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Red; there was so much of it that day. It painted the floor in flowing rivulets, bright crimson in color. Red and orange flames licked the walls, the house burning around him. White clothes dyed crimson, a dead man at his feet with unseeing amber eyes.
Shiro’s hands were shaking as he held the tiny, crying bundle in his arms, a small little mass of silver hair and blue blanket. He stared at the child, with sadness and terror of the unknown. This child looked so much like the man at his feet, with big amber eyes that reflected his fear back at him, but radiated innocence in spite of the carnage around them, and that the one who had just killed it’s father was now holding it.
But it had to be done, Shiro thought. A scene that happened within only a few seconds but felt like so long ago. A friend’s grief, a man, driven to insanity and attempting to kill his own child, and Shiro’s attempt to stop it resulting in the murder of someone he held close.
If he hadn’t ended Kyouhei’s grief, then the child’s blood would be on both of their hands, and the mother’s death would have been in vain.
In that moment, in the flames of a burning house and the blood of an old friend at his feet, Shiro made two promises.
He would raise this child himself, and ensure that the child would never inherit it’s father’s madness. And he would make a world where this child, part human and part dragon, would be able to walk proudly among the other races, and not be thought a monster.
And then he stepped out of the flames, into the unknown future.
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It had been at least ten years ago since that fateful day. Five since Ryota disappeared. But it all felt so much longer than that.
He had been skimming the same, old and yellowing page of the History of Nijiryuu for at least an hour now, his mind reminiscing in his own version of that past, at least the bits and pieces he could remember. But then, mind frustrated with his own gaps in memory from the days before the current Age he woke up in, his mind wandered to a more familiar and highly unwelcome territory.
All he could see was the flames, a mother’s last gasp of breath, a baby’s cry, and the feeling of warm blood on his claws, the crunch of bone. The screams of loss, and his own as he realized what he had done to protect the legacy of a man lost to grief.
“Shiro, Shiro! Can I go and play for a bit?” A young little voice asked, yanking him away from the painful memories. He blinked as though disoriented, and after a moment, his surroundings became more distinct, less a blur of green, and his royal purple gaze settled on the little boy that had shoved himself on to Shiro’s lap and knocked the book out of his hands without him noticing. The boy had jarringly silver hair in a short little ponytail, and intelligent amber eyes for a ten-year old.
The moment recognition found it’s way to him, the confusion faded, his gaze softened immediately and he laughed lightly, patting the child’s head. “Of course. Just don’t go so far that I can’t see you. We’re too close to a town right now for you to go adventuring.”
The silver-haired child pouted at him. “Aww, but Shiro. I’ve seen this tree you read at a billion times since we moved here!” He whined, and Shiro let out an exasperated sigh. “Fine. You can wander as far as the hill, as long as you hide your tail. Arfaelans don’t like strange children.”
The child nodded, grinning broadly with the aforementioned tail swishing happily, a silver blur behind him. “I’ll keep it hidden.” He said obediently, and Shiro shooed him away with a hand. “Go now, my dear little hatchling. Run along and go have your fun.” He said, and with a squeal of laughter, the child ran off.
Shiro sighed tiredly, resting his back against the trunk of the tree again, tail curled around his feet. Calmly, he plucked the book from the ground and absently dusted it off once he sat it in his lap. “So adventurous, just like his father. I suppose it isn’t bad.” He murmured to himself.
But his eyes were starting to feel heavy, sleepiness coming with boredom, and before he knew it, Shiro had fallen asleep, there against the tree.
It was sometime later, when the sun had already set, that he awoke, startled to find the forest dark around him, the trees blocking out any light from the stars and stifling the life of the forest in black. Remembering the child, he cursed and got to his feet in an instant. “Arian, are you back yet?” He called tentatively, and in return, nothing but dead silence echoed around him, no birdsong in the ebony dark.
And just when it was starting to worry him, that the boy was out there this late, in a forest at night, there was a scream that reverberated through the trees. Shiro blinked once, and an instant later took off running towards the sound, as fast as his legs could carry him.
He couldn’t tell, but that might have been the boy’s scream, and that thought sent him into a panic. Did the boy stumble into an Arthfaelan patrol, his tail showing and they perceived him to be a monster? Wolves, finding a wandering child easy prey?
He couldn’t lose this boy. He couldn’t lose the only redemption he had, the legacy of Kyouhei, the only thing left from one of two that he held so dear to his heart-
Then, he stumbled into a nearby clearing, and gasped, horrified. It had not been what he was expecting to find.
Red was everywhere, painting the emerald green grass a deep crimson. And even worse were the bodies, strewn haphazardly and torn so bad by some manner of claws that the poor souls were unrecognizable. Merely a mass of crimson mixed with muted shades of green and brown. It was only when he reached down to pick up a bloodied piece of dark green cloth that he recognized it as part of an Arthfaelan uniform. And then, he was struck hard by a sight that made his blood run cold.
Standing in the center of the clearing, covered head to toe in blood with tiny little claws outstretched, was the boy. You could barely even see the silver of his hair, matted with blood as it was. And he was conscious, but just standing there, in the middle of everything and just not reacting. It was so much like that day. Silver hair, unseeing amber, and red as the flames of blood.
Shiro scrambled to get to the boy and immediately wrapped his arms around him, uncaring of the blood that was getting all over his white clothing, turning it red, so very red, like everything else. “By the Dragon, Arian, you had me so worried. Does it hurt anywhere?” He blurted breathlessly, and grew concerned when there was no answer for a full minute.
Just when he was about to let go, check the boy’s vitals for signs of trauma either physical or mental, he got an answer, though not one that he expected.
“No.” The silver-haired boy mumbled into his chest. “No, but they are. They wanted to play a game I didn’t like.”
Alarmed, Shiro pulled away, but still held the boy’s shoulders. He looked into disturbingly glittering amber. He didn’t quite like where this was going, but had to ask regardless. “What game?”
The boy shook his head vigorously, not directly answering that question. “I didn’t want to play that. So I killed them all. They made me mad.” He tilted his head up at Shiro, an innocent gesture. “Who were they?
Shiro remained as passive as he could, so as not to spook Arian. He took the boy back into his arms, picking him up and cradling him. He held the back of that silver and crimson painted little head. “Nobody important, dear Arian. Let’s go home, shall we?”
Arian simply rested his head down in the crook of Shiro’s shoulder. “Yeah. I’m tired, Shiro.” He mumbled, and the elder dragon let out a shaky laugh that sounded more like a wheeze. “We’ll take a nap.” He answered, but the boy was already asleep.
Had he failed to save this child already? His little silver boy was becoming what he feared.
Shiro awoke so fast he practically jumped up out of bed, tail lashing as he gripped his stomach with wide eyes, gasping for breath like it was the first bit of air he had in years. He glanced around quickly, expecting to find Arian right there, but there was no one in the room besides himself.
The rest of the world caught up with him, and Shiro felt like he hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep, even though the sun was now shining through the window, golden yellow touching the wooden floor, bathing it in light.
He let out a tired sigh, and made some absent attempt to tame the wild, so very white strands of his hair. When he quickly realized what he was doing, he stopped, and stared at his hands.
He let out a soft huff, mirthlessly amused, spoke softly under his breath, and almost thought himself a playwright. “Only memories haunt my sleep.”
It was words he normally said to calm himself, since he rarely had creative nightmares anymore with how much older he was than he liked to admit. They worked, to an extent, but now, as he stared at his palms, he remembered that they were stained with so much more blood than Arian had shed in his much shorter lifespan.
And he was lost again to a memory, of silver and amber, black and green.
“Shiro! Oi, what’cha spacin’ out for?” Kyouhei asked, draping an arm across Shiro’s shoulders. It took all of the white dragon’s willpower not to shove him off, or find out what kissing him was like. He went stiff instead of doing either, but with practiced ease at hiding his inner emotions, he smirked. “I’m just thinking about how bad your fashion sense is.”
Kyouhei snorted at that, and relatively loudly. “Ha, like yours is any better? White gets dirty so easily, I don’t understand how you stay so pristine. It hurts my eyes to look at you, ya know.”
Shiro turned to look at him, a smug retort on the tip of his tongue, but it died in his throat, his expression going blank.
The sunlight’s golden rays as they filtered through the branches hit Kyohei just right, igniting the silver of his hair. It glittered, like the metal it resembled, and only made those amber eyes, fitting for a dragon, stand out all the more. The amber reminded him of liquid gold, almost.
That was when Shiro realized Kyouhei was saying something.
“-and I was thinkin’ of when Ryota gets himself over here, we could visit that village on the edge of the forest. Gin, I think the humans call it.”
Shiro’s heart dropped into his stomach like a river stone. “Why visit a human village? We’re fine, with the elves’ ever so kind hospitality.” He inquired, though inwardly, he knew the answer.
He remembered following Kyouhei in the dead of night, silver rays reflecting on Kyouhei’s hair, making it almost snow white against the inky, ebony dark. The village girl that met him at the edge of the forest, a human, with brown hair and chocolate eyes. Such a contrast, a human and a dragon, chocolate brown, and breathtaking, metallic silver and amber.
He had no right to interfere, and yet, it hurt so much.
While Shiro was in his inner reverie, Kyouhei got a faraway, almost happy look in his eyes. “A girl.” He answered, and Shiro knew he’d lost his chance.
Back then, if he had pushed things with Kyouhei or Ryota, would he have been rejected? Or maybe, if he had succeeded, Kyouhei wouldn’t have been killed and Ryota wouldn’t have disappeared. But that meant neither Arian nor Ryoku would have existed. And he wouldn’t be tearing the world apart and making it anew.
His hands were dyed in red, so much red. No one else could see it, but since the death of Kyouhei, his hands were stained in crimson.
But those thoughts were for another time, one where his responsibilities were done, and when there wasn’t someone knocking on his door.