Fathom was tired, but he could not fall asleep, not truly. Sometimes he was certain he had only blinked, but then he saw that Pryce had changed positions. The few periods of unconsciousness he had experienced were restless and fitful, and he considered waking Pryce several times, if only to talk, but the human had not slept well either – his breathing had only slowed to a deep sleep a few hours ago.

He dozed off at some point, then stirred awake to see the skies lit by twilight. About sixty beats later the sun rose over the land, and with it his apprehension.

He would be flying soon.

Fathom pushed himself up and stretched silently so as to not wake Pryce. He cupped a wing around his head to check the human’s breathing and heart rate again; he was still asleep.

Pryce had already told him that he could fly today, and for a moment the thought of sneaking off entered his mind – but only a moment. Pryce had more than saved his life; he could wait a little longer.

Fathom slowly laid back down, the tip of his snout well within reach of the human’s arm.

And waited.

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Pryce stirred, and Fathom blinked awake. It took him a moment to realize that he had dozed off, though not for long, judging by the amount of sunlight outside.

“Are you awake?” He whispered, though not very successfully.

“Close enough,” Pryce mumbled as he sat up from his sleeping bag and wiped his eyes. “I’d say good morning, but it doesn’t look like either of us slept well. How long were you waiting for me to wake up?”

“Not long.”

“Good,” Pryce yawned. “Do you want to eat something first, or-”

“No, I will fly better without eating,” Fathom said shortly, more rudely than he intended. The anxiety that gnawed at his hearts was old and familiar; he’d felt it all those years ago when he had recovered from his broken wing, but the worst part had been that smidgeon of hope that perhaps a bent bone would not hinder his ability to fly.

Now he was in an uncomfortably similar situation; his wing broken, now healed, and all that was left to do was to fly. He had tried to smother any hope that he felt with excuses or reasons, but nothing could stop the intense, almost painful desire to relive those old memories of unhindered flight.

Fathom blinked as he felt something touch his foreleg.

“It’s going to be okay,” Pryce said reassuringly. “I’m sure you’ll be alright, whatever happens.”

Fathom’s spines flattened involuntarily, belying the skepticism that was his immediate response. He was doubtful that Pryce could understand exactly what he felt, seeing as he was not a dragon, but the human’s words of comfort did dredge up an older memory.

“...Yes,” Fathom said, almost absently. “The sun will rise.”

Pryce tilted his head. “But the sun’s already up, isn’t it? Or is that an expression in your language?”

“Something like that,” Fathom sighed. “It means that some things will happen, no matter what. It does not matter what you think, or what you want, some things you cannot control, like the sun.”

“That…makes sense,” Pryce said, wrinkling the skin on his forehead as he did whenever he was thinking about something new. “So, that expression means ‘don’t worry about things you can’t control’, right?”

“More or less,” Fathom shrugged. “I can fly well or I cannot; there is nothing I can do that will change this truth. You reminded me of that,” he said, nodding his head in a half-bow. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Pryce nodded back, looking unsure of what else to say.

Fathom felt a twinge of guilt in the silence that followed; he should not have been cross with Pryce yesterday, even if he was anxious. “You can eat first, if you want. I will wait,” he said, by way of an awkward apology.

“No, I’m not hungry,” Pryce said, gesturing towards the exit of the cave. “I’m nervous to see if you can fly too.”

Fathom hardly needed any encouragement to go outside, though he did turn his head around as he walked to ask, “Why are you nervous?”

“I – hopefully – fixed your wing. If it doesn’t work, that’s kind of my fault,” Pryce shrugged, staying by the cave entrance.

“You are being ridiculous again,” Fathom snorted derisively as he walked on, stopping two body lengths away so that his ascent wouldn’t knock Pryce over. “You made it better, so it can’t be your fault.”

“Maybe, but that’s just how I feel,” Pryce smiled. “Anyways; good luck.”

Fathom nodded absently as he fanned his wings, warming them up until Pryce had to shield his eyes from the dust that he kicked up. Then Fathom coiled the muscles in his legs and leapt upwards – not as high as he would have liked as he had not yet regained all of his strength, but it was enough; each gust of wind that his wings forced downwards gained him more elevation. His nictitating membranes instinctively slid over his eyes as he climbed, and in a few dozen wingbeats he had gained sufficient height to flare out his wings, panning into a slow and sedate glide.

At this altitude the cool air rushing past his wings was a familiar and immensely soothing feeling, so much so that he took several moments to savor this sensation that he had missed so dearly, and closed his eyes to calm himself as he prepared for what he had planned next.

Fathom folded his left wing partway, letting his right wing push him into a roll. A few revolutions later he flung both wings out as far as he could, his breath caught in anticipation as his wings snapped taut, the bones of his wings retaining their proper shape as he arrested his rotation and allowed him to peter out into a glide.

The breath Fathom had been holding came out in an explosive gust as he slowly allowed himself to realize that he had done a perfect, unhampered roll, with only minor aches as a result.

Giddy exuberance rose effervescently from deep within his being as Fathom flung himself into an aggressive clockwise climb, ascending faster than he had in years despite his still-healing body. Once he reached the apex of the ascent his fire glands clenched with emotion, and the dragon expelled a cathartic arc of liquid fire though the skies, followed shortly by a clarion roar of pure joy that echoed throughout the mountains.

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Some time later Fathom landed roughly, having overexerted himself a bit too much in his high spirits, and he had to stumble a fair distance in order to bleed off the speed he had failed to lose during his landing.

“I’m guessing it went well? You didn’t hurt yourself landing, did you?” Pryce asked, looking at Fathom for any signs of fresh injury. The dragon in question panted heavily, his sides bellowing in and out like a great balloon, but despite that Fathom snatched the human up in his talons with enough swiftness that Pryce had no chance of escape.

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“Thank you thank you thank you!” Fathom gasped in a rush with no pause between words, gratefully pressing his forehead against Pryce. “My wing is healed, now I can really, really fly!” The dragon cried, his deep voice quavering with emotion as it reverberated through Pryce’s body.

The genuine display of joy warmed Pryce’s heart despite the rather uncomfortable position he was in. Fathom held him very gently despite his exuberance, though that didn’t mean it was very comfortable. Pryce wasn’t quite sure how he should return the odd embrace, so he stroked the fine scales on the dragon’s forehead until Fathom carefully set him down a minute later.

“Why did you spit fire?” Pryce asked curiously. The flammable liquid had to be extremely energy intensive to produce, and he would have guessed that it was something reserved for special celebrations, but why bother with guessing when he could simply ask?

“When dragons feel strong emotions, our liquid fire sacs want to make liquid fire come out,” Fathom explained, his spines flaring happily.

Pryce blinked at this explanation – it sounded like crying, but a lot more dramatic. “Okay, is that like crying? Sometimes humans cry when very happy.”

“No, that is not like crying at all,” Fathom said, just quickly enough for it to be a little suspicious. “Fire-spitting is different than crying; dragons only cry when we are very sad.”

“Uh-huh,” Pryce said, skeptical, but not bothering to dwell on the topic. “You’re not completely healed yet, but can you fly better than before? Like before you fought Pathogen, I mean,” Pryce clarified.

“Yes and no. I can fly better now, but I get tired quickly, so I will need to exercise more,” Fathom answered resolutely. “When I am done healing, I will be able to fly much better than before,” he added excitedly.

“Great, when do you think we can go see Celeste?” Pryce asked.

“Oh,” Fathom said, with somewhat less enthusiasm. Then perked up as he remembered that she had been too young to see him fly properly before. “Maybe we can go in five days, is that good?”

“Yes, that’s plenty of time,” Pryce nodded. He would have preferred to let the mold ferment longer, but it was still an acceptable amount of time.

“Good, now let’s go eat, I am hungry,” Fathom said, turning towards the ship and mimed walking in place to signify his impatience.

“Don’t you want to go hunt something?” Pryce asked, a little tired of being a dragon’s personal chef.

“Yes, but I will hunt tomorrow. My wings are tired, and your food tastes better,” Fathom said without an ounce of shame.

“And whose fault is that?” Pryce smiled, rolling his eyes as he pushed himself to his feet. The moment he stood up Fathom walked on ahead with a spring in his step, then turned around to restlessly pace laps around Pryce when the human inevitably fell behind.

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“Here, humans celebrate when someone recovers from sickness, or heals from bad injuries,” Pryce said, bringing out a few bottles of wine.

“Humans celebrate things like that? That-” Fathom said, turning his head away from the bubbling pot of soup to lock eyes with the emerald-green bottles of wine. “-makes sense,” he finished without skipping a beat.

“What were you going to say?” Pryce asked, hiding his amusement under a stern mask.

“...that is strange,” Fathom admitted. “Dragons do not usually have others to celebrate with, so celebration is rare,” he huffed once Pryce stopped snickering.

“Yes, yes, that makes sense,” Pryce said, opening a few bottles to pour into a sizable bucket. The bucket looked like a comically undersized shot glass in the dragon’s talons, but Fathom didn’t seem to mind as it was easier to grasp than the glass bottles.

“You are not going to drink alcohol?” Fathom asked, pausing before he poured the bucket into his maw.

“Just a little,” Pryce said, holding up an almost-empty glass. “Here, humans touch cups of alcohol when celebrating,” he wriggled the bottle invitingly.

“What?” Fathom asked blankly.

“It’s called a toast, humans touch glasses like this,” Pryce said, demonstrating the action with one of the empty bottles.

“Why?” Fathom asked, taking a sip before hastily darting his tongue out to catch the liquid that dribbled down the side of the bucket – the lack of soft lips made the act of drinking more difficult than Pryce would have expected; he would have to find something that served as a cup better.

“It’s what humans do to celebrate, we tap glasses, say ‘cheers’, then drink,” Pryce said, leaving out the fact that this was supposed to be done before any liquid was consumed.

Fathom looked hesitant at Pryce’s extended glass, but he played along, gently clinking the metal bucket against the glass bottle.

“Cheers?” they both said, the dragon’s voice easily overpowering Pryce’s own. The human tilted the bottle completely upside down and drank the last mouthful of alcohol inside of it, while Fathom took another restrained sip and looked a bit frustrated at the bucket that refused to pour properly.

“You’re supposed to use the lip of the bucket to pour it,” Pryce advised.

“I know that,” Fathom grumbled irritably, “but I can’t see when the liquid meets the lip of the bucket when I’m drinking from it.” The dragon tried sticking his muzzle into the bucket instead, but it was just a bit too small.

“Maybe I’ll find a better container next time, or maybe I’ll just leave it in the bottle,” Pryce said apologetically as Fathom fell back to using his initial method of drinking.

“Yes, bottles are a little better, even if they are too small,” Fathom said, the alcoholic beverage soothing over his irritation quite effectively. He tilted his head as Pryce started on his own meal of canned fish and cooked rice. “You are not going to drink more?”

“No,” Pryce said, his voice muffled by a mouthful of food.

“Why?”

“I don’t like it very much,” Pryce shrugged. “When alcohol makes you feel different, that’s called being drunk, and I don’t like that.”

“Why?” Fathom asked, echoing himself. “Humans make alcohol, so humans must like alcohol, so they must like being drunk, right?”

“Yeah, a lot of people do, but I don’t,” Pryce shrugged. “Alcohol is a weak poison, but it’s still a poison.”

“Alcohol isn’t a poison,” Fathom objected reflexively, then looked down at his drink. “...is it?”

“Alcohol makes you feel good because it is doing damage to your body, but it is not much damage, and your body can heal quickly,” Pryce explained. Fathom didn’t seem convinced, so he asked, “Do dragons ever move food from the stomach back up through your mouth?”

“Yes, but only if we are very sick, or need to fly after eating too much,” Fathom said, confirming his suspicions.

“Okay, that’s called vomiting. Humans vomit if we drink too much alcohol, and dragons don’t do that because dragons can’t make enough alcohol to poison a dragon.”

“And there is not enough here to poison me?” Fathom asked a little warily.

“No, you should be fine,” Pryce reassured, and Fathom happily returned to sipping his bucket.

“I don’t understand why you don’t like to drink; I like it very much,” he said, looking quite pleased.

Pryce shrugged, his mouth full of food. “By the way, I wanted to ask; what do dragons do to celebrate?”

Fathom savored another sip before casually listing, “We fight, compete, make good sounds, and-”

“You sing songs?” Pryce asked, remembering he had forgotten to ask about that.

“I don’t know what sing or song is,” Fathom said drily, in a remarkable imitation of Pryce’s tone, though not his voice.

“That’s…uh…” Pryce mumbled, realizing if he explained it Fathom would ask for a demonstration. “Songs are when you make noises that sound good, and when you make a song it’s called singing a song,” he sighed in defeat.

“Humans can sing?” Fathom asked, somewhat surprised. “Can you sing?”

“Well, humans have to practice to sing well, and I do not practice, so I can't do that,” Pryce said as he surreptitiously avoided eye contact.

“But you can sing,” Fathom said, far too perceptive for Pryce’s current preference.

“I only know a few songs…” Pryce said weakly.

“That means you can sing, right?”

“I don’t want to, it’s embarrassing,” Pryce protested.

“Why?” Fathom asked, cocking his head in confusion.

“Because I’m not good at it!”

“...that makes sense,” Fathom said, humming in thought. “If it is very embarrassing then I will not ask you to do it,” Fathom said, clearly attempting to be gracious though he was obviously disappointed.

“Wait, I can’t sing, but I can show you human music,” Pryce said, which made Fathom perk up. “Music is like singing, but made by tools called instruments.”

“Yes, show me music,” Fathom said, bobbing his head eagerly.

Pryce quickly finished the rest of his meal before stepping aboard The Horizon. He’d never used it himself, but he knew there was a phonograph somewhere on the ship.