Victor

The Victor
written by ViolentViolet77

Victor's entire life has been defined by the drop-dead feeling of everything going wrong.

He was hatched with siblings and parents; at least he started on the right foot. The nature domain was always filled with sweet flowers winding up the trees father than he could reach, and the ground was always plush enough with grass and moss to squish under his talons. He was in his element, literally; even his colors worked with the environment, prey animals unable to tell his stripes from the background due to their poor color vision.

He grew up to be fast. Clever, but cautious enough to always check where he put his claws. He'd been told plenty about the world and what could happen to the foolish, and despite never being exposed to such things he was always looking over his shoulder for them. His siblings had little care in their perfect lives, and his reservations set him apart from them as they aged. He was a bit of an outsider in his own family, and he couldn't manage to see them eye-to-eye. And he loved to weave his words into the most vivid of poems and tales. With so much beauty around him, it was incredibly easy to find the words he needed! Simply describing his home properly could bring an outsider to tears of joy.

Even with his fearful nature and outcasting, he would be alright; he did have one risk he would always snap at, something none of them knew. He'd met a female dragon, and fallen for her so hard that even the sun winced at the crater left behind. She looked like him, spoke like him, but came from another world; one made of ruins and plains, a glowing and radiant life overshadowed by her shadowy heritage and past. A runaway, a vagabond, the black and orange nocturne had a name that twisted his tongue and that she always hated. They called her Oren.

And- his name was Clinton. The name they agreed they would pass down to their first born hatchling in the future.

He'd wake her each evening as the sun was setting, usually with armfuls of beetles as her nocturnal breakfast. Her batlike sleep meant she'd always be high up enough to thank him with a kiss on the snout, before their few hours of waking overlap they always called the best moments of their life. The jungle was freedom, it was safe as long as they were at each other's side, and Clinton could be as carefree as the butterflies that feasted on the copius flowers for once in his life. All fear, all reservation, it melted under her glorious sun.

He never told his family, as their mockery of his head-over-heels love would be… quite unpleasant. And Oren never had family to tell, so why not make her more comfortable, match her reservations, assure her that he understood her pain? That he trusted her above all else and would choose her over anything? She loved him for it. She talked to him about everything, anything, and her comfort was his joy. Eventually, she confessed that nature's world wasn't the place she wanted to spend the rest of her life in, and not for a second did he hesitate to simply ask her where they would be going instead.

She wanted to blend in, seem more natural in their home and let their hatchlings belong with their colors. She wanted someplace warm even in the night, as she missed her home's near perpetual sunlight and its gentle heat. She wanted somewhere else, anywhere else. He'd never left the jungle before but never hesitated, never for a moment judged his options. Yes, yes, yes they would walk all of Sornieth for her if they had to, and they would find where they belonged. Anything for you, Oren. Anything.

But he was terrified. He knew what was to come and she, in her own love and trust, held no fear. His reservation broke through his devotion as soon as their flight led them over the small patch of sea and onto barren, unknown lands. She held her nerves in iron grip, and he learned how to mimic slower than either of them appreciated.

He was terrified, and for good reason. As that was the very day the tragedies began. Every night they stopped to rest was a new disaster- long neck ambushes, serthis hunters, hostile mirror packs, ruthless clans that wanted nothing more than to drive the solo couple out. Forced back into the sky and off into the distance without food, water, or rest, their weariness became a threat to their safety. Travel was dangerous, travel was stressful, but in this terrible luck they were pushed to their limits. Clinton, as he was still known, fussed and fretted over every event and mistake they made, instructing himself and her out loud. Oren saw a side of him she'd never been exposed to, and didn't know what to do with it. It wasn't who she fell in love with.

He was terrified that he couldn't help himself, couldn't help but worry. They were in danger, they were hungry and exhausted constantly! What would he be able to relax for? How could he not fret? He saw the struggle she went through to keep him stable and it ate him up inside.

They wanted to explore farther than the familiar, so the light domain was left behind. In the thick of the lightning domain, things only grew worse. Alongside the same physical threats came the frequent wrath of the weather, and their need to hide in caves to wait out storm after storm. Clinton paced endlessly, wearing his talons dull while she tried to sleep and squeezed her eyes shut at the obnoxious clicking sound of his footsteps. But soon- maybe soon, they'd find a home. They were both praying for it.

They felt the heat of the fire domain before they reached it, blistering the space around their eyes and boiling the moisture form their tongues. Landing on the border for the night, the two fought for the first true time- this was too far. Too much. Nothing here was even inhabitable. After hours of bickering, Oren relented- the light domain was peaceful, and held mysteries of its own. They could try to return to her homeland before diving into increasingly dangerous lands.

They returned with much more ease than the first trip, and their efforts were rewarded. Soaring over the rolling golden grass and seeing the sunset over the cliffs, Clinton and Oren both looked to see the joyon each other's faces before daring to congratulate each other- young longer was foolish, for trying to go so far. But the stress made them grow closer, and home was before them. The two of them scoped out a cliffside cave over the ocean, and settled in quickly.

And it was still dangerous beyond all belief. They fished for some meals and hunted seabirds for others, but the ecosystem was a mystery to the both. Many times they found out something was poisonous, powerful, or magical through example, driven back to lick their wounds. If they'd had a neighbor, or the strength to seek the nearest one out, they wouldn't have had to suffer so. But neither could leave after…

They had four eggs and four hatchlings. The younglings were healthy, born with shining sunlight irises and eager to play in the sea. Oren stayed to tend to them while Clinton hunted and provided, telling his children fairy tales as they slept with their mother in the mornings. He was usually out all day, finding them everything they needed and clumsily hunting for himself. It was a struggle beyond what he'd ever known, being a sole provider in a land much less kind than his birthplace.

Anything for Oren. Anything.

He'd witnessed other dragons flying overhead, and usually ducked low to avoid the trouble they could possibly bring. But eventually, one did meet him mid-meal and landed to speak, ask some simple questions. He learned about the nearby large clan of the Capital, a peaceful community with many artisans and writers. They had little struggle to survive; they knew this land and could provide much comfort. He was immediately asking what it would take to assimilate, and that was where his visitor's gaze darkened.

See, the council didn't not take just anyone; the clan was able to be at peace because they were careful of who they accepted into their fold. Clinton would have to prove himself to be capable in both a creative regard and in survival. He'd have to fight and prove the death of one of the native sea monsters.

Anything for his family. He agreed to the challenge, and the visitor explained how to find them once he'd obtained his proof. Flying away, Clinton couldn't help but wring his claws and dread what he'd have to put himself through.

Anything for Oren.

He returned home and explained this new encounter, and she scowled. Why put himself through so much danger just for some larger group? They were happy together, the hatchings were growing up! What if he was hurt, what if the monster killed him?! What would she do without him? No, no it was a fool's errand even if it would be such a boon for them. He protested that their life wasn't sustainable how it was right now, that he could barely scrape by taking care of them all. And so what if he was hurt? He had scars and wounds already, she knew how to patch them up and they could be at peace again, maybe even how the jungle was. Their fighting went on for hours and woke the hatchlings, making a rough night for everyone.

For a week after, not a word was shared between them. He stayed out over the waves as long as he could, hunting more food and using it as an excuse. He wanted to return to a life of comfort, he missed his poems and his stories and having time to make them. He missed having time to spend with Oren, and missed having a larger family to help care when time ran them all thin. He wanted a community, not just a family! This wasn't the life they had wanted. Oren was settling for less than she deserved.

He'd do anything for her.

He sat on the cliffs and watched the rolling waves, learning to track down monsters. He had his pick of the sea's bounty- Massive whales, crystalline turtles, but they lived too deep for him to hunt. On the surface, multi headed serpents created the waves on occasion- since he could fly, perhaps it could be possible…

He was terrified. One dragon alone was never meant to take on all those heads and he knew it more and more as he watched one such beast from afar, watched it hunt and destroy. He would have to be precise and braver than he'd ever been, for if he entered the battle with any doubt or fear he would surely die. And he couldn't tell Oren, since she'd do everything in her power to stop him. It was the first time he lied to her, telling her he wouldn't do something so foolish.

In the night he entered the monster's den- a cove caked in salt- with teeth and claws at the ready, soothing his trembles with the thought of his love. He was tiny in comparison to the sleeping monster and yet tore into it with the fury of a god, waking it with a shower of its own blood and pain. It writhed, fought back, and the contest of will began.

He lost. He lost quite quickly, even after he'd clawed the first of three heads enough to leave it limp and dying from the damage to its throat. He couldn't avoid the snaps and girth of the slamming tails and was bashed against rock and ground, torn and bloody. His fleeing left behind a trail of blood, him running as his wings were too torn up to fly. The beast chased, but he was always fast, he was born fast. Sprinting across the land with the monster in pursuit, leaping over the rocky cliff edge and diving into tall grass to gain precious seconds of time, cradling one shattered arm and feeling the break in his ankle grow worse. The pain and terror was taking over his mind.

He, in that moment, would have done anything to have Oren by his side. All he could think to do was go back to her, he needed her. He would do anything for her.

He made it home and thought he'd lost the creature, made it back as she was awake and waiting for him. She saw the torn apart and bloody form of her love, barely able to stand, and for the first time in his life Clinton witnessed his mate in pure horror.

He cried as she ushered him out of sight of the hatchlings, outside of the cave, and began to work at the claw marks. Already knowing what they were from but not saying a thing about it as he cried.

How could he think to abandon his caution in the worst moment?

Because that trail he left behind led straight home.

He was just starting to calm down as she had finished wrapping the worst of his wounds, her little claws trembling in that same horror, when a rumbling turned their heads back to their den. And above it. On top of it, the bloody hydra beast loomed over them, more and more of its mass piling on top of the cliff edge- a rumbling could be heard, and the hatchlings were waking up in fear.

The cave cracked. And collapsed.

On top of the nest. On top of the hatchlings. With the massive monster over the top of it all, coming for them. Oren took off into flight and Clinton rose to his feet, both stuck in that drop-dead realization and slow motion horror that they just watched as everything went wrong. Their hatchlings were dead. And they could do nothing for it.

The hydra's two remaining heads picked a target each, and the contest began anew.

Time was against them both. Oren wasn't a fighter either. But Clinton was fueled by rage and terror, the anger at himself for letting things go so wrong and the terror that he might lose her too, that he had ruined their lives, that the hopeless hope that their hatchlings could be alive under the rubble was just a lie.

His entire life was defined by the drop-dead feeling of everything going wrong, and as he fluttered his wings and avoided the snap of jaws, as he dove despite screaming pain and sunk his foot talons into the eyes of the predator, he witnessed Oren being unable to complete the same stunt. He watched as she was too late with her twist and how the head bit down on her wing, her frantic flutter, the head shaking and her going flying without the limb. He watched in slow motion as its tail followed her arc and slammed into her body. He heard the snaps. He heard the croak and gasp. He swears to himself to this day that he heard the heartbeat stop.

The rest of the fight was a blur of red and salt in his eyes. But he won.

He tore that body to pieces and it didn't bring her back.

He tore the bandages and bindings from himself in his fit but it didn't bring her back.

He dug through the rubble and found the hatchlings but it didn't bring them back.

He dug graves and buried them. They weren't coming back.

He tore the tongues from the serpent's heads and started walking. Massa Ardens was impressed beyond belief, and welcomed him into the fold with cheers and celebration of their newest family member and friend. He was a champion, to have completed that dangerous trial! He was a hero! The victor!

So many asked for his name, and all his reeling mind could think was the victor? With all I've lost? And all he could say was the Victor? The Victor?

They said yes, yes that is you. Are you to be called Victor?

Yes. A reminder. They smiled, as they saw him and his whispered words to be humble, but proud of his glorious combat.

A phyyric victory is a victory that was not worth winning, because the loss it took to achieve makes the success not worth the cost. Perhaps that should have been his name, and perhaps his new clan mates should have been able to know what layed out in the wild under the ground, and perhaps he should have talked to them about it over the years. But his somber poetry now reflects how his pursuit of a peaceful life has left him forever unable to find peace, and he remains silent of his sins.

He'd do anything to have Oren back.
But she wasn't coming back.
And so, Victor remained- nothing more than a victor. No past besides the combat. No story besides the ones he invented. A love and a life, torn away.

And who's fault could it be called, if not Fate's cruelty?