Work Text:
Darkstalker was nothing more than a future killing machine
Arctic could see it in his son’s inherited dark eyes. The twisted horns were enough symbolism for the royal IceWing to steer clear of Darkstalker. Foeslayer was always curious about Arctic’s lingering sense of hatred toward his own son, but never thought to question it.
Until today, at least.
“Darkstalker is also your dragonet, Arctic,” Foeslayer began, her voice passive, neither friendly nor hostile.
Arctic tucked his tail close, a frown forming on his cold face.
“Have you looked into his eyes, Foeslayer? Can you see the intent? The murder?” he hissed, then immediately regretted his words.
“Darkstalker is not murderous!” Foeslayer snapped, her voice now a contrast to her indifferent tone before. “When was the last time you saw him kill a dragon? Never. He never would.”
Arctic was convinced that Foeslayer was trying to convince herself that it was true. He could see it in her soft green eyes. Darkstalker was easy to read, despite Arctic having none of his powers.
“Whiteout is my only child,” he sneered. “She’s not the daughter I wanted, but the daughter I have. At least she has no intent on killing others in the future.”
“You always just love to assume things, huh?” Foeslayer lashed her tail, almost knocking down a few of Whiteout’s paintings on the wall. Arctic never liked her depictions— they painted a future that would never happen. IceWings and NightWings would always hate each other. There would always be war.
“It’s not assuming,” Arctic argued. “It’s predicting.”
Foeslayer rolled her eyes. “Fine, I would love to see how wrong you are in the future. You’re not as smart as you think.”
Arctic watched her stomp away and leave the house with an indifferent expression on his face. Just another argument. She would go off and eat, then come back all fine. It was always like that.
Then she was gone.
In yet another fight, Foeslayer ripped off her earring in a fit of rage, and fled the kingdom in the direction of Diamond’s Palace.
Once Whiteout was calmed down, Darkstalker faced his father, his brow fixed in rage. Arctic knew what was to come.
He stared through his son, occasionally snapping back, but not bothering to argue with Darkstalker. The NightWing always won. Without fail.
And he wondered why Arctic hated him.
Clearsight still had Whiteout huddled under her black wings. Arctic liked her, for the most part. She was interesting— nothing like the monster enchanting something to help find Foeslayer. He always used his magic. He could never solve his own problems without it.
As time passed, Arctic missed Foeslayer’s warm presence. He had to deal with his monstrous son on his own, and it was practically the opposite of fun. Darkstalker looked angrier and angrier by the hour. It began to concern Arctic. Not for Darkstalker, but what he might unleash.
“Father.”
Whiteout’s soft voice came from the living room. Arctic sighed, stopping what he was doing and heading into the other room.
“What?” he asked, his tone less than “fatherly”. Whatever that meant.
“I feel the sand falling, the hole is getting bigger and bigger,” she replied, staring directly into his eyes.
Arctic thought this one was pretty clear. He always tried his best to understand his daughter’s excuses for sentences, but she’d been talking about this sand thing for a while. It didn’t take a genius to figure out it was connected to Darkstalker’s soul reader he created for that SeaWing friend of his. Who knew if it even worked.
“Hmph,” Arctic managed, before slithering back into his room.
Clearly, Darkstalker was up to something, and Arctic wasn’t going to be the one to stop him.
He was going to be the first one dead at his son’s claws.