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Turtle was quite good at leaving.
Now, in the ocean, SeaWings were formidable. It was their home. The tribe could learn every bit of it—after all, they didn’t need to come up for air, and were adept in maneuvering through the currents.
Turtle, like all SeaWings, could find his way around in the ocean.
Staying near the underwater cities, of course, was ideal for any SeaWing. Similarly, any royal seawing or high-ranked dragon would want to remain close to their post, or the Deep Palace itself. It was safer and easier to live if everything was already organized, built, and running smoothly. Even as a measly prince, Turtle knew this. He wasn’t even old enough to be given any… serious duties, you see. None of the princes had that kind of responsibility.
Turtle, as a prince, was no more special than a crab found in a crab pool. Very common. Nothing unique about him. Like all royals in the family, his wing had the spiral pattern, he was taught Aquatic from the moment his eyes were open, taught the many scrolls and histories of the Royal SeaWing Family—as dictated and directed by Queen Coral—and attended a few noble gatherings per his father’s instruction and effort to include the ongoing number of princes who existed. So many princes, and not one princess.
Huh? Oh, it’s you. Hi, little Prince, someone that Turtle knew would say, but that someone did not really know Turtle.
(Or maybe it was the other way around…)
It was only that Turtle appeared frequently in the library—both the fun one and the archival one, as some of the slabs were brand new and ready to be read, while others needed to be rewritten so they wouldn’t be lost to poor care or water damage. Sometimes he would swim out to the Summer Palace
Turtle didn’t linger where he wasn’t wanted.
It was—too much—and his snout curled with self-hate and nausea the longer he swam with his brothers, or when he tried to find a hole to hide in but was yelled at by guards—no attention was spared for any circumstance.
Everything, all in all, was mundane.
There was food. There was education. There was simple jewelry sometimes bestowed on the princes. There was, of course, rooms and rooms for the princes—thpugh most shared. There were games. There were training lessons, too, though almost every SeaWing had them, and not just the princes. If there were princesses, they would have been taught the necessary skills to swim, fight, survive, and thrive in any environment. Similarly, newly acquired servants and cooks and warriors were also taught these life-changing skills. Both for time on land, however limited it may be, and time in the water.
Actually, Turtle took it back, everything was not mundane.
All the dragons in the world were at war.
And Turtle, rather than confessing to anyone who could change the tides of blood—swam out from the Deep Palace without telling so much as even one of his brothers, and nested under a jagged coral outcropping a distant way far from home.
Turtle, while just a prince and just like any SeaWing prince, was not just any dragon.
Because not just any dragon had animus magic.
Turtle’s gills were sore. He was waiting under the outcrop of coral, tucked into a polite looking reef. He was quiet and alone and thinking about everything he could do if he just stopped being so cowardly. Dragons were dying. Dragons were fighting endlessly and relentlessly, and not just SeaWings—everyone. Except maybe the RainWings. Turtle wasn’t sure if they involved themselves with anyone, ever.
But, out here?
It was just fish and the occasional lobster and maybe a dolphin or two or… more dragons, if they patrolled, or if any of them maybe cared about Prince Turtle’s absence.
Turtle knew that if he stayed out here long enough, maybe a search party would eventually appear. Or, at least some of his brothers—the older ones, or the ones his age—would start swimming with their eyes wide open. Princes weren’t exactly replaceable, but—there were so many—and Turtle wasn’t special. None of them were. And if that was the case, that outweighed everything. A lack of importance. Lives mattered, but they weren’t heirs. And they weren’t tactful soldiers. They weren’t favorite children of the King or Queen, even if the sons were the only children that the two rulers had.
A few colorful fish swam past him. Fish that belonged in a reef.
Far above him, pale streaks of sunlight traveled through the water. It was still dark, this far down.
And, of course hiding under coral pieces did him no favors. He was glowing faintly, his stripes flickering in tandem with the slight shimmer in the water—when it moved, he let his stripes cajole and ripple and twist along his scales.
Turtle laid in the sand, face pressed along the surface. His wings were tucked up and around his body, and he was no sturdier than a rock that fit inside of a dragon’s mouth. If the waters grew turbulent, Turtle would be shoved about. He would swim with the currents and vanish. Follow the fish. Mouth at the sand. Lick at the salt that would cling to his snout when he bursted from the surface.
He wasn’t sure how long he laid out there, breathing shallowly in the water, but he knew it wasn’t morning by the time he came back to his senses. He smelled something in the water—not fish, not an eel, and not a stray land animal clamoring through the waves—no, no…
Turtle frowned a little, bundling his wings closer to himself. He curled his tail over the small bits of rocks under him, the sand barely moving when he did. Through the water, there was a pale shape moving at a steady pace. He squinted, talons gripping the sand as he faltered himself even further.
Blend in, he thought, suddenly wary, I need to blend in and hide and stay safe and—
And all his thoughts were jostled, and he felt his heart jump out of his chest when the swirling figure swam right up to the coral cropping and dropped low, wings spreading out, the water startling the sand and tiny pebbles and—and! Turtle nearly launched himself backwards, into the coral and rocks, but instead the thing’s head appeared right below the opening.
A pale green SeaWing stared at him for one long pause, and then their talons extended and grabbed onto Turtle’s raised shoulders with surprising firmness. There was no cruelty, only—
Sorry! Turtle flashed, as brightly as he could.
The dragon's eyes flicked, following the pattern. A routine. At the sign of attention, Turtle flashed it again, and then again. He nervously swept his tail side to side, and opened his mouth barely—teeth clinging to his gums, nausea crawling—parts of him began to decompose like a shark carcass. The dragon dragged him out from under the coral. Turtle felt terror. His body locked up, and if he were above the water he would be trembling like a young dragonet. He felt as if he had just woken from inside an egg, gummy and watery and weak in a hatchery.
Sorry, he said, and trembled harshly.
Shuddered from his horns to his tail, and went as still as a limp fish in the clutches of a hunter.
There were no more fish in the reef—this dragon must have scared them. Turtle wasn’t that scary, and he came out here often and didn’t hunt, so maybe the fish knew him… even though they likely didn’t have good enough memory to know that Turtle was anything or anyone special or—or—
The dragon frowned at him for a long moment before flashing a question. What are you doing out here?
Turtle stared back. He didn’t reply, either. He wanted to curl back up under the patch, but with the dragon’s claws seeping into his shoulders and part of his back, he knew better than to try and swim away. A dragonet his size wouldn’t do much to a full-grown SeaWing.
Turtle tucked his head closer to his neck, muggy. Thinking, he answered.
The stranger was incredulous, frowning. Out here?
Yes, Turtle flashed. Sorry.
The dragon eyed him.
The water moved carefully, so calmly. Thankfully there wasn’t a storm brewing today. If so, Turtle would have gotten lost and maybe even hit his head—after several hours of laying and doing nothing, Turtle found himself weaker than grains of sand very quickly.
He could always find a remedy, or eat better, or… use his magic, maybe… but he didn’t feel like he should.
You shouldn’t be out here alone, said the light green SeaWing. In fact, this SeaWing looked rather striking—the kind of SeaWing someone would think of when the words unique beauty were said. Most SeaWings were blue or grey, or a blue-green. Even a deep green like Turtle was understandable. But this dragon was… quite pale. You could get hurt. It’s dangerous out here alone. It’s even more dangerous when you’re a dragonet. How old are you?
He was two.
Turtle awkwardly settled, no longer holding himself so tightly. His limbs were all locked up, anyway, and he had scraped his underbelly several times while wiggling in the debris of a reef only a few days ago. The scratches were healed, but if he wriggled hard enough they began to ache anew.
He should make something to mend minor injuries. Or all injuries. Or…
Two, said Turtle, meekly.
At the answer, the dragon smoothed his talons over Turtle’s shoulders, still frowning, and clung a little gentler to him. You shouldn’t be out here alone, repeated the dragon.
Sorry, said Turtle.
The SeaWing was still looking at him, and flashed slowly. Where are your brothers?
Turtle paused, narrowing his eyes.
Carefully, he wrung his talons together. His brothers, thirty and counting, were likely all back in the Deep Palace. One or two might be in the Summer Palace. Maybe three. And, of course, some might be venturing into smaller underwater cities, though they would still be in range of the Deep Palace. Turtle, on the other hand, liked swimming out here. This wasn’t a coral garden of the Deep Palace by any means, but if the SeaWings really wanted it, they could likely repair and protect this place with a few years of work and fence building…
The dragon stared at him some more. The silence, only as loud as the ocean rocking, provided the dragon with nothing. Turtle’s distrust and feigned calmness became apparent—and something splintered in the dragon’s face.
Slowly, What’s your name?
The way this dragon spoke Aquatic was very formal. The etiquette was right, even if he approached without fear or any sense of personal space. Prying Turtle out from under the thick piece of coral had been an odd choice, but Turtle knew that SeaWings of various statuses grew concerned when they saw a SeaWing dragonet alone. The princes were known to stick together, yes, but all SeaWing dragonets had their own cliques and groups. It was natural to cling to their hatch-mates, or dragonets similar to their age range. Like schools of fish, or pods of dolphins. Safety in numbers. But Turtle wasn’t that good at blending in, and the knowledge of his animus magic made him feel weird when he sat side by side with other dragons who were aware of the war’s toll. The Talons of Power ceremony would be coming up soon, and Turtle had been thinking about that, too. Furiously thinking. Anxiety crawled all over him. To be known as anything good meant he would likely have to do something to earn it, and that meant—
Turtle shook his head slowly, weakly. I’m Turtle, flashed Turtle.
There was a pause.
Turtle, said the SeaWing. I remember when you hatched.
Turtle looked back up, slightly alarmed—several stones dropped in his belly. All of a sudden, the idea of slapping his talons over this dragon’s arms and enchanting the SeaWing to forget about this interaction seemed doable. And that stung really crushed—he felt his gills flick, and his wings fluttered until they settled along his scales uncomfortably. He tucked his head down, as small as he could get.
I see, he flashed, in a hurry.
But, what the phrase was likely read out to be was something more like the way a dragon would say uhm or oh. That kind of message didn’t translate in Aquatic so easily, but saying a few other things with a certain kind of expression normally got the meaning across.
Turtle, said the stranger, and he settled into the sand smoothly. His tail wrapped around Turtle’s, and he let colors run up and down the lower level of stripes. It was a familial and friendly greeting, but Turtle didn’t think a stranger should be using it on him, or a prince in general. He didn’t know this dragon, he didn’t. Turtle was staring at someone who had pea-green scales, a calm face—maybe a bit regretful in the ocean light—with dark green eyes, large wings, and a rather broad body. He didn’t have any spirals on his wings, so there was no way he was from the royal bloodline, right? Turtle couldn’t remember. Maybe he was an advisor? Or some kind of official organizer?
Awkwardly, he tried to curl his tail back—he didn’t recognize the dragon, though, so he only curled halfway so he could reciprocate. No accusations of limp-tail syndrome, here, cold-shoulder this, dumb-head that.
Sorry, Turtle flashed again. No one looks.
The stranger frowned again. Squeezed his tail, patted his shoulders. With you? For you?
Turtle frowned too, stiff. Out here, for me. It’s quiet out here. His scales flickered, and he raised his arms to grasp at his head, smoothing over his gills before looking off to the aide. The water was still illuminated faintly by the sunlight. It must not be night. Not even evening. He left the Deep Palace in the early morning, so it must only be the afternoon right now. Sorry, he said again.
But the dragon just stared at him, the dark emeralds of his irises slowly widening and shrinking. He tilted his long snout down, gills pulsing—Turtle felt unknown, suddenly spooked—this dragon, he should know, but didn’t, but didn’t.
Turtle, said the dragon that Turtle didn’t remember or recognize.
Who are you? Turtle flashed, unable to stop the question.
The dragon recoiled—barely—but Turtle was good at catching onto things even if he never said or did anything. There was surprise. His question was warranted, maybe, but—any dragon should know who another dragon was. Turtle sometimes forgot faces, or mixed them up, or got buried in wet sand on beaches when no one was looking or saying they would dig him up. If he was a clam, no one would save him. He would probably be eaten. No one would still wait or think about him. He would get scooped up and that would be that. This SeaWing held onto his shoulders, tail still curled around Turtle’s, and stared at him with such a face you would have thought Turtle said he wanted Queen Coral’s side to lose the war.
He winced, tucked himself down, tried to appear small and unassuming. Sensing that he had made a grave mistake, he flickered, Sorry. Sorry. he said again. I’m sorry. Sorry.
The stranger didn’t reply, but his face had contorted into something—pained.
He flashed, I’m your father.
And it was as if a SkyWing had swooped down and breathed hot fire all over Turtle’s back and spine! Shame blew itself into his ribs, barreling all the way into his throat. He unhinged his jaw, reeling away. His tail smacked into King Gill’s, and horror and disbelief and shame began to eat at him, and in a similar fashion he felt all his teeth ache with nausea.
Sorry! He flashed, hurriedly, eyes so wide that even the Three Moons would be small in comparison.
Fear, oh—shame! He wasn’t—he didn’t know—he never saw his father or mother—just glimpses—it was always servants or brothers or strangers or the occasional royal guard—he didn’t—he had forgotten the color of his own Dad—father—the king—he hadn’t known, he hadn’t recognized King Gill!
Turtle wanted the ocean to swallow him whole. He wanted to become an unsuspecting marine creature that knew nothing about anything!
His eyes burned, and he felt so pathetic, felt so—
It’s okay, soothed King Gill. He was watching closely. He had known where Turtle was hiding. And Turtle was a good hider—he found the best spots when he played with his brothers—but King Gill had found and grabbed him so easily, talons outstretched, face so calm. Turtle, said the king, T-U-R-T-L-E. And the name curled, twisted over his father’s snout and ears and slightly down his neck—he was saying the name with care, showing great respects which wasn’t meant to come from an adult to a dragonet—but King Gill was trying to show Turtle that he knew, he recognized, he saw. I named you. It’s you. It’s okay, Turtle.
But Turtle was two.
Sorry, Turtle flashed again, matching it—spelling it with importance, the flashes for respect, duty—anything—and he wanted to throw up, even though there was nothing in his belly. K-I-N-G. S-O-R-R-Y. Sorry, so sorry.
Turtle was alone. Turtle was an animus. Turtle was a traitor to his tribe and his family and his home. Turtle was a dragonet who had magic. Turtle was an attention-hungry dragonet who often got pushed into walls by his siblings because they were bolder and took up more space and Turtle had fallen into measly gaps in the walls and bubble gardens.
Turtle didn’t recognize his own Dad. Turtle didn’t recognize Queen Coral, but he knew vaguely what she looked like—a deep and magnificent blue, with spirals, wearing cords and cords of pearls, a striking crown, and ink-stained claws—she was an author, Turtle was just a reader—Queen Coral didn’t know any of the sons—maybe no queen knew her sons—Turtle didn’t know her, he just knew of her, and his brothers called her Mom and he thought of her as mother but never with the kind of affection he was supposed to and it got jumbled—he read scrolls and tablets about it—didn’t mention it—he didn’t recognize himself when he looked at his reflection. Fear was boiling in his belly. Octopus tried to sleep in his bed with him sometimes, tails curling, wings draping. Sometimes Ink would follow, and Fin, and Annelid, and Reef, and Remora, and Kelp, and eveyone—Squid got tired, Jetstream wasn’t in th Deep Palace anymore—all the SeaWing Princes knew each other in passing or knew each other very well. Put them all in a room together, and they would all be able to say who was who. Deep green, deep blue, pale, almost purple—a medium green, a teal-turquoise, a perfect blue—spirals on all their wings, some with jewelry, some with green eyes and some with blue and Annelid had eyes that were indigo and Typhoon had a shimmery coat of scales that he took care of meticulously with Bay, and they were like their own school of fish—older than Turtle, both were normal SeaWings—webbed talons and normal minds—they didn’t feel like Turtle, they weren’t and uses—they all failed the Talons of Power test—they were training to join the SeaWing forces guarding the Summer Palace. They knew neither Mom or Dad would stop them. They knew, they knew, they knew. Turtle tried to sleep and his brothers would tease him for sleeping so much, for swimming slowly, for eating too many crab legs, for not speaking Aquatic nicely enough. But Turtle didn’t get it. He was so nervous. His brothers weren’t. His brothers called King Gill Dad and Queen Coral Mom. They didn’t say it with joy—but they weren’t afraid, they weren’t outcasted, they must not feel like Turtle did.
King Gill tilted his head, Son.
King, said Turtle, meek and small and two years old and with tiny talons and a big heart that he should eat—take—swim away with—he was a coward and he was afraid.
King Gill shook his head, repeating, Son.
Turtle was still, like driftwood, like dirt, like a dead tree on the beach. He wanted to break himself open and scoop out his flesh—offer it, coconut skin, the milk of labor, the ability to be more than nothing. He wanted to open his mouth and bite down on his own arms. He was silly. He was young. He was nothing. His eyes were stinging. He came out here to hide, to be alone—why was his Dad out here? Why would anyone come out here? It wasn’t far, but it was supposed to be far enough.
When Turtle didn’t reply, King Gill didn’t even get mad. He didn’t seem mad.
Turtle’s heart was beating too fast to hear the sound of the waves crashing above, the stretch of time where nothing mattered.
I’ll take you back home, said King Gill, flashing gently and deliberately. He patted Turtle’s shoulders, then traced down the dragonet’s front arms, and squeezed his talons. He swam closer, tail righting—then draped one wing over Turtle’s small body, pushing him close against the dragon’s ribs and side—curling and curling until the wing-skin was practically a blanket of kelp. I think you can keep up, said the king, but tell me if you can’t, I’ll swim steadily. I’ll carry you back.
Turtle shivered a little, stretching his talons, feeling utterly—
It’s okay. King Gill flashed, one more time. We can talk more when we’re home. The reef isn’t any place for a two year old.
And then he began leading Turtle away from the perfect utopia for any ocean creature: a rocky outcropping, covered in coral and reds, tucked away from prying eyes but apparently not far enough from a dragon’s talons. While the world was at war, Turtle was wasting his opportunities to change anything. He was going to turn into driftwood. He wanted to. He—
Sorry, Turtle flashed, barely, and the pale-blue glow didn’t travel far enough to matter.
—kept close to King Gill, and regretted ever hiding so close to the Deep Palace.