Chapter Text
Legs had been sitting on the edge of his bed for nearly an hour when Gadget finally showed him what he had done.
Or, more accurately, what Gadget remembered doing.
It was the first time since returning to the academy that Legs had actually allowed himself to sit still long enough to process what had happened to him. There had always been something else demanding his attention. Questions from Osteon. The rescue of Ambear. Juniper hovered over every scrape and bruise she could find. Graecie made sure he ate. Sausage tried to pretend he wasn't watching him every few minutes. Even Gadget had barely left his side since he'd returned.
There had been no room for Legs to think.
Now, finally, there was.
And perhaps that had been a mistake.
His room was quiet, the sounds of the academy muted behind the closed door. Gadget was curled against his chest, tiny body warm beneath Legs' hand, his wings tucked neatly against his sides. Legs could feel the steady rhythm of the dragon's breathing beneath his palm.
He should have been resting.
Instead, his mind kept dragging him backward.
The beating.
The helplessness of lying there while pain tore through his body.
The rope.
The horrible pressure around his neck.
The tree.
The sensation of struggling for breath while the world slowly narrowed around him.
And then...
Nothing.
That was the part that bothered him most.
He remembered being hurt. He remembered the rope biting into his throat. He remembered the sickening certainty that he was going to die.
But he didn't remember surviving.
There was no moment where the rope came loose. No memory of falling. No desperate scramble to his feet. No recollection of subduing his captors.
Nothing.
A blank space where his survival should have been.
Legs stared down at Gadget.
"I should remember," he whispered.
Gadget's head lifted slightly.
Legs swallowed.
"I remember the rope. I remember being unable to breathe. I remember..." His fingers laid limply against his throat, where the burn lies. "And then I was alive."
The words sounded absurd when he said them aloud.
Gadget blinked up at him.
Legs looked away.
"That doesn't make any sense."
The little dragon made a soft noise and resettled himself against Legs' chest.
For several seconds, Legs thought that was the end of it.
Then Gadget's head suddenly perked up.
Legs felt the change through their bond before he even looked down. Curiosity sparked through the connection, followed by the strange little burst of certainty that Gadget often experienced when he thought he'd figured something out.
"I asked Moma to help."
Legs froze.
"What?"
Gadget chirped again, this time with more enthusiasm.
"I asked Moma to help!"
Legs stared at him.
The words had been so clear through their bond that there was no mistaking them.
His mother.
Moma.
His heart gave a single, hard, and painful beat.
"Gadget..." Legs' voice came out quieter than he intended. "What do you mean?"
The dragon tilted his head.
"I asked Moma. She helped."
Legs could only stare.
His mother was dead.
That was something he had known for most of his life. It wasn't some new discovery or fresh wound. It was simply a fact of his life, as immovable as the mountains beyond the academy.
Gadget's mother was dead too.
All the baby dragons' mothers were.
She had died the day Legs was chosen by her to be her rider, something he couldn't control. It hurt to think about her death, watching her snout begin to crack and flake away like tiny metal shavings being carved from a blade - wasn't an image he was going to forget anytime soon. Gadget had never known his mother. He had never been raised by her.
So how had she helped him?
Legs' brow furrowed.
"Your mother?"
Gadget nodded enthusiastically.
"Moma."
"But she's..."
Legs stopped.
His eyes shifted toward the little dragon.
Gadget didn't seem troubled by the idea at all.
Something cold crept down Legs' spine.
The crypt.
His thoughts snapped into place.
The dragon crypt had opened.
The spirits that had slept within it for generations had awakened.
And Gadget had been at the academy close enough to talk to them.
Legs remembered the strange stories they'd heard since the crypt had opened. The monsters. The voices. The sense that something ancient had stirred beneath the academy.
He remembered Gadget telling them about the spirits on his way back to his room from Megii’s dorm.
He remembered the strange voice play.
*Don't panic, young one. Your mage will get his aid. I won't let one of us die that easily.*
At the time, Legs had been too busy being relieved that Gadget had somehow found help to question what that meant.
Now, sitting alone in his room with Gadget's tiny claws resting against his shirt, the memory took on a completely different shape.
"Wait."
Gadget blinked.
Legs' mouth went dry.
"The crypt."
The dragon's ears perked.
"Your mother is in the crypt."
A happy little chirp.
Legs' stomach dropped.
He stared at the wall.
"If the spirits are awake..." he murmured.
His mind began racing.
Could they interact with the living?
Could they affect the physical world?
Could they touch things?
Could they move objects?
Could they...
His gaze drifted toward the scars around his throat.
Could a spirit save someone?
The question sent a shiver through him.
"Did I..."
Legs hesitated.
"Did I get possessed?"
Gadget's head tilted so far to the side that one ear nearly flattened against his skull.
That was not exactly a reassuring answer.
"That's not a no."
Gadget chirped.
Legs rubbed a hand over his face.
"Wonderful."
He dropped his hand and stared down at Gadget again.
"Could she actually do something? Without a body?"
Gadget's answer came through their bond not as words but as an impression.
*Yes.*
Legs went completely still.
Then the world fractured.
A flash.
Silver.
A wing.
Legs' breath caught.
For less than a heartbeat, he wasn't sitting on his bed anymore.
He was back beneath the tree.
The rope was around his throat.
His hands were somewhere beneath him.
The air was cold.
His knife was lying in the grass beyond his reach.
Then something moved.
A silver wing swept into view.
Not flesh.
Not exactly.
It shimmered strangely, translucent at the edges, pale silver light bleeding through every scale. It descended toward the ground with impossible delicacy.
Legs watched it hook beneath the handle of his knife.
His knife lifted.
His brain barely had time to comprehend what he was seeing before the weapon moved.
The blade sliced through the rope.
The pressure around his throat vanished.
Legs fell.
The memory shattered.
He jerked violently upright in bed, one hand flying instinctively to his neck.
Gadget squeaked.
Legs barely heard him.
His heart hammered against his ribs.
He could still see it.
That silver wing.
The knife.
The rope snapped apart.
His hands trembled.
"That was real."
Gadget pressed himself against his chest.
Legs stared down at him.
"That was real."
The little dragon gave a small, certain chirp.
Legs swallowed.
He should have felt relieved.
Instead, the realization opened something inside him that had been carefully sealed shut.
Because if that memory was real, then there was something else he had to confront.
He hadn't escaped on his own.
Someone had helped him.
Something had helped him.
And if that silver wing belonged to Gadget's mother, then the blank space in his memory wasn't simply the result of trauma.
There were things that had happened to him that he didn't remember.
Things he hadn't even known had happened.
Legs' gaze dropped to his hands.
How long had he been unconscious?
What had happened after the rope was cut?
Had he collapsed?
Had someone found him?
Had the spirit stayed?
Had they done something else?
And, perhaps most frighteningly, why couldn't he remember any of it?
His breathing grew shallow.
"How much am I missing?"
Gadget's head lifted.
Legs shook his head before the dragon could answer.
"No. That's not the right question."
He looked toward the door.
The academy continued beyond it, ordinary and alive. Students walking through the halls. Voices carrying from distant rooms. Somewhere outside, dragons were probably making enough noise to annoy half the dormitories.
Everything was normal.
But Legs no longer felt like he was standing on solid ground.
He pressed his palm against his throat.
"I remember the rope."
His voice was barely audible.
"I remember the pain."
His fingers tightened.
"But I don't remember the rescue."
The silver wing flashed through his mind again.
Legs flinched.
He had spent so much time trying to understand how he'd survived.
Now he had an answer.
And somehow, that answer had only given him more questions.
His eyes closed.
Somewhere in the darkness behind them, silver scales moved.
And for the first time since waking in that tent, Legs wondered just how much of his own survival he had forgotten.