The recently hatched dragon stared at his own tomb, his golden gaze unmoving as memories fluttered across his mind.
Wymond... That was his name.
Or rather, it had once been his name.
He glanced over at the tomb that held his own body; it didn't feel quite right to call himself that anymore. Even trying to think of himself as 'Wymond' felt... off. True in a small way, but not quite accurate.
He rolled back onto his clawed feet and scampered up against the sarcophagus to once more peer at his old body.
There was no doubt about it. The amber-brown hair, the chiseled features, the robust frame... even the wounds from his final battles—open, unhealed, but clean and not bleeding, including a rather noticeable indent in the funeral robes over his mortal wound.
His old life's body looked like it had only died mere hours ago, rather than the hundreds of years he had expected; his face still sat in tranquil repose.
There was no sign of the Sin that had been festering from the wound, either. No sign of the writhing, postulating growth that had overtaken his spirit while confined to the Throne of Heaven.
Alas, there was also no sign of his regalia. The Demon-Slaying Blade Losvirdikothar was gone, as were the various pieces of armor, amulets, rings, and the other blessed artefacts the Twelve Gods had bestowed upon him.
Considering the despoiled nature of the tomb, that wasn't particularly surprising. Whoever had invaded this place had likely made off with the regalia, much like they had the gold, silver, or anything else valuable his mausoleum once contained.
Then again, he wasn't even sure if he considered their loss a shame. His right forepaw twitched, remembering the reliability he felt when the blade's weight was in his hands, as well as the heavy duty that had come from his long wardenship.
Regardless, there were more important things gnawing at the back of his mind than where his old equipment had gotten off to. Namely, the mystery of why he was here, and where the dragons that made the egg he hatched from were.
A noxious feeling settled into the pit of his stomach.
He turned away from the tomb and ran back to the cavern he had hatched in, losing his footing multiple times with his still uncertain limbs. But each time he just scrambled back onto his feet and continued to run until he was back in the cavern, running around the stone hill to stare at the mound from the cavern's entrance.
"No..." his first word squawked awkwardly from his new larynx, but he couldn't contain them after his golden eyes discovered the hill's true nature.
Dragons were divine creatures, said to be the children of the Heavenly King, and further blessed by the other Six Gods of Creation. Their ability to enter Heaven in body was but one aspect of their unique nature. But they were still mortal—or as mortal as a beast that could live for thousands of years could be.
When they neared the end of their lives, dragons had two options: they could ascend to Heaven and remain at the Heavenly King's side, forsaking the mortal world forevermore, or they could choose to weave themselves into Creation, much like the Six had given of themselves, becoming a part of Pyren's landscape.
The latter became guardian spirits, a small fraction of their once mighty power sheltering the eggs and hatchlings of their descendants—the hatchlings could even communicate with their spirit in their dreams, seeking their elder's consul and advice when their parents were insufficient or not around.
When Demons mortally wounded Oriana's mother, she had become a guardian after entrusting her sole remaining egg to his care. He and the rest of the party watched as her body merged with the rock of her cavern home, becoming a seamless part of the terrain.
It wasn't always stone, either. Other dragons had become small lakes, mighty trees, or all other manner of natural features, all depending on the dragon, where they died, and even what particular Gods showed them their favor—all sporting their own flourishes to hint towards their draconic origin.
The dragon he suspected of laying him had unmistakably become part of the cavern's stone. With the advantage of distance, and knowing what he was looking for, he could spot the distinct impression of a curled dragon hidden within the stone hill: the curved back, the furled wings, the long tail... The alcove his egg's ruins laid in formed by the dragon's head tucked against a foreleg, further protecting the nest with its stony visage.
His gut faltered further. He thought he had looked familiar to Oriana when he first saw his reflection, but he had discounted it. For all his knowledge of dragons, it was hard to tell them apart, nor was it impossible for his creators to be related to her.
But now, as he stared at the guardian vestige, it all tied together. She had entered Heaven not physically, but spiritually. She had died, and he could tell; that's why her arrival had left him feeling so sad.
He didn't know if it was hers, or perhaps her mate's—if her spirit had come to Heaven to rescue him, it should not have been possible for her to become a guardian. But, by all rights, he shouldn't have been able to reincarnate either; so he couldn't rule out the possibility.
He stepped forward, his legs weaker than usual as he approached the remnants of the fallen dragon's head.
He had held the Gates of Heaven closed, but he was not the only one who could do it. By technicality, it wasn't even his own power that had made it possible; only his will projected through Losvirdikothar, forged from the fang of the Heavenly King, Lord of Heaven, allowed him to command Heaven so. Theoretically, any dragon, as children of the Heavenly King, could do the same. They would only have to sit upon the Throne of Heaven and endure the gnawing madness of a Dark God's malignant Sin.
His small foreclaws brushed the giant stone's head. Tears wanted to fall from his eyes, but dragons didn't have tears in their true forms.
"Orrriankas..." his lips struggled with the human syllables, much like Oriana did as a hatchling.
He slumped against the stone hill.
This must all have been her doing... That was why she had apologized upon rescuing him; she had broken her promise not to follow him into Heaven.
When she sensed that his vigil had slipped, she must have taken over his duty. Then, somehow, by some means he could not yet fathom, she had reincarnated him within her own egg.
A sense of pronounced weariness fell over the dragon hatchling. Before he knew it, he was asleep, curled up against the impression of a stone dragon many, many times his size.