XII

Unlucky.

It was near impossible to forgot the seething looks of hate, sickening pity, and fear the other coatls gave him when they finally saw him, the white one, the blank one, the nameless one.

Cast off at birth, all gray and white and “dull” plumed dragons were considered unhealthy and even unlucky.

So they took one look at him, and with devastation in their eyes, threw the squirming, pathetic, mewling bundle out.

Blinded with pain and the sudden rush of cold, the little snake-like creature stumbled around, tongue flicking about in a measly attempt to understand the world which had forsaken him. Of course, a kindly Guardian who was out on the legendary, ritualistic journey to find the Charge, the one who they would, and must, protect, had found the little thing.

The Guardian had no tastes for such superstitions and nurtured him, but gave him no name. How could he have? They spoke no language except the language of music, a distorted melody of humming and hissing in their throats. The Guardian spoke his own language. The Coatl his own. But still, he raised the abandoned hatchling, fat on the rich sea where the first guardians had indeed crawled.

He grew stronger, his eyes opened, and still, his heart never eased of the bitterness towards his kind. His mentor, his savior had eventually left when the now adult coatl was strong enough to fly, to dive, to live. Never once did he forget. Sometimes, when the outcast observed a lone guardian soaring effortlessly over the rugged terrain, his heart swelled with pride and love that he was raised by these magestic, perhaps better, dragons.

But... maybe fate would never have it. His bitterness would fester into rage, his rage into hatred. Fate had woven a sticky spider’s web out of thread, entangling him. So fragile, but so strong. He witnessed death, blood, war. Screaming, famine, females and males, snappers and skydancers and tundras and spirals all cowering, and... hatchlings. Weak, dependent hatchlings struggling to find the warmth that had just been snatched away before it was destroyed as well.

Dear lords, what sort of world did he live in that let hatchlings, innocent, good children be on their deathbeds? That horrible, deadly hatred and rage began to boil over, and suddenly, he understood.

So he flew on. Just as the guardian did, unstoppable, determined, driven.

The blood stained his once pure plumage, and he accepted it.

The little kindness and curiosity in his once bright eyes abandoned him, and he accepted it.

The screaming began to be caused by him, and he accepted it.

This nameless, unlucky, sad child.

Twelve.