Meritocracy does not eliminate reputation.
Within Draconic society, your value is decided by your work: how hard, how long, how efficiently, how fruitfully. Contributing at any level, or at the very least attempting to do so, will always be looked upon with compassion - your plate will never be empty, and you’ll never have a scarcity of friends to help hold you up. Needless to say, the more you contribute, be it through knowledge, through labour, or through power, the more value you hold. You and you alone. The key will always be you. The actions of your parents, your siblings, your ancestors, they will never be your own, so you can never use them as a leverage for power, something that the dragons have prided themselves on for generations…
But just because nepotism is dead does not mean its ghost cannot still be felt haunting a few families. Meritocracy doesn’t get rid of a certain set of expectations.
The Shadeheart Family, living proof of these expectations - not from within, but surrounding them. For generations, they have produced some of the most powerful warriors at a consistent rate, each starting from zero and climbing to the zenith; regardless of trials or tribulations that may have stood in their path. In other places, this would be grounds for preferential treatment: those born with the Shadeheart name would be treated like kings and queens, given resources that others simply wouldn't have access to. Nepotism, a factor that would only breed resentment between themselves and their peers. Confusingly enough, their lineage of strength had an adverse effect on their lives. They weren’t oppressed or vilified, rather, they were consistently tested to see if they truly encapsulated what the Shadeheart had up til now - the ferocity that dragons are truly known for.
Time after time, they were given nothing but the bare minimum and the expectation that they would become a monster like those that came before them. Time after time, the dunnest smokes of hell would wrap around them, the hopes of their peers and their superiors choking them slowly. Time after time, they would crawl out of that pitch-black fog and soar above the clouds.
They didn’t ride on a name. They proved themselves individually. Therefore, in the place of resentment…
“Zephyr… It’s been a while…” … Fear would be born.
Elio’s greeting would go completely ignored, which did nothing to help his nerves as both of the Shadeheart siblings seemed to levy their intensity against one another. Gala’s stare had lost all of the playful energy that she had when talking to Elio - her look now was a step beyond apathy. Contempt was probably the emotion closest to it, likely over him ruining her smoke break rather than anything else he would request from her, but the audacity to do both filled her eyes with scorn. On the other side, Zephyr’s eyes carried the solemn seriousness of an older brother scolding his younger sibling, sorting out her juvenile behavior before it became someone else's problem. They, being his eyes, were a shimmering sunflower yellow like his sisters, only with flakes of the winds pale green swimming around its edges. Compared to his memories, the two looked magically alike, both with the same thick black hair, pale skin and fierce yellow eyes that seemed to oppress the air between them.
The last time they’d seen each other was seven years ago.
A leisurely walk brings Zephyr a few meters away from the pair, giving Gala enough time to decide between salvaging what remained of her cigarette or further littering the area with its remains. To her, a cigarette is to be enjoyed whole, free, with no interruptions, and having half a cigarette later would only leave her tasting disappointment rather than catharsis. Her choice was made and the remainder of the cigarette would be flung off into the sands right next to the first. A twitch in the eyebrow of her brother as he sees this but he knows better than to let her provocation reach him. She, to him, is a child, and an adult who lets a child rile them up is no better than a child themselves.
“You’re smoking again?”
It’s not just in physical appearance that the pair are similar - the same gravelly texture that coated the voice of Gala Shadeheart can be found on that of Zephyr Shadeheart. The difference is that he is, firstly, fifteen or so years older than her, second, the opposite gender, and third, a lot more grave than his female counterpart. The question that had been voiced was mostly rhetorical, seeing as the one who asked it had witnessed the action with his own eyes, but that didn’t stop a snarky response from leaving Gala’s lips…
“I was trying to. Obviously your passing gas had other plans for me.”
… And like the wispy smoke of a cigarette, her jabs at him were nothing more than a passing puff - ignored for their unimportance.
“Mother’s told you time and time ag-”
“Yeah, sure, I get it, ‘don’t smoke’, whatever, I don’t give a fuck.”
“If that's all you’re here to say then you can fuck off already.”
The spectator, Elio, felt his emotions shift subtly as the siblings' interaction went on - what initially was a fearful anxiety directed at a man whose strength eclipsed his own became a sort of awkward nervousness that was hard to truly describe. If you’ve ever been around a friend your age and witnessed them seriously argue with a figure of authority then you can understand how, in that moment, Elio wanted nothing more than peace between the pair, though he was willing to settle for them not ripping each other's throats out.
“Mother requests your presence for dinner today.”
“She said I should bring you home if you’re doing nothing of importance.”
“And you decided what I was doing was of no importance?”
“No decision needed to be made on my end.”
“Mother’s told you time and time again that smoking is a destructive habit.”
“Partaking in a destructive habit can never be something of importance.”
Gala sighs and rolls her eyes with such intensity that she may as well have been attempting to catch a glimpse of the back of her eye sockets or the stem of her brain. Whenever her lips part, they seem to only release sarcasm, snark, disdain or a twisted cocktail of the three in the direction of her brother. He simply responds with professionalism unbefitting of an older brother trying to convince his younger sibling. There's no attempt to relate to her, no attempt to compromise, just the cold sensation of another's instructions being read back to her over and over again. He is simply composed…
“Is she requesting my presence because she has something to tell me?”
“Or is it because she wants to play family for the first time in a while?”
“You’re not in a position to ask why, and the reason for it is not important.”
“What’s important is tha-”
“I’m not asking for what she said, I’m asking what you think.”
“What I think isn’t importa-”
“Do you really think that or is that what they told you?”
“Genuinely, what… what do you even do?”
“You’re just a vessel for whatever she needs you t-”
“And you’re just an antisocial problem child that I have to fucking babysit.”
… Until he isn’t. There were no warning signs that Elio could have picked up on. It was a sudden change that had finally filled Zephyr’s voice with a quantifiable emotion: double the disdain that Gala had displayed, real life spite towards his own flesh and blood. Up to this point, Gala’s face had been as unmoving as her brother's emotions, and at the same time as his shift, her expression changed from cold contempt to a smirk of derision - her bait was successful, a warm feeling of achievement spreading through her chest as she continued.
“There’s my brother! I was scared I couldn’t get through to you.”
“Now I can have an actual conversation instead of talking to a stone wall.”
“There’s no conversation to be had between us. We’re going home.”
“Zephyr, you can’t really force her to go home.”
“Cant you see she’s busy? She’ll come home when she’s done.”
Elio finally interjected. Being strict was one thing, something he was by no means alien to and much less opposed to, but being oppressive, being cruel, was something he simply couldn’t stand by. His voice came out surprisingly firm despite the nauseating unease that swam around his stomach as he watched them… But as their shared space returned to silence, rather than the feeling subsiding, or at least shrinking, it seemed to do nothing but grow; the air, and the latent nature energy within it seemed to coagulate.
Zephyr didn’t respond to Elio. He simply turned towards him with a look of abject disgust, as if he were nothing but a cockroach who had gained the ability to speak and thought that his voice was as powerful, or even close to as valuable, as a dragon's was. Worse than not being in this conversation, he simply didn’t live in their world, seen as something lesser than in a way that made the older man’s face scrunch up with a revolted disdain. He couldn’t tell the expression on Gala’s face - maybe she was thankful for him sticking up for her, maybe she was proud of him standing up against her brother, but nothing she did could overpower this feeling of smallness that overtook his system. Ignoring Elio’s concerns entirely and leaving him to contemplate his scorn, Zephyr continued.
“You’re coming home. If not on your own two feet then I’ll drag you kicking and screaming.”
“If your next words aren’t something along the lines of ‘yes’ then I’m going to take action, got it?”
A few more steps - at this point, he was already past Elio and was encroaching on Gala’s personal space. Revealing his back to the cockroach held no risk because he was simply too fearful to attack him, and in an event where he somehow broke through the barrier of fear, his attack would be negligible at best. Elio didn’t attack simply because an attack from behind was cowardly… And because he recognised that he was utterly helpless against him.
On the other side of this, Gala was in her own situation. She was by no means stubborn; her resistance against the will of her brother, and by extension, her mother, was birthed from disdain for the two of them rather than an immature entitlement over her ‘playtime’ not properly concluding. In her eyes, it was they who were entitled, something she’d made abundantly clear whenever she was forced to interact with either of them, but beyond saying they’re entitled, there’s not much she can truly do about it. She can lecture her poor mother about how ‘the same tragedy that made me strong made you weak’ and her brother about how ‘I shouldn’t be a vessel for you to prove yourself just because you failed’, but that’s never changed anything. This would never change anything. Zephyr was in front now. Staring at her. Those same maelstrom eyes. The same pathetic look. Told her all she needed to know. Too close for comfort. Stupid brother.
After a while, the thrill of getting under her brother's skin passed like the buzz of a cigarette, leaving her only with reality and the bitter aftertaste. She leans forward off the tree she was resting on. A roll of the eyes. A sigh. The usual routine.
“Ugh… Fine, whatever. At least give me the courtesy of letting me finish my conversation.”
The intensity settles, if even by a percent, leaving the air feeling stale in its absence as Zephyr turns to leave. Maybe being that close to his sister allowed him to truly tell whether her decision was authentic or not, though the more likely scenario was that the novelty of the argument had worn off and she just didn’t care anymore.
Someone, however, still did.
Zephyr is a few meters away from Gala when he feels a hand on his shoulder and he can tell from the moment of contact that it doesn’t belong to her. He’d regained the composure that he’d lost previously and this was the only reason that Elio would even be given the benefit of the doubt. He turns his head and then his whole body as to face mostly towards him, whilst still primed to leave at a moment's notice. Maybe he needed to get his attention to apologise. Maybe, just maybe, someone could see from his perspective for a moment, understanding why he acted as the villain. Maybe someone can, just for once, be fair.
Sadly, Elio is not reasonable. Quite the opposite, actually. He is incredibly audacious.
“Hey. I get you’re supposed to stop her from doing stupid stuff but… can’t you be more agreeable about it.”
“You’re supposed to be her older brother? I’m not asking you t-”
CRACK!-
Impact. A curled up fist and the winds that surrounded it, launching all their force towards the stomach of the boy in front of him. The sound it made was misleading - nothing solid had been hit, no bones had been broken, he hadn’t even been tensing his stomach in preparation for being hit, yet the sound of impact was completely disproportionate, as if he had hit him with the force of the world alongside his own. If Elio had the chance to wish, in that moment, he’d probably wish, with all his heart, that the hit didn’t feel how it sounded. He didn’t have the time to wish, and it didn’t matter anyway, because who was he to levy his wishes against nature itself.
It hurt. It hurt so bad that he thought he might die. It hurt so bad that a part of him wished he would die.
He'd been knocked back a few meters by the impact and before he even touched the ground, a burst of blood erupts from his mouth as if the attack had not only ruptured something, but also had enough force to launch it upwards and out. He lands, not on his feet but on his knees, one hand on the ground, stopping his head from colliding with it, the other over his mouth rather than his stomach. He hoped to stop what came next but failed regardless as a single retch would send the contents of his stomach towards the ground, falling through the gaps in his hand alongside the blood that came from somewhere unknown within his body. He wished he’d hit him in the chest. The single strongest hit he’d taken until now was a punch directly to the chest by Morrigan, who is the single heaviest hitter within his cohort and likely within the unevolved dragons of the island. Three broken ribs from a single hit, and he was hospitalised for a few days. It was drilled into him by the commander that it was dangerous to take a hit like that to such a vital spot, yet here he was wishing for that danger. Being slammed in the chest was dangerous, yes, but being hit in the stomach was miserable.
Elio would almost always rather be in danger than in misery. Then again, there are few dragons that wouldn’t think the same way.
The instant doesn’t even get to exist for half a second before retribution flies in the direction of Zephyr. From the corner of his eye he spots an object that flies like a bolt from the blue. He doesn't get to discern what it was, simply raising his arm to block what seemed to be a simple pebble flung directly towards center mass. His realisation that it was just a pebble made it obvious to him that something flew in behind it as he turned his whole form towards his sister, who’d closed the gap in a fragment of a second, launching a lunging punch at her brother's face. It was effortlessly blocked, but the attempt would have been good enough to catch anyone who wasn’t a true dragon, and thus, the faintest bit of pride shines in his eyes at his own flesh and blood.
Match Up: Gala Shadeheart VS Zephyr Shadeheart
The first thing that surprises Zephyr is speed. He’s a true dragon; she has yet to awaken her latent ability, yet she’s able to keep up, and beyond keeping up, she’s able to threaten him at some moments with crafty movements and shifting tactics. The rest was to be expected - her physical output, her durability, her skill without her specialist weapon, all stood as inferior to his own and that was even without application of his Draconic Archetype. She was at the top of her class, the brightest shining star in what Zephyr saw as a pile of shit, but in the grand scheme of things, Gala, as she was right now, was nothing more than just above average.
She strikes at his throat, he blocks. She strikes again at his chest, he blocks again. A sweep, he narrowly avoids it. She takes advantage of the slight lack of balance to aim a palm strike at his chest, he swats it away. She leans forward to headbutt, he leans back. Now lowered, she attempts to grab his ankle, he slams his foot towards the ground, out of reach, stabilising himself. A moment of distraction. She could see an opportunity. A strike aimed directly at his core, he attempts to parry but ends up just having to sustain the damage, being knocked back towards the beach, feet kicking up sand as he slides.
A perfect rhythm - one, two, three, four. Thus far, this wasn’t a fight; it was a dance. Gala was leading, but only by testament of her brother's kindness, or cruelty, as to not immediately strike back. If Elio were in her shoes, his performance would be impacted by the offence taken by Zephyr’s restraint; Gala was different. The things that Zephyr expected were also expected by Gala; the things that Zephyr was surprised by, Gala had also expected. It would be disingenuous to say it took the single punch against Elio for her to be able to gauge his power and speed, because she’s known about his power and speed for years, being her brother and all. He just hasn’t been paying as close attention to her, that’s all.
Now on the sand, Gala’s fighting style switches from blows as heavy as possible to make up for the difference in their strength, to strikes as kinetic as possible, for a reason that seems self-evident for the next few interactions. First attack, a roundhouse kick, launched as if dragging her foot rather than swinging it - it collides with Zephyr’s arm only an inch or so away from his head but does its job which is not to cause damage, but to cause disturbance. He flinches once, then again when immediately afterwards she uses her upper body’s tilted position to grab a handful of sand and launch it whilst rising back up. He grimaces, she can see it, and knows what she’s doing is working, at the very least enough to weaken his defence. An uppercut from a low position, a feint, a nut kick, the same song and dance as before, all doing more than they normally would, all with the intention of utilising the course, rough sands.
It all annoyed Zephyr.
He didn’t care about her being able to push him; after all, she was only able to push the current level of power he was limiting himself to. Minor inconvenience. He didn’t care about her playing ‘dirty’ because using your environment in a fight with no holds barred is one of the more tame things you can do, and isn’t really frowned upon even in official matches. Minor inconvenience. It was the fact that even without her specialist weapon, even in the face of an opponent she had no hope of defeating she was fighting. What annoyed him was her fighting in the first place.
So to reward her stubbornness, and to bring this to an end, he allows his body to flow with the fullness of nature energy once more.
Twenty-four seconds had passed. Four seconds spent by the treeline, a second transitioning to the sands, nineteen seconds of him dealing with her sand-spraying shenanigans. Only after all of that would he finally raise his palm to block and grasp one of her strikes properly. The only warmth between them after the sun had set was the heat of their gazes as he held her fist within his own. He was enhanced now, and he was going on the offensive. Gala, who could see all, knew without even a glance that this would be trouble for even her.
“After all that… Don’t disappoint me now.”
A deep breath of reality hits Elio as he comes to the realisation of where he is. He hadn’t been unconscious; the pain had simply launched his mind into an instance of extreme derealisation, a world where only the pain he was experiencing existed, the dull thrumming heat of the impact, a strike at his body felt in the depths of his soul. He sucks in gasping breath after gasping breath as if every other second he was being submerged back into the sea of suffering. Only a single arm holding him up stood between him and collapsing into the pool of blood and upchuck that accumulated below him. This was enough. He was here and now.
Reclaiming his consciousness, the first step, was complete.
‘It hurts. It hurts so fucking much.’ Composing thoughts seemed an impossible task; it felt like attempting to dig through layer after layer of hardened dirt using only your hands. It doesn’t matter. The other side of pain is the objective so he has no choice but to dig through it. Voices overlap, all his own, all expressing the same thoughts, his thoughts. He just needed one that wasn’t focused on the pain, one he could use to dig through the dirt, to make it to the other side of the miserable position.
That’s when the sound of striking penetrates his mind. Dull thuds from a few meters away that rang in his ears like the beating of his own heart.
‘Gala… She needs my help.’
He latches onto it. His mind grasps the thought with feverish desperation as if it were the singular thread of a spider, his golden ticket out of hell. Holding on did nothing to rid him of the searing heat of pain; he was still on the ground, clutching his stomach as if the injury had happened only a second ago, but it gave him direction and allowed him to take control of his thoughts once again.
Reclaiming his mind, the second step, was complete.
Once his mind was reclaimed, once his thoughts were his own again, his recovery became less instinct or muscle memory and more about his own conscious effort and his burning will. He told his body it wasn’t drowning and thus it awoke from its nightmare: his breathing slowly returned to normal, his swimming vision starting to stabilise. He told his body that the injury wasn’t fatal and thus it awoke from its nightmare: his stomach still feeling the stinging afterglow of the attack but no longer did it feel as if it were shutting down, the hand placed on his core moving towards the ground to hold him up. From there, telling his body to stand was simple - it took longer than he normally would have, it felt like a tribulation to put one foot down and lift his whole weight beneath it, but he was on his feet. His mind and body weren’t free from pain yet, but they were no longer allowing it to usurp their autonomy.
Reclaiming his body, the third step, was complete.
The last step was the easiest for Elio - motivating yourself to continue. After taking a blow like that, or any one that debilitates you to that level, it can feel as if continuing is impossible, even if you are able to reclaim the pieces of yourself seconds at a time. Most struggle with the reasoning of it all - it’s not reasonable, it’s not sensible, to continue fighting an opponent after taking a hit like that; at best you’re at a disadvantage, at worst you’re against an opponent that you’re simply not cut out to defeat. You look at the puddle of blood and barf on the ground, you feel your legs still shaking slightly beneath your body, you feel the pulsing pain in your core, you give up. You may not immediately surrender; you might even have a good bit more fight left in you, but you have, in a de facto sense, given up on winning your way. It only makes sense to concede this point; it only makes sense to fail this final step…
“huff… He got me good… Guess I gotta get him back!” …Luckily, Elio had a whole lot more fire than he had sense in that head of his.
Reclaiming his strength, the fourth step, was complete.
In the first segment of their bout, Zephyr held himself back in a multitude of ways: he hadn’t been utilising his draconic archetype, which he acknowledged internally would be major overkill against someone who had yet to awaken, he hadn’t been fully utilising nature energy to enhance his physical power which kept his defense and speed at levels that even Gala could match, and most importantly, he hadn’t been attacking. He allowed himself to be pushed around by his younger sister without lifting as much as a finger in her direction, even whilst she did something as underhanded as kicking sand in his face, even whilst she insulted his authority by defying his orders.
Was he sympathetic towards her cause of avenging a friend?
Was he simply holding back by virtue of her being his younger sister?
Was he simply growing soft after years of resentment for the world itself?
Both possibilities could have been, and probably were, right. It didn’t matter. In this moment, in the present, as Zephyr’s fists, feet and claws fly in the direction of his sister there is no sympathy, there is no holding back, there is so softness. There only remains the weight of a true dragon's will that seems to make his fists all the more heavy against her guard.
Each swing sounds as if every atom this fist moves through is sundered rather than shifted; using her vision well allows her to avoid a good majority of his attacks but the gusting swoosh as a closed knuckle passes by her face has a noticeable effect on her body. They don’t hit her, the ones that do she does well to parry as to mitigate a good portion of the attacks power, the effect in question is a jittery sensation, unmistakable in a fight that feels like it has the stakes of life or death on the line.
Her nerves are all jumping simultaneously as she avoids another crushing blow to her chest. Her pupils shiver as she barely notices a tell on his movements, allowing her to prepare for an overhead punch, the dodge standing her towards the ground. Her breath comes out as a nervous, quivering chuckle that's barely audible below the CRACK of his foot barely making contact with her guard as she rolls backwards out of danger. Her body, each and every cell that makes up her form, from skin to muscle to bone to organs, they all sit on the edge of their seats and simultaneously work at double their usual output all for the sake of keeping her alive, of filling her with adrenaline, of fighting or flying.
Oh, well, that’s a bit of a misleading statement.
“Haaa…”
When you’re a dragon, fighting and flying are all the same.
After another exchange, Gala creates a small bit of distance between herself and her brother and for the first time in a while, he respects that space, shifting towards her slowly, the rustling of the sands indicating his minor movements to close the gap. Her forearms were covered in bruises and the bones were likely fractured; she couldn’t even fully close her fists without active effort. The recoil of having her whole body weight behind the hits was enough for her head to be rocked by his force, for her vision to start swimming, for her legs to shake slightly. Cuts from claws rather than finger nails are interspersed around her body, shallow wounds, but wounds nonetheless, dripping crimson ichor into her clothes and the sands below her.
The situation was dire, yes, but the most dire thing about this situation was that she wasn’t going to give up.
One leg stands in front, shifting slightly as her muscles tremble, the other leg behind and to the side, holding her firmly in place. One arm ahead, her dominant right hand prepared to redirect or parry hits where needed, the other arm behind, her cannon, prepared to coil and strike when an opening appeared, or to create its own openings for her. All of her senses only took her opponent into consideration, the whispering of the waves, the shifting of the winds, all becoming nothing more than static in the back of her mind. She could see he was doing the same thing - his stance was more orthodox than her own as if he’d ripped it straight from a demonstration by the Commander, his eyes equally as taut like the string of a bow.
Drawing. Shifting towards each other.
Drawing. Stances changing for each other.
Drawing. Like a bow ready to fire.
Drawing. Like a samurai in a duel.
Drawing. Like a cowboy in another.
Drawing. Closer.
Drawing. Closer.
Drawing. Closer.
Drawing. Closer.
Drawing. Closer.
Drawing. Clos- “Haaaaaaaa-!”
CRACK!-
The sound of flesh rings out as one man’s tunnel vision is punished. The cry didn't come from his opponent. The sound of flesh hitting his skin didn’t come from the fist of his opponent against the skin and bone of his head. The sensation of his whole body being shot to the side by the strike's power didn’t come from his opponent. Had the attack come from her, he would easily have reacted and counterattacked with his own, which begged the question of why he was helpless. Simply put, a redundant factor had come back into play. It was from someone that he’d forgotten about already in the scope of this battle, someone that he simply thought would lie in a puddle of his own vomit and blood and would die from a strike with the weight of his whole will behind it.
A brown carapace, an unbreakable spirit.
A cockroach, trying his very hardest to be as ferocious as a dragon.
Gala would find herself woken up from the trance in as much shock as if she’d literally been woken up from her sleep, her eyes shifting quickly between Elio, in front of her, and her brother, who’d been knocked off to the side and remained on one knee. Eventually, as she reclaims her mind, she settles on an emotion, that being pride, flashing her classmate a smile as a nervous breath escapes her lips, one that she hoped he wouldn’t notice.
“Nice save. I really thought I’d have to face that guy by myself.”
Elio shakes his hand in the air as if the punch had hurt him more than it did his opponent, responding to her bravado with authenticity.
“Couldn’t let myself go down in one hit like a chump…”
“... Much less let you take on that monster by yourself.”
Both stretch their arms out to briefly bump fists as they turn to look towards where their opponent knelt. Karmic Justice. He’d been hit in the same way Elio had originally - at an unsuspecting moment, with incredible force, in a position that would disorient them heavily, at the very least. Even then, there existed no belief in Elio’s head that a single attack, no matter how unprepared his opponent may have been, would be enough to take him down - he was optimistic, but he wasn’t stupid.
Zephyr remained on one knee for a while. Not resting. Restraining. Gala could see it first, as she always did - his fist against the sands, clenching tighter and tighter until blood was drawn. The look of pride on her face slowly found itself replaced by nervous preparation as she saw him rise from the sands almost as quickly as he’d fallen, still facing towards the ocean rather than the duo. He breathes in. She breathes in. He breathes out. She holds onto her breath for just a bit longer. The moment he reclaims his strength, he’d turn around and, in all likelihood, be very pissed off - a reality Gala was prepared for in case they actually managed to push him, not one that she ever actually expected to come to fruition. She turns to the man responsible, looking Elio in his eyes, offering him a question - not to provoke, not to goad, not to psyche up, but as a genuine concern.
“You got another one of those in you?”
A part of him wished the question was a challenge; maybe it would provide him with some sort of rivalry boost in this trying time. He lets out a sharp breath as he slaps himself on both cheeks.
“I didn’t even have that last one in me!...”
“But if I made that happen, I’m sure I can make a few more too!”
A flickering flame, the will of Elio. It’s as if the moment he could feel it behind him, the winds began to pick up, swirling in hypnotic rhythm around the pair and their opponent. The sand, speckled with blood and ashes, finds itself once again disturbed by dragons… No, not by a dragon. By nature. A disaster, one who bends the will of the winds to his whim, rushing in his direction but not crashing into him. It joins his side, accumulates around him, stolen from in front of their faces, combining with the overwhelming weight he imposes on their psyche to make it almost impossible to breathe normally. He breathes just fine. It's a friend after all. Every gust, every gale, every sweep, every typhoon, every tornado, every hurricane.
“Are you done yet, or do you want to continue.”
The Wind Dragon, Zephyr Shadeheart, stands above them all.
Prince of the Storms. King of nothing at all.
His words find their way towards his opponents upon a silver wind, even as he doesn’t face them; once he does turn, the reality sets upon them that there was no holding back from this moment onwards. Combat wouldn’t just be limited to punches and kicks; the winds themselves would be their opposition in all its crushing, tearing, slicing glory. Now the scales were balanced, they would have to truly display the upper limits of their ability if they wished to take down-
“Psst! Hey, uh… we're done right?"
A whisper from Elio to the girl right beside him, spoken with only an anxious side-eye in her direction. She does the same thing, not turning away from Zephyr, simply looking to confirm that his heart wasn’t in this fight. Her face is cold as stone, a look of abject sincerity, her voice reflecting this complexion. She’d already decided their fate regardless of his input…
"What? Yeah, of course. If we keep going we're fucked."
She responds with her own whisper - this whole time, she had been planning to propose an end to the fight, whether or not Elio decided to continue, and she was prepared for that reality. She assumed he’d be a lot more willing to jump into the jaws of death, but maybe she’d overestimated his reckless abandon. A sigh of relief leaves both of their lips as they find themselves on the same page.
"Okay, good, just asking." Elio whispers to his teammate before raising his voice to a full exclamation at their opponent to relay the result of their vote, “Yeah, uh, you win! We’re done!”
As if on queue with Zephyr’s annoyed sigh, the winds begin to settle once more as their master releases the leash from its throat… Then he turns to leave. No final message, no word of warning, he simply turns to leave with the firm knowledge that his younger sister's defiance has been snuffed out for the time being, having been reminded of the dire consequences. The winds carry only the sounds of each step, softly shifting the sands as he travels further and further away in the direction of home. Once he’d begin to leave immediate earshot, Gala would turn towards Elio, a scoff and a chuckle leaving her lips, their reasoning unclear in her friend's eyes - was it the afterglow of adrenaline, or the hilarity of their shared surrender? Regardless, she begins to walk away, moving backwards so as to still look into his eyes, and he into her own.
"Well, that was an experience."
"I will... see you tomorrow, I guess?"
Elio nods, his own thoughts a lot clearer, his own feelings a lot more distinct, if not slightly rattled. Their vicinity to danger just then had left his system shaking slightly, more so with excitement than with fear, a nervous laugh leaving his lips as he bade farewell to Rank Number One, for tonight, at least.
"Bright and early in the morning!"
“Don’t be late, else me and Morrigan’ll be at each other's throats.”
Even as the situation had fully come to a close, even as the other parties returned home to rest, Elio stood alone, only accompanied by the cool night wind and the stinging sensation that still rang within this core. His vision, previously fixed on the back of his friend as she departed, shifts towards the sands they had stood in, scouring and searching as he moves around seemingly aimlessly, his face contorted in a look of concentration. His eyes flash for a moment as a light jog takes him towards a small dot of cream coloured paper in the sand, and only then does it become obvious what he’s looking for: the cigarette butts that Gala had smoked. The first one finds itself stashed in his pocket for safekeeping as he roams around to find the second - the reason for doing this wasn’t anything creepy and it definitely wasn’t because he planned to use them, he just thought the beach deserved better than them to drop their litter on it.
He was injured, a wound that would, without assistance, take days to recover from, alongside the other wounds he’d taken early when sparring with the commander and in miscellaneous activities. The Energy of Nature that flowed through his body would take care of him, reducing days of physical healing to a mere course of sleep, and thus, he felt obliged to take care of nature too. A small jog once again leads him to the edge of the water, where he’d spot the second cigarette butt, soaked in the waves that rode up and down along the shoreline but intact for the most part.
And as a reward for his diligence, the sky graces him with an array of sparkling diamonds painting the night sky’s navy blue with their brilliance. He stands at the edge of the ocean, damp sands below his feet, the occasional wash of a wave above them, his gaze locked onto the night sky for a moment of meditation.
Even faced with the sky as a beautiful gift, there was so much that he wanted. He wanted to become a true dragon, to have horns, scales, claws, a ferocious roar, a fierce presence, but most of all, to have his soul bring forth his essence into reality: the way Zephyr did with the winds, the way the elder dragons did with their bones, their radiant light and their heavenly thunder, the way the older generations could with their archetypes. He wanted to be the strongest. He wanted to leave an imprint on the world. He wanted to shine in a way that no one could notice.
He wanted to be a star.
He couldn’t just yet. His flame was simply too weak to burn brightly in the night sky, but he was still burning nonetheless. A determined breath leaves his lungs - ‘couldn’t’ wasn’t the important aspect, ‘just yet’ was what he was focused on. He’ll evolve; he’ll become a true dragon to be feared and respected in equal parts. He’ll find every bit of knowledge, every scrap of strength, every skill, every lesson, everything, and burn it within him. The more he burns, the more he’ll grow, expanding and blazing, becoming impossibly bright, becoming impossibly large, becoming impossible to ignore.
The possibility of failure doesn’t exist in his mind. Insanity doesn’t allow it to exist. Instead, he dreams. He dreams about what kind of dragon he’ll become: the darkness dragon, the sunlight dragon, the fighting dragon, something cool, but even if he ended up with something lame, he’d still make it work. He dreams about becoming number one, surpassing Morrigan, Gala, and eventually the Elder Dragons to reach the true pinnacle. He dreamed of being an icon, someone that those below could look up to in their most dire moments and know that it would all be alright.
Today, he dreams about what Elio Scarfell could be.
Tomorrow he’ll work to make those dreams a reality.
To do that, he had to welcome tomorrow with open arms, greeting it with a well-rested smile and bright, gleaming eyes, which meant bedtime needed to be sometime soon. Once his meditation has been completed, Elio turns from the beach and ascends the path to return home.
Tomorrow isn’t the first step, but it’s always the next.
