a glassy fascade…"
Blighthealer felt tears well up in his eyes as the voice started to waver woefully, making the song pick up into a higher octave of poignancy:
"So that snowflake blew somewhere far away, where the mountains are high and the ocean sprays, that snowflake found a cliff side to call home, there all alone he remains, he no longer has to roam…"
Blighthealer wrapped his wings tighter around his body, cursing himself for his weakness. It was just a song, it didn't mean anything if he didn't let it mean anything to him...but all Blight could think about, for some reason, was how sad the singer sounded...like the song was his soul being poured out in verse form.
"...But all snowflakes melt, their beauty is forgotten, no one will remember a lost snowflake, this snowflake hides something rotten, underneath his glassy fascade…"
Blight tilted his head. What did that mean? Was Glare singing about... himself?- He listened more intensely, trying to glean what he heard of any possible clues that could decode the icewing's past:
"...The snowflake remains on his cliff side home...His soul wants to roam...But he is betrayed...He is melting slowly...He has lost his way…."
The song melted away as slowly and softly as it had begun; the voice wavered, leaving nothing but the soothing tones of the fading violin. Blighthealer sighed to himself, succumbing to fatigue, and closed his eyes. Whatever that song meant...he could find out tomorrow.
He let a solitary tear for the icewing fall down his cheek, despite himself.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Blight walked down the long corridor of the clinic, carrying a bowl full of water. Although it was hardly dawn, the patients were already grumbling; in every room he passed, he could hear muffled complaints, long-suffering sighs, and growling.
Most of the patients here were former soldiers from the recently-ended war. On many of the red and orange bodies, there were branded stories of great deeds, heroic feats...and great travesties. Burn marks twisted scales into horrifying black shapes; frostbite knawed off wings and tails; claw marks, missing teeth, venom slashes, dying tissue; it took alot out of a dragon to read those stories...and try to re-write them with a happier ending.
Blighthealer sighed as he stood beside a doorway near the end of the hall. He tried to brace himself for what lay ahead of him, for the horror he was about to endure, for the sake of helping another dragon-
"NIGHTWING! IS THAT YOU?!? WERE IS MY WATER?!?"
Blighthealer jumped almost six feet into the air as the screechy voice tore through the mild peace of the clinic. He caught the water, thankfully without spilling a drop. He sighed, mourning the peace.
"Right here, Harrier!" he called as cheerfully as he could manage. He brought the bowl before a large rusty-red skywing laying on a bed in the room.
She snorted and practically snatched the bowl from him. "About time," she grumbled before taking a large sip.
Blight nodded, greatful for the powerful pain medicine infused in the drink; with her asleep, there would be much more tranquility throughout the clinic.
"I apologize for your wait, but I had to tend to another patient." Technically true: that dragonet did need help finding that stuffed bird she loved so much. It wasn't like he was specifically stalling so Swift could mix the medication in the water, or so Harrier would have to wait, or anything; not at all.
"Hm," she said suspiciously. She shifted so her broken wing could rest in a slightly different position.
Blighthealer hated having to tend to this particualr patient; she never hid her distain for him or his tribe; She never hid her disdain from anyone. Blighthealer had figured it was a natural skywing trait, to hate everyone and everything, but as it turns out, not every skywing could be as execrable as Harrier.
It made Blight glad that he could go home everyday to the quiet Glare instead; at least he didn't yell at him, or make snark remarks about his tribe's ruined reputation, or throw things at him just because he was in pain.
Thinking about the icewing seemed to bring back the faint tune of the snowflake song. He started humming it to himself as he went about the clinic, trying to replicate the soft, silver tune just as he had heard it, with limited success.
Blighthealer was unable to get anything out of Glare that morning, when he had asked about it.
"Song? What song?" Glare had tilted his head as if confused.
"The song you were singing last night," Blight had insisted, "the song about the snowflake?"
"Oh, that," Glare had torn open his goat and sniffed dismissively. "that was nothing. Just a little song I wrote."
"It was incredible!" Blight said, "You really have talent, I must admit."
Glare had only shook his head. "It was nothing but a little song; forget it."
"Well, it must have meant something to you, if you wrote it." Blight had been risking getting closer to his real interrogation: asking about Glare's past.
Glare looked up at the nightwing, and for a moment, Blight was afraid that he had offended him; but Glare had just passed him the rest of his goat and grabbed a box by the door.
"It means nothing to me; I thank you for your ear, but I assure you, the song means nothing. Don't worry about it."
He had left in a hurry. Blight knew he was lying, because his green-blue eyes had been bloodshot, as if he had been crying for a very long time; If the song had truely meant nothing, why would he write and sing something so soulful?
"Nightwing! I need more water!"
"Nightwing! Be a dear and fix my pillows?"
"Can I get another rabbit? This one is scorched to a crisp."
"Nightwing!"
"Nightwing!"
"Nightwing!"
Blight growled and covered his ears as more and more patients started to make their daily demands in their loud, annoyingly screechy voices; it was enough to drive him half-mad. But, as always, he swallowed his rage, smiled as he attended to his patients, and assisted the nurses and stuck-up skywing doctors with their daily needs.
Everytime, whenever he felt the pressure building up, whenever he felt upset or angry or fustrated with a patient, or sick from what he had seen: that violin tune started playing in his head, and he remembered the icewing's sad song about the lost snowflake. It always soothed him, and reminded him about why he was putting up with the skywings and their brash ways; because he genuinely wanted to help others.
Because all snowflakes melt, their beauty is forgotten,
No one remembers a lost snowflake,
But some snowflakes hide something rotten,
Underneath a glassy fascade…
(Author's Note: Listen to "Hospital Bed" by the Cold War Kids. It goes good with this chapter, and perhaps later ones. Sorry for this one being rather rushed; hopefully, it will get better soon!)