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Arctic watches the two dragonets squirm, their dark eyes darting around the confines of their nest.
From a distance, he can hardly tell their limbs apart. Black scales mesh with black scales until from a distance it almost seems that they’ve morphed into one shapeless being, that if he were to sink his claws into them he would find nothing but void…
Idly, he finds his talons tipping forward. Four eyes snap to his claws, the unnatural white in the mix.
The son growls at him. Darkstalker, what an ugly, ugly name. The dragonet tosses his head and wriggles in front of his sister the best he can, white newborn teeth flashing in contrast with the rest of his body. Tiny wings flutter when Arctic shoves his muzzle aside, uncaring for the way Darkstalker’s head snaps against the side of the nest.
Insolent child. He reaches in and grabs Whiteout, who burbles sleepily when she’s suddenly lifted into the air, carried far away from the warmth of her hatching-place, into his cold embrace. This one is less pitch-black than her brother, and through the thin morning light he can see tiny white scales at her extremities, as if she’d gotten an inverted form of frostbite.
To his displeasure, she’s warm against his chest. Icewing dragonets were never warm. The little being cupped in his claws did not feel like blizzards or snow. She roots against his scales, sniffing her father curiously; did she sense it? The wrongness of his presence, of her birth, her nature?
Whiteout only heaves a soft sigh, a shiver passing over her when Arctic brushes a claw across her wings. He’s surprised Foeslayer left their precious dragonets alone. She’d been all over them in the past two nights since their hatching - even before that, when they were still eggs. Ever since she found out she was gravid the dragonets were all she would ever yammer about. And for what? Two tiny lumps that might have magic in their claws?
Darkstalker hisses at him from the nest, as if he could hear Arctic’s thoughts. Arctic continues stroking Whiteout’s back, eyeing his son; ah, but the Nightwings could do that, couldn’t they? Can you hear me, child? Is he sneaking into Arctic’s mind, burrowing through layers of rot like a maggot to listen to the wretched words still spilling out the holes in his soul?
He sneers, leaning closer to the nest til he’s almost brushing nose-to-nose with his son. Darkstalker stares back at him with beady black eyes, something uncannily calm in them.
Listen to me, whelp, Arctic thinks, rattling the spines on his neck. I may not have the gift of prophecy, but I will grant you this: your life is doomed from the start. If you are anything like me, you will never be happy. Jump into the flames as soon as you can crawl.
Darkstalker’s growling increases to a snarl - or the best a three-day-old dragonet could manage, anyway. His wings flare protectively when Arctic leans closer and he catches a glimpse of a line of silvery-white scales on Darkstalker’s underbelly, the only place where Arctic’s parentage resided. Unease presses down on his spine at the sight.
Holding Whiteout in one claw, he reaches out for Darkstalker. The dragonet leans away, hissing at him and trying to nip his claws, but Arctic bats his head once and the dragonet falls, growling all the while.
Long, sharp talons settle over the dragonet’s throat. Darkstalker shivers. He could just…
Whiteout lets out a screaming wail.
Arctic curses as the once-quiet dragonet in his other claw suddenly erupts into a wriggling mass; she rolls her entire body against his talons, crying the entire time. His talons drop away from Darkstalker’s neck to contain Whiteout, trying to keep his hold on her. She refuses to be sated, cries undulating from her that even Darkstalker looks uneasy about.
“Calm down,” Arctic snarls, billowing cold breath over Whiteout. “Quiet!”
The dragonet doesn’t listen. If anything, she screams louder. Her tiny wings beat furiously against his talons and he has to cup her in his palms to avoid shredding them by accident. Tears and snot are smeared everywhere - Arctic grimaces in disgust, why in the world did anyone ever bother with dragonets-
“What are you doing?”
Arctic whips his head around but Foeslayer is already by his side, warm wings brushing against his flank as she lifts Whiteout from his talons with infinite gentleness. She cradles their squalling daughter to her shoulder, cooing soothingly all the while. Arctic’s claws slowly return to their familiar chill as he watches Whiteout calm down, her cries weakening to soft whimpers.
In the silence, Arctic curls his tail close. Foeslayer doesn’t look at him, eyes trained on the hiccuping dragonet. The notion that he should say something, apologize, accuse, do anything, rises in his chest but his jaws remain locked silent. In the nest, Darkstalker is watching him with knowing eyes. Arctic stares back, a growl rising in his throat. What are you looking at?
A sigh from Foeslayer and he looks back, wings drawn taut.
“What did you do?” Foeslayer asks, resignation in her voice. The diamond of her earring glimmers in the sun as she lowers her neck, depositing Whiteout next to Darkstalker in the nest.
Arctic bristles at her tone. He’s not some dragonet for her to chase after - but that’s all they ever saw him as, apparently, just a lovestruck, wayward animus who stupidly ran after the first dragon who smiled at him.
“What you asked me to,” Arctic hisses back. He stands, spikes on his tail rattling as he lashes it behind him. “Don’t ask me to watch the brats again. Otherwise you won’t like what happens to your precious perfect dragonets.”
He watches realization and horror break over her delicate face at his words. Arctic turns away, stalking down the ledge.
“Arctic,” Foeslayer calls after him. “Arctic!”
The Icewing ignores her, opening his wings and taking off from the cliff-face.