Dragons enjoyed their fire.
This does not come as a surprise to most: dragons and fire go hand in hand. They use fire to protect themselves. They use it to warm their eggs or their dens. Some will let out a breath of fire to greet each other, without any of the force they usually use for great precision in hunting or fighting. Fire is of great importance to them.
The young Night Fury could remember back when he was a hatchling. It felt like an eternity ago, the feel of his mother's fire warming their nest. Nuzzling closer to the low embers and squirming beside his siblings as they slept through the day. He remembers his father greeting him each night with a small puff of fire. The unique smell of the smoke their orange glow left behind.
The Night Fury did not have much to be happy about in his life. Being. . . separated from his family so early. Falling under the call of the villainous queen who'd soon eat him once he stopped being useful. His life had long been like that of a baby bird pushed too soon from his nest, spiraling towards the ground with no way of leveling out. The familiar dismay he felt, day to day. Alone, scared, hungry.
Then shot from the night sky. His domain, so easily camouflaged. Hidden.
The place he felt the safest.
Now taken from him too.
He could remember the pain tearing through his tailfin, ripping it clean from his body as the ropes tightened around him and restricted his wings. He fell hard, hundreds of feet. Nothing but stiff trees, snapping branches, to slow his fall before he finally came to a stop.
Adrenaline pumping, screeching, his lungs refusing air.
The more he shifted, writhing against the ropes, the more they cut into his skin. It might have been hours before his eyes finally closed, exhaustion taking over. Accepting his fate.
He was caught.
He was going to die.
He did not use his fire then. To strike at the tiny viking come to kill him.
Fire was a good thing, not used to kill or maim. It was used to defend and protect.
Killing the viking would do him no good then, he would still be trapped, wrapped in those ropes. Better to be killed by the angry hand of a viking than the cool indifference of hunger or exposure.
But then. . . the viking. . let him go.
And he felt anger, the same fury that the vikings named him for filled his blood. At once he turned on the boy, trapping his puny body down, claws capturing his exposed throat.
But he couldn't do it. He knew that the second the ropes slipped from his body.
That did not make the anger go away. The boy had scared him, forced a certain terror into his heart he never wanted to feel again.
It was only fair to frightened him back, letting out the most ferocious roar inches from his head, screaming out his anger and anguish and pain and fury, before letting himself flee again.
How far the two have come now. . .
The one who came to kill him. The smallest viking he had ever seen, now riding on his back, using his strange contraptions to help him fly again. To make up for what he'd done.
Together they were defeating the Red Death. The plague to both their species, the reason for the suffering on both sides.
Another memory reached his mind. Of the first time they flew together. They'd gone too far, flew too high. Bit off more than they could chew. He could remember the confusion he felt when his viking's familiar weight disappeared from his back. The confusion that so quickly changed to all out panic. The terror that struck right to his heart as his wings began to spiral once again, unable to keep his head on straight, unable to level out.
The dragon could not fly without the viking, and the viking could not fly without the dragon.
It was an important lesson for them, brought them closer, in a sense.
In some cruel way, there was no greater incentive to work together.
But that day was not without its peaks. He remembered the terror leave him. The adrenaline returned subtly, finally letting him stretch his wings, push himself to the edge, together. For the first time since he was a hatchling, he wasn't alone.
Finally flying again.
This was what he had been waiting for. Longing for, for so many weeks.
It had been a long time since the young Night Fury had felt relief. Had felt joy. He longed once more to feel the fire lick at his skin, to feel its heat.
He let out a blast, eyes closing and chin up as he passed through the wall of flames. A purr rose up from his chest at the feeling as it washed away all his dismay.
Of course, he could not miss the panicked calls of the viking above. The way he jumped around on his back, patting different places to put out the fire that stuck to him.
The Night Fury had nearly forgotten about the soft skin his companion had.
But in the end, it was one of his favorite days.
It was days like that he was fighting for now, as he sped through the black clouds. Finally given the chance to take down the tyrannical queen who'd trapped him under her claws for all those years.
His make-shift fin was gone, there was no way to dodge the solid, boulder-like tail.
And now, with the ringing in his ears as he shook off the sudden stinging pain in his side, he remembered it all.
The weight as it disappeared from his back, and this time he noticed immediately. He didn't feel the same panic as before. The panic he had for himself, as he fell the thousands of feet over the ocean. He felt a new wave, a wave of concern for his viking. His friend.
The wonderful memory had hit him like the end of the queen's tail, the reinforced knowledge of the small viking's sensitive skin.
The frantic calls the viking made at gentlest of fire brushing his skin.
Looking down now, at the inferno below. He felt that panic again. The panic for someone other than himself. The Night Fury's body moved without hesitation, pushing him, reaching with his claws, calling out for the unconscious form to wake and look back at him. To reach out for him as he had done the first time they were separated.
He took the brunt of the fall.