Memories
Chapter 1: The Runt and the Elder
On such beautiful nights, the herd of Night Furies loved to relax. Being nocturnal, they slept through the cold days. In the nights, they followed their instincts and hunted. Well, aside from the hatchlings and elders. They could not hunt due to their lack of experience and shrinking strength.
Their lifestyle was difficult, due to poachers and declining egg survival. There were few of them in their small herd; estimated twelve females and five males. And this was not including the hatchlings; although there were roughly eight hatchlings which survived the past harsh winter.
Nine of the females were mothers, either of their first batch or had many before. They were weary of their young ones playing with each other, afraid the dominant males would kill them with one swipe of their claws. This was the life of a dragon, after all; however, the males were not aggressive tonight. They seemed to spare the youngsters of one more night in life before displaying their hierarchy amongst the male hatchlings.
One hatchling, with scales as dark as their species' namesake, was receiving his daily bath as he groaned in annoyance.
"Please, I wanna play!" he whined with a trill in his throat. He fixated on the other male hatchlings who were tugging at each other aggressively. Oh, how the small hatchling wished to play with them!
"They will hurt you," his mother cooed protectively as she cleaned his scales. "You are small compared to them."
The black-scaled hatchling moaned sadly. She was too protective of him! It wasn't his fault he was the last and only hatching of his mother's litter. Or that he hatched later than the rest. He was small, but he could be vicious.
So why could he not play with his fellow hatchlings?
The runt immediately formed an idea. He looked up at his mother and concentrated on her. He knew if he stared long enough, his pupils would round out and result to give him anything he wanted.
The charcoal-scaled Night Fury sighed. "It will not work."
Without hesitation, the runt crawled up to his mother and slowly purred against her foreleg. If this didn't soften her decision, he did not know what will.
Another sigh from his mother. "Go on, then." He leaped happily and nuzzled her quickly before he took off to play with the other hatchlings. "And stay away from the Wodensfang!"
The runt, whom was considered a runt compared to the other hatchlings, jumped into the pile of playful Night Furies. The young hatchlings played their little game of tag as they chased each other. From their perspective, they were big tough dragons, who could easily kill those widely stretched out tales of bloodthirsty creatures known as Vikings. Yea, they could kill! They will protect their herd.
The runt rolled from beneath his brothers and tumbled against an elder.
The other hatchlings watched in anticipation as the runt shook his head in confusion. His friends crept closer but they kept their distance. Their scales, individually ranging from dark forest green to the darkest shade of purple, shook in fear of the expected trouble their youngest companion would experience.
Slowly, the elder lifted his head. Years of outliving most of the herd caused his naturally dark blue scales to whiten, and it was apparent from the white around his neck and around his blue eyes.
The hatchlings knew of this elder. He was strange; he was the oldest dragon in the herd, yet never did he speak to the young ones. All he did was murmur in his sleep or bare his teeth at yearlings who were dared to disturb him. There were times he would snap his worn down teeth at yearlings, and snatch half their skin off. They would survive, but left ugly scars for the rest for their lives.
The runt's pupils thickened at the sight of the elder, hoping to appeal to the elder. He knew of the stories, of the elder known as the Wodensfang. Of how he would claw at even the hatchlings.
He had every right to be afraid.
However, the unexpected thing happened. The Wodensfang merely growled and shifted his head away from the hatching.
The runt backed away quickly, and hid within the group of his companions. He ignored the peering of the others, ignoring the endless questions of how he survived the confrontation.
His mother picked him up by his wings and dragged him back to his nest.
"Why did you go near the Wodensfang?" she demanded.
She pressed her paw against his tail to prevent him from crawling away in shame. "I warned you to never go near him!"
He moaned, but not only in pain. He knew his mother was furious. "I... I didn't mean to. The others knocked me over."
She sighed as she cleaned between his small ears. "You are lucky he did not hurt you; not many hatchlings get away with disturbing the Wodensfang's peace."
Her hatchling nodded in understanding. He had heard the tales of the mysterious Wodensfang; of how he lived in their colony for many generations and hardly spoke; how the old dragon could easily kill a male adult with a single tear to the throat, and leaving hatchlings scarred. This little hatchling, of dark green eyes and a curious personality too reckless for his own good, was like any other hatchling whom approached the Wodensfang.
Why had the Wodensfang left me unharmed?
The Wodensfang growled as he watched the young Night Furies played.
He never bothered with the young. They were too... energetic. Naive. Dumb, even, to realize no one bothered the Wodensfang. For anything. Which was why he would slash the throats of the young if they disturbed him.
He had to admit: he enjoyed the loneliness.
For generations, he watched Night Furies grow up and leave their nests and get killed by Vikings. He saw the fights of other males and the winners mating with the young females, before they met their fate of spears and chains. The friends he observed dying, helpless to save them. Eggs he saw to hatching or remaining unhatched forever. Brothers and sister he witnessed slaughtered. Grandchildren dying from the wrath of Vikings.
He groaned and burrowed in his nest. This nest stood here, in this exact spot, for many winters. More than he could count. It had been here since he hatched. Where he saw his mother's blue irises shinning down at him, as he licked her moist nose, for the first time. Where he watched his younger brothers and sisters hatch from their charcoal shells. Where he first learned how to stretch his little wings and allowed the wind to sweep him to the sky.
How long had it been since he flew?
Being many years older than the oldest adults, the Wodensfang was considered... different. Not because he never spoke or slash at hatchlings, but because he had a name.
"They say he received his name from the ancient elders," the adults would murmur.
Wodensfang could only chuckle to himself. Dragons are not of intellect as the Vikings are. Unlike Vikings, dragons never had the necessity to name their children. It was simply a distinguished trill of the back of their throats to tell apart the youngsters. And names were redundant. Unneeded.
Yet he kept his human-like name.
The old Night Fury was known by the tribe. The only Night Fury with grey eyes, dulled from years of exposure to mist and, well, the harms of the living world. But those eyes were wise: they saw everything. He had his voice in wisdom for decision-making, with nods of approval or disapproval. Which was why he never challenged for the title of Alpha: he enjoyed his small, wise role.
He could not help but think of the green-eyed hatchling whom awoke his nightly nap.
Those green eyes. They were uncommon for a Night Fury. Most Night Furies either were born with deep blue or piercing yellow eyes. With various shadings of blue and yellow, of course.
But green. Green was definitely unheard of for a Night Fury. Or a dragon, at most.
Just like him.
The Wodensfang groaned, as though shaking his head would cease the memory of his past. Of the small creature he encountered generations ago. At a time where this creature was his best friend whom he could never change for the world. In a world where dragons were non-existent to humans, hidden in the shadows.
He could not help but glance back at the little ones chasing each other. It was something to distract himself from the forming memories. How the little ones pulled each other's ears and spread their tiny wings in short flight. Like he did at their age with his litter.
He was playful, too.
Thinking of his old friend caused a sad murmur to escape his ancient mouth. Oh, the days he spent playing with him, learning new things from each other, and the adventures they shared. But that was many years ago. In a more peaceful time.
As he watched the little ones play, he couldn't help but recall to a time when he used to call a Viking his friend.
Hi guys! If you do not know me, I was originally under the penname Bella Skywalker, but have changed it. I have written a series of one-shots called A Father's Love, if you have or have not checked it out already.
I decided to write a little story, featuring my favourite character from the books: Wodensfang! (I have him tagged under OC because he's not an option on the list)
I originally wrote this purely on Wodensfang with his flashbacks of himself and Hiccup the First (actually, it was only going to be a one-shot). It was suppose to serve as an explanation to why there was a Dragon War in the Movies. Staying true to this, I also decided to expand this little hatchling's character, along with Wodensfang.
I got the idea of Night Furies having different shades of black from the story "He's Not Dangerous", by Raberba girl. Thanks :)
If you like, I shall continue :)