FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

Chapter 3

No matter how many bricks he put together, no matter how many walls smashed, how much debris cleared and how much rubble transported he simply couldn't forget about the mark. Eyes kept returning to the spot on the backside of his left foreleg.

He tried to force his mind to think about something else, however not even worry for Cynder or the confusing resurrection of Flare could make him forget about the dark brand.

Work didn't seem to do that either.

After the horrific period he was one of the first who dedicated himself to repairs, naturally some other people followed in his example, there was however no passion in it, while they tried to rebuild the City Hall to the best of their abilities there was no consultation of plans or even simple chit chat. Everyone was focused on their tasks so much that if they wouldn't bump against each other accidently during work people would never realize they had co workers.

It seems like he wasn't the only one trying to forget.

He was however the only one who carried the burden of Corruption and the image of murdering your friend on his shoulders.

Physical labor combined with mental pressure was exhausting, clearly taking toll on his effectiveness and while the work did not have any counsel based on basic partnership that didn't meant that the renovation had no coordination. Some of the moles took the mantle of leadership, falling into the pit of their geeky nature and controlled the repairs.

Someone had to.

And moles were known for their quality, they immediately knew who was slacking, who wasn't putting his best into the work, work that the moles by nature consider a phase of wonder development.

Purple or not coordinators noticed that he was the one bringing the team down and sent him away to take some rest, of course maintaining the manners the moles found necessary to follow when dealing with dragons, especially those of legendary purple scales.

This wasn't the first time he was sent away.

Spyro complied to the request, the physical work while served as a distraction simply couldn't maintain his attention for long enough to prevent his mind from reliving the past events.

He once more scratched his eyelids, losing count just how many times he did that already during work, eyes were burning already though, irritated beyond their level of tolerance. No matter how irritated they might have been though they kept shifting back to that damn splotch.

No matter how much grease and dirt got stuck to his scales it always was not enough to cover that cursed splotch, even through black smears he could spot the dark scale, it kept propping itself up to make sure he won't miss it, standing out like a finger poking bed sheets from underneath.

If he wouldn't go through horrors already, especially in his younger years that allowed him to harden his psyche, he would go mad already, the pressure of guilt and nagging sense of defeat was eating at him like a parasite.

Days have passed after the Corruption was cleansed from the temple and he still didn't get a night of proper sleep.

He hoped that it will all change when Cynder wakes up, he was rather certain of it, nothing makes him more relaxed than seeing his mate in good shape.

Right now however he had to occupy himself with something else, just like many times before he looked around, examining the progress they had made. Exactly as before however he wasn't really interested in the results that much, all he knew was that their were patching up the holes and that was enough of a progress from him.

They made sure down here that no one else would fall through the ceiling, it was after all one of the most dangerous hazards, he was the first one to volunteer to the lower levels where the bulk of the debris was.

Down here, at least at the beginning, the work was the most taxing with all the rubble laying around.

Down here.

His conscience knew just well that he didn't come here to play hero, he came to the lower levels because this is the place where the study was.

And the study, one of Volteer's heavens, was the place where Flare went right after the healers took away Iris and he cleaned the blood her brutally abused body left behind.

He did not see the red dragon leaving the room ever since and he was passing through this place very often.

Building up the courage to actually enter.

After what he did to Flare he couldn't build up the courage to look into his eyes, at first suspecting that this is all a dream, another of the Corruption's dirty tricks.

But Flare really lived.

While he wanted to get in just to find out how is this even possible, his mind however was more troubled by shame and guilt to let curiosity take the reins.

So much for being a good friend and leader, each time he passed this damned door he became more and more certain just how lousy he is. Terrador tried explaining to him the three basic rules of leadership, especially the third one fit here quite accurately, the one about friends holding grudges.

He was quite sure however that Terrador never expected a grudge to be held by a reincarnated team member that got slaughtered by the paw of his leader.

How in Ancestors name can he deal with something like that?

It was not only about Flare. While losing his trust would be tragic, losing trust in yourself is far much worse.

All his doubts about him being a false hero start to really make sense, a hero would never kill a friend. To make things worse he didn't even hesitate.

He made another round near the door, he was no longer sure if Flare's judgment is what he is afraid of, he was beginning to lean towards the option that Flare being a live example of his depravity was far more traumatic.

And something he didn't want to face.

With a shake of the head he stormed forward, ignoring the door and making his way to his personal room. He barely recorded the beaten path, one could say that consciousness returned the moment the door of his quarters slammed shut behind him.

He inhaled deeply.

Smell of olives filled his nostrils.

To reward him for his sacrifice some people decided to move a bathtub into his room to allow him privacy after his working days, expecting that he will be tired of people, after all never ending praise can be as tiring as the hardest mining job.

People however were unaware of two things.

Firstly, he wasn't the one that beat the darkness back and all they do is just following habit.

Secondly, the only thing that tired him was locked inside his ribcage.

He planned to stay dirty, but the moment he gazed at the filled bathtub with steaming water he was struck by the demanding desire of relief.

Water managed to purge part of his guilt when he was young.

Water managed to purge part of the guilt when he murdered the people near Boven.

Water has to work now as well.

Without any further hesitation he marched towards the tub, he stepped inside carefully, depressed as he might be, it didn't prevent him from remembering that people deserve respect, especially those doing favors for you, hence the care that prevented him from spilling water on the floor.

The liquid embraced him like a blanket when he finally got comfortable and despite the troubles infecting his mind a breath of relief stretched out his throat, for this brief moment everything was fine.

He allowed himself another deep breath.

Eyes widened when a flowery scent was caught by his nostrils, he immediately realized what flower was emitting this wonderful fragrance.

Violet.

The magical flower.

His gaze traversed across the room, towards the opposite side where the bed was and landed on the cabinet there, on top of which was the culprit behind the smell. Its petals danced slightly to the rhythm of the breeze being let inside by the ajar window. The flower danced under the sunlight, bouncing up and down delicately, playing a game of reflection with the sun's rays that flashed across the petals.

Each gentle sway making the flower tweak in different direction, sometimes more towards the light and sometimes more towards the shadows, the game of light and darkness seemed to change the color of the flower.

The violet hue became bluish under the light, occasionally adopting the color of the ocean, making him even smell slightly the breeze of a salty water. The petals were thrown into the opposite direction soon after, shifting from blue to violet to eventually turn red as they moved towards the shadow.

Not red as blood though.

Red as draconic scales. Familiar scales.

Magenta scales.

The scent of Cynder's body suddenly invaded his nostrils.

Heart skipped a beat and he immediately propped himself in the tub, desperately looking around the room.

"Cynder?" Spyro whispered hopefully, eyes scanning intensely for the one responsible for this sweet scent

"I'm your walking notebook, when you're going to doubt yourself again, I'll be here to smack you across the head"

Her voice echoed inside his head and he immediately realized that Cynder wasn't here in flesh.

He grinned.

"Promise?"

Cynder giggled.

"Promise"

Cynder always stays true to her words.

Smile crept onto the purple mouth, paw shooting up to give a slap to the back of the head. This is what he gets for letting doubt in.

There my love, promise is a promise.

The memory of his mate, the way she explained the purpose of the flower made him look at the violet, he doubted and riddled himself with guilt, but it was exactly as the child and his mate said, the flower was there, because it recognized good in people and even despite the evil deeds he committed the flower was completely intact

And just like that the fears and hesitations eating away at him were gone, whether blind belief in superposition awakened in him, or it simply was a nudge of respect to the wishes of his mate remained a mystery. The magical flower served its promised, blessed purpose and lifted the burden of guilt from him.

If he would be evil the flower would wither.

It was naïve and childish to put faith into such credulous notion, but he had seen in his life that couldn't be imagined even by the most creative of artists, a flower blessed by a child can be as valuable as any spirit gem out there.

A rather frail straw to hold on to, but a straw nonetheless and when it came to mementos it did not matter what exactly they were and from what materials they were created, it might be even be crude rock. The value comes from determination, the value of a memento is determined by the belief in it.

There people believing in the powers of the flower cannot be wrong about its potential.

And by the Ancestors he needed a reminder like that, water can only do so much.

Spyro sighed loudly, sliding lower along the tub rational or not it did not matter, it was far better to feel relief and warmth from a flower than rot and depravation from a splotch on his leg.

The flower was intact and this is all that mattered.

He closed his eyes, deciding to take a short nap to sort his thoughts, he's going to need his brain capacity for the meeting to come.

It felt wonderful to not see anything, for a few seconds nothing mattered, everything becoming an unimportant echo, invisible.

Spyro did not see the dirt on his body no longer.

He did not see the memories of his recent killing spree.

He did not see the motivating violet on the desk.

He did not see that one of its younger petals fell down after he entered, dropping behind the flowerpot, withered black.

A dark splotch on something that supposed to be genuine and pure.

Just like the backside of a left, purple foreleg.

*

Volteer always repeated that books are valuable and one must always take their well-being in consideration as to not destroy them. If possible then even avoid unnecessary danger, draconic claws are enough of a threat to the sensitive pages as it is.

Volteer would be really mad if he saw him right now, it was doubtful that the Guardian, considering his passion, would see that it was for the greater good.

Lit braziers were illuminating the study, yet the room wasn't relying on the magical lights only, its pathways supported by the many candlesticks in all shapes and forms placed around the room on even more elaborate stands. Their combined light providing the perfect illumination for anyone who wished to examine one of the many rows to be found among the many colorful bookshelves.

Right now though several of those pathways were darkened as if they would be an invisible tunnel, the candlesticks gone from their stands near the shelves. The room resembled the Realms from bird view, where one side of if embraced the sun while the other was locked in battle between the day and night brothers with the moon triumphing, slowly covering the landscape under its sleep shawl.

Among this moody obscurity there was a single spot in the study where the light was overwhelming, blazing like the opened mouth of a heated furnace. A desk with piles of books stretching high as watchtowers, candlestick upon candlestick scattered on its surface, emitting light so strong that the wood nearly became charred. Among the piles three books were lying open, below them several sheets of paper few still empty while others filled with random, badly written letters.

The number of used writing feathers and inkwells covered the rest of the desk, simply too many to count, just like an entire storage of them would be brought on the desk.

The light around the sheets of paper was almost blinding, not only empowered by the combined light shed by many candlesticks, but also intensified by the illuminating being emitted by two fiery wings and the burning feathers attached to the red elbows. Elbows that constantly moved, supporting the writing palm while the other hand kept petting a ruined, old medallion lying nearby.

The faded light of the small sapphire unable to let out its own shine under the assault of the fiery illumination. A small, gold, ruined stump protruded from the bottom of the medallion, indicating that once it had a chain attached to it, now it was only the head that remained, parts of the removed chain laid next to the old jewelry.

Once it was a beautiful necklace.

Now, it turned into a wish of becoming one again for the dragon working on it.

"Jewelry" Flare coughed out suddenly as he pushed back from the paper, paw with the writing feather hanging in the air. Droplets of wet ink dripped from the tip, landing on the hand holding the feather.

It was of no interest to Flare, one more splotch didn't make a difference, his writing paw was already black from all the ink splattering on the scales from all the previous attempts.

Many of which failed.

His agitated eyes scanned the paper, his dirty paw left black smears upon the page, covering most of the writing there. It was scribbles mostly anyway, the things that were untouched by the random splotch of ink weren't that much better though, he could barely read what was written there, with troubles recognizing even the simplest of letters.

And all of it was his handwriting.

To think that Volteer said he might write a book one day, he would probably laugh if not for the pressure of success clenching his skull.

This one was once of his practice papers, he could not read through the books smoothly, there were so many words there he didn't understand, combinations of letter that were simply mind blowing. Every such word he didn't recognize he ripped apart into single letters, scratching each on the practice sheets until he repeated every single them out loud just to finally put a word from them together.

Jewelry was his latest discovery.

Was he finally moving in the right direction?

He has to, Iris will already beat him up for knocking her out, she will tear him apart if he won't put the medallion back together. His personal punishment was absolutely unimportant to him though, failing her would hurt much, much worse.

And it was supposed to be easy, he melded so many materials with his fire before that when the chain of the necklace he tried to repair started to melt he took it for stressful hallucination. The moment the main, round part of the medallion fell off he realized that he was actually destroying the necklace instead of repairing it.

Never before his fiery touch ruined anything.

Or he simply didn't care back then about the objects he was putting together to see it.

There have to be clues somewhere in one of those books that could tell him what he needs exactly to fix the forsaken necklace. Trial and error was too risky now, he tried it already and the only thing he achieved was making the chain smaller and smaller with each failed attempt.

There would be no way Iris would ever put it around her neck again, simply finding a new one would feel like cheating.

It has to be the old, tarnished chain, Iris deserves it, besides if he would attach a new chain to the medallion then he might as well go and spit into Iris' snout. Not only he would hurt her, but also provoke an attack mostly likely and this time she wouldn't hold back and would simply kill him.

This is why the search began, a mission to locate a book that would say anything about gold and, if possible, even necklaces made of out it. Especially what kind of temperature they survive so they can be formed without breaking apart.

Finding one with the word jewelry was a breakthrough.

He discarded the feather, diving into the book, the small, complicated letters were giving him a headache, the fiery mane darkened at the sight of them.

How can people write so much using such small letters? And about what? If this book is about jewelry than how it is possible that this tome is the size of an adult dragon paw.

If it would be about assassins, adventure, friends, a true story, now that he would understand easily.

As discouraging as it was he was dedicated to his mission, preparing a surprise for a friend was unimaginably exciting, far stronger than any annoying discomfort of his own limitations.

Determination or not life in a cell taught him how to save energy, taught him to always look for a shortcut that could make his situation easier, saved reserves of energy were the edge needed in fights and tortures.

He bent the corner of the book with the found word and immediately began flipping through it, unfortunately the book looked professional, written by some big head, it was entirely filled with text. Flare leaned back, sending out a prolonged whine into the ceiling, his burning body flickering.

He really enjoyed writing, learning to read and practicing letters, even more so when the lessons are motivated by the will to assist a friend. Yet even that mission did not stop the brief tugs of irritation that made him want to burn all this paper with those annoying small words.

He stretched out the toes on the forepaws, started clenching and unclenching both fists, preparing the toes for another session of copying unknown, big, hard words.

Sound of knocking suddenly thudded in the room.

The entire fiery body burst with fresh light, clearly showing the bolt of shock shooting through his body at the unexpected sound.

Who would knock? It's not like this study belonged to him, anyone can come in as they please. He stretched his neck as far as it could go, gazing down the hall and upon the door through the towers of books surrounding him. Fiery wings opened up, stretching wide like some sensory mechanism scanning for noise.

There was silence, seems like he had to imagine it, he had to, people never really cared if they bothered him or not, always entering when they pleased, this is the price he got for being someone's possession.

The first culture of knocking he noticed in Warfang really, people kept banging on doors and then just freezing, either waiting for something or praying. The doors they knocked on opened later on, yet their hand never rose up again to thud at the wood.

Several more knocks suddenly echoed in the room.

He did not imagine it, there was really someone at the door. Why is he not entering?

Black slits were aimed at the frame of the door, watching it in total silence, a claw scratching the burning mane in confusion.

Knock once again.

A single one this time, a short one, sharp, the sound not truly complete as if ended abruptly for some reason.

Then the door finally began to creak open, slowly and quietly, in hesitation.

Was someone trying to sneak in?

After some seconds of nothingness a head started to fill up the space, a purple head.

"Spyro?"

The purple drake yelped at the sound of his question, balking as if he would swallow a stick.

"What are you doing? You looking for someone?"

"I...I didn't want to disturb you" the purple drake mumbled, unaware that the spoken words reached only his ear holes

Flare stretched out past some of the towers.

"What? I can't hear you!"

"We need to talk" Spyro answered bluntly, this time the fire drake had no troubles hearing the words, the straightforward tone made sure of that

"You have a minute?"

"Nope" Flare shook his head, pushing one of the forelegs forward, presenting to the purple dragon his empty, red palm "Not holding anything right now"

Spyro licked his lips, struck dumb by the response, he kept staring at the red paw as if it was a small version of the Pool of Vision preparing to show him images of the future. Only after some seconds the gears in his head managed to break through the blockade of irrationality and process what was happening here.

He forgot with who he was speaking to, ambiguous questions aren't Flare's specialty.

"Can we talk Flare or you're too busy?" he swallowed anxiously, it was a stupid question considering all the books on the desk

"I kinda am" the eyes of the flaming dragon traveled across the books and papers, he even picked up one of the filled up sheets, only to notice that his toes had difficulties clenching, stiff with exertion "I could use a break though"

"What are you doing anyway? This is quite a collection" Spyro approached the desk, truly curious about the drake's motivation that made him so adamant in pursuing knowledge, determination he had never seen before

Flare's aura dimmed, barely flickering, he leaned back into his sitting position, trailing the chain of the necklace gently with his claw.

"Failing for now"

Spyro's eyebrow rose in surprise when he noticed the object Flare was caressing.

"Is this Iris' amulet?"

"Yeah, it's broken and I'm trying to put it together but it doesn't work for now. There has to be something in those books here" he flicked up one of the papers in irritation "But I'm stupid, can barely read and write and I don't understand most of this stuff, it's so boring and tiring and annoying" the mane on the top of his head pulsed, it's glow emphasizing his irritation "But I will do it, I have to, I need to apologize for hitting Iris, I don't want her to be mad at me"

Spyro licked his lips, a bolt of frost shot through his spine, making one of his paws scratch at the chest as if it tried to reach the beating heart behind.

"Speaking of apology, this is why I am here"

"You want to apologize to Iris to? What are you gonna make?"

He wanted to say no at first, but then he remembered that Flare wasn't the only one who felt the callousness of his actions. He had beaten Iris so bad that he broke her bones and if Cynder wouldn't stop him he would massacre her on that very spot most likely.

If that would happen he doubted she would reincarnate as Flare. Iris deserved a beating after trying to kill Cynder and all the other weird stuff she did to him, he usually stirs from unnecessary vengeance but this payback she got put her lower in the priority list.

Which was unfair, truth be told she probably held the first place on the podium with Flare.

Iris is how she is, but he had defeated her, she did not deserve having her brain smashed into the floor brutally when she couldn't defend herself any longer.

This was murder.

His paw began scratching at the chest more fiercely, leaving small, bloody dashes on the gold scales.

"Yes...but...I want to apologize to you first"

Flare cocked his head, he wasn't sure what surprised him more, the unnecessary wish or the fact that a purple dragon is capable of saying sorry in the first place.

"To me? What for?"

"What for?" Spyro's eyes bulged out in shock "Are you kidding?"

"Not really"

"I killed you Flare!"

The drake looked himself over, for a second he thought that Spyro was really speaking the truth, as crazy as it might have been, yet the moment he poked his scale and it bent under his touch he knew that he was very much alive.

"No you didn't. I'm alive, see?" he poked the purple nose

Spyro snatched the paw into his grip, making Flare's eyes widen and body flare up. Spyro drilled into the dragon's eyes, stating plainly that it was no joke.

"I. Killed. You" he intoned each word slowly, putting all effort into his statement that would make Flare understand that he was being serious

And judging from the nervous flicks of his slits, Flare understood the message and realized that this was no the time for jokes.

"Then how come I'm alive then?"

"Exactly!" Spyro shook the held paw "How come are you still alive?"

Flare shrugged nonchalantly.

"I dunno"

He frowned scales on the draconic face wrinkling in anxious irritation, he could not believe his own eyes that Flare decides to toy with him now when such a serious matter is on the platter. He could understand that he is playing dumb, wanting to keep secrets, but he came all this way to this study to apologize to him! Flare can't simply pretend that nothing happened!

But then between this cyclone of anger there were some specks of logic breaking through, telling him that perhaps Flare was not pretending at all. The fire dragon wasn't the brightest of the sort, his reaction about the events might be as oblivious and honest as the reactions when it comes to metaphors for instance.

The approach he took was most likely a bad one. You can't expect Flare to give you straight answers to the mysteries of this world, you have to coax him in betraying its secrets, like you would do with a child.

Spyro let go of the leg.

"What do you remember after entering Warfang?"

"Some cheetah dude, then the Beast took over, it's always kinda messy when it happens"

"Beast took over? Darkness?"

"Then I found Iris" Flare continued, acting as if he didn't hear his question and judging from the way his eyes became dreamy all of a sudden, Spyro was inclined to believe that

Flare's own eyes became distant, the usual thin slits grew, rounding like orbs of a pleading child.

"She was so sweet, she laughed and smiled. She smiled so beautifully, I will never forget her eyes shining with that smile. A muse, the prettiest muse I ever saw"

Loud thuds echoed in the room, Spyro felt the vibrations on his scales.

Sound of a heart.

Flare's heart was pounding with the force of a mole's pickaxe against the mine minerals.

Spyro averted his gaze, coughing into his fist, feeling uncomfortable, he felt as if he was trespassing on a private territory, somewhere where he doesn't belong to. The way Flare speaks about Iris, how he treats her meeting as the most crucial event in his life despite the evilness in the city not so long ago, this and the way he stares off into the distance, it all reminded him of his own affection for Cynder.

He wasn't much different than Flare when it came to being stricken by feminine grace.

And he wouldn't want anyone to interfere and ruin this personal paradise of his.

"W-What else?" Spyro coughed, roughly voicing the words of impatience, he really wanted to be past this awkward moment already

Flare blinked, body letting out a pulse like freshly ignited fireplace. Claw began twirling the strands of the fiery mane around itself until it stopped and when that happened his body practically extinguished every single burning part on the scaly, red figure.

"Sewers, you and me hitting Iris" he looked down in shame

The purple drake licked his lips which was a bad idea due to the fact that his tongue dried out after the news.

Flare really does not recall his death.

"Listen, I know it might sound weird, but you gotta believe me" Spyro gulped "You died Flare, I know this for sure because I have...a Beast of my own. It took over and I killed you, I know I did, you must believe me"

"But I'm alive"

"I know!" he blurted out, tugging at his horns with a groan, murder can't be so simply pardoned, it has to have consequences it cannot be forgiven with a flick of a finger, it would make it unnatural and so very, very dangerous

But to understand what killing means you need to know what death is.

"This is not the first time we saw you burning Flare! Back then, after we got back with Cloudas, you appeared next to Iris just like you did in the sewers. What happened back then?"

"I told you already, I took care of Iris"

"Forget about Iris for a second and tell me what happened to you"

Flare groaned he hated recalling the past, what happened, happened, there is no point reliving it. Clean slate, clean slate was important, but he doubted that Spyro would leave him alone if he will stay quiet, for some reason he seems really interested in all of this.

If he would be just like any other purple dragon he would tell him to shove off, but he was Cynder's friend and the time they spent together showed him that he is also a friend to him. Answers is the least he can give him.

"I got beaten up by those creeps, there were plenty of them there and I wasn't doing very well. They all threw themselves at me, they bite kinda hard I must admit"

"You got overwhelmed and then what?"

"Got weak, went sleep and then joined my friend, like always. No big deal"

Spyro threw his head back.

"Like always? It happened more than two times?"

Flare nodded enthusiastically.

"Oh yeah, there were some really tough guys in the prison, some beat me up pretty bad, but I always got back to Diazen after falling asleep just to return later and beat the guys who defeated me previously" he scratched his cheek "For some reason they never did come back after I bled them though" he shrugged "Whatever, friends is all that matters"

His wide purple eyes remained locked at the drake, Flare was speaking so casually about all of this, unaware of the fact that he just revealed that he was immortal. If he understood this right, Flare got defeated in the arena and he was already familiar with Flare's world to know that it was all about survival of the fittest, each fight was to the death and he always got reincarnated to defeat his enemies who killed him.

And what role does Diazen play in all of this?

Was he the purple dragon that betrayed Flare and eventually made him land in the purging, volcanic area?

Diazen is known for betrayal.

And now for some reason Flare keeps reincarnating near Iris who shares the same values as Diazen. Not completely friendly and keen to stab you in the back if the opportunity presents itself.

But was it really this instability that made her so important to Flare?

Or was it his personal decision? There was no denying that Flare feels something for Iris, he was too familiar with the signs to misinterpret it.

But it is only this? But if love would be the trigger for a match than how come Diazen worked as one too? He's male.

Perhaps there is a totally different category by which Flare chooses his beacon, not even requiring consent in return?

Is it all connected with the Beast he keeps talking about?

So many questions.

So little answers.

Despite all this time they still knew so little about Flare, Flare who doesn't seem interested in his origins or past life really. Living the day he was given.

"What are you?" his mouth moved automatically, letting out a sigh, carrying the three most important words that were as trivial in their form as they were necessary to unravel the truth

The fire dragon grinned, puffing out his chest.

"I'm Flare!"

Of course you are.

Such a straightforward answer, seemingly unimportant, but in all honesty, was there any other explanation?

He is Flare.

There was nothing more needed.

"Anyway Spyro" Flare scratched the back of his head, feeling returned completely to his tired toes by now, he could continue with his work now if only he was left alone.

"Is this why you came here? To ask me strange questions? Something else you want to ask me?" he glanced towards the spread out papers meaningfully

Spyro understood the hint, Flare's focus was on something else right now, understandable, yet his conscience was still in pain, even though the fire drake didn't seem to show as he was holding any grudge against him, for his personal piece of mind he wanted to hear it.

"I want to apologize for everything I've done to you" Spyro rubbed his neck nervously, looking away cheeks blushing delicately "I never said sorry to the one I killed, so I don't really know how to behave"

Flare observed his purple companion curiously.

"You know, I don't think I will ever get used to hear purple dragons say sorry"

"I'm not sure..." fangs scratched over the purple lips "That means you accept my apology or not?"

Flare shrugged.

"You don't have to apologize, but since you want an answer, then yes, I accept"

Spyro sighed in relief, wiping the beads of sweat off of his forehead

"Little anticlimactic and not what I've expected, but it works I guess"

"Cool" Flare looked around the room and the piles of books, hissing, he grabbed the back of his fiery mane "Is that all? Ummm... I don't want to be rude or anything, but I'm quite busy here..."

"Oh!" Spyro rubbed the back of his head, at first wanting to scuttle away in an instant, but then feeling that it would be unfair and really, really selfish. He came here to satisfy his conscience, disturbing Flare for the sole reason that he couldn't bare the guilt.

Not to mention that Flare accepted his apology like nothing happened, he killed him and the fire drake treated it as if he would accidently spit on him.

He can't just simply leave, it's only fair to give something in return.

"What you are working on? Can I help?"

"I dunno" eyes of the fire dragon almost longingly gazed at the ruined medallion on the table

He followed his eyes and immediately recognized the necklace.

"That is Iris' medallion. You're putting it up together?"

"Trying to" Flare sighed sadly "I only make it worse for now, I want to find some tips in the books here, but..." he looked at the scribbles he made, perhaps Volteer would treat all this words he wrote like ambitious progress, but the sight of them and the knowledge that he himself can't read all his writing well was very depressing

"...it's going slow"

Books, spilled ink, filled with letters papers, Spyro didn't need more information to put it all together. Flare was trying to find some information about the materials from which the chain is made, or any other general ideas about jewelry. He couldn't read and write well though, Flare was, metaphorically speaking, translating the information in his own language.

His effort deserved all the praise, he really cares about Iris. Spyro smiled to himself at the thought, Flare threw himself at the seemingly impossible to help a girl, he did the same once, eons separate them and yet this little detail remained the same throughout the ages.

The only difference was that he went he went after Gaul had no real friends assisting him Flare doesn't have to go through the same struggle, he was quite certain that the drake had enough of it for a lifetime.

"Tell you what, I'll help you" Spyro smiled warmly "I also owe Iris an apology so that would be the perfect way of saying sorry without telling her that, we both know how friendly she can be. What do you think? I can help you find the information you need, teach you some words if you like in the meantime, it will speed up the process greatly"

Flare's eyes widened.

"You would do that?"

The purple drake chuckled.

"You should really stop being surprised, the purple dragons you knew are gone, I'm a different sort. Clean slate, remember?"

"I also met purple dragons that said they are a different sort"

"Okay, then tell me how many of them helped you with reading and writing?"

"None"

Spyro clapped his paws.

"See? So what do you say? Pen buddies?" he extended his paw towards the fire dragon

Flare once more got a good look around his workplace, each time he gazed upon the towers of books he felt as if the piles were getting higher and higher. Not to mention that each book was fat with pages, some of the titles he didn't even manage to properly read, managing only to get a basic understanding of a word there and if it sounded technical he put it with the rest, as a lecture for the future.

Future that with his skills might never come, or at the very least come very, very late. By that time Iris would heal and forget about him while he would sit here, scribbling paper after paper with nonsense.

He needed help.

Flare grinned, instead of giving a shake, he slammed his own palm into the purple paw, his personal high five.

"Pen buddies"

The purple drake grinned back in return.

"Spyro, I must tell you that I never expected to work with a purple dragon ever again after I broke out of the prison. Many of us there were saying that allying with a purple dragon meant the end of the world for all of us, they were that bad"

"This isn't the end of the world Flare, it works quite differently, believe me I know"

"Whatever it is, it feels nice to have a new friend, kinda crazy though since we already tried to kill each other several times"

Spyro laughed.

"Yeah, but nobody said we have to nuzzle for it to work"

"I've never been in a group like this. I mean, me, you, Iris, we all are...bad in a way. You know, the way we approached each other in the past, how we do it now, how easily it can get weird"

Spyro shrugged with a giggle.

"Our relationship is complicated, but that doesn't mean we can't stick together, we just won't name our group Saints"

Flare's eyes burned with excitement.

"Name? Then how we are going to name our group?"

Spyro wanted to discard this question at first, letting out laughter to take the lead to shape it all in a joke, but then he froze suddenly.

Group.

Did they just accidently form a team?

Terrador sent him out to get some rough scars of leadership, it worked in a way, but there was no true bond between all of them, they were a ragged group of individuals, the cooperation a result of survival.

But it worked.

And it all led to this, where he bonds with a dragon who treated him like an enemy, who knows, the Beast Flare talks about might still consider him as such, it named him Aspect when they fought. But somehow, despite the imperfections, it felt right.

His mind traveled far, before him appeared the sight of a chessboard where he plays the game with his unknown opponent. The king remained in place this time, the next move however surprised his enemy just as much as the previous one.

In front of the king jumped a figure, it was nothing like the original, popular ones.

This was a dragon.

It was red.

This was Flare.

It had burned several of the opponent's pawns.

A burning dragon nobody ever saw before, with eyes unlike any other drake, immortal and naïve beyond any reasonable means. With corrupting power that can incinerate foes and friends alike.

Behind him a king no longer, but a purple dragon.

Spyro.

A dragon of legendary capabilities, with potential to stop time itself and put the world back together if need be, by many considered divine, an Ancestor in flesh. With a deep flaw on his heart, dark and with a pulse, alive, shade so evil that it spread damnation the moment it appeared. Locked in an endless battle of morality.

This was not a perfect team.

Not a good team.

But the only one that can play this game.

There is no need for fancy names or titles, they are what they are and there is only one name that fit them perfectly. .

"Bad Company"