He breaks away from her as she moves into the battle, knowing she would scold him and Nymeria should they get under her feet as she lurches into the fight. This is her war - her children are not yet old enough to help, despite their training, despite the fact they are mother's little soldiers. He cannot interfere, as much as he might want to. Her opponent is a full-grown stallion, armed with horn and attitude and exuding an aura of death. But Volterra is not intimidated, does not quiver at the sight of the horned man.

He does not fear.

Why would he, when he comes from the womb of fear itself?

He slips to the side of the Rotunda, close enough to watch the fighters atop it. Slippery stone, ready for blood. The dragonling lurks closely as his mother shifts forwards, her Mongrel at her side, and observes with morbid intrigue as she seems to shape-shift into the pale, red-tipped mare they had met at the Arch. Minus the silver dragon, and with the addition of rotting flesh. It is repulsive, terrifying, and the young behemoth almost shudders at the idea that his dam's companion can so easily twist the minds of others. "Anya fog összetörni neki, sister," he murmurs towards the area that he expects Nymeria to be occupying. He uses the tongue Mother is teaching them, using sharp foreign words she gave them so they can communicate secretly even when surrounded by others. So they can plot in plain sight.

Volterra watches every blow be exchanged, winces each time a hit lands upon the hide of his mother. She gives as good as she gets, though, and pride radiates through the young titan at the sight of her. Even from here he can feel the pull of her opponent's magic, all death and misery that calls to him like a lover, and his ears subconsciously bat backwards at the queer sensation. He wonders how it feels for Confutatis to be so close to such an overwhelming emotion - but, after all, she is death incarnate, and Volterra is sure she can handle it.

The battle nears its end, but the result is not the one he expected. In symphony to his sister's cry, a "no!" bubbles from his throat, ears flattening further and a hateful whinny leaving the cavern between his jaws. Mother has fallen. Broken by the horned man, dominated by him - the sight of her in the throes of her loss is a memory that will remain seared behind the colossal colt's eyelids for a long time. His first concern is his sister, though, and he aims to press his huge side against her own, comforting her even as her black dragon does the same. "It'll be alright," he croons, his voice a hushed whisper he uses only with his sister. Whilst she crumples in sorrow, he inflates with anger; livid red gaze turns to the victor, tail and neck arching in unison as he hungers for the day he will be able to march into battle and gain revenge for his mother's fall. If only his adult size could bless him now! If only manhood could descend between his thighs to force testosterone through his body, if only he was of the age to storm atop the Rotunda and steal away the life of the death-man as easily as if he were a gnat!

But no. He is too young, too inexperienced. He cannot gain his revenge today. He looks to Nymeria through narrowed lids, every line in his face taut with hatred. "Should we go to her?" he asks his sister. Will Mother want comfort, or to be left alone in her darkest hour?

I don't understand. "Neither do I," confesses the colt, his face still twisted into an expression of abject misery. His gazes fixes again upon the victorious stallion, each muscle in his frame tensing and frozen anger lurching drunkenly through his mind. You'll pay for this. He looks to Nymeria, expecting her to suggest they go to Confutatis and help her, but she doesn't. One, sharp word warns him off approaching their dam, and after a few seconds of confusion he remembers why his sister is probably right. Their mother, loved though she is, will most likely be looking for a vessel to take out her anger on. Her children moving into her breast for comfort would probably not be well-received. Kicks and bites and venom would rain down upon them, never enough to kill or seriously injure, of course, just enough to ensure the rebuke aches for a good few days afterwards and ensure the twins know their place.

Nymeria is probably right. Volterra fears not his own pain, but hers. He hates seeing her hurt by anybody, even their own mother.

"Come then - let us leave," he whispers to her. It is probably best for them to be out of sight when Confutatis descends from the Rotunda, lest she find problem with them standing there gawking. Volterra aims to use his side to guide his sister away from the battleground, away from the stench of death and loss and hate, hoping to lead her away to safety where they can mourn in peace well away from the prospect of the World Eater's wrath.