A/N: I wrote How To Train Your Viking almost 3 years ago. Now, after a world of improvement, I am rewriting it. Enjoy and review!
The flames below climbed steadily higher, the air so clogged with smoke it was getting difficult to see. The Vikings below scuttled about like beetles in boiling oil. The ground was red, and the battle stretched throughout the entire village. His stomach at the scent of them, of his brothers' spilled blood.
Everything in him screamed.
He did not want to fight them. He wanted no part of this. He was born into this war. It was not his quarrel, and yet he fought alongside his brothers because it was custom. It was expected. He would be an outcast if he did not obey her custom. He would fight until his death.
He was a thief. They all were. They were thieves, doing bidding on behalf of a tyrant. It had been this way at the time of his birth. It had been this way since the beginning of time.
Others were weary of him. They knew he disagreed. They knew he was not like them. He'd been challenged, even threatened. He'd managed to keep his place among them by pretending. The frustration was unbelievable.
He tilted his left wing, diving slightly lower. The scent of dragon blood hit the roof of his mouth. He bit back the bile in his throat, leveling out. The scent of the sea blended with it, easing him slightly. The flames continued to belch smoke.
He shook his head, attempting to rid the voices that whispered in his ears. Again, they demanded of him violence he wanted no part of.
He set his sights on the battlement tower. He could take it out. He might even manage to minimize the casualties. One death, maybe two. He had enough blood smeared across his ledger already.
He felt the fire in the back of his throat. The familiar, irrational sense of invincibility returned to him. His aim was true. He saw a few men leap from the collapsing tower, cloaks aflame so they closely resembled burning arrows falling towards the Earth.
He let up a little, catching a draft so it carried him upward. Up higher, the air was colder. The biting chill had no effect on him. He was still invigorated with the effects of the fire in his belly.
As he gazed towards the island, he realized a part of it was left untouched by the flame. The smoke was thinner, the stars a bit brighter. He watched the white foam crash against the cliff face and wondered why this peaceful corner of the island was left unguarded. Vikings were not the brightest. They favored battle axes and a great deal of yelling over any attempt at reason. He laughed to himself.
He caught a shrill whistle on the wind, and a harsh blow to his right. His wing was pinned against him as rough, dark mass entangled him him. Ropes. They cut into a skin, binding the other wing up against his soft underbelly. He gave a cry, primitive fear seizing him as he began to lose altitude. He plummeted at a breakneck speed, towards the raging sea.
. . .
He hadn't hit the sea. He lay upon hard ground. His whole body was wrought with a dull ache. Sharper, cleaner pain came from the places on his wings, were tree branches had torn open the thin, sensitive membrane. A strange, numb sensation emanated his tail. It felt heavy. He could not, for the life of him, slide it into his view. The netting weighed him down in such a way that he couldn't move his head, either. He'd remained conscious during his fall, and now, as he lie here, the shock overcame him for a moment. The sounds of nocturnal, woodland creatures and intense voices assaulted him. He tried unsuccessfully to block the wall of unceasing noise.
The scent of dampened earth eased his panic. It was a much preferred alternative over the blood and smoke of the battle. Once his brain managed to sort the noise into a dull hum, fatigue overcame him. The initial shock was over, and in its place, ache and nagging fear. He was prey.
Predators seldom experience the prey instinct. Of course, his kind lived with it as second nature. The nest mother instilled the age old fear in them at an early age. Of course, her voice was always there to remind them. It came as a constant fear in the subconscious, interworking on the mind. It brought deepened senses, and a heightened reaction time. It was a body that worked like a well-oiled machine. It came as the thrumming in the chest, screaming flee flee flee.
He was prey, and he could not flee. Fear birthed frustration as he focused on each, specific wound on his sore body. Frustration as rough as the imperfect netting that bound him, held him to the ground. He had let himself fall victim to a primitive and incompetent weapon. He'd been careless, foolish to let himself be sighted. His mistake was grave, and he marveled at the instant consequence.
He managed sleep. Not really sleep. He lingered in the gray space, between waking and sleeping. He could still hear, but the choir of noise was distant. His mind felt syrupy, strangely clear and slow to form a coherent thought.
He awoke to a blanket of fog that soothed his sore skin. The numbness remained in his tail, and he bit back the desire to look at it. He was curious, and curiosity was dangerous.
The sky had lightened, his senses returned to normal. The quickened pace of his heart and the urge to run remained. He scraped his tongue over his teeth, feeling the familiar imperfections in them.
He was thirsty. The fog helped, but not enough. He unlocked his jaws, flicking the tongue onto the mud. It only made it worse. The hard ground held no sustenance.
He was hungry. No animal in all the woods would be dumb enough to come near. Besides, something would have to willingly jump into his mouth if he had any hope of eating it.
Hungry and thirsty. It was the only thing that held his attention. He watched a bird flit in the lower branches of the pine to his left and let out a long breath.
The ropes were painful. He tried to twist his body in one fluid motion, but failed. All he accomplished was a wrenching pain in his wings as they strained awkwardly against the bindings. He let his head fall back, gnashing his jaws in frustration. He tasted blood, and realized he must've bitten down on his tongue. The metallic taste only caused his heart to beat faster. He looked around, catching the movements in the shadows. They were birds. Birds and scuttling lizards across the ground.
The dragon closed his eyes, overcome with such a wave of emotion. He began to sing.
Ravaged seas fear me
The Sun and Moon dare not look upon me
For my face is shrouded in shadow
I hold power in my claws
My breath sets mountains trembling
The Gods hath robbed me
Of freedom
The Sun scorns me
The Moon laughs
A pitiful thing, I have become
The ground before me is stained with my lifeblood
I will depart this world shrouded, not in shadow, but in a net
His lament was cut short as a raven took to the sky, working up quite a racket. He blew out yet another long breath, and he heard it. Footsteps, crashing clumsily through the underbrush. He was reminded of the horse dragging a tipped cart he'd encountered long ago. He'd killed the beast, all broken legs and bloodied fur. It was mercy. It kept his stomach full for ages.
Human footsteps. Two legged, clumsy, ignorant. He held his breath, sending a silent prayer to Odin. He was helpless here. He knew these woods were close to the Viking nest. The human, wandering not far from him, would surely kill him on sight. How pitiful, caught in a net and slain without a fight. Dishonorable. A thing of laughter, not legends.
The sound grew louder, so much it hurt his ears. Birds fell silent, perched safely atop trees to watch the spectacle below. He was able to distinguish a voice among the obscenely loud gait. At the same time, the breeze carried it's scent to the dragon. He lifted his lip, letting it strike the roof of his mouth.
Male, and young. It was not near to the stench he'd known all his life. Curiosity bred with fear inside his heart. He waited for it to leave, or else find him lying there. He pondered the voice. The young Viking was alone.
He is speaking to himself. The dragon mused, and bit back the strange desire to laugh.
The newcomer didn't leave, but crept ever closer. He listened to the beat of his own heart and wondered how long he was from death. The scent became heavier on the wind, pungent. Not entirely repulsing, as others had been before he killed them. He pushed the thought from his mind.
Yes, he'd killed. For the tyrant they called Nest Mother, and to keep his place in her hierarchy. If he refused, he'd be slain or else outcasted.
It was close. A few yards away. He could smell the fear on it, could hear the flutter of it's heart. Prey.
He opened his eyes, and caught the glint of the weapon, clasped in the man's hands. Not a man, a boy. A scrawny boy. A snack.
He knew the ways of the Vikings. A boy of this size and stature was looked down upon. He'd be cast out of their ranks, or else scrutinized and tormented for the rest of his life. In the face of a downed dragon, he acted like prey. He was not one of them.
Yet the weapon drew nearer. The dragon felt his heartbeat quicken, if it were possible. The scents and sounds overwhelmed him for a moment. He heard the scrawny Viking speaking to him, raising the knife hesitantly. He felt the boy's foot press against one of his bound legs and felt a low growl culminate from deep in his throat. It was instinctive. The dragon knew such a warning would do him no good. He was utterly helpless.
He opened his eyes fully, taking in the frightened, freckled face above him. The eyes were green, the hair a deep russet. He was quite lacking in muscle and body hair, and he was trembling. The dragon let out a deep breath, taking in the face of his killer.
The boy raised the knife again, slowly, so the metal edge reflected what little sunlight managed to break through the fog. He took deep, steadying breaths. The dragon was unsure for a moment, whether he would really do it, plunge the knife deep into his exposed underbelly. A million whispering voices swirled inside his head.
Dishonor.
The word repeated itself, weaving in and out of old dragon curses, clear as a bell. A mantra. He let his head fall back, giving in to the fear and Nest Mother's voice. She chided him, cursed him. He did not answer, could do little but try and separate the thousand voices from the boy's shuddering gasps beside him. Time stretched on. He began to wonder if he was already dead.
The unmistakable sound of snapping ropes shattered the mantra in his head. His eyes snapped open, and he strained towards the sound. He felt the binding loosen, felt the ropes fall around his legs. In one single motion, he leapt up, pinning the small boy to the ground. Anger and fear kept his claws tight around the boy's throat, might've even drawn blood.
Something about the green eyes kept him halted there. The fear was sharp and real, painted in the eyes of the scrawny Viking. It was coursing through both of them. They were creatures of fear.
The dragon gave a shrill roar, an outburst that gave voice to the frustration and pity that had consumed him just moments ago. It was a final warning. He wouldn't kill the boy.
He sped off, opening his wings instinctively. The heaviness of his tail returned the moment he left the small clearing. He tried to get a look, but immediately crashed into a cliff face. The rough surface scraped against his already sore body. His claws scrabbled against it, before he fell to the ground.
He gained altitude once again, using a thick log to propel himself forward. The breeze carried him several feet before he slipped up again. He plummeted headfirst into a deep ravine. He tried to use his wings to break his fall, landing clumsily on a sandy bank, His front leg collapsed under him as he tried to stop his momentum, and got a faceful of dirt in the process.
He groaned, picking himself up off the ground, shaking head to rid the dull ache. A low rumble emanated from his body. His body pained him to move, his muscles stiff and unresponsive. The heavy numbness in his tail brought him to his senses. He steeled himself, and turned to look at it.