Archive of Our Own

Dawn crashed over the ancient expanse of green and blue, streaks from the warm and golden sun stretched across the far horizon, splashing the clouds above with the touch of heat. The air that was breathed by many before and many to come was thick with the smell of damp ferns and early morning, a smell of ancient times, beautifully rich.

Orchidus raised his large head, his nostrils agape as he took in the dampness. The morning was like any other, cool with fog creeping in through the underbrush and foliage, the earth still moist from the previous night’s rain. Spring was arriving, that was all he could tell. His dark— almost black maroon stripes gleamed in the light, stretching and shifting as he lifted his weight, the soil beneath mushing and spreading to make room for his size, his large form outlined against the rays of the sun. Orchidus drew in a heavy breath, standing still for a moment as if he was in thought, deep thought. Like he carried the weight of the world on his back. He let out a rough exhale, he was alive, his family was alive. That was enough.

From his right side, his mate— Azalea huffed, her eyes parting open like the river parts the land. She was raw power and muscle, her pale, leathery hide snagging the rays of warmth like the petals of the flower she was named for. Azalea was beautiful, Orchidus understood that. The world around them understood that, how the light always managed to illuminate her massive frame, laying a blanket of light over her scarred hide, the faint pink markings coming to view as her scars did too. Scars from protecting her family, her everything. She let out an exhale, turning her frilled head to meet Orchidus’ gaze. She snorted at him, her way of saying good morning.

She carried the rage of a thousand gods in her heart, the kind of power that broke trees, split the sky, parted mountains with a single glare. He has seen her in combat— against predators, young Tyrannosaurs who couldn't comprehend that their fragile bodies could not yet handle the blow of a Triceratops’ heavy horn. She was the one who charged first, who landed the first blow, who left even the most dominant predators of the land uncertain. He was the shield, the defense.

The children stirred at their feet.

A small, unsure Triceratops, Carnation. She was adorned with the shadows of both of her parents, a dyed mix of darkness and light, a balance, hesitant but also hard-headed. She didn't play with her brothers; but listened and learned. Observed.

Gladiolus, fragile, his horns— ones that when he were to grow, would serve as his most trusted weapon— were nothing but stubs, unlike his brother and sister. He was cursed with this deformity ever since he had opened his eyes for the first time, ever since his dark brown pelt shined in the sun. His steps were always unsure, always cautious. The world around was cruel to those who could not fight or defend themselves, they were easy prey. An easy hunt. But he had never known a day in his life without the reassurance of his parents and siblings. Not a day went by without the nudge of Orchidus' beak or Azalea’s towering and protective stance. His mother would fight so he would not have to.

And then Agapanthus— restless and sharp-eyed, his petite pitch black frame always moving in a blur, darting around and picking fights with small beetles, snapping his beak at the wind as if he could catch it and win. He would always pick fights with his brother, snorting and nudging his frill against his, only to be told off by his mother, a reminding snort. But when the sky turned grey and the rain started to pour in thick, blinding sheets, he fled with his tail between his legs, seeking the comfort of his father's shadow.

The herd was waking, as did the birds and the bugs, the small critters in the undergrowth. The large predators which left an imprint in the land for the future to see. To acknowledge that yes, they were once there, and they were beautiful. The world was waking at the feel of the sun's pleasing warmth, to the nip of cool air against their hide.

The day had begun.

The land stretched far, the tall blades of grass swaying in sync with the morning air. Orchidus moved first, his weighted feet leaving prints in the wet soil. Greenery was plentiful in the spring, fresh stems of fern rose from the underbush, berries eager to be plucked from bushes. Azalea pulled at them, shearing her beak through the bush, the sweet and rich taste of earth staining the inside of her mouth.

Orchidus did not eat, not yet. His gaze was watchful, eyes sweeping over the lush bushes and dense forest, his nostrils flared. Always looking out, always waiting. The scent of decay lingered— somewhere far, perhaps a kill made in the quiet of night, but enough to keep him wary. They were not far from predator territory— in their younger years, Orchidus and Azalea had once roamed the formation; they had been tied by a red string ever since they had been just hatchlings, eventually going from simple friends to mates, life-long ones.

The little ones fed by their side.

Carnation, plucked the ferns with vigor, as if she had been starved for days— she was not. She had always enjoyed to eat, the taste of earth's creation was always filling to her. She scanned for her next bush, trotting over to it and huffing at her brother, Agapanthus, to move over.

Agapanthus, now exiled from his previous bush, begrudgingly scouted closeby for a new one. One that he could rule, maybe one day he would have his own herd, one under his command, that everytime he snorted or honked would follow. But for now, he was an adolescent Triceratops, a small being with big dreams. For now, he was cursed to be told off by his parents. He believed they were too stuck-up.

Gladiolus took slow and cautious bites, as if an Exostinus were to bite him in the beak, his eyes darting with each rustle, each twig snapping. He was defenceless, useless in this world of survival and power. Having no horns made him an easy target, and easy kill. He had always felt different; punished by the stars above. But Azalea and Orchidus loved him all the same, always by his side and teaching him how to use his body mass rather than focusing on how he could never grow horns.

The herd moved as one big being, the adults' great bodies shifting, their tails swaying over the grass. The musk air was filled with the sound of feet pressing against the damp soil. The sound of distant calls of things that hunted. Orchidus walked on the far right, Azalea mirrored his position by walking on the far left, leaving their little ones in the middle of them. Protecting them from any lurkers.

Azalea held her head high, muscles tight. Orchidus knew that she was stronger than him, she had always been. Maybe that’s why he had always admired her. The way the sun gleamed off her white hide, her faint pink patterns swirling around her back and flank like stars in the dark. In his eyes, it was as if she was painted by the gods, ones who had taken every attention to detail, ones who had blended the sun and sky together just to create her. Her scars, ones she adorned from years of battle, years of experience— shined.

Orchidus was her polar opposite, muted of bright patterns or blotches of colour, he was a dark shade, one that blended with the vastness of space when the sun faltered below the mountain's in the far off distance. Stripes of maroon ran along to his flank like individual flowing rivers shining under the night sky. But Azalea and him shared one common factor, they both wore scars. Side-by-side they had grown older together, having known eachother since they had clambered their way out of their eggs. Life-long friends, then to lovers. Two intertwined souls who met by fate.

The air turned damp during midday, Azalea could smell the oncoming storm in the air, for now, they would not move. It was only just arriving. Carnation lay in the shadow of her father, her eyes half open as she lazily watched her brothers play.

Agapanthus being the reckless one, snorted, kicking up dirt and gravel from the ground as he charged at his brother. His older brother swiped, his stubby horns not doing much damage, nor defending him in any way— Agapanthus swerved at the final second, skidding to a halt in a spray of muck. He huffed triumphantly. Although his victory only lasted for a few ticks, Gladiolus rushed forward. His larger frame carried him slower, but with his momentum he crashed into Agapanthus, knocking him over. He shook his head, waving his stubs in a display of victory. His brother, now on the ground, wailed at him.

Orchidus lay still, his eyes flicking to the sky ever-so-often, eyeing the dark clouds above. A storm was passing, he felt the wind pick up against his hide— flowing the cool air across the expanse of land they walked on. Azalea lifted her head, eyes watching the darkening horizon. The sky was shifting, the light blue melting into slate grey. The world around them was holding its breath.

Agapanthus paused, storms had never been his favourite. The wind charged through the trees, the scent of rain came with it, electric and thick. He tensed, turning towards Orchidus, toward the solid weight of his father’s form, and scrambled to press himself against him. The wind roared, sifting through the trees; the first raindrop struck the floor.

Then another— then a thousand.

The sky tore open with a crash, thunder ricocheting against the land with reckless abandon.

The family moved, pressing close together for warmth, horns gleaming under the heavy downpour. The ground turned soft, mushy. The mud spread against their feet. Azalea led them towards the trees: the canopy would soften the storm's wrath. She led them in hopes of finding a cave. Agapanthus cried out as lightning struck above, like the stars themselves were mad, he pressed himself deeper into his father’s side. The strikes of lightning could not reach him under a mountain.

Carnation did not flinch, trudging on, taking in the scent of the freshness. She valued it, it would not last forever. Maybe in a few years time— new creatures were to inhabit and would destroy the world with their inventions. But she did not think of that.

Gladiolus watched the dance of gods with admiration, lightning flashing in his iris as he stared.

The world clashed around them, the wind attacking the trees, the rain pounding against them. And yet, together they stood. A family, forever. The fire and the shield.

And then, just as rapidly as it had begun, it softened. The sky, still dark, began to dissolve, the wind hushed. The earth exhaled, a low groan from the trees. Azalea did too, shaking the water from her hide. Orchidus turned his head, touching his nose gently to hers in affection.

The storm had passed, they had endured once more.

The seasons would pass. The leaves would wither away and bloom again over time, the river would rise and fall, carving new paths into the flesh of the land like deep wounds on skin. The world repeated itself, a new day, a new chapter.

Carnation would grow, quiet and wise— taking after her father, observing things the others missed, overlooked. Her horns grew longer, her size doubled. She was almost as big as Azalea herself. Her colours melt together to create streaks of dark and light, the night and day. Her brothers too, grew older and wiser.

Gladiolus would adapt to live a life without weapons, overpowering his rivals with his mass. He was the biggest now— larger than Orchidus. His brown pelt disguising him within the canopy of trees and bark. He had mapped out the forest, always helping his family get to fresh ferns or fields of berries.

Agapanthus would face the storms that frightened him, snorting at their wrath. His hide matched Orchidus’, take the maroon stripes. He was the night, the darkness. He had battled other males for mates, honking in their faces as the fire burned in his eyes, a heart of a predator. His muscles tensed as he walked, crushing twigs beneath his mass.

Orchidus and Azalea would remain—the fire and the shield, the earth and the sky, the battle and the rest that followed. Their eyes had grown wary, their steps had faltered. Their breaths grew heavier as time passed on, weighing down on them. But they would continue to move with their children, for as long as they walked— they would walk with eachother.

Life would continue, the seasons would change and so would the world.

And they would meet at dawn, together.