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Chapter Text

Stone Hill was very different from Haunted Towers; first off, the sky was bright blue, speckled here and there with big, fluffy clouds that almost resembled the sheep ambling about the rich green fields. It was already different than the seemingly ever-present twilight of the Dream Weaver's realm.

And then the hills! The ginormous castle! All of the areas to explore!- Back home, the floating islands only allowed so much range for a little hatchling hardly old enough to glide. Now Lindar could walk wherever he wanted to go, without needing one of his parents to supervise or carry him around. 

Lindar looked out at the fields from one of the windows, front paws perched on the sill, tail wagging uncontrollably. Behind him came the soft grunts and murmurings of his parents moving boxes and unpacking things. His dragonfly- Ticks- tugged on a lock of his platinum blonde hair, buzzing that he should help them somewhat, but Lindar was too entranced by his new surroundings to care. Maybe the move wouldn't be so bad after all! 

"Dar-Dar, why don't you go outside and get some fresh air?" 

Lindar jumped down from the window, turning to face his mother. Shawa was kneeling by a large box, taking out plates and handing them to her husband Butch, who placed them away in the cupboards with expert diligence. The little dragon wagged his tail even more. 

"You mean it?" He said, "I can go by myself?" 

Shawa nodded. "As long as you don't go too far, and come back by lunch time. I hear there are some hatchlings here your age. Why not go introduce yourself?" 

Lindar was practically bouncing up and down now. "Really?" 

There hadn't been any hatchlings besides him at Haunted Towers! Now he could have friends! The prospect sent him rushing head over heels out the door and into the long corridors of the castle, followed by his father's sarcastic voice: "Don't run into trouble!" 

The seven year old barely gave any heed. He was rushing as fast as his four little legs would carry him, his dragonfly clinging to his hair for dear life. Out the big double doors and straight into the bright sunlight he went, squinting as his eyes adjusted. The grass under his feet was as soft as any carpet, and he kneaded the ground with his paws in satisfaction. 

Now what to do? The sheep looked like they would be fun to chase, but maybe the game would be even more fun if he could get some other kids to play with him. The other hatchlings! Lindar looked around, tail wagging eagerly. 

"Do you see any other kids, Ticks?" 

The dragonfly went a little higher in the air, examining the fields with a thoughtful buzz. Finally he let out a little gasp and tugged on Lindar's hair. 

"Over there! I see someone!" He hummed. 

Lindar quickly turned to look. A short distance away sat a hatchling on a blanket, a darker shade of blue than he himself was. Lindar grinned and rushed over. The hatchling was playing with jacks, unaware that anyone was approaching. 

"Hi! I'm Lindar!" 

The other hatchling immediately looked up, as did the green dragonfly perched on one of his horns. Ticks buzzed a greeting, but the other dragonfly didn't seem to notice. Both she and her hatchling were too focused on the interrupter of their game. A pause followed. 

Lindar's smile didn't falter. He was about to repeat himself, sure the other hatchling had simply misheard, but then a movement stopped him. The darker blue hatchling reached over, placing a hand on Lindar's head. He ruffled his hair some, tilting his own head to the side. 

"Where are your horns?" 

Ticks winced. Lindar's smile fell immediately, replaced by a look of pure, heart-broken shock. 

"I...don't have any." 

The other hatchling blinked. "That's really weird. Did something happen to you?" 

Lindar shook his head. Tears were welling in his eyes. The other hatchling furrowed his brow some. 

"Hm. Weird ." 

Then he turned back to his game, oblivious to his own cruelty. Ticks landed on Lindar's head, trying to soothe his friend, but it was too late. Lindar's thoughts turned on him: why hadn't it occurred to him that he was different? That anyone else would notice what he lacked? Was he really that stupid? 

He turned and ran right back home. He didn't want to meet the other hatchlings. He didn't want to know what they would think of him, didn't want to hear what they would say. 

Maybe Stone Hill wouldn't be so great after all. 

Chapter Text

Lindar had been in the Artisan realms for eight months now. He was fully settled into his new life, home, school...and accustomed to the teasing and taunting of the other hatchlings. It was a daily ritual at this point. Lindar would walk outside, and there they were, as if waiting for him, prepared with a slew of phrases and words to hurl at him. 

" Here comes CottonHead…"  

"Hey Softie…" 

"Mr. Nohorns…" 

All sorts of things along those lines. Lindar tried to pretend it didn't bother him- tried to avoid them if he could- but to no avail; and, as if their constant hounding him as a target for their games of cruelty weren't enough, they would exclude him from all other activities. No one wanted to play "charge" with a hatchling without horns. 

So it was often that Lindar was left on the sidelines, sitting and watching the other hatchlings play. Ticks sat in his fluffy mess of mane, trying to knead it down into some sort of order with his legs. The hatchling under him sighed, and Ticks again felt a now familiar pang of guilt. Some guardian he was, to be unable to protect his charge from bullies. 

Not that he hadn't tried; he could buzz out as many defenses as he could, but of course those usually fell on deaf ears. Then there were the other dragonflies to contend with, just as bad as their hatchlings. Ticks watched them now, anger building, making his little wings buzz faster; oh , he had a few things to say to them, but sitting here getting worked up about the situation would do nothing. 

It wasn't doing his hatchling any favors, either; he heard Lindar sniffle, a sure sign that he was close to tears. Ticks immediately jumped off of his head and landed on his nose, a smile on his face. 

" Hey ," he buzzed, "how about we go play hide and seek in the Hedge Maze, just you and me ?" 

Lindar brightened, if only a little. Any game was better than none, and if he hadn't a hatchling his own age to play with, at least he had Ticks. His tail settled back into its customary wagging, and together the two headed out towards the maze. It was large for a hatchling, but though it was full of twists and turns, no one could truly get lost in it. It had been designed solely for play. 

It made the perfect place for hide and seek. Lindar and Ticks spent several minutes in the tortuous pathways of the hedges. Ticks was better at hiding with his much smaller size, though he never made it too hard for his hatchling. Every time Lindar would find him, and soon he became so lost in the game that he forgot all about what had upset him in the beginning. 

Lindar searched around, sniffing the ground for any trace of his dragonfly. He was much deeper in the maze now, almost in its very center, and hiding places were becoming more scarce- he couldn't have gone far. He thought he heard something and strained his ears to listen: dragonfly wings? 

No, nothing like it; it was sniffling. Someone nearby was crying. Lindar's wings fluttered in surprise, but despite knowing he shouldn't be too alarmed, he lowered himself to the ground. It could have been a gnorc, after all, hiding in wait for a little hatchling to come stumbling across it…

" Wow ," Lindar thought, " am I a baby or what?"  

A gnorc wouldn't dare get this close to dragon territory; and besides, he didn't smell the custom gnorc stench; and why would a gnorc be crying in a hedge maze, of all places?- The theory didn't make sense. That sniffling was too small to have come from such a creature. 

Lindar puffed out his chest and bravely went to investigate. He could find Ticks later. He turned another corner, then another, letting the quiet sounds growing louder guide him. Finally he made it to the center of the maze, and froze at what he saw. 

It was another hatchling, about his age. He was sitting alone, his back to Lindar, crying softly into his wings. He had yellow scales dotted with white, and bronze horns that curled inwards, in a way Lindar hadn't seen in any other hatchling. Without quite realizing what he was doing- knowing not whether it was pity or curiosity that moved him- he approached. 

"Hey," he said. 

The other hatchling gasped, spinning around and pressing his back to the hedge wall, little wings spread in alarm, reptilian green eyes as big as saucers, still dripping tears. Now Lindar could see he had a little horn on his white nose, too. Lindar poked it and giggled; he couldn't help it. This hatchling just looked so goofy, with that startled expression, and the tuft of lavender purple mane atop his head standing straight up. 

The yellow dragonfly buzzing above the hatchling looked defensive, but did not say or do anything. Lindar smiled at him, too, then back at the yellow hatchling. 

"I'm Lindar. Who are you, and what are you doing in here, instead of playing with everyone else?" 

The other hatchling was trembling with fright, opening and closing his mouth a few times. The dragonfly buzzed in a soothing tone of voice, reassuring his hatchling, and finally the yellow dragon began to stutter: 

"I'm-I-I'm...My name...I'm T-T-Tomas," he said, so softly Lindar strained to hear him, "and...I can't p-pl-play with th-them." 

Lindar titled his head. "Why not? You have horns." He couldn't prevent the slight bitterness in his voice when he said it, but neither could he prevent his feelings. 

Tomas shook his head. "Oh-O-Oh, n-no, I can't," the yellow hatchling whispered again, urgently, "B-B-Bubba's there." 

That was all the explanation Lindar needed. Bubba was the worst of the lot. Tomas was different, too: of course his shy nature and strange, curled horns would also qualify him as a target. Lindar sat down in front of him, watching him for a while. 

This was a dragon like him: different, and ostracized for being so. Someone in need of a friend. Lindar heard the familiar buzzing of Tick's wings, but didn't bother to turn and look for a reaction; he could tell by his silence that he understood, too. Ticks landed on Lindar's head, watching both the other dragonfly and Tomas. 

Lindar reached out with one of his paws. Tomas looked at it, then up at the blue hatchling, barely holding back his tears. Lindar smiled. 

"They won't let me play with them, either. Want to play with me and Ticks instead? We were just in the middle of a game of hide and seek." 

Tomas wiped one of his eyes, watching Lindar's paw, as if still unsure, though the dragonfly above him was already smiling. Slowly he took it in his own. 

"...Ok." 

Lindar grinned and gently shook his paw before releasing it again. 

"Do you want to seek or hide?" 

"I-I'm better at hiding," the timid hatchling said. 

This came as no surprise to Lindar. He nodded. 

"Alright, then I'll seek. See you in ten?" 

He got Tomas to laugh a little at that. The yellow hatchling's tail was wagging now. 

"If you can f-find me!" 

Then he was gone into the green, leaving Lindar behind. He giggled and eagerly covered his eyes, beginning to count aloud; but despite Lindar trying his best, it was more than a few minutes before he found Tomas again. All day they played, chasing each other through the maze and back again, tagging, tickling, giggling, until the sun began to go down. 

Now they were sprawled out in the middle of the maze, gazing up at the fading sky with tails entwined. Their dragonflies rested in the grass above them, snoozing away in the late evening. 

"I had a lot of fun today, Tomas," Lindar said. He didn't look to see him nod, but he could feel that Tomas agreed. 

"Me too," he said, "ma-maybe we can do this again tomorrow…? I-If you want." 

Lindar nodded. "Of course! Maybe you can come over to Stone Hill this time. I'll bring my ball, and we can play a game of cloud catch." 

"I'd like that." 

Both were quiet for a time. There wasn't a need to say anything...but Tomas said it anyway. He reached out, taking one of Lindar's paws in his. 

"...Lindar?" 

Lindar squeezed his hand, assuring him he could say what he had to without fear. Tomas swallowed, but relaxed somewhat.  

"...Th-thank you for playing with me." 

Lindar smiled. "Anytime, Tom." 

Chapter Text

It was another brief moment before the monthly leadership meeting, the fifth one since their relationship began. Cosmos and Titan had arrived before the other leaders, standing before the heavy marble doors of the conference room in a new routine: priming up together. The early morning dimness and quiet seeped in from the tall glass windows. The shadows the deep indigo curtains cast gave the scene a certain feeling of secrecy- fitting, for the clandestine nature of their arrangement. 

Cosmos adjusted the medals on Titan's chest, ensuring that they were all in perfect order. Titan knew they were, but let Cosmos fiddle with them, anyway: it was just one of the many finicky little habits he had, something to keep his hands occupied, and- he recognized- a convenient excuse to be nearer to him. 

He listened to Cosmos murmur a quick polishing incantation under his breath. It also wasn't needed, but he didn't comment on that. He simply watched the magician work with a pretense of disinterest, all while his thoughts were entirely consumed by the dragon before him. 

Never in his life did he imagine that they would end up together- much less for this long. For most of their time in each other's acquaintance, they had done nothing but fight; it was as if they were opposites in every way. In fact, Titan still held their current status in some sort of disbelief, as if he would wake up at any moment from the spell of a particularly talented Dream Weaver…

But he hoped it wasn't so. He couldn't imagine being any happier than he was now, just the way things were. His thoughts and memories swirled in a disorderly daydream, so unlike him, and yet entirely captivating and pleasant; so much so, he didn't notice that he was slowly leaning in.

"Is your mind wandering, General?" 

Cosmos said, glancing upwards- and then Titan's lips were lightly pressing against his forehead. Both paused. Titan felt his own heart speed up by a tempo, but he couldn't say that he regretted the action, as consciously unintended as it may have been; he only hoped that he hadn't given Cosmos reason to regret it. 

He pulled away, watching Cosmos' expression for any sign of discomfort. There was a brief moment of bewilderment on the wizard's face, and then his purple and orange wings relaxed again. He made a slight huffing sound. 

"That was new," he said, as if only noting a mild change in the weather. Titan sighed and pulled away- but not too far for Cosmos to be unable to finish his work. 

"It was a long time coming." 

Cosmos brushed up another of Titan's badges, then reached to adjust one of his epaulets. 

"Was it, now?" 

"Yes." There was a rare moment of hesitance from him. "...Did you not…?" 

Cosmos' claws tightened on the epaulet he held. His wings tensed, but then relaxed again. He continued his adjustments. 

"...I didn't not." 

Titan understood. Magic Crafters were shyer by nature, and often spoke in riddles without meaning to. It was often left to him to decipher Cosmos' words and intent; In this case, what he heard was promising. 

Cosmos finished with the medals, smoothing down the ribbons with a hand one last time- though those claws delved down too far to brush over the scales of his chest, too considerate to have been an accident. 

"You feel we should be...more intimate?" He said. He kept his eyes on his hand, the palm now laying on Titan's chest. 

It was Titan's turn to snort. The sound he made was more in ridicule at the question than mild amusement. 

"When we go on like this, we might as well," he said, taking the hand that laid on his chest in his own. "I didn't mind simply being casual with you, but these days I feel that we couldn't call ourselves 'casual' anymore." 

He squeezed Cosmos' hand gingerly in his, as if marking the point. Cosmos sighed, but returned the squeeze with one of his own. 

"So what? Would you rather have us marry?" 

Titan shook his head. He knew what Cosmos was trying to do, but if he thought Titan secured those medals on his chest by giving ground, he was wrong. He slammed his tail against the floor- not harshly, just to signal that very point. 

"No. I only meant-" 

"So you wouldn't marry me?" Cosmos' tone was almost hurt. 

Titan had not forseen this change in strategy, and it quite startled him. He found himself stumbling over his words, suddenly flustered. 

"What? Yes- I-I mean, no- no, I mean...yes...just-just  not yet, at least. It's too early for that, you have me there; I only meant…" 

He fumbled over his words a bit more before falling silent. Then he bit his tongue, finally breaking eye contact to collect himself, recuperate his losses before preparing for the next charge. He heard Cosmos chuckle. 

"I'm only teasing, General; I know." 

He suddenly yanked on the cloth around Titan's neck, pulling him down to eye level. Their lips met again, more tenderly this time, but when Cosmos pulled away his face was as orderly as his attire. 

"Is that better?" He said, brows raising archly. 

Titan couldn't speak for a moment. His brain seemed to have deserted the battlefield. Eventually he tracked it down, dragged it back, and forced it to function again under threat of dishonorable discharge and execution for treason. A smile spread across his face. 

"Indeed." 

He would have said (or done) more, but then they heard the wingbeats outside, footsteps echoing down the halls, and familiar voices coming closer. They stepped back- Cosmos again the proud wizard, Titan the stern general. A glance passed between them, one which denoted that their conversation wasn't quite done. 

They really needed to tell the others at some point.

Chapter Text

This thing usually never happened to Zantor. He was a whiz of a wizard, a true Magic Crafter prodigy, a master of spells. He wasn't supposed to mess up. His magic obeyed him perfectly …

Until today. Zantor shook his hands, but the stubborn marbles stayed where they were, hovering in the air above his fingers as if attached by an invisible magnetic field. They never once budged, not even a centimeter. He shook them again, growing steadily more frustrated. 

He didn't usually get so easily angered, either. Jarvis had once used the descriptor "as cool as Wizard's Peak" on him, and anyone else could agree that it suited him well; Zantor was a happy-go-lucky sort, the near exact opposite of his more skittish brother; however, if one were to stumble across him now, they wouldn't think so. 

He had just wanted to try a simple magic trick- admittedly, in an attempt to garner praise from a batch of new hatchlings- but of course that didn't go quite as planned. The marbles were supposed to roll off of his fingers, float around him in a circle, juggle themselves, and then turn into flower petals; but when the marbles were supposed to float away, they stuck in the air before his fingertips instead. 

That had been three hours ago. Zantor bit at one of the marbles and tried to detach it from his hand with brute strength alone, but all that did was make his fangs hurt. Every spell and incantation for getting adhesives unstuck failed him. This blunt action, too, failed him. What was he supposed to do now? 

Well, when in doubt, go to a great Magic Crafter. Zantor was much too embarrassed to dare try to bother anyone else for help; but fortunately he knew two Magic Crafters close enough to him, who would spare his pride (for the most part): his parents would probably know how to unstick him. 

Cedric- his father- was away in Alpine Ridge, tending to a class for the next generation of Magic Crafters, and probably wouldn't be back until late; he couldn't go to him. He wouldn't want to interrupt one of his classes...and the hatchlings he had seen so far today laughed at him enough already. No, his father was definitely out. 

Now his mother...she was likely in their home in High Caves. Zantor could teleport himself over real quick, explain himself; he had inherited this magic from her, anyway. She would know what to do. She might laugh at him, yes, but that was a small price to pay if she could solve his dilemma. 

He nodded, resolved: Mother it was, then. 

He carefully tested a teleportation spell on a nearby boulder (just to be certain that his magic wasn't malfunctioning in any dire way). The results were relieving enough for him to use it on himself as well. A faint 'pop', a burst of energy, some mild dizziness- but when he opened his eyes, he was standing in a familiar house. It was a little chilly, and very dim. 

Zantor looked around as his eyes adjusted. It was a nice little house, medium sized, but with classy furnishings in the traditional Magic Crafter idiom; tapestries, paintings in gilded frames- but here and there the unique touch of the resident family showed. Magic fetishes, hand-made charms, precious family moments forever captured on canvas- all hung crookedly, almost as if intentional. Objects floated all around the space, some hovering uselessly in stasis mid-air, others moving about the halls on their way to do something somewhere else. Zantor dodged a bent broomstick as it swept on by, almost sweeping him up with it. He smiled: this was the home he remembered. 

His aura must have triggered something in the spell on the broom, for it made a sudden sharp turn and swooped behind him, pushing and shoving him down the hall; it wasn’t brutal, just energetic, almost like an excited puppy seeing its master again- if the scraggly thing had a tail it would have been wagging. It cheered Zantor some, despite the pushing his tail received. 

Down, down, down the hallway they went, and all around the house grew darker and darker. Finally they entered an open space, and the broom stopped pushing. Zantor felt his talons scrape on cold tile and squinted, trying to discern where he was. Where was that smell coming from…? And was this space warmer than the rest of the house? 

Suddenly he heard a sound: the whooshing of flame, and something bubbling. A green tinge tainted the darkness, but did little to light it. A shiver ran down his spine; someone was here with him. 

"Well, well, well," a voice crooned from the darkness, "if it isn't my favorite son." 

He turned, and there, dimly lit by the green glow of the cauldron, was a crooked figure. She was whip-thin, her turquoise and yellow wings spread as if to encompass the ominous brew. Six pairs of horns curled from her head, two of which curved under the wide brim of a green pointed hat. Reptilian eyes shined at him from the darkness, also verdant, glinting with mischief.

Zantor relaxed, then rolled his eyes. "You say that to Zane, too." 

The figure smiled even more, her eyes crinkling at the corners and her sharp teeth on full display, gleaming under the light of the potion she stirred.  

"Well, it's true," Zantha said. 

Mother had always been the sort for practical jokes, especially if they got a rise out of someone; her children had never been an exception. Again that smile returned to Zantor’s face, brighter than ever. 

“So what brings Zantor the Amazing back home to his mother?” She asked, pausing in her stirring to lean casually against the spoon she held in both hands. Her broomstick swiveled to lean against the wall behind her, its job complete. 

Zantor had almost forgotten; he held out his hands, needing no words to describe what had happened- though he explained anyway. 

“I was trying to perform a trick with marbles- a very simple trick, nothing unusual- but then the magic…malfunctioned, and well…” He shrugged, wiggling his fingers so the marbles floating above his claws wiggled with them. 

Zantha furrowed her brow, then gestured for him to come closer. She took one of his hands in hers, examining the marbles for a short eternity. Finally she looked at him again. 

“You couldn’t unstick yourself?” 

He shook his head. “Obviously not. No adhesive dissolving, unsticking, nor unlocking spell I’ve tried has worked thus far- and I’ve tried everything!” He didn’t mean to sound so cross towards his mother, but he couldn’t help it. The situation was almost too much to bear. 

Fortunately his mother was sympathetic. She patted his shoulder, cooing. “There, there, my poor boy, we’ll get you out of this.” 

She examined his hands again- again for that same indeterminable length- and again nothing happened. She clicked her tongue. 

"...Didn't you see your father already?" She said, "You know he's better at solving problems. I'm better at causing them." 

Zantor sighed and shook his head. “Father is too busy at the moment. I figured you might be able to help.” 

Zantha paused. There was a sort of hesitant, nervous energy in the way she held her wings, but then- like magic- it disappeared. She nodded, once, affirmatively. 

"Well of course! Just sit back and let your mother take care of this."  

She pushed the spoon aside and held both hands over Zantor's. But then she paused again, glancing at him. 

"...Are you certain that you wouldn't rather wait for your father...?" 

Zantor sighed. "Yes. Now could you...?

His mother nodded again. "Right, yes, of course."

She hissed under her breath, a few words that scratched at the magic around Zantor's fingers almost painfully, stretched and pulled and then stopped. She huffed with irritation. 

"No, no," she murmured to herself, not unlike how her son had before he sought her help, "that wasn't it. Different accent, slight differentiation in tone-" 

She tried something only a little more sharp, like the blades of knives rubbing against each other. There was a reaction, a spark of green, and then Zantha snatched her fingers back with a hiss. Her tail lashed behind her, snagged a rag from a nearby counter, and quickly brought it to her. She wrapped her hands, grumbling. 

"Mother!" Zantor cried, "Are you alright? What happened?" 

She snorted. "It nipped me." 

Zantor was about to ask what that meant, when she suddenly perked up again. 

"Oh! Oh, I remember now," she said, snapping her few unbitten fingers, "hold on-" 

She leaned over his outstretched hands, then murmured an incantation that had the sharp crudeness of a swear. Zantor felt a shift in the magical energy, almost as if it had been physically struck and then recoiled from the blow. Zantha nodded, satisfied. 

"Now shake your hands," she said. 

He did. Immediately the marbles fell to the ground, and his hands were once again free. He gasped in joy, wiggling his fingers in front of his face. 

"Y-you did it! How?" 

His mother chuckled. "I just scolded the magic. It gets a big ego of its own sometimes, starts to get ideas. You have to remind it who's the boss every once and a while." 

Zantor laughed, shaking his hands, wiggling his fingers, rubbing them together and squeezing, almost numb with the relief that came from freedom. “I’ll have to remember that sometime. Thank you, mother.” 

Zantha smiled and pinched his cheek affectionately. “I was only doing what I should, though your father probably could have done it faster; but even witches have to fix problems sometimes. Now you run along and go back to showing off those tricks I taught you- with your own special flair, of course, as is customary of my Amazing Zantor.” 

He felt the scales on his face warm and he rubbed his cheek where she had pinched it, both somewhat embarrassed and indomitably gleeful at once. He began to turn towards the door, his bright smile lighting his way in the dark.

"Oh, I will. Hope your potion turns out well," He said. 

Zantha blinked at him, wings fluttering in surprise as she looked into her cauldron. Her brow was furrowed with slight disappointment. 

"...Potion? I was whipping up a batch of pea soup for dinner." 

Zantor paused, then bit back a breath. Oh . No. Mother was cooking again. 

"I...I don't think pea soup is supposed to glow , Mother," he said gently. 

Zantha nodded, thoughtful. "You know, I didn't think so either. Hm." 

Zantor didn't know what to do now. He scratched at the floor with his talons awkwardly.

"...Do you want me to get dad?" He offered after a moment. 

Zantha nodded. "Yes, I think so."