She knows.

His heart clenches. She remembers. For some reason, he hadn't considered this as a possibility. He'd assumed that once the memories were gone, they were gone, irretrievable, however he'd underestimated the vessel of her dragon. It makes sense now he thinks about it, as after all it had been Hubris who told Vérzés what happened, implying that he remembered even if his bonded didn't. But the knowledge that she remembers shakes the giant to his core, and it shows on his face in the form of his eyes widening and his lower jaw sagging slightly to express his surprise at the revelation.

The Indomitable tries to steel himself - tries to remember that he's still angry, that it doesn't matter if she remembers him because she forgot him in the first place. It's hard, though, when that endlessly optimistic part of him thinks that things will go straight back to how they were, that her feelings will come flooding back with her memories. After all, to Volterra, his love for her comes as a direct result of the memories they share, so in his somewhat simplistic mind, he assumes that her remembering them will bring back her love, too.

Volterra listens as she speaks, but his eyes are focused on the dragon egg on the ground. This isn't simply because the hatchings always intrigue him and he's keen to see what colour will meld with Isopia's mind, but because it's hard for him to concentrate on thinking about a reply when he looks at her, when he drinks in every ounce of her beauty and her raw, earth-forged power. He can't know that her own eyes are fighting the same battle. It was the opposite. You meant too much, and I knew you wouldn't change... Again his traitorous heart speeds up its beating and the leviathan glances up from the egg to look at the Mountain; the words are more than he could ever have expected, more than he deserves after what he'd said.

She continues. I suppose I thought that if I meant so much to you, loving only me would be enough. He's reminded starkly of Roskuld (pre-fermented-apples Roskuld) saying essentially the same thing to him, and his massive limbs shift guiltily as he considers the words. Although he disagrees, a newfound maturity born of age and experience has made him almost understand why she felt the way she did. "Kis hollo," he begins, because he feels like he can call her that again now. "I do love only you. You might not be the only one who has my body, but you are the only one who has my heart." The truth is open, honest, raw, like a wound exposed to the open air. Saying it, admitting it, feels like a confession of weakness, but the titan can't help considering the fact that maybe admitting such a thing actually makes him stronger than he'd ever thought he was.

Then, she speaks of their son. He visibly balks, stepping backwards and snorting slightly as the words assault his ears like fingernails on a blackboard. He'd shied away from finding out the truth from Isopia's sire, because his diehard stance on the murder of children means that he would have to choose between becoming a hypocrite or trying to uphold his vigilante justice against the woman he loves. Volterra operates on an eye for an eye, yet how can he possibly apply that to Isopia? Airlia had killed his child (so he thought), so he had killed her. Isopia has essentially done the same, and he's aware that he should apply the same rules to her.

But he can't. He'd begun to fall for Airlia, he can't deny that, but it was nothing like he feels for the Mountain. Comparing the two is like comparing a leisurely mountain stream to a cascading, crashing waterfall; similar, but one is ultimately vastly superior, vastly more intense, and vastly more catastrophic.

He tries to reason with himself by thinking that his daughter had been very much alive, a living, breathing child who he could train and interact with, whereas the son he'd conceived with Isopia had been nothing more than a fetus. But, points out the little voice in his head that oddly always seems to sound like Vadir, he was developed enough to bury. He was developed enough to have a gender. He was still a child, even if he'll never feel the wind on his skin. He shakes the voice away.

Thankfully, he is saved from having to come up with an answer by the egg on the ground, as it begins to crack and crinkle. He can't help but be drawn to it, and Vadir and Vérzés too; three sets of bonded eyes dart between the egg and its soon-to-be mind-partner, the intrigue evident in each pair of crimson irises.