He remembered not sight nor sound as the first memory of his life, but warmth. The carress of a gentle flame against his scales, hugging against him. Then another sensation, colder than the first yet warmer in a way he could not define. Careful, gentle and steady. In time, that warmth came with the sound of soft purring, or the sight of green-yellow eyes fixed upon him.
He felt the warmth when he took his first steps, lit his first flame and first spread his wings and lifted into the boundless skies. That same warmth nuzzled against him both when he crashed to the ground in failure and when he caught his first fish from the open waters. Even when he strayed and found himself in trouble, the growls of warning and nips against his neck came with the same sensation.
The panic in the calls remained in his memory, from the last day he felt it. It pushed him awake, more violently than he ever remembered before. They'd barely made it to the air when he heard the Voice. The Voice commanded him to fly, with none of the joy he'd known before, none of the warmth. As they neared the island, heat took the place of warmth. Oppressive. Unflinching. Uncaring. What happened next remained a blur to him.
A burst of flames.
Gentle eyes meeting his, one last time.
Giant jaws snapping shut.
A shriek.
Heat replacing warmth, forever.
For far too long, the skies held no joy. Mindless attacks against the two-legged replaced the simple pleasure of the hunt. The heat seared whenever he strayed too far, whenever his place in the war did not meet the Voice's standards. It came, too, when he and the others fought over the tiny scraps the Voice allowed them. Only enough to survive, and never at its own expense. He lived only for the Voice, and knew only its heat.
The pain of the strike almost came as blessed release, an escape from the tyranny of the Voice. Even the blinding pain on his tail felt like a relief. Unable to fly, unable to move, unable to do little more than wait, he closed his eyes and waited. He imagined the warmth returning, nuzzling against him once more, giving him release.
And then, the sound of the two legged approaching reached him. He'd always feared their weapons, sharp and tough as the fangs and claws of their own kind. Still, he offered his neck when the two legged brought it toward him. Release.
The sound of the ropes being cut startled him, brought him to action. Never had he encountered one on the ground before, never so close. He shoved it to the ground, ready to fight. The Voice demanded it. A simple matter. One quick bite or slash. It was soft, weak. Easy to kill.
Just as he had been, moments earlier.
Instead, he ran away. Once more, he took to the air. But he knew, even before he first took wing. The two legged injured his tail. He needed time to heal, and a place to hide. Perhaps in time, it would heal. He could fly again. Even the Voice began to fade away into silence. He was alone.
But not for long. The same two legged returned, watching him each day. It even brought him food, more than the Voice allowed him. He tried to keep his distance, but the two legged followed him, time and again. It watched him, but not as an enemy would. Instead, it gave him a look he'd known only once in his life. It made no sense, not from a two legged. No matter how much he growled, the two legged continued to come close.
Then, he let it. It made a point to show him it meant no harm. It followed his rules, much as he'd followed the rules so long ago. Not because a Voice commanded it, but because it wanted to. Gentle brown eyes peered at him a moment, then it... he... reached a hand out. He could hear his breathing, knew the two legged was just as afraid as he.
He pushed his head forward, against the hand, and felt it once again.
Warmth.