Chapter Text
Spyro failed, Malefor had succeeded, and the world was doomed.
Igitus was dead, his sacrifice in vain. The rest of the Guardians were as well, their powers drained away to nothing. Cynder had been taken, and Spyro didn't even want to think about what they were doing to her. And Sparx... Sparx…
Oh, poor Sparx. It was a cold comfort that at least Spyro wouldn’t get the chance to tell Mom and Dad what happened to him.
The Destroyer was almost done with its path. Soon, the world would be unmade, and Malefor would be the only one left to put the pieces back in his own image.
Spyro stared up at the towering colossus, the last flicker of hope within him gone. He was about ready to give in, to close his eyes and wait for the end, when his body seemed to move on its own. Aether surged from him as time slowed to a crawl. The Destroyer, inches from completing its path, also froze. Yellow consumed Spyro, but not like when he froze himself and the others in the temple. It wasn’t crystal, but almost like a warm, soothing river, pulling him back.
“The purple dragon can wield many abilities that others cannot, including time itself.”
_ _ _
Ignitus wasn’t one to worry too much, but he felt he could be excused for feeling that his nerves had been on end these past weeks. He’d just been named Master of Temple of the Eggs, as the last Master, Master Unox, deemed it time to join the Ancestors in the Great Beyond.
This alone would be enough to disquiet Ignitus on its own, as the old Wind Dragon had been Master since Ignitus himself hatched nearly a hundred years ago. Long past his time owed to this would, sure. But couldn’t he at least stay a little longer after dumping the duty as Master onto him?
Because not a week after Master Unox left did news from the Council in Warhorn bring chaos to the Temple. A Purple egg, the first Purple Dragon since the great hero Malafor himself. And now it was Ignitus, Master Ignitus, who was responsible for the egg. Not Unox, who could cow the roudyest of hatchlings with a single look. Ignitus, a dragon who was barely considered an elder, who had barely started feeling comfortable being a Guardian, much less their leader.
Ignitus had to clear his head, lest it burst into flame. With this in mind, on a cool night lit by a full moon, he slipped out of the Temple. He didn’t particularly care where his feet took him, so long at it was away from the Temple and the priceless treasures hidden within. A chance to cool off, to let the swamp wash away his worries, even if just for the night.
Or at least that’s what the plan was. Instead, Ignitus found something that should not be possible.
He had been worried when he found a young dragon, not yet out of his first molt by the size of him, passed out in a glade. From a distance, he mistook the whelp to be an Ice, seeming to have deep blue scales with an off-white underbelly. It was only when he got close enough to see through the glare of the moonlight did the full depth of his amethyst scales shine through, the gold of a belly that almost glittered.
A Purple. A Purple . The only Purple in existence was back in the hatchery, still months from hatching. The last Purple was thousands of years dead. Yet the proof was undeniable, a quick spell from Ignitus proved it wasn’t some quick glamor. Ignitus would have liked to believe no Dragon would dare pass themselves off as a Purple, but he knew well the impertinence of youth. But no, unless a true master of illusions had made the spell, the whelp’s scales were telling the truth.
Ignitus was brought out of his wonderings as the whelp stirred, revealing eyes the same shade as his impossible scales. As he looked up at Ignitus, the elder saw a series of emotions flash, each stranger than the last: Recognition, pain, grief, and then acceptance.
“I-Ignitus?” The whelp lifted his head before letting it thud back against the grass. “Then… Did I die? Is this the Great Beyond?”
“What? Little one, how do you know my name? I can confidently say I’ve never met you.” Ignitus would like to think he’d remember meeting a genuine Purple, especially since the whelp seemed outright familiar with him.
That certainly got the boy’s attention, and despite the obvious weariness weighing him down, he rolled onto his feet, sitting up and looking at Ignitus with plain confusion.
“What? Ignitus, it’s me, Spyro. How… do you not remember me?” Ignitus’s heart almost broke then and there. The hurt in the whelp’s eyes was unmistakable.
“I’m sorry little one, I truly am. But the only Purple Dragon I know is still an egg in the Temple.”
“The Temple? But Malefor already destroyed the temple?” Malefor? As in the ancient hero? Ignitus couldn’t even begin to understand what the whelp was speaking up, but before he could respond, the whe… Spyro, that was what he said his name was. Spyro seemed to look more closely at him before standing up and walking in circles.
“You’re alive, the temple is still whole, you don’t know me, and you said there’s a Purple Dragon egg in the temple?”
“Yes. laid less than two weeks ago.” Ignitus wasn’t privy to whatever gears were turning in young Spyro’s head, but at the very least the hurt and sorrow in his eyes were being replaced with a steely determination.
“Then… I’m in the past. I must be. The Chronicler said Purple Dragons had control over time. I must have… sent myself back somehow. Back before I was even hatched!” The Chronicler?! First the creator of the Temple of the Eggs himself, then the mythical keeper of lore? Plus this speech about time travel, every word out of this boy’s mouth was more and more impossible. But the fact he was a Purple Dragon at all was in itself impossible, and Spyro seemed incapable of not wearing his emotions on his sleeves.
“Time travel? Then… you’re saying that you are… the very egg in the Temple?” If this was true, then the future must have been grim indeed. As young as the boy was, Ignitus could pick out many scars, almost as many as Volteer had. Plus, if the Temple was destroyed, and Ignitus himself was dead… He didn’t even want to think about it.
“I think? I must be. It’s the only explanation that makes sense.” As if any of this made sense, but Ignitus listened on anyway. “Not long before I hatched, Gaul’s army attacked the Temple, smashing most of the eggs. They stole one, and you managed to hide me by sending my egg down the river. Then you went into hiding while the other Guardians, Terrador, Cyril, and Volteer, were captured.” He knew not only Ignitus’s name, but the names of his fellow Guardians. Ignitus was finding it harder and harder to dismiss the tale. Plus talk about Gaul not only betraying Dragonkind but smashing the eggs… If Ignitus hadn’t skipped dinner, he might not have been able to keep it down from the very thought of it.
“You… paint a very convincing picture, young Spyro. A very grim one as well. Were your very existence not an impossibility, it would have dismissed it as hogwash. But if it is true… Then It would be negligence of my authority as Master of the Temple to let it be. But perhaps we should take this discussion to a place less open, or cold. Come, by the sound of it, you never saw the Temple of the Eggs in its glory. Let's fix that.” Ingitus gave Spyro his best reassuring smile, which seemed to melt the boy instantly, the two heading back towards the Temple.