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They say - those historians whose knowledge of the past far outweighs Whiteout’s own - that Pyrrhia was named after a dragon that never hatched. Supposedly, it was not because of disease or negligence that this life never came to fruition, but rather through theft. Mere scavengers had dared to steal from a dragon the most precious of treasures, plucked straight for the nest where it had laid. No-one knows why they chose to do such a foolish, callous thing; what drove them to commit a sin so grave against one both innocent and defenseless. But everyone knows what happened next.
For it was in the wake of such a transgression that the continent changed forever. Where once dragons were content solely with growing their hoards and guarding their territory, it became clear that such complacency could no longer stand. Not if simple animals believed they could barge into a dragon’s roost without facing the most dire of consequences. And so, the mother of that fateful, missing egg soared forth, spreading word of the arrogance of those that should know better. Hearing of her plight and the wretchedness of the scavengers’ misdeeds, all who heard her story roared with sympathy before joining in her crusade.
When the mother had traveled far and wide, when the ground below dimmed and the air thundered under the shadow of that great and terrible host, only then did she unleash her vengeance. Under the combined onslaught of a continent’s worth of dragons, the earth burned. Even today, thousands of years after the fact, few pockets of life remain in that desert the Sandwings call their home, and only then because those oases are fed by springs buried too deep for dragonfire to reach.
After the flames, after the rage, after her revenge was exacted upon those that wronged her with ruthless genocidal certainty, still her egg remained lost to her. Although the lorekeepers can recount many details around the first dragon queen, that architect who initiated the Scorching, her name was lost to time. What remained to be gleaned was that her daughter was to be named Pyrrhia and, that despite the unprecedented level of destruction unleashed, she never considered her culling a victory.
It is with thoughts of history and two wrongs not making a right, that Whiteout whispers, “I’m grateful to be unfrozen, but I’m sorry for winning.”
Her brother looks confused, a rare emotion for him when speaking to anyone other than herself, before dismissing her apology in the wake of his own endless self-certainty. “Don’t be, we both win. We’re going to have the greatest future I can give us. All of us.”
With his snout resting so softly next to her own, Whiteout can almost believe his promise. Despite it all the love is there and it's not a shallow thing borne of obligation and duty. There is a well of care within him that runs so deep her eyes would fail and lungs give out before she reached the bottom of it. But that does not surprise Whiteout. She knows that Darkstalker loves her. That’s part of the problem.
For it is in his love for her that he will be driven to commit every atrocity she so abhors. Were she some nameless nobody in the grand play of his life, Darkstalker would not feel the need to bowl past her every protestation in an attempt to provide her with everything he thinks she deserves.
Oh brother, too busy fantasizing over impossible happily ever afters to see how his own claws would unravel such a future in his attempt to attain it. He had complained to her once, about how frustrated he was with Clearsight’s inability to keep her head in the present. How she would always hold him to account for crimes he had not yet enacted. It was with gentle teasing that Whiteout had informed him he was just as fallible. That he would ignore anything and anyone in his attempt to get to the future he believed was best. Not in so plain a words of course, such criticism was always best couched in poetry after all. He had snorted then after deciphering her concerns, saying that he ‘wasn’t that bad’ to which Whiteout frowned, channeling her best impression of Foeslayer’s bemused disbelief.
And Darkstalker had laughed, an easy happy chortle before palming at her face and calling her a dork. Then Whiteout had broken into a grin and joined him, unable to stop herself because things were good and right. The only troubles they had were nosy neighbours, boring homework and an overbearing father.
That night when she read the story of Pyrrhia that their teachers had assigned to them, she had seen both herself and Darkstalker in that vanished, missing egg. The culmination of Arctic and Foeslayer’s love, the symbol of everything the Icewings believed was stolen from them, and the final tipping point that led Queen Diamond down the warpath. How awful, that the two of them could cause such bloodshed by simply existing. But at least they were in it together. At least they could bear the unfair burden of blame talon in talon.
But now everything was wrong and all of a sudden she has been reduced to a symbol yet again by the very one she had thought would understand. She had been rendered into a victim to save and the repulsive enchantment done to her the final justification to warrant Darkstalker’s bloody vengeance.
But it isn’t the anger or the rage or the prideful egotism that tells Whiteout her brother has dived past the point of no return. It's the glee. The joy he might not even consciously be aware of and yet it taints the air around him a putrid overbright yellow. Because, Arctic has gone too far this time. Finally her father has shifted from thinking treason, to muttering disloyalty, until all the pent up resentment and bitter loneliness sent him careening headfirst back into his mother’s claws.
It’s inexcusable. There is quite literally no way to justify his actions as anything other than an outright betrayal to the tribe that offered him amnesty.
Had his plan succeeded Whiteout doubts he would have been happy, back in the clutches of a society he had broken every taboo to escape. But it would have been familiar. Arctic would have been surrounded by snow and sunlight and maybe that was worth sacrificing his daughter for. Whiteout will never know, and neither will Arctic. Her father had bet everything on this scheme and yet fate’s dice had rolled up ones.
So instead of returning to the cold comfort from a childhood home he has far outgrown, Arctic is now left at the mercy of the son he so despises.
But Whiteout has long since known that even the harshest of punishments she might wish upon her father barely scrape the surface of what Darkstalker could envision. He is a dragon that, in spite of how he imagines himself (cool, calm, implacable), has never been able to hide his opinions very well. Whiteout wouldn’t say that he wore his heart on his scales - he is far too slippery, too wary, for that - but he never could hold back from voicing his thoughts for long. Especially concerning a topic so ‘near and dear’ to his heart. Every snide dismissal and barking command Arctic levelled against Whiteout or Foeslayer lit a fire in his eyes Whiteout could almost smell.
Maybe she could say something, speak up before it was too late? Could stake her claim? Could justify that she was the one that Arctic had wronged and therefore it was her right to decide what punishment was deserved? Were she especially bold she might even insist on what forgiveness should be allotted. But how could she do so when even the thought of her father made her sick to the stomach. The idea of going so far as to rise to Arctic’s defense caused Whiteout’s tongue to bloat and stiffen, as useful for speech as a dead fish. No matter how much she wanted to prevent the oncoming future that the moons sang to her, she couldn’t.
Not when the words ‘And have lots of baby Icewings’ still rang, discordant, throughout her skull.
Whiteout darts her eyes to the side, in desperate search of distraction, and if Darkstalker alone did not clue her in to the state of the game then seeing Clearsight would have confirmed it. Where usually the seer would be surrounded by a rainbow of colour, so carefully weaved into a tapestry of time for her to navigate, now the stitches were snarled. Knots of blood-red and tar-black infested every pattern. Although there were still hints of gentle blue interwoven here and there, it was impossible to separate them from every ugly colour Clearsight had so painstakingly avoided before.
So she didn’t.
With a single trembling breath, Whiteout watches, transfixed, as Clearsight shears away future after future. Every maybe, might’ve, could’ve, would’ve and should have been is discarded onto the cutting room floor until only one is left. A single fraying strand is all that remains, gleaming as much with golden hope as it is with blackened grief.
All at once, the oracle’s head snaps up and meets Whiteout’s eyes. Although she cannot read Clearsight’s mind, Whiteout knows that the seer must be aware of how she could tip the balance. Were she so inclined, Whiteout could snatch the gossamer-thin future from Clearsight’s claws and deliver it wholesale into her brother’s grasp. In the face of that vibrant violet hue, Whiteout turns away, unable and unwilling to look upon the steely determination before her and risk infecting it with her own wretched, miserable, doubt.
Because even though she will not change her course, Whiteout does doubt. More than anything, she wonders if there is another path to victory than the one they are barrelling towards with Clearsight at the helm. Her brother’s soul is grey and only growing whiter but it isn’t completely frozen yet. He may be pushy and self-centered and violently vindictive but he still loves her. He still watches her paint and laughs at her jokes and never judges her for the way that she talks even if he finds it strange. How can she aid and abet such a unilateral betrayal when so much of its justification is reliant on what he might do?
Whiteout’s lips remained sealed even still. Who is she to call her brother’s soulmate a traitor when her own silence brands her the same.
In that moment Whiteout feels both the mother and the egg in Pyrrhia’s tale. For she is sure of the success that the moons predict; within hours Darkstalker will be asleep and buried whilst she will retain her freedom for years to come. The ink of Whiteout’s name will not stain the annals of history as anything other than a footnote for the most astute of scholars to ponder over. Darkstalker’s will haunt the continent for as long as Nightwings draw breath; his dreams and ambitions stillborne before they could ever pierce their shell.
And yet it was what was done to Whiteout that pushed Darkstalker over the edge. ‘Poor defenseless, innocent Whiteout’, her blood valuable enough to be worth starting a war over yet she herself too powerless - too odd - for anyone to listen to. Or was it simply that she was too scared to ever make a move in the first place? Just like the night Darkstalker hatched, content in resting within her egg and letting events play out before her rather than ever participating within them. A side character to covet, never a dragon in her own right.
Whiteout’s head is a mess and while she’s been busy mixing her metaphors the others have been arguing. Far too quickly it's time for her to leave and Whiteout can no longer waste her time trying to figure out how she feels because she needs to fly.
The only thing Whiteout knows for sure is that even though she’s won, such a victory still tastes like defeat.