The thrum of anticipation pulsed strongly through the air, the hearts of the great dragons gathered on the lower peaks and crags around the shallow crevice beating in time to the motion of the clusters of eggs inside it, flapping their wings to avoid succumbing to the excitement.
From time to time, a chorus of bugles would send nearby birds into shocked flight, completely taken aback by the unexpected draconic voices, shrieking with dismay.
The leader of the Guardian dragons, Ignitus, a large red dragon whose scales were tinted with gold, stood directly over the three broods of eggs, tail flicking back and forth, eyes on a single egg that had been set away from the others, glistening in solitary glory. His shoulders were tensed, as were that of the other Guardians, and his neck rigid.
Several of the younger dragons from the previous broods were engaged in shrilly pointing out to each other eggs that they had thought they had seen move, then falling into arguments about who saw it first, batting at each other with their wing talons and forepaws until one was forced to take off or an older dragon roared at them to behave. They had reached maturity; they ought to act that way. They were no longer children and so any silliness would not be excused on the grounds of youth. Twenty-five dragon years is young, but it is also the first year of adulthood, and dragons often found it difficult to relinquish habits or behavior of their adolescence immediately.
From her ridge a little way above the others, a young dragon of the wind watched her brood mates critically. Rather than join in with their sparring bouts, she had removed herself to a higher position, more interested in the eggs than her brothers. Harlith loved to play with them when their games involved aerial competitions, in which she found a natural home, but the ground squabbles were repugnant to her. Being lighter and slightly smaller than them, she was at a disadvantage in any real contest of strength. Flight was her best ability, so rather than attempt to fit in where she could not; she honed her natural given gift.
Her sleek, platinum scaled body gave her the appearance of being rather fragile, the coppery eyes wary. Her hind legs, muscular as they were, looked as thin and breakable as her forelegs, and her ribs stuck out against her still soft hide as though she had been a victim of famine.
She sat, tail curled gracefully around her, wings folded firmly against her back. The vibe that channeled through the air like wind was particularly strong to her, and vibrated inside her. She added her own quiet croon, interrupted by the raucous snarls of the larger dragons, and settled to watch the eggs.
--
"Quiet!" Terrador snapped at the group of cacophonous dragons nearest him, who recoiled fearfully from the reprimand, eyes wide. He sighed, irritably thumping the spiked ball that grew on the end of his tail against the ground. His enormous green bulk was gleaming in the faint light of the stakes that Ignitus had set his apprentices to lighting on fire for the ceremony, and his wings were half furled.
The Earth dragon's fierce, savage appearance was a distinct reflection of his personality. Gruff, not given to much emotion except to those he knew intimately, Terrador was a true warrior, finding delight in battle, in unleashing hell upon his enemies for the lives they took. Spending the days lying in the sun or taking a rinse in the water did not suit him. He'd always been that way, challenging others to sparring contests and insisting on training even during resting hours. This stage of his life, of course, was long gone. His fellows had learned to cope with his brusque manner, just as they had learned to cope with Volteer, the lightning Guardian's eccentricity.
He lifted his head, horny eyelids narrowing, as Ignitus suddenly let out a warning bugle, spreading his wings out wide. A jubilant cry soon began among the others; 'the eggs are hatching!'
--
It began slowly. Silence fell like a blanket over the surrounding dragons, the anticipation growing stronger and more noticeable with every breath. Two eggs, one with a ruddy tan colored shell, the other white, began to shake, and noises could be heard from inside, a scrabbling sound.
In an explosive mess, the tan egg cracked, showering the other eggs with tiny fragments. The hatchling itself hurled forwards with a cry, hopping awkwardly in front of the observers. Ignitus smiled warmly at it, calling, "Welcome."
The hatchling warbled, flaring its damp wings. A second later the white egg shattered, and the albino dragon that had inhabited it rushed, squealing, to its hatch mate, who responded by nosing it curiously.
Other eggs began to crack not long after that, and soon the crevice was crawling with tiny multicolored dragons, all wailing hungrily.
Ignitus caught the eye of Volteer, who gestured with a bob of his head to the last egg. It was the one that had been set apart. He hesitated. The last egg hatched had been at least ten minutes ago, and usually, no matter when the customary three broods of eggs had been laid, each hatching occurred a minute or two after the one before it. This was well over that limit.
He felt a nudge at his shoulder, and saw young Harlith, the smallest female of the previous clutches, gazing up at him worriedly. "Why isn't it hatching?" she asked her copper eyes anxious. The egg was not rocking; it just sat there, alone among the writhing hatchlings.
He shook his head, "I don't know. I just don't know."
"But it will hatch, right? They always hatch." She was desperate for a confirmation, a shudder passing through her lean body at the thought of an unborn egg. Of an unhatchable.
More dragons were beginning to notice the egg too. Many were looking at it askance. Some of the older ones turned away sadly.
Ignitus gently patted her back with one wing, "It may or may not, Harlith," he said softly, "sometimes an infant will not hatch, the membrane inside the egg being too thick for its egg horn to penetrate. In these instances, there are indicators that the embryo itself is deformed, and it is better to let them die. No, don't shout at me," he said sternly, seeing her about to protest, "I don't like it any more than you do, but it is what the Ancestors decree."
"The Ancestors must've had a few problems then," Harlith muttered under her breath.
Ignitus cuffed her over the head.
She gave an appropriately contrite apology, but she didn't mean it, and Ignitus knew it. But he didn't take offense. Any dragon would be angry at the prospect of leaving an unhatched dragon to die in the shell.
He saw Cyril beckon to him urgently, Volteer and Terrador joining him. As Ignitus approached, the ice Guardian said, "You've surely noticed the egg then?"
He nodded.
Terrador's expression was grim, "I was afraid of this. It just puts the icing on top of the cake of bad omens we've had." He said in his deep voice.
"A truly horrible, redundant, disgusting thing," Volteer added his part.
Ignitus glanced back. "We'll have to break the news to them, even though we won't like it, and they won't like it. And we can't leave the hatchlings out in the cold much longer."
"No…I suppose you are right old friend."
Ignitus closed his eyes. The egg which he had counted on, had faith in, was not going to hatch. It was not right.
His eyes flung open again at a surprised screech.
Whirling around, he leapt back to his perch at the edge of the crevice, wings spread for trouble. Harlith turned to him, crying exultantly, "It's moving, sir, it's moving!"
Shocked, Ignitus peered at the egg, which was unmistakably rocking wildly, the sandy depression in which it had been set widening with every convulsion. Also unmistakable was the actions of the other hatchlings. The moment a crack finally appeared, widening by the second, the other baby dragons began to utter an odd crooning sound, almost like a chant, wings poised upwards, eyes on the egg, from within a whimpering could be heard, standing back in a row.
Their eyes were oddly vacant, as though they had gone into a trance. A thick crack ran down the middle of the egg, and all of a sudden, the two halves were flung apart.
Ignitus stared in awe as the dragon hatchlings moved to either side as the newborn, a little smaller than they were, stumbled clumsily down the isle that they had made, squalling piteously, some minute fragments of the shell stuck to its wet violet hide.
And Ignitus felt as though a jolt had run through his body. Purple, the dragon was purple, just as the prophecies had foreseen.
Bending down, Ignitus uttered the birth greeting for the last time that night, eyes bright with pride and triumph. "The purple dragon of prophecy."