He, too, has killed recently. It is not his first, but has affected him far more deeply than ever before - there is a whole world of difference between destroying an undead bone-monster who had attacked him for no apparent reason, and putting down a lover in an act of grief-fuelled revenge at the death of a child.

Of course, the child had turned out to be alive and well, but that is besides the point. The leviathan can still feel Airlia's blood on his skin like a crude crimson baptism, despite the fact he'd bathed and scrubbed himself until he ached; he can still see her eyes as she died, can still feel the traitorous spasm of satisfaction at the knowledge that he had ended her, that he played God with a woman he could have loved. He takes no pleasure in the fact, despite his warlord's pride at such a comprehensively-won battle. She is dead, and he's left with memories, bruises, and a thankfully unharmed daughter to contend with.

The dragons offer little support; they care not a jot for their titan bonded's lingering guilt over the whole situation. They only know that they helped, and they both engage in a shameless game of one-upmanship. "I burnt her," says one. "Well, I clawed a hole in her skin," retorts the other. Volterra is caught between them, a pawn in their bragger's games, and it tires and agitates him. He is relieved when they both suddenly stand to attention and disappear through the meadow like bullets of red and gold. He seizes the opportunity to graze in peace, trying to force his mind to think of the good parts about killing Airlia instead of dwelling on the reasons why he had to.

His head jerks up, however, when the dragons send him an image. It is Isopia - his heart twists, constricts - and she has an egg. There is also a familiar-looking carcass nearby, but his main focus is for the egg. It does not surprise him that the Mountain should seek another companion - the only surprise to him is how his limbs suddenly itch to move towards her, how a smile slips unbidden onto his face at the thought of them both with two dragons, how his mind is suddenly flooded with memories of three previous hatchings attended by both of them.

That's when the smile fades, when the weak heart hardens and the limbs cease the steps they've taken without his permission; she no longer has those memories. She doesn't recall the day that they met, when Vérzés tangled intricate fingers into the tufty mane of the awestruck colt whilst the little raven sat on her branch and discussed names. She doesn't remember a newborn bronze watching on as an awkward young stallion explained the intricacies of a man's desires, and she will never know of the day when a gold smashed her way free from her egg whilst surrounded by silver, bronze and lowly red. Those memories are his and his alone now, and that is why he has tried to make himself hate her. That is why he has vowed never to seek her out again, to try and drive her from his mind as she had done to him. That is why he can't let himself love her anymore, because she doesn't know who the fuck he is.

But that doesn't explain why his legs are still trying everything in their power to take him towards her.

"You got to come," whines Vérzés, sending him the most pouty of dragon-pouts in the history of dragon-pouts. "Tradition." The leviathan tries to steel his resolve, but it wavers and breaks like the eggs of so many dragons. He has to be there. Just for today, he has to forget - ironically - what has happened, and be there for her.

Because if by some miracle she ever gets her memories back, she'll never forgive him if he's not.

He breaks into a canter, colossal hooves bringing him swiftly towards her. The corpse nearby attracts a momentary glance, searching for why it's familiar, but he swiftly looks towards the egg and the giant mare. Vadir has already settled herself down a short distance away from the egg, sniffing curiously at it whilst also side-eying Isopia with thinly-veiled contempt. Vérzés has scooted right up to Hubris, chirping a greeting and trying to convey to the bronze that Volterra isn't here to argue or to fight. They're here for him, his bonded, and the new addition to their family.

Volterra looks over to Isopia, his throat constricting and words suddenly escaping him. She will no doubt wonder why he's here, when his last words to her had been a rather self-explanatory go to hell. "It will need meat," is all he can say, his voice guarded and thrumming with an emotion that he cannot specify.