Chapter Text
An abundance of discord could kill, but an abundance of harmony could blind. It was one of Mondatta’s favorite recitations when Zenyatta, well-meaning but too curious by far, caused trouble. He heard it after he had climbed the tallest, most ancient tree in the forest to see if he could spot the forest’s edge, and again when he breathed magic into the spring buds too soon, causing a flood of pollen that threatened the timelines that Mondatta and their brethren followed so meticulously.
Now, fully grown and a master in his own right, Zenyatta tempers his brash capriciousness and desire for knowledge with a veil of maturity. It is why he ignores his brother’s constant lectures and explores the borders of their lands, explaining to Mondatta the importance of knowing one’s boundaries, that lacking intimate knowledge of one’s home could be disastrous.
Zenyatta’s mapped nearly all of it, and the forest is a vast, living thing, one that he has studied and learned like the marks upon his brother’s face and the lines of his favorite runes, scrawled centuries ago by another, antlered master. However, unlike markings or writings, the forest is not unchanging. It grows, ebbing and flowing with the cycles of the sky and the life force of the beings that inhabited it. There is always something new to see, a sprout, a species or color. He catalogs them all, first with his eyes and then within the pages of stitched parchment, penned by hand when he has the time, but often he magics the words onto the pages with his whispers, quicker than a reed quill.
His explorations have led him to many curious places. The lair of the spider queen is one such area, only seen at a distance, the aura powerful and overwhelming. The forest is heavier there, not discordant, but a warning lies in its sensation, and Zenyatta grants it berth. Another is much less ominous, a small cottage at the edge of the northern wood, a tiny dwelling of stone and red tile. The windows are small with lacquered wood borders, and the curtains are always drawn.
However, Zenyatta had caught a glimpse of shifting gold during his last visit, a warm, strangely familiar color, as if he had seen it somewhere long ago.
Zenyatta’s journey leads him there in the wayward fashion he goes anywhere, taken by the small details, letting the scents and sights of the forest swell around him with the same comfort that a parent’s fur lends a fawn.
He spots the telltale smoke stacks through the gaps in the leaves. The gold he had seen through the window belonged to someone with long, flaxen hair, and their aura, while difficult to place, was kind, and he intends to introduce himself.
So distracted by his memory, he doesn’t notice the figure doubled over until he’s nearly upon him.
Green.
Blazing viridian scales erupt along the creature’s skin, bristling like fur. Bandages swath most of the figure, barely held in place by healing runes, some stained red, painting the dirt and grass. All but his eyes are hidden, and they burn with the same intensity as his skin, horns sprouting from his crown, furred tail whipping behind him, so much like—
Oh.
“A dragon.” Zenyatta whispers, and all at once the figure stills, the intensity of the dragon’s glare puffing Zenyatta’s fur.
Blood trails from behind the creature Zenyatta never thought he would meet; he had been dragging himself across the forest floor.
Zenyatta breathes out in a slow, even exhale, lowering his satchel to the ground. He keeps his hands raised, mind struggling to remember the words he had studied with such ferocity.
[...I am...Zenyatta.] He tries, forcing the air from his chest in a low, rumbling timbre. [I am peaceful.]
The dragon stares, unmoving, clutching the wound at his waist, blood dribbling between his fingers.
[Dangerous.] Zenyatta says as he takes a step closer, gesturing to the forest. [Creatures will smell the blood.]
Seconds pass in terse silence, the only sounds are the dragon’s labored breathing and the chirps of far off birds.
Then the dragon snorts with a derisive huff, shaking his head, though the motion makes him wince.
[Your accent is terrible.]
Zenyatta blinks. Then his smile lights up his face, all straight white teeth. He draws nearer, and the dragon bristles, pupils thinning to vertical slits.
[You smell like prey.] A labored breath. [What do you want?]
[To help.]
[And how do you propose to do that?]
Zenyatta kneels just out of arm’s reach; he doesn’t want to startle him when he touches one of the orbs circling his throat. It chimes and begins to glow, painting the deer’s hand in warm heat, hovering just above his palm.
[With magic.] Zenyatta smiles at the dragon’s widening eyes. [Are you afraid?]
[Hardly.] The dragon straightens, struggling to pull himself upright.
[Try not to move. You are bleeding quite heavily.]
Zenyatta shifts his hand forward, and the orb follows the motion, a slow, dream-like toss that breaches the space between them. The orb’s warmth extends, a ghostly hand that meets the dragon’s skin with a burst of memory: Genji in his youth, playing in the koi pond, the fish nibbling at his fingertips. He blinks, memory fading while peacefulness lingers, warm like slipping beneath the covers for another hour’s sleep. Each breath is easier, and though the deeper hurts don’t disappear, they soften.
When he finally looks up, the strange creature, hooved and tawny-skinned, is staring at him with russet eyes, a wan smile tugging his lips.
[It is an interesting feeling, is it not?] Zenyatta says.
The dragon frowns, but his anger subsides like his pain, slow but sure.
[I have not felt magic like this before.]
Zenyatta smiles wider, eyes thinning in his mirth.
[So you have experienced other magic. Wonderful!] Zenyatta shifts forward. [What should I call you?]
The dragon stammers, mouth shifting beneath the bandages.
[Genji.] He says with a single dip of his head.
Zenyatta leans close, and suddenly Genji’s vision fills with a bright smile. He didn’t notice his spattering of freckles and faded scars until now.
[Well met, Genji. Let me show you how my people greet each other.] He hesitates, pursing his lip in thought. [Your antlers...may I?]
Genji swallows, hoping the bandages cover the myriad of emotions that flash across his face. He nods, staring up at Zenyatta expectantly.
[Get on with it.]
The last of his words die as Zenyatta cups Genji’s face, his palms surprisingly rough, the pads of his fingers littered with callouses. He stiffens; Zenyatta is close enough that the warmth of his breath ghosts over his lips. Then their antlers connect, soft but firm.
Suddenly, the contact is gone, and Zenyatta gently maneuvers Genji’s arm over his shoulder.
[The texture of your antlers is quite different! It is nice.] Zenyatta says brightly. [I know it is soon, but we must try to move. My home is far from here.]
Zenyatta counts down aloud, but stands before he reaches zero. Genji is jostled from his reverie with newfound aches, but the orb keeps his mind cushioned and dull.
His antlers had been velvet soft, almost ticklish in their smoothness.
[What if I do not wish to go with you?] He mumbles.
[Have you somewhere better to be?]
Genji stares back the way he had come. It would be dark in a few hours. The forest is strange, claustrophobic compared to the empty expanse of sky. He did not know what monsters lurked. Perhaps it did not matter, but still the ember in his chest burns.
He cannot leave the earthly realm so soon.
Genji tries to walk on his own at first, but Zenyatta was right: their trip is a long one, slow and painful with the state of his body. The fading light makes each step more treacherous. Not once does Zenyatta complain; he only points out the trees, asks Genji if he’s ever tasted buckwheat honey or seen sakura in bloom, each word in stilted, pleasant dragon’s tongue.
He wants to ask Zenyatta how he even knows the language, why he isn’t terrified. Dragons were ancient enemies of the valley, even though the war between sky and land is long past. Even the woman who pulled him from the bramble had only a moment of fear before dragging him, slowly but surely, to her cottage, bandaged him while speaking softly in common.
Genji couldn’t understand her, didn’t want to understand her.
He ran.
His strange companion seems oblivious to it all, slowly quieting as they lose light. Colors begin to blur, each step dull and dream-like. He would be on the ground without Zenyatta’s shoulders, a constant, reassuring weight, even as he begins to tremble.
[Genji. Gen—
Greens and browns smear into darkness.
Mondatta is never surprised to find Zenyatta has gotten into trouble. He wanders too far, is too curious, though he dutifully performs his kata and meditation with a precision Mondatta wishes he could critique. That he can do so much and still find time to stir discord in such a peaceful place never fails to give him headaches.
So when the northernmost scouts bolt into the forest proper and alert Mondatta that the prince is not only worse for wear but carrying an outsider, he whispers a terse prayer and steps into the twilight dusk of the clearing.
He meets Zenyatta near the border of their village. A scout hovers at his side, but Zenyatta will not take her aid, and his brother’s stubbornness summons an irritation that only his own sibling can rile.
“Zenyatta—”
“Brother, prepare a bed. He is bleeding out.”
Mondatta bites his tongue when he sees the fear in the prince’s eyes. Within seconds he is in front of him, taking some of the weight of the heavily bandaged stranger, shorter than them both but heavy like a corpse.
He will lecture Zenyatta later. Now, he will help.