Saltwater Saint

A scream tears from your throat as you jolt awake. Your heart hammers against your ribs, sweat soaking through your shirt despite the cave's chill.

The fire had consumed everything. Buildings crumbled under intense heat. People scattered through streets engulfed in flames. And above it all, wings, massive and leathery, blotted out the sky as a creature descended upon the city.

Kozwald stood amid the chaos, his orange scales blackened and peeling. Smoke rose from his red poncho as embers ate through the fabric. He pushed you away with surprising strength. "Go! Run! Diese Kreatur… it comes for me!" His voice cracked, as buildings collapsed around you both.

"Freund? You wake."

Kozwald's actual voice pulls you back to reality. The orange crocodile sits across from the dying embers of your campfire, his scaly head tilted in concern. The red poncho drapes over his shoulders, intact and vibrant in the faint glow. His claws pause over the small carving he's been working on.

"Bad droom again?" He sets the carving down and shifts closer. "Third time this week."

The cave around you remains just as you left it before sleeping, your packs against the wall, supplies organized neatly, the entrance partially blocked with brush to hide your presence from whatever might roam the night.

You wipe your face. Your hand comes away damp.

"Water?" Kozwald offers his waterskin. The leather is worn but meticulously maintained. He watches you with unblinking reptilian eyes. "Same droom? With fire?"

Outside, wind whistles through scrubland. Just another night in the wasteland you both call home now.

"You speak in sleep," Kozwald continues when you don't immediately respond. "Say my name. Say 'run.' Say..." He taps his claws together, searching for the right word. "Say 'again.' Over and over."

He cocks his head, studying you with the intense focus he usually reserves for examining unfamiliar plants or mechanical objects.

"Seltsam," he mutters, then catches himself. "Strange. Is strange droom to have so many times."

The crocodile shifts his weight, adjusting his poncho. For a moment, the firelight catches his scales oddly, and you see a shadow of charred flesh, but you blink, and it's gone. Just a trick of the light.

"Still early," Kozwald says, gesturing to the cave entrance where stars still shine brightly. "More sleep maybe?"

He doesn't move back to his spot, though. Instead, he watches you with an expression you've come to recognize as worry on his reptilian features.

---

When Kozwald rises to pack supplies for the city trek, you grasp his wrist. He stops, scales warm beneath your fingers.

"Nicht gehen?" His brown eyes widen slightly. "No go to city today?"

You nod firmly.

Kozwald tilts his head, confusion evident in the way his scaled brow furrows. He glances at the cave entrance where morning light begins to filter through, then back at your face. His tail sweeps once across the dusty floor.

"But supplies..." He gestures to your nearly empty sacks. Then understanding dawns in his expression. "The droom. About fire. City burning." He pauses, studying your face for confirmation before lowering himself back down. "We stay, ja? Is safer?"

The tension in your shoulders eases as you nod.

"Gut. Good." Kozwald settles against the wall. "Once, I ignore feeling. Bad things happen." He taps his snout. "Day I become... this. Had strange feeling. Ignored. Went to market anyway." The crocodile stretches his legs out, wincing slightly. "Bad day to be in crowd when scales start growing."

He reaches for his water pouch, taking a careful sip. His claws, seemingly too large for delicate tasks, handle the fragile leather with surprising gentleness.

"First months here..." Kozwald shakes his head. "Very bad. People scream. Throw rocks. Call me monster." He points to a notched scar above his eye. "Blacksmith in first village. Big hammer." A low rumble emanates from his throat. "Not his fault. I look dangerous."

The morning grows warmer. Kozwald removes a small bone needle from his pack and begins mending a tear in his pack strap, his massive claws working with unexpected precision.

"Found work eventually. Night guard at farm. Good job for scary crocodile." He chuckles, the sound like stones rolling together. "Keep bandits away. Sleep during day in barn." His needle pauses. "Farmer family kind. Leave food. Never talk directly. Too afraid."

He finishes the repair with a neat knot, then tests the strap.

"Left when daughter saw me reading their books. Too strange for them." Kozwald shrugs. "Beast who reads? Unnatural."

His stomach growls loudly, and Kozwald looks down at it with mild irritation.

"Always hungry now. Crocodile body needs more food." He reaches for his makeshift spear but stops when he notices your expression. "No worry. Not hunt far."

The red poncho shifts as he moves. It's frayed at the edges, faded in patches, but meticulously clean. You remember the day you found it in that abandoned caravan three months ago, how Kozwald's eyes had fixed on it with naked longing.

"N-n-not necessary," he had stammered when you held it out to him. "Worth much. T-trade for better things."

Yet when you insisted, he'd frozen momentarily before his claws traced the fabric with reverence. He'd worn it every day since, even through the desert heat.

"Was first gift in new world," he says now, catching your glance at the poncho. He adjusts it self-consciously. "First time someone see me as person, not monster."

Kozwald moves to check your food stores, tail dragging a pattern in the dust.

"Have dried meat still. Some roots from yesterday." He sorts through the supplies. "No city today means no fresh bread." He says this with genuine disappointment. "Baker woman makes good bread. Only one who not afraid to talk to crocodile."

He starts preparing a simple meal, arranging items with the same care he might have once given to laying out bookbinding tools.

"Miss books most," Kozwald says abruptly. "In first year, found library in big town east. Sneak in at night through window." His expression grows animated. "Many English books. Practice reading until sunrise." Pride enters his voice. "Better at English. Almost understand everything."

He hands you a portion of the food, then sits cross-legged with his own share.

"Had to leave when guards set trap." He points to a long scar running down his arm. "Arrow. Not bad aim for shooting in dark." There's no bitterness in his tone. "Not blame them. What else is strange creature in library at night but thief?"

Kozwald eats methodically, careful not to spill a crumb. For all his fearsome appearance, his manners remain impeccable.

"Found good cave before meeting you. Three days from here." He gestures vaguely westward. "Made safe. Collected books people throw away. Built small home." A shadow crosses his features. "Hunters found it. Burned everything. Called it 'monster nest.'"

He falls silent for a moment, staring at his clawed hands.

"Was wandering when we meet. No home. No books. Nothing." Kozwald looks up, his reptilian eyes somehow conveying warmth. "Then you not afraid. You speak to me like person. Better than home or books."

Outside, wind stirs the desert scrub. Kozwald rises to secure the brush barrier more thoroughly.

"Strange," he mutters, sniffing the air. "Wind from wrong direction today."

He returns to his pack and removes a small wooden figure, a half-finished bird, and his carving knife. The blade gleams, well-maintained despite their harsh surroundings.

"In Leipzig, I make books. Beautiful books." His claws move deftly over the wood, revealing more detail with each careful cut. "Master say I have special hands. Never seen such straight stitches." A quiet pride enters his voice. "Even with these claws, still can make things."

The day passes quietly. Kozwald alternates between carving, reorganizing supplies, and occasionally stopping to listen to sounds outside that your ears can't detect.

Late afternoon, he pauses suddenly, scales bristling along his neck.

"Something wrong," he says, moving to the cave entrance. He sniffs the air, then steps back. "Smoke. Far away." He looks at you with new respect. "City direction. You were right."

Evening falls, and Kozwald builds a small fire deeper in the cave where its light won't be visible from outside.

"Good we stay," he says, warming his hands. "Tomorrow check what happened." He settles against the wall, poncho wrapped tight around his shoulders. "Strange you know. But glad you know."

In the firelight, the orange crocodile looks almost golden. Despite his appearance, there's something undeniably gentle about the way he tends the fire, the care with which he moves, the thoughtfulness behind his words.

"Once was scared all time," Kozwald says softly as night deepens. "Now only sometimes scared. Is better." He looks at you across the small fire, his expression earnest. "We make good team, ja?"

His claws reach up to adjust the treasured red poncho one last time before settling in for the night.

---

The city burns in the distance. News of the attack reaches you through a breathless traveler seeking shelter in the night. A winged beast descended on the market square at midday. Bodies strewn through streets. Buildings aflame. The very scenario that woke you sweating nights ago.

Kozwald paces the cave, his claws clicking against stone. "Lucky we stay," he says. "Very lucky."

You watch his movements, how he stops mid-step sometimes.

Nightmares have plagued you for months. Always vivid, featuring Kozwald.

You once woke gasping after watching knights corner him while you gathered firewood. Blood pooled beneath his hacked body in that dream, his last words an apology for being different.

Then the dream of illness came. Kozwald's scales dulled as fever gripped him. German words spilled from his delirious mouth, addressing people who weren't there. In the dream, you discovered his still form at dawn.

Other nightmares followed. Quicksand claiming him while he pushed you to safety. A mountain path crumbling beneath his feet. Bandits surrounding him when you became separated in a canyon.

Each nightmare ended with the same feeling, desperate yearning for things to be different.

"Feel strange today," Kozwald mutters now, rubbing his temple. "Head not right."

He sits by the fire and takes out his journal, opening to a blank page. He stares at it, pencil hovering. After several minutes, he closes the journal without writing.

"Forget what I want to say," he admits quietly. "Words slip away."

Kozwald, who once recited poetry from memory. Kozwald, who detailed every plant and animal you encountered with scientific precision. Now struggling to find simple words.

He attempts to carve but stops after making a mistake. "Hand follows what head says," he explains, "but head says wrong things now."

At dinner, Kozwald tells a story about Leipzig but trails off mid-sentence, eyes confused. "What was I saying?" he asks. When you remind him, he nods but doesn't continue. The thread of memory has snapped.

"Sometimes," he says later, staring into the fire, "I try to remember face of mother. Of father. Cannot see clearly anymore." He looks at you, eyes wide.

That night, Kozwald wakes shouting. When you rush to him, his eyes don't recognize you for several terrifying seconds.

"Sorry," he says when clarity returns. "Dream I was someone else. In strange place. Working with hands that not mine." He shivers despite the warm night. "Then I was no one."

Morning reveals new worrying signs. Kozwald packs his bag then repacks it three times, forgetting items, then adding the same things repeatedly. He speaks half a sentence, switches to English mid-thought, then falls silent, visibly confused by his own words.

When you show him the bird carving he worked on yesterday, he examines it with polite interest.

"Good work," he says. "Who make this?"

Your remind him that he did.

Kozwald blinks slowly. "No. Cannot be." He turns the carving over in his claws. "I would remember." But doubt crosses his features as he studies the familiar carving technique.

Later, he stops suddenly while gathering his weapons. "What city we going to?" he asks.

When you remind him about the attack, about your decision to avoid the city entirely, he nods.

"Smart choice," he says. "Very dangerous place."

By midday, his confusion deepens. He calls you by a name that isn't yours, "Heinrich," then corrects himself immediately, looking troubled.

"Sorry," he says. "For moment, thought you were someone else." He presses his claws against his eyes. "Head foggy today."

You find him standing motionless outside the cave, staring at nothing.

"Trying to remember," he explains when you approach. "How many days we know each other? How we meet?" His eyes search yours. "Was I always this?" He gestures to his crocodile form. "Or dream that part?"

The question chills you. Kozwald's identity, his past, these were the foundations of his mind. Now even they grow uncertain.

At sunset, he removes his treasured poncho, folding it carefully.

"Gift from friend," he says, stroking the fabric. When you gently remind him that you gave him the poncho, his expression clouds.

"Did you? Yes. Maybe." He nods too quickly. "Thank you. Good gift." But his eyes hold no recognition of the memory, that moment of connection when he first received it.

Night falls. Kozwald sits by the fire, unusually quiet. His hands work methodically, organizing his few possessions. He examines each item carefully.

"If I forget again tomorrow," he says suddenly, voice steady but eyes frightened, "tell me my name is Kozwald Trauner. From Leipzig. Bookbinder." He swallows hard. "Tell me I was human once. That I not always monster."

You start to protest the word "monster," but he continues.

"Tell me we are friends. That you choose to stay with me." His claws clutch the red poncho. "Important to remember that. Even if forget everything else."

He stares into the fire, expression distant. "Feel like book with pages falling out. Try to hold them, but they slip through fingers." His voice drops to a whisper.

The orange crocodile looks at you, his brown eyes momentarily sharp with terrible clarity.

"What happening to me?" he asks. The question hangs in the cave, unanswerable.

By morning, he greets you with polite caution, the way he did when you first met in the wasteland months ago. His eyes hold no recognition of your shared journey, your friendship.

"Hello," he says formally. "You sleep in my cave? Is okay. Enough room for two."

---

"My name is Kozwald Trauner," he repeats after you, voice flat. "I am from Leipzig."

The orange crocodile nods mechanically, but his eyes remain vacant.

"We are friends," he echoes. "You gave me this." He touches the red poncho without recognition.

These morning rituals have become routine. Each day starts with reintroductions. Some mornings he grasps fragments, recalling a campfire story or the name of a village you passed. Most times, recognition flickers briefly then fades.

Last night's dream left you gasping awake. Kozwald stood before angry villagers, arms spread wide to shield you. "Run," he shouted before they fell upon him. You fled as screams followed you into darkness. Then that feeling surged through you again.

You woke to find Kozwald watching you, head tilted.

"You say my name when sleeping," he said. By breakfast, even that awareness had vanished.

Now a sandstorm rages outside, Kozwald sits by the small opening, watching particles blast. His claws rest limply in his lap. He's been staring like this for hours, occasionally blinking but otherwise motionless.

The wind howls outside, rattling the walls. Sand hisses against stone.

Then Kozwald inhales sharply. His spine straightens. Something changes in his eyes, a light returning. He blinks rapidly and turns to look at you.

"Freund," he says, voice stronger than it's been in weeks. "I was lost again, ja?"

You move closer, hopeful yet cautious. These moments have grown increasingly rare.

Kozwald studies your face with unexpected clarity. "You look tired." His words come carefully, deliberately. "Not sleeping well."

He turns back to the window, watching the swirling sand. "Dreams bother you. Bad dreams."

Your heart beats faster. How does he know?

"Stop," Kozwald says quietly.

"This," he gestures to himself, to his head, "not working anymore." A sad smile crosses his reptilian features. "Pieces missing. More each day."

He looks down at his clawed hands. "Something wrong with me"

You shake your head, reaching for him, but Kozwald continues.

"When I sleep, see strange things. See myself dying." His brown eyes find yours. "See you watching. Every time."

Your blood goes cold.

"See knights with swords. See quicksand. See sickness." Kozwald tilts his head. "Real, ja? Not just dreams?"

He doesn't wait for your answer. "After each one, feel more wrong. Book with pages torn out." He makes a subtle tearing motion with his hands. "Soon, no pages left."

The sandstorm intensifies outside, as if responding to his words.

"Not your fault," Kozwald says gently. "You try to help. But," he taps his chest, "I don't belong here."

He struggles visibly to maintain his focus, blinking hard against encroaching confusion.

"Next time bad thing happens," he says, leaning forward intently, "must accept. No looking back. No wishing different." His voice breaks slightly. "Let go."

You back away, unwilling to hear more.

"Please," Kozwald says, something desperate in his tone. "Hard to stay... present. Thoughts scatter." he gestures to the swirling sandstorm outside. "Getting worse."

He adjusts the red poncho with trembling claws. "Rather die than forget. Who I am. Who you are."

His breathing grows labored.

"When I go quiet, when I stare, not empty. Seeing too much. Different places. Different me's." He presses his claws against his temples. "Too many memories. Too many deaths."

Kozwald reaches for your hand, his touch surprisingly gentle.

"Thank you," he says, voice barely audible above the storm. "For seeing person inside monster."

The light in his eyes flickers, clarity fighting against growing confusion.

"In Leipzig, we say... we say..." He frowns, the phrase escaping him. "Everything ends. Is natural." He squeezes your fingers. "Even friendship. Even life."

His gaze grows distant. You can see him slipping away again.

"Remember me," Kozwald whispers. "But when time comes,"

The sentence remains unfinished. His hand goes slack in yours. The crocodile blinks slowly, vacant expression returning to his features.

"Storm loud," he comments flatly, withdrawing his hand and turning back to the opening. "Very loud."