Titus

TITUS SNAPDRAGON

Something rumbles. The world seems to shiver, though nothing is yet visible, and then flickers to life. A claw can be caught dodging the camera's view, then the scene comes into focus.

A Coatl, head feathers ragged and in desperate need of preening, arches its neck as gracefully as it can manage. Even in the grainy footage one can see the bags under its eyes, the desperate want for sleep it has not had.

"Day sixty-five," The Coatl rasps in a way that distinguishes him as male. It's notable that he speaks in the common tongue, not that of his species, and does so with nary an accent to be heard. "Titus Snapdragon. Prometheus Airship, somewhere above the ocean west of Starfall Isles... we think. We lost Narya yesterday. She said she heard voices down the hallway and wouldn't remain despite our warnings. We tried to stop her, but... there is only so much a Coatl, a Fae, and a Nocturne can do against a Guardian." He huffs, the sound something like a bitter laugh. "And that's just it, isn't it- there are only three of us left- there's no escape we could possibly make. We are going to die here." The Coatl stares at the camera, not even feigning grace anymore. "And there's nothing we can do to prevent it."

---

Five weeks later Halka leers warily over the unconscious Coatl. This strange new dragon is soaked completely to the bone, shivers running along his body every few seconds, claws curling and uncurling as though caught in a bad dream. His wings haven't been plucked bare, but the wash of the ocean's tides have stripped the pinions and damaged them enough that they're useless. He's even missing scales: one of his haunches is raw, bare flesh, and the entire back of his neck is as well. The feathers usually adorning a Coatl's head are missing completely, the little pinpricks of broken feather shafts all that remains. Perhaps worst of all, Halka thinks, is that one of his tail-wings appears to be completely broken, lying at a horrible twisted angle.

Halka fidgets. He's squeamish around blood, always has been, and if the Coatl isn't bleeding now he has done so recently enough to make Halka feel uncomfortable. But he was raised by a clan of dragons devoted to helping, and he doesn't remember any other home, and to leave this dragon to die would be to abandon his family entirely.

So he works the ice magic deep in his bones and freezes himself something like a sleigh. It's rather crude- he's not very good at finesse- and it won't do anything to warm the poor Coatl, but Halka's too small to fly with even a still-growing dragon like this and he knows speed is probably more important right now. They're pretty far from the clan, as it is. It might take a few days, even, to get there on foot from the coast. He's never tried.

Fortunately, he doesn't have to find out. It's as he's trying to set up a camp for the night several hours later, darkness looming in around them, that he hears the wingbeats.

Morrigan lands beside him, kicking up dust as she comes to a sudden halt. A talented Shadow mage, it makes more than enough sense that she was sent to look for them when he didn't return at dark. The greater surprise is Andromeda, whose scales give off a dim luminescence, who is always on edge when the lights are out-- but then again, she's a healer. They might have assumed he was injured.

"Halka," Morrigan says. She taps his shoulder with her tail, a sort of friendly gesture. "We were worried. Are you okay? Why didn't you return?"

"I'm fine," He says. Morrigan and Andromeda both visibly relax. "But I found a dragon, and I think he's injured pretty badly, and I didn't want to leave him to die--" He turns to look at the Coatl, who's curled in on himself and shaking more visibly than ever.

Andromeda curses- which comes as a surprise- and rushes to the dragon's side.

---

The Coatl sleeps for an additional two weeks after they bring him to the clan, long enough that Verena insists he's just going to sleep for forever and never wake. Halka, heart churning with some guilty sense of responsibility, stops in at least twice daily to check on the new arrival. He spends a lot of time wondering what he's like, how he ended up on the beach, where he grew up. One day he even catches himself wondering what his feathers look like, since it's hard to tell with the damage they've taken. After that one, he forces himself to focus on other things.

He wonders how he'll react to the wing so broken not even Andromeda's magic could fix it, amputated by Guinivere soon after their return.

One night as he's falling asleep, said healer rushes into his room and lands next to his head. He wakes up with a jolt and a yelp and before he's really aware of what she's saying she's pulling him out of the room.

"--Your Coatl woke up--"

That brief phrase is enough to send him running.

'His' Coatl isn't exactly up. He's still lying on the infirmary mat, not so much as raising his head-- though with as many scales as are missing from the back of his neck, it probably hurts too much to do so. But the Coatl's eyes are open, and flickering around, and when Halka enters they focus on the newcomer.

Guinivere swoops in seconds later, perching lightly on the table. "This is Halka. He's the one who found you."

"I'm glad to see you're feeling all right," Halka says, the words emerging stilted and awkward.

"Not really alright," The Coatl says. His voice is quiet. He doesn't speak much like Palewing, or Owen, or any of the other Coatls Halka has met. "Just awake. And alive." A brief moment of silence, then-- "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Halka responds almost automatically. He blinks. "What's your name?"

The Coatl closes his eyes again.

"My name is Titus."

---

Titus spends the next several days in bed. The silvery Fae doctor is almost always present, as is the copper-colored Skydancer who apparently saved him. The clan's patriarch and matriarch stop by, as well: one a tall, stern Guardian, the other a soft-spoken, careful Tundra. Others circle through, though most don't stay long. He's seen a few other Coatls, even, which is strange.

The fate of his fellows weighs heavily on his mind. Maybe it shows, because nearly a week into his bedrest, the Fae named Guinivere asks if he wants someone to talk to.

"We have a clan therapist, you know," She says. "He's a little harsh sometimes, but he's very good at what he does. I don't know what brought you here, but--"

The supportive flick of her fins reminds him too much of Kells. He snaps at her in anger and spends the rest of the day pretending to be asleep. It's all a ruse, though: whenever he actually slips into unconsciousness, he is tormented by memories and the vicious shape of a monster lurking around the edges of his vision.

When he wakes up the morning after that incident, it's to two newcomers watching him: a Mirror and a Ridgeback. He's seen them wandering the halls before, but they've never approached. For a long while, they just stare at each other.

Eventually the Ridgeback clears his throat, bumping the Mirror gently to the side. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of thick bronze goggles.

"Your name is Titus, right?"

He nods. Something about the two makes him feel wary.

"Well, I'm Brik and this is my sibling Ripplestep." He says. "I'm sorry if we came off as rude, watching you like that."

"Indeed," Titus says. "Also, why?"

"What were you dreaming of last night?" Ripplestep says before their brother can talk. Their voice is sharp and no-nonsense, but is disproportionately soft in volume.

What's left of Titus' crest presses to the back of his neck. Memories flash angrily through his head. "Why do you want to know?" He asks venomously.

"We couldn't get a good enough lock on it to tell what it was." Their head tilts. "We were wondering if you knew."

Dark creeps in at the edge of his vision and he shudders. "Knew what?"

"No. You don't know yourself, do you?" Ripplestep frowns for a moment, then gets a determined glint in their eye. "You can't stay here, but Mother says you will. So I suppose we'll have to solve this for you." And without further explanation, they turn, tail swaying gently as they leave the infirmary. They don't looks as uneasy as they sounded.

Titus must look befuddled, because Brik speaks, his voice quiet. "I apologize for their rudeness. It's hard for them to understand others' emotions sometimes." He sighs, deep and breathy.

"What did they mean?" He hisses.

"About the 'it'?"

"What else?"

"That's just it," Brik says, "Sometimes it's impossible to know what else." Goggles meet eyes and for a second Titus swears he can see something glowing beyond the tinted glass, then Brik glances off into the distance.

And before Brik can say any more, Halka comes in with a meal. Titus has never been so simultaneously glad and annoyed by such an interruption.

For some reason, Brik's words stick in his head for the rest of the day.

Sometimes it's impossible to know what else.

---

His wings are still spotty when he's released from the infirmary, bare new feathers poking through delicate skin. A few places will never regrow, and the best he can do to cover those bald patches will be to brush other feathers over them.

He doesn't realize how odd this clan is until he begins exploring it. He knows they're a Lightning-aligned flight, but the lair is massive, twisting, and deep, with several areas the larger dragons can never hope to reach. It's full of cracked tile walls and floors, old, broken technology that has been scavenged for parts and refurbished machines with purposes beyond his knowledge, bare rock walls where small rooms have been widened for the Imperials and Guardians and Ridgebacks but not yet restructured and rebuilt by the dragons in charge of development. Half the inhabitants seem to accept him outright; half of them regard him from the corners of their eyes with suspicion, even fear. There are dragons with gnarled scars that make his own looks like bad rugburn and dragons who seem to reflect a strange sort of power. There are dragons who are mechanical, in part and entirely, a variety of construct he has rarely seen. An aggressive war-scent hangs low in the air, but even Halka, who often wanders the halls with him, seems reluctant to share exactly why the clan of Spinehome is preparing for battle.

Then, one day, Mama Verena (a name given to the Matriarch by many of those assembled) approaches him.

"Titus," she says, and this Guardian is always serious but her voice carries extra weight, "You have lived among us now for nearly a month. You are healthy enough to survive on your own. Do you intend to leave?"

Titus, sitting with a cup of coffee and a plate of octopus tentacles, pauses. He looks up. "Are you offering a place to stay?"

Mama Verena pauses. She nods. Slow, deliberate. "You need to decide."

It takes some thought. He doesn't know what they'll ask of him if he does stay, and he knows the clan has secrets he hasn't even begun to grasp. But the idea of returning to his old clan, of the shame and the disgust he would face for surviving when his coworkers perished... the idea of telling Kells' mate she died... the idea of having his thoughts ripped from his head in the name of truth, of being forced to relive the pain and terror of the airship and the monster that came with it?

"I'll stay." He decides in one swift moment, and the decision settles solid and irreversible in the pit of his stomach.

Mama Verena seems satisfied with his choice. She nods. Her expression is nonetheless grim. "Come with me," she says.

He follows.

---

Four dragons stand before him. Mama Verena and her mate, the smaller, kinder Papa Lachlan; Dr. Nautica, who he has been told is head scientist; and Armin, the heiress to the leadership, diplomat.

Nautica's voice rattles slightly when she speaks, dry and clicky like she doesn't use it often enough, just a few scales above a Fae's monotony. "If you are to join this clan, Titus Snapdragon, there are some things you must know."

Verena rolls her head back, majestic, eyes tracking him. "First, you must swear an oath to never share the information we are about to tell you with those who would do us harm."

Titus tenses, then nods. This is odd, but it is fair. "I do so swear."

"You understand that if you break this oath, you will be considered an enemy of the clan and will be hunted down as such."

"I do."

Lachlan closes his eyes, and Titus can feel the little pinpricks of magic across his skin as he is bound to his word, an intricate spell woven by someone who has had to do such things before and will do them again as often as he must. He shudders at the discomfort.

"And now," Armin says, her voice more serious than he's ever heard it, "The truth."

---

When he next looks around the clan, it's easy to pick them out. The suspicious ones, the broken ones, the scarred ones with the fearful glances and the odd mannerisms. The Imperial with the second head, the Mirror with the torn wings who trails water down the halls, the Fae who sparks from place to place in a flash of lightning. He sees them and he shudders, because none of them really deserved this, and he may not be a fighter, but he thinks there could be something worthwhile to helping them.

---

Then comes the massacre.

Nearly a third of the clan, dead. Titus himself is the one who carries dear Armin to her parents, but all he can feel is numbness, even as Verena roars, even as Lachlan turns his face away, ashen and grim.

Numb like ice.

Numb like death.

Numb like the silence in the infirmary, stains on the wall the color of Guinivere's eyes.

Numb like the place in his mind where Halka and his ice magic once sat.

For a long time, Titus is numb.

---

In seeking an end to the numbness, he finds himself, listless, at Ripplestep's door.

They look at him, eyes blue and razor-sharp, watching, coordinating, assessing.

"What do you want?" They ask.

"How did he die." His voice is barely a whisper, a low hum with intonations similar to the language of his birth.

And Rip watches him, for a long, empty moment, and then turns around, leaving the door to their quarters open in their wake.

Months later, Titus still has nightmares of Halka's dying screams echoing in his head.

---

Titus knows before any of them, before Ripplestep, before Brik, before Finnegan. He knows before Moth, and he knows before Helia-- in some ways, life and death personified. He knows before Euler and Seleukos and Grate and Delane and all the other not-quite-dragon members of the clan, and that's why nobody believes him, not at first.

He feels it in the bare patches of his skin where the scales never quite grew in right. It wakes him up in cold sweats, in agony and shudders that leave him sobbing on the floor of his den. Flashes of familiar faces pass through his mind, nebulous and twisted, and unwillingly he is forced once more to mourn what he lost years ago.

When he tells Lachlan, he is hushed, told to calm down, that nightmares are normal after the trauma of war and everyone is dealing with them. That's a very fair assumption, honestly. For a while, Titus tells himself that that must be the truth: the war that has so recently ended, the blood caught underneath even his claws, has poisoned his mind and kept him from resting easy. The fact that the dreams have very little to do with war- and everything to do with the airship and the darkness and the loss and the horrors always just around the corner- is not so much lost on him as pushed to the back of his mind, something to worry about when it inevitably comes to fruition.

He doesn't so much tell Rip as get found out. The mirror is stalking their way around the lair in a manner that suggests they're tying to stay out of sight, pretty typical of them. Titus half-thinks the pale-scaled dragon does it on purpose, trying to scare their clanmates or come across as more mystical as they really are (this notion is reinforced when he realizes they start doing it more the more odd dragons join Spinehome). He catches them out of the corner of his eye one morning when he's headed to Kir's after a particularly bad night. When they see him, their pale body tenses up, their fins perk, and their lips curl back aggressively. He flattens his feathers, eyes narrowing: they've never had a friendly relationship, more unease than anything, especially after Halka's demise.

"You," They hiss, more accusatory than usual. "What are you doing?"

"Getting a drink," He grunts, in no mood to be friendlier.

Their head tilts, slow. They don't blink. He's never seen them blink. "What were you doing."

"Sleeping."

"No. You smell like death." They prowl closer, low to the ground, and suddenly the extra meter he has on them doesn't make him feel any less threatened. "Like dark."

A low, boiling fear begins to rise up in Titus's stomach, sickness lashing inside his mouth. The bare patches of skin on his back prickle and chill, and his feathers pull in close against his body, unwitting.

"Day sixty-five. Titus Snapdragon..."

He can feel a piece of himself crack, even as he turns to walk away on shaky legs.

To their credit, Rip doesn't try to follow.