Welcome to Gaia! ::

“I am a draagonnn—fwoooosh!” Ataya — bundled thickly up in furs — threw a clump of snow at his sister before squealing and staggering off through the nearly knee deep (on him) white drifts.

Ice and snow blanketed the tips of all the surrounding mountain ranges, including their own. The lake nestled in the high ‘valley’ just below their house glimmered, frozen and flat as glass from bank to bank, and overhead, a sharp, ice-blue sky looked down on them like the eye of an aiskala dragon. Dead winter was upon them, the chillest portion of the season in full swing, but after several days prior of thick storms, the weather on this particular day was crisp and clear, giving plenty of room for Ataya and his sister to play.

He stomped through the drifts, much of it fluffy and fresh fallen, the rest crunching under his thick boots. Unfortunately for Ataya, grace or physical dexterity had never been his strong suit, even put in context with his age, and multiple restricting layers of furs did not add to his skill. He fell, squeaking and all but disappearing into the overhead white as the loosely packed top layer of snow swallowed him up.

“Akarraaaa!” He squirmed. “Hellllppp—it ate me!”

Ataya’s pulse thudded in his chest the instant the first fireball hit, his attention jerking around to stare at the approaching intruders. Massive, stretching feathers. So many strange colors and so pale. Nothing like Father or either of his uncles, and not even the sort of pale his mother was. The title ‘orderite’ came to mind; the kind of persons Father warned about. But he had never seen one alive and in person, and perhaps if he got a closer look—

Then, a second ball of conjured fire struck, sizzling and making steam in the frozen snow. His sister’s grip yanked him along, and by that point, Ataya was inclined to follow. He stumbled clumsily through the deep drifts, struggling to keep up with his sister and feeling his pulse pick up further: anxious, excited, afraid. When Mother caught up to them and the shrill, whistling pitch of their emergency alarm rippled through the air, he whined for the first time.

Where was Father?

Who were these strangers?

Why were they here?

Why did they want to hurt them?

What had they ever done wrong?

He kept his mouth shut, though, swallowing back his stream of questions as Mother dragged them through the house, ushering them back, back, back to the deepest portion, where Uncle Casseth had structured space buried into the mountain itself. When Mother shut the door on them, Ataya stared at the handle. His pulse felt like a wild bird, his curiosity rolling like the surf and concern just as untamed.

What if something happened to Mother and Father?

What would the intruders do to them?

What if Father didn’t even hear the warning?

What if he heard it too late and something happened to Mother?

Ataya reached for the door handle. “I wanna see.”



Some two hundred paces up the mountain, Detraeus heard the cutting trill of the wind warning, and his blood chilled in his veins. He descended the mountainside like a beast from the underworld, on back of the sturdiest of their hastars — with which he had been scouting the area — Avarice in hand before he reached the halfway mark.

Birds.

In his home.

He counted four — five — six, and shot as soon as he knew Avarice to be in range. A half-formed sphere of rippling, bright magic absorbed the first arrow, the second, and the third. It wavered on the fourth, broke on the fifth, and then Detraeus’ wings were spread, lifting him off the back of his hastar and driving him sidelong to narrowly avoid the spear of offensive, burning light lodged at him.

Ara, Ara, Ara—where was Ara? And the children? Had—? Then, he saw her emerge, a sharp, billowing gust forcing their assailants back from the door, and his heart relaxed a fraction. If she was coming out of the house, then surely the children were in it. And she looked well, for now.

He buckled himself into the task of slaughtering their intruders.

Detraeus cracked the body of his bow against the skull of one bird, drawing back, nocking, and sinking an arrow there seconds later at all but point blank range. He fought with another after, this one slashing in at close range with a blade, and he met them head on, tail whipping out over the snow to help him keep his balance as he drove forward and the sharp clash of steel on steel rang out. They went back and forth, driving tunnels through the white as they went, seemingly at a standoff.

Then, he saw the mage: looming over Araceli and glowing with a blistering, unnatural light, like a challenge sent from Seren herself. Detraeus abandoned his current opponent, swept over, and — taking advantage of the woman’s focus on his mate — drove his blade into and up her back, staining the snow, and seconds later burdening it with her body. Immediately after, he swept around, dropping to one knee beside Araceli.

“You’re hurt, she hurt you, what did she—?”

Something crashed. Detraeus smelled smoke, and when he jerked around, tail lashing to the side, the sight of fire licking up their front door frame greeted him. And, the door was wide open. He snarled, gut lurching at the thought of leaving Ara, but—

“The children,” he said, standing. “Did you shut them away?”



Ataya shook his head. He had to know.

He reached up, the door’s latch high, but reachable when he stood on tip-toes. Outside, the sound of commotion sounded — shouts and snarls, his parents’ voices, foreign voices, crashing — and they grew immediately louder when the door creaked open. His heartbeat thump-thump-thumped heavy in his chest, and he dropped low, sneaking in a half crawl along the edge of the wall leading down the hallway out past the wall of where his and Akara’s bedroom was and towards the main room where the sound of the action was.

He stilled, frozen shock still as his head rounded the corner just in time to see his father’s arrow skewer itself through a man’s back not a full five paces from him. The arrow tip protruded from the man’s chest on the side facing him like cancerous growth, painted red, and Ataya watched, attention riveted to the man’s face as his pace stuttered and his expression contorted. He fell with a thick thump, close enough to Ataya that the floorboards near him vibrated with the impact and he skittered back around the wall, startled. When he peaked back around, the man’s eyes seemed to lock loosely on him, his body still twitching, feathers rippling as though trying to breathe life back into the soon-to-be-corpse, and his breathing sounded to Ataya like the scritch of a quill on paper, low on ink and running out fast. As his focus honed in and then blurred back out, he gave a coarse, choking ‘laugh,’ and Ataya watched the man’s lips stretch several times before he managed to get a word out.

“You…”

Wherever that sentence was intended to go, however, would forever remain a mystery, and Ataya held himself rigidly still, terrified, and fascinated, as the man’s last breath petered out of him — messily, and wheezily, like the air from a wet balloon.

“—sent you?”

His father’s voice caused Ataya’s gaze to jerk up, off of the dead man and towards the door, where his father’s back was to him, his grip holding another orderite pinned to the wall.

“Who?” his father snarled, voice more vicious than Ata had ever heard it. Cold. Cruel. And so angry.

He hunkered back a fraction, but couldn’t quite make himself quit the scene.

“How did you find us?”

The pinned intruder made a garbled, choking sound, and Ataya watched blood drip — drip, drip, drip — down the wall towards a pool in the floor under the man as his legs twitched. Whatever he said, Ataya could not make out the words from his distance. But he knew his daddy was hurting him. Hurting him bad.

Surely, he thought, that must mean…the man deserved it…?

“TELL ME.”

At his father’s yank and shove, the orderite’s body cracked against the wall with startling volume, and Ataya scrambled back, his hand inadvertently landing in something warm, sticky, and wet. His head jerked around. On seeing the blood on his hand, Ataya’s lower lip began to tremble, his throat tensing up.

Daddy was angry.

He was going to be so angry if he found out.

Ataya crawled back further, half tripping and falling over himself in his haste but attempting to keep quiet as he edged around the corner of the wall. As soon as he made it out of sight, he stood, and made a break for the back room. Hiding his bloodied hand in his clothes, he gripped and fumbled with the door for a moment, struggling at first, but finally making it in. The instant it clicked shut behind him, he began bawling outright.

His words, though mostly unintelligible, came out in a linked, repetitive string, broken only by hiccups and sobs, “I was bad—I was bad, bad, bad, bad—Daddy—Daddy’s angry—he killed them—he’s angry—I was bad—”

“Nnnnhh—” At Akara’s question, Ataya continued to burble, but his words were largely a repeat as he tucked against her, and when Mother came, he hid himself in her hold. Mother wouldn’t let Father be that angry with him, right…? When the door opened again, he still cringed.

Detraeus’ gaze moved over his family one by one — Araceli, Akara, Ataya — all present, all alive and breathing. He had removed the intruders that had made it into the house out into the snow, but they would need to burn the bodies, and clean up their leavings before allowing the children out. Before then, though…

“Are they well?” he asked. “No one got this far? And you…” His brow pinched, remembering Ara’s own injury. It hadn’t looked terribly severe, fortunately, and clearly she had made it back to the children, but they would need to tend to it, and if the situation merited it, perhaps send a missive to Taliuma for Lithian’s aid.

After stepping over to them, he crouched, only halfway managing not to cling to Ara himself as a reminder that she was there and well. He pressed a kiss to her shoulder, eyes squeezed shut, and then reached out, running a hand gently down Akara’s back.

When he reached for Ataya, the boy whimpered, shirking away and tucking closer to his mother. Immediately, Detraeus’ eyes snapped open, a cold, sinking feeling in his gut. “Ataya…”

“I didn’t—didn’t mean to…” Ataya said, words shaken and muffled against his mother’s shoulder before his voice degraded back into crying. “I didn’t…mean to…”

Detraeus watched Ataya with pinched brow, the sinking sense that something was far more wrong than usual refusing to ease up even as Ara lifted him and he tucked close. He nodded mutely, though his mind was hung up on the look Ataya had given him — the way he’d pulled away, the fear there. Never before had he seen either of his children afraid of him. Never did he want to, and it left a stubborn knot of nausea in his gut. Guilt. Uncertainty.

At Akara’s voice, his attention jerked down, and he winced at his inattention. “Come here, princess,” he murmured, shaking off his previous thoughts as best he could and crouching to lift Akara into his arms. “Let’s get you to bed…”

As he followed along beside Ara — watching her carefully as they went, all too aware of her own injury — he took solace in the weight and warmth of his daughter in his arms. She was safe, he reminded himself. She was not afraid — or, not of him, at least — and he tucked a kiss against her curly masses of hair, sending a wordless prayer to the nameless heavens that whatever had occurred, it could be mended, and whatever he had done, he could fix.

After tucking each of them into bed and pressing a kiss to Akara’s forehead as his mate nested in an uncharacteristically quiet Ataya, Detraeus began a slow loop around Akara’s bed, towards Ataya, and swallowed back the sting in his throat as his son tensed. Ataya shook his head, one hand still firmly tucked into his tunic shirt, the other clinging to his mother.

“I don’t…want to—I didn’t mean to—”

“Ataya,” Detraeus said, stepping around the bed the rest of the way and moving towards the mattress side despite Ata’s fussing, “…you didn’t mean to what?”

“Nnnnnh—” Ataya squeezed his eyes shut. “No. I didn’t—”

Detraeus reached out, forcing himself to relax even as Ataya whined when he touched his cheek. “Look at me…”

After an extensive, painful pause, Ataya’s wet lashes lifted, his gaze meeting his fathers. “You’re…mad at me—”

“No.”

“You were…mad…”

“I was very mad,” Detraeus admitted. “I was mad at the things that wanted to hurt you and your mother and your sister. Do you understand? I was not mad at you…”

“But…I was…bad and—you shouted and—you were…angry—nnnnh-no!”

When Detraeus reached to fish Ataya’s hand out of his tunic front, his son began sobbing all over again, but it quieted to nervous whimpers as Detraeus thumbed — gently as he dared to touch — over the boy’s knuckles. Stains. Comprehension filled Detraeus with cold certainty, and he released a slow breath. Only after Ataya’s squirming died down, though, did he shut his eyes and lift Ataya’s hand, touching it to his lips before standing himself.

“Wait a moment,” he said, and without another word, he moved off. When he returned, it was with a small pail filled at the bottom with water, and a rag. After kneeling back at the bedside, he began the careful process of rubbing and wiping off each finger individually. He spoke quietly as he worked. “Do you know something, Ataya?”

Ataya watched, still nervous, but attentive, his eyes rooted to his father’s hands as they worked to clean him. “Mmm…yes.”

“You, your mother, and your sister,” Detraeus said, “…you are everything to me. When anyone threatens you…I will do anything to keep you safe.”

Ataya shifted his weight. “You…killed them.”

Detraeus glanced up, gaze studying his son’s face. “Yes,” he said after a pause. “I did. And I would again. And again. And again. To anything that tries to hurt you.”

Ataya watched him for a long silence before dropping his eyes. “But…I was…bad…”

“No. No matter what you do, Ataya, I will always be here to protect you…and I will never, ever hurt you,” Detraeus said, voice quieting to a hoarse whisper at the end as his throat knotted up on him. “Do you understand…?”

Ataya hesitated, but nodded.

“…can I hold you…?”

Ataya nodded.

Detraeus breathed out, and leaned in, gathering his son into his arms and swallowing hard as he held. “You’re a good boy, Ataya…” he whispered. “A very good boy…”

“Baba…” Ataya murmured, and when Detraeus drew back, he watched as his son reached out and up for his cheek. “Don’t cry, Baba…”

Immediately, Detraeus coughed, cheeks heating under the touch of his son’s fingertips, and he grunted as he reached up himself and shook his head as he wiped his face. “I’m not. I won’t, m’just…tired. I’m tired. You should sleep. You and your sister should both…rest.” His brow furrowed a fraction and he leaned forward, pressing a fleeting kiss to Ataya’s forehead and then standing and looking to Akara also. “If you need anything, either of you…your mother and I are right next door.”

Thus, after helping his mate up, Detraeus left with Araceli, closing the door shut behind them and stilling, frowning as he glanced out at the mess yet left. Not wanting to exaggerate her hurt, he handled most of the immediate cleanup, leaving burnings for the following day, and helped Ara tend her wound in the aftermath. When they made it to bed, they did not have the space to themselves for long, both children crawling in before the night was up.

In the following weeks, Ataya remained noticeably skittish and experienced frequent, vivid nightmares — enough to put Detraeus on edge with worry and guilt that permanent damage had been done — but after the passing of several months, the phase seemed to pass all but entirely. Ataya began sleeping as soundly again, as much so as any child, and returned to his general habits with no notable changes other than a shift in the subject matter and specificity of a set cluster of his questions.

“What happens when something dies?”

“Where do we go when we do?”

“What makes us alive?”

“What leaves when we no longer are?”

“Can we ever put a life back?”

“If a body was working before, why does it stop?”

Detraeus thought little of them, and chocked them up to Ataya’s broad curiosity in general.