Transcendent

From Fox to Wyvern

He breathed, slowly, deeply: no. No, not like that. Rapid, sharp, panting breaths – the kind of breaths that broke through every barrier the fox put up, sending them crashing down. 

No… He knew that, really. He knew he couldn’t keep his breath paced and even when things were like that, when he was at the precipice of everything changing, the shift clawing at his lungs, at his guts, like it was trying to rip its way out of him. The fox shook his head, ears twitching, barely even able to remember his own name.

Did it matter? No… No, he really didn’t think it did, not anymore.

Rain hammered down, soaking his red fur to his skin, clinging to him while it slowly drenched all the way through. Even though his fur was typically waterproof, due to its density, it could not withstand such a force beating down upon it. The trees swayed and bent under the palm of the wind, the might of the storm raging through them, forcing the forest to match its will.

He couldn’t even remember how he’d got there, but he had a sense he’d left a lot behind. Pain and trauma… Something dark and swirling. There was a dark wall in his mind, behind which memory after memory was locked, barred away where he couldn’t get to it. As the wind swept over his russet muzzle, the fox exhaled, though he may as well have not taken a breath at all.

There was something there, inside him, that could not be reached. As much as the vulpine bore against the wall, laying the front of his body flat against it, not even a subtle arch in his lower back, there was no breaking through to those old memories. Perhaps they did not serve him well anymore.

Or maybe it was more that his old life, whatever it was he’d left brazenly behind, did not meet his needs anymore. The fox inhaled, wishing a name would spring to his lips. Yet it must have been caught by the wind for the mere whispering memory of it bore no more substance than a spring flower against the gale.

Around him, the old pines creaked and his toes curled slightly, pushing down into a soft bed of old, dry pine needles. The coating on the ground shifted under his hind paws as he walked, stalking into motion as if he was being drawn into action. But by who? Or could it even be by his own paw?

He didn’t know, but he didn’t have to know, not as his nose tipped down, though there was a part of him that had already known he was naked. He wasn’t really there, not truly present in his own reality, and he reached once again for his sense of self, even as his name flitted playfully out of his grasp.

And yet…it didn’t feel dangerous. It did not feel like something dreadful was happening, not as he walked, legs aching, toes curling into the damp ground. There was little sound as his hind paws met the earth, sodden leaf matter offering a gentle landing for his bruised and aching feet, but the fox did not care. He could have been making all the noise in the world and, still, he would have felt compelled to keep going, taking that next step through the forest.

There was no going back and neither did the vulpine want to as he took a deep, shuddering breath – the kind of breath that felt like it was aching through his chest, clawing and ripping at his lungs like it was fighting to tear its way out of him. He gulped wetly and took another, and another, though no amount of filling his lungs with air was going to be enough to settle the tension bristling through his form.

His body… No. It was too little, too small, and he snarled, lips peeling back from his teeth, a rim of white around his eyes as they turned glassy. No, no, no – no, it was all wrong! Yowling, he clutched at his own throat, though without sinking his own short claws into his flesh, for the fox still possessed some measure of sensibility, even at a time like that. Yet his chest rose and fell in sharp pulls of breath that got him nowhere, flesh churning and shifting over his bones as if it had suddenly come of a malleable, changeable matter.

Sometimes, one is not born into the body they were meant to have. Sometimes, their minds and their bodies do not match up. Sometimes, a soul requires a little help, just to return to their true home.

For one little fox, it was time to embrace his homecoming, even as he stumbled, dropping to his knees as damp seeped through his fur. But he couldn’t stop himself, steadying his torso with his paws braced on the ground, strands of grass poking up through his right fingers while his left paw sank into the mud. It was almost a relief to be that close to the ground as his stomach churned – but, no, that was not it. It was not his insides, not like that, that were shifting and gurgling, but the flesh sweeping over his body, all muscle and sinew and skin that had simply, well, always been there.

All that was about to change as he whined, the sound broken off halfway, black nose twitching. The scents of the forest overwhelmed him, from the musty matter, crisp with fresh wet, on the forest floor to the brewing storm crackling in the air. A crow cawed and shuffled back a little further into its chosen tree, a roosting spot to wait out the storm, but there would be no such patient waiting to come for the vulpine: only change.

“Unff… This… Nnghhh…”

It felt pathetic to groan like that, head tipping down and snout angling towards the forest floor. Somehow, the fox shrank in shame, heat blistering across his skin. It was not the first time, but some ulterior power, something greater than even him, hoped it would be the last.

His jaws opened and closed soundlessly as his fur slunk back into his body, not leaving a trace that it had ever been there to begin with. Cold ached up his legs, suddenly bare skin in contact with the ground, but he had to feel it, to break down into a weaker form so he could rebuild. The fox blinked rapidly, eyes blurring with tears, though he could not quite tell whether they dripped from his eyes or not, for the rain pattered down around him.

But he didn’t have the chance to feel it stroking over his bare skin in silky rivulets, his mind struggling to match up new sensations with what he already knew, as his skin hardened once more. In lieu of his russet, rich coat of fur, scales found a place on his body, shielding and warming him. In iridescent greens and blues, they settled into place all over, spreading out in patches from his hips, his shoulders and even the centre of his chest. There was not an inch of his body they didn’t seem to cover and even his ears were treated to a fine, ticklish shield of much finer scales.

He grimaced, though no sound seemed ready to slip from his lips, so the fox didn’t try too hard to speak up. It wasn’t right, could not be right, even as his heart pounded like it was sending a resounding roar echoing through his body. The roar carved him out and scraped him clean, leaving him fresh and hollow to be filled with what should have settled in him long ago.

A yelp snatched itself from his lips as his back arched, seemingly without conscious thought. But he could not possibly have hoped to remain still as his spine lengthened, pushing determinedly out at the base of it – where it came down to the tip of his tail. He twisted and hunched, shuddering bodily as he bore through the crackling pain, more vertebrae laying themselves down the length of his spine. It was the worst right at the back of his skull where his spine connected, each crinkle and pop echoing dully through his head, yet devoid of the headache that should have gone hand in hand with such bone-cracking shifts.

What was happening to him? He grappled with the notion, unable to push himself up from steadying himself on his paws and knees, though it seemed like the most stable kind of position to be in at that moment. So, it was not so bad, even as he raked in heaving, rasping gulps of air, the cold of the forest snapping anxiously into his lungs. He could hold fast there, head reeling, yet strangely there was no sense of true panic flooding him. It didn’t sink iron claws in around his heart, but a wave of tiredness pulled at him, as if sleeping may well have been a fine thing to consider at that moment.

Things were different, but not so much so that the fox could yet step away from the life that had done nothing for him other than hold him back. He licked his lips, but that did not come with the grounding feeling it may have once had. For his tongue slimmed down, wiggling and twisting apparently out of his control, for the muscles that moved it seemed more flexible than before. Blinking down at his scale-clad paws, he twitched a finger as his claws thickened and turned white, speckled with mud. How could that be?

But maybe things like that didn’t have to have an explanation he could understand – at least not in the moment, not when they were happening. His ears twitched, heavier than before and the fox took a deeper, slower breath as he settled into the change. In hindsight, they’d find it amusing how the body and mind could accept things like that, the change in one’s perception, when it all went beyond base instinct and what the mind was primed to do. They were still animals, after all, even if they were indeed evolved anthros.

The fox was more than that, however, having shucked his fur as his tongue wiggled in front of him, draped down over his bottom lip as if he was trying to make a silly face. He considered that carefully and “sucked” it back into his mouth as the tip pinched into a fork-like end, which almost seemed serpentine in how it was presented to him. All would come to be seen in time, however, as pressure increased around his neck, stretching that part of him along with his spine.

End preview.

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