After the True King reassumed his rightful position as Alpha, Rodan found himself uncertain of his own. The spot pierced by the Queen's sting throbbed painfully, flaring all the more whenever he tried to stretch and flap his wings. He didn't complain, biting down growls and pained grimaces; it was a light price to pay for his betrayal. He had half expected Godzilla to end him right then and there, when he all but plastered himself before the King, masking fearful trills with submissive coos.

"But death didn't claim him that day. Godzilla barely spared him a glance, snorting in what could've passed for amusement when the remaining Titans began to disperse, yet Rodan remained hunched over, head tucked against his chest.

"No need to humiliate yourself further," the gruff, bone-quaking tone of Godzilla's voice made Rodan wish he could curl into an even tighter ball. "Make use of yourself, patrol the realm. Others may yet wake. Not all have come."

"Y-yes, Alpha," Rodan stuttered in a small voice, hastily retreating from the King on all fours, dragging his magma-laced wings against the rubble of human-hives. "At once, Alpha."

It is quite telling of his mental state that, even now, he doesn't attempt to soothe his bruised ego by hunting small prey or picking a fight with a too-slow Titan that couldn't answer his attacks at the same pace.

The wound pulsates dully, sending jolts of pain shooting through his entire torso with every flap of his massive wings. Excessive wingbeats are unnecessary, he could quite easily ride the winds and soar as effortlessly as the flocks of tiny birds that veered away from him whenever he drew near. He beats his wings again, even harder, at that thought. The pain makes him grind his beak. No sound leaves his clenched throat. In the absence of Alpha's punishment, he must punish himself. It is only fair.

Rodan realizes he has strayed too high when the condensation, left on his flanks by the wispy strands of cloud, begins to harden and immediately sizzle, when his body heat melts the newly formed ice. The clouds stretch out below him, white and furrowed, like a never ending expanse of icy wasteland. He dips, accelerating with another mighty flap that feels like his left wing is tearing away from his body, and breaks through the cottony blanket.

His descent is uneven, he subconsciously favors his left side; combats the urge to fold it completely and save himself the searing pain that spreads and spreads. Warmth begins to emanate from the wound, small at first, then it spreads outwards until it reaches the tips of his wing-fingers and trails behind him. Belatedly, he realizes it's his blood. He has aggravated the wound too much.

With every movement of his wing, more of the magma-tinted ichor leaves his body. His breath grows labored. He has to force himself to keep his current speed.

Far below, russet-brown slopes and dust-green shrubs drink in the sun's early morning rays. The clouds brought on by the False King's ire have dispersed, giving way to a new day. Rodan briefly ponders whether he truly deserves to be witnessing it. His head hangs low, eyes boring into the steppes below, yet not truly seeing them. Lost in dark thoughts, he initially misses the shapeless, gray-black mass perched atop one of the monolithic natural structures that dot the area.

It takes him several wingbeats to realize what he saw. He cranes his head in a double take, uncertain whether his weary eyes are deceiving him. No, there is something there. Something out of place. With a flap akin to a thunderclap, he turns and dives towards the plateau, circling it lazily to get a good look.

Up close, the nature of the mass becomes evident to the airborne Titan, though no less alien. In all of his centuries, even before his prolonged volcanic hibernation, he has never seen a Titan similar to this one. The scutes atop the saurian's back distantly remind him of Alpha, but the smaller, more streamlined body negates any potential correlation between them. Where Godzilla's hide is unanimously black, this creature's scales are several shades of grey, seamlessly flowing from one to another like a muddied river.

Its sides rise and fall in a steady breathing rhythm, but it is a movement so subtle and slow that Rodan almost misses it all together. The unknown Titan doesn't budge, not even when Rodan passes directly above it. Doesn't even open its eyes.

How strange, Rodan thinks, cocking his head this way and that to keep an eye on the prone form.

Were it not for the fact that it is obviously breathing, he would assume the other Titan is dead. No creature with even the tiniest inkling of a survival instinct would blatantly ignore a threat bearing down at them from above.

"Hey! You!" he screeches at the reptile, his words carry on the wind and he is quite certain the earth-bound Titan should have heard him.

No response.

He drops a few more dozen meters, almost enough to scrape his abdomen against the jagged back plating of the creature below him.

"Hey!" he tries again, once more to no avail. Not even the tiniest twitch of the tail or a shift in breathing.

Something of his old fiery spirit rekindles in his chest; he has never been particularly fond of being ignored in such a crude manner. A warbling growl escapes his beak and he brings himself to an abrupt halt, digging his scythe-like claws into the reddish soil for better purchase, kicking up a miniature tornado of rocks and dirt chunks that fall all over the dormant body of the other Titan. Not even that manages to coax out a reaction from it.

Severely agitated, Rodan hop-walks closer, flaring out his wings to better keep his balance and looms over the saurian with a murderous glint in his eye.

"Answer me," he demands, tone high pitched from his indignant anger. And not bothering to wait for a potential answer, he bows his head and not at all gently prods the creature's side with his sharp beak.

With what appears to be a titanic effort, the saurian's eyelids part and one red-orange eye stares into Rodan's own. At once all of the anger that flared up in the Fire Demon's insides goes out, smothered in an instant by that hollow, empty gaze. It sends shudders down his spine, that solidify into an uncomfortably cold ball that seems to be resting in his stomach. That is decidedly not the gaze of a living being.

Seemingly unimpressed by the visage of a slack-jawed, eye-bulging winged terror, the scaly eyelid drops. A heavy sigh is heaved by the creature, sending twin columns of dust shooting from his nostrils, its sullen sides filling and then hollowing out again. Like the final gasp of a dying being, hopeless and resigned.

Rodan doesn't know what to say, how to react. He's used to screeching prey, desperately fleeing from his clamping jaws, struggling to survive against all odds. Not this. Lying, defeated, waiting for death to claim you. It resonates within him at an uncomfortably intimate level, too close to the way he has felt not even five minutes ago.

Pack-gone

At first, he doesn't realize the mysterious Titan spoke. It sounds odd, unlike anything Rodan has heard before. The call echoes and resonates, like a screech rebounding off tall mountain peaks, seeking an answer but receiving none; wordless, yet filled with meaning.

Pack-gone-death-kill-consume

It is a strange tongue this Titan speaks in. Rodan has to strain to understand his, for the voice is decidedly male, words. It feels like the entire meaning of a word is being conveyed when it is spoken, so unlike the way Rodan is used to his fellow Titans speaking. It takes him a moment to fully comprehend what is being spoken to him, and when the realization hits him, he recoils as though struck.

The wing rustling coaxes the other Titan to open his eye again. His gaze is dark and lifeless, as it seem to drill into Rodan's very soul. Their eyes meet, and Rodan finds himself unable to look away.

"You…" his tongue feels like a swollen, disembodied object; not a part of his own body. "You want me to…"

Death-Pack-seek-kill

He blinks slowly, as if to cement his wish. Just then a shiver runs through his body, wrecking it violently as though a spasm. His scales and claws scratch against the soil, as he vainly attempts to curl up tighter. His movements are weak, sluggish.

Rodan inches closer, hovering uncertainly at the edge of beak-prodding distance. The other Titan is now lying on his side, exposing his sunken in, pale-yellow underbelly to the Fire Demon, like an open invitation to a feast. Another few steps and he's towering over the heavily breathing saurian, his dirt-despair-salt tinged scent teasing Rodan's nostrils. He dips forward, wings flaring out like ominous storm clouds.


Zilla was quite ready to remain in this place, the symbolical burial site of Pack, for however long it took for starvation and dehydration to claim his life. His body had grown numb, as the deathly cold claws of death hooked into him. He felt neither the early morning sun, nor the coarse, uneven terrain he was lying on. An inky void greeted him whenever he closed his eyes, and muted, shapeless greys faced him each time he opened them.

He didn't hear the Winged One's approach. His resign-addled brain didn't register the wind whipping at his snout, nor the pebbles raining down upon him, nor even the tremors caused by his landing. It was quite the sight, when he finally chose to look at his surprise visitor, to see a dark, magma-laced flying Titan looming over him like death itself.

It appeared luck was on his side after all. His death had come at last. He would soon be free.

His vocalizations came from a fever-ravaged mind, he wasn't sure what he was saying and didn't hear what the Winged One was saying to him. The cold was unbearable, it bit at his bones and scratched at his lungs. His breath hitched. His eyes closed.

All he hopes for is for it to be quick, when he rolls over and exposes his vulnerable belly and throat to the other Titan, patiently awaiting the killing blow. He feels no fear, only acceptance and a certain level of want. He yearns for it, to be free of this pain and the cold.

A shadow falls over Zilla, stark against the sun bearing down on him even through closed eyelids. His heartbeat fastens and for a second he feels alive again, anticipation flaring up within him. He feels the Winged One leaning over him, drawing closer, the unnatural heat radiating off of him seeping into Zilla's bones in a rather pleasant way. What luck, indeed, to die feeling warmth for the last time in his life.

If Zilla had tear canals, he would weep from joy.

And then… and then something wraps around him, enveloping him in a comforting, almost stifling embrace. The heat from the Winged One's body radiates throughout Zilla's own, pierces him in a way not unlike what the saurian imagined that sharp-pointed beak doing. He shudders. An involuntary trill escapes him – comfort-warmth. His eyes flutter open to be greeted by the sight of the Winged One's face, a breath-distance away, contorted in an unreadable expression.

The position is alien to Zilla, being cradled against a scalding-hot chest, pressed against it with two enormous wings that have wrapped around him like a cocoon. His chin rests on the other Titan's breastbone; if Zilla leaned forward a tiniest bit, he could nestle in the crook of his neck. Soot, ash and smoke tease his nose, yet he finds it a strangely comforting scent. His eyelids droop. A sudden feeling of an overwhelming exhaustion nestles over him, not unlike the wings wrapped around him.

"You'd make for a lousy meal."

Zilla almost doesn't hear the Winged One's muttered words, feeling himself slipping into another void, black and bottomless like the last one, yet warm and inviting. The other Titan begins to hum, the strange sound magnified by their closeness resonating throughout Zilla's entire being. Despite its alien nature, it brings with it a comfort reminiscent of the nights when Pack huddled for warmth, humming voices joining into a soothing lullaby to chase away bad dreams. Now the tune is sung by a lone voice, not a chorus like Zilla is used to, but that doesn't stop him from absent-mindedly mimicking the song, joining the Winged One with his own, sleep-thick voice.

He rests his head atop Zilla's own, carefully dragging the underside of his beak along the elevated eye ridges of the saurian. And for the first time in millennia, Zilla feels warm, safe and like he belongs. Like the world hasn't ended and left him as a shattered ghost, cursed to wander the desolation. He edges his snout forward, nuzzling into the crook of Rodan's neck and closing his eyes with a contented sigh, allowing the soft strokes and comforting tunes to lull him to sleep.