Being a badly injured dragon, lying exposed to the elements in a narrow ravine, sucks.
You have been alternating between fever and chills for the past several days. The fever feels like you are being cooked alive, and the chills feel like you are being buried in ice. Sometimes, you feel both at the same time, in the same places. Overall, your body is doing an excellent job of making itself completely uninhabitable to anything that might be in it, including you.
As you lie in delirium, you look again and again at your hind-paw, and you try to get yourself to hallucinate that you are really seeing a human foot. You point it, and you flex it. You fist the claws into the dirt, and you find your hind-claws to be more dexterous than your human feet ever were, even being able to move the digits independently of each other. At one point, you spend hours just tilling the dirt with your hind-claws, and eventually, they are sufficiently caked in dirt that the green tourmaline colored scales have become obscured. You feel a small victory over covering up the green.
{{Please, try to help me roll you over}} your caregiver whispers into your head. The kyanite-blue dragon...wait, he said he has a name...it was Dizzy...Dizzy-tail. More a name for a puppy than a dragon, you think. Dizzy starts to push you before you are ready, and you are lifted up for just an instant before flopping back over. {{Come on, I need to get you away from your waste}} he whines.
With a grunt of effort, you use your still only partly healed wing to brace yourself against the ground, and you groan with pain as you are rolled over, causing the mucus and congestion that has hardened in your chest to shift uncomfortably and triggering more waves of nausea. There is a whoosh of flame as he carefully incinerates the waste under an intense enough flame to avoid making smoke.
Once he is done, he comes over to feed you again. Before you got so sick, you had managed to force yourself to eat most of the innards of one of his kills. You had felt better for a while after that and even started feeling stronger as your body healed. An infection had set in at some point, though; as your body had fallen ill, Dizzy began producing this pungent, thick yellow crop-milk, and this he now insists on feeding you, saying you are far too sick for solid food.
With an air of resignation, you raise your head up with your jaws parted slackly, and he turns his head to the side to seal his jaws against your own. You try to relax your gullet to let the foul-smelling stuff go directly down to keep from having to taste it, although fruitlessly: as his crop heaves, the curded goop comes up in thick spurts, a few dribbles of it escaping from the lock between your jaws and his before he finishes dispensing his load.
After this is done, you lay your head down again. You think you might have been gracious enough to thank him, but you fall soon back into a fevered, restless sleep.