AN: Thanks for the reviews! I apologize for the wait; the Internet had crashed otherwise it would've been up two days after the first chapter.
DISCLAIMER: Quite apparent I do not own this magnificent series.
Secret Slavery
The men had arrived on winged feet, for they couldn't doubt the words of the trio who always, always knew the flukes of their leader's son. They gasp, they talk to their gods in shocked awe; they move forward to drag the beast away. When it thrashes, they groan from the incredible strength and bind it further, tight cords that constrict its blood flow. A young boy that had come briefly wonders if the blood, too, resembles pure ink.
The demon roars, heat blasting the faces of its captors, and the humans see the demented red and gold, the smoke in the back of its gaping maw and wonder if it is possible to swallow the sun. Its life had lay in the hands of that puny stick, and resigned itself to whatever the human had planned. But this was worse than perishing, cutting its life too, too short: the dragon felt the annoying scratch of rough thick threads, shutting its scream forever; no, not the wings—anything, anything but its wings! And the coil tightened, and the outraged howl gurgled awfully in the clenched throat, fire spewing, and its heart wept for the expanse of blue.
Trapped, forever, in a manmade, unnatural future…
Hiccup watched the procession with a façade of calm intuitiveness, yet inside his mind swum with all the thoughts of: what have I done? What have I done?
The baleful glare of jagged green stone pierced him through and his breathing fettered. Hiccup swallowed. He wondered if anyone else noticed the intelligence displayed before them. Was it just him that sees it? Or, perhaps, he was simply seeing things due to the chagrin he'd suddenly felt from all those years ago? He was not sure. Hiccup had seen something, but a part of him wanted to believe it was nothing, nothing at all.
Dragons are not like they were.
As they reached the village, felt the crowd press upon him as they hooted and praised, he felt the tingle of something unfamiliar prickle his back, and he couldn't stop the grin that spread along his face. As they put the dragon in its place, he forgot about it all, high on the feeling of belonging.
The dragon no longer felt like his concern and a part of him felt awful.
But with it locked away, he could not feel the glare that wanted to melt the stone, melt into his flesh and thus forgot the demon in the dark.
XXX
Black that looks gray; the scuttle of spiders; talons dig into solid rock…
Light floods in—
—pupils dilate, green jewels glitter—
—a blue streak, sea air wafts in—
—a heart thuds in anticipation—
—home calls—
—a roar, quick, move, move, don't let it go!—
—it's gone—
—and the dragon rams into the massive wooden door that barricades him in, keeps him from reaching the place where he belongs. It bellows furiously, shoulders violently against the walls, thrashing and flailing. The dragon shoves itself against the harsh stones. He feels the confined space squeeze tighter, moving upon his frame, he can't breathe…
A smell touches his nostrils and sees the outline of mangled flesh, a faint tinge of blood coating the meat. He hears life moving within it, hears the soft sound of tiny wings buzzing. He comes closer to sniff it, bristles at the cumbersome flies, the maggots… The creature glares at piece of meat: it mocks, it taunts, it jeers you'll never be free again, you belong to us—
Teeth snap, talons shred, digging into dead cells, turning it into a pile of something worse than unrecognizable. Angered, heat burns the back of its throat, blasts the mushy, bloody goo and hears the satisfying sound of crackling flesh, boiling blood. The scent of its rage and dead carcasses fills the prison with an unpleasant, nauseating scent. The buzzing returns—
The dragon whips his tail about, wanting to rid of that tedious noise, and when he succeeds in destroying it, the silence is deafening.
He cries well into endless long days and nights, hours upon hours that mesh together into an agonizing circle of time that means little and everything. He never hears its fellow kind scream and thrash save for when their tempers flare from not being fed. Why do they not fight? Even here, the beast refuses to throw its dignity and pride aside—it will not remain quiet, its voice must be heard.
He wishes for his kin to cry with him. It listens for similar outraged howls and hisses, but again they only mewl and whine for food that has no flavor, leftovers and scraps that would not be able to feed even the smallest dragon.
"Why do you not fight? Demand for your freedom! You're dragons!" he'd plea, tongue hardened at the edge, words soft.
"I'm too hungry to fight… Where are they? Why aren't they feeding us?"
He can't be reduced to their level of domestication—crying only when their bellies are empty, forgetting freedom, not being able to remember that they are not owned, they belong to themselves. They're not prizes and trophies: they're the unsung gods that are feared by those who do not comprehend their majesty.
But he is being reduced to a stupid animal and the dragon knew the fact to be true. In his fit of hopeless wrath, he had clawed and bitten into himself, losing all common sense, all plausible thought, and one particular bite had made a nasty mark upon his hind quarter. Is he really being reduced to this?
The dragon felt so useless, felt alone, felt life seeping out of his very marrow.
It's not that the beast was a sociable creature—many dragons are solitary, save for the little ones; but he has no home, no throne to return to; the moon and sun are now farther away than before, and he could no longer feel the exhilarating sensation of wind beneath his wings, sweep over his scaly hide, had no physical claim upon anything.
The dragon no longer was feared. He lost everything.
The light streamed in again; he does not move for the prison is shut before he can even blink.
The flop of a solid thing had hit the ground. The dragon rises onto his haunches, sits tall and straight, looking at the decaying flesh. His stomach rumbles. Even this unappealing crap is beginning to seem decent…
Pride flares, dignity ignites; so does the cadaver.
A mournful groan seeps out from his lips. Why, why is starvation taking so long?
It swallows painfully, is reminded of thirst. Water… the ones outside, the horrid pink things, they never give him water. Tongue heavy, he dreams of cool wetness, the odd way water will pour down into his body, fizz and slightly evaporate from the natural fire that swirls inside his frame, and it feels like warm steam.
Warmth… he wants the sun. Despite the heat that resides in his bowels he wants the beautiful heat that provides life. His blood is always so unbearably cold on its own, frigid ice in his veins.
The world is just outside this miniscule hellhole, beckoning with its tantalizing siren song.
This was all that one's fault. That moronic twig covered in pale pink skin.
Sometimes the dragon didn't know what was worse, the fact he was so stupidly caught by that damned creature or that death wasn't finding it fast enough.
XXX
Hiccup stood before the door, washed in silver, hand just a little bit away from the lock…
What was he doing exactly?
The young man couldn't shake the feeling off. Since coming back to the village, carrying the night's very demon, a godsend of vengeance and fury in true form, Hiccup did not think much about the dragon. His father had been overjoyed beyond all measure, and Hiccup had never felt such love emanate out of his father before. In his childhood, he had never questioned whether or not Stoick loved him as a parent should adore offspring—he'd only surmised that Stoick just never liked him all that much.
Hiccup would often tell the tale in the Great Hall, embarrassed, but brimming with more confidence than he had ever felt in his existence. The only dragon he had ever caught, the very first, and many Vikings are usually quite proud when the youngsters slay or capture their first dragon. But this was no everyday dragon: it was a Night Fury.
"Stoick your son is quite the Viking!"
"To think that the Night Fury is so enormous—well done young Hiccup!"
"Hiccup, m'boy, and ta think you'd done it all with that weird contraption!"
What had pierced his heart was when, on the day they'd brought the Night Fury, Stoick had taken Hiccup aside and, in the lowest, softest voice he'd ever heard him in, murmured, "Your mother would be very proud, my son."
That had meant the world and more.
The other teenagers had begun to treat him differently as well. Snotlout would tease him, but in a joking friendly manner (though Hiccup would still come out with bruises); the twins would romp about and holler his name in public, invite him to hang out. Astrid was the only one who did not change; if anything, she seemed colder, which had caused tension between them.
"She's jealous that you got noticed, that's all, and you didn't even have training like we did," Tuffnut had said within earshot of the young woman.
After she'd pounded Tuffnut into a barrel, she'd looked scornfully at Hiccup and stalked off.
If he was honest with himself the attention was quite dizzying after a while. Luckily, it toned down somewhat but no one was going to forget about his accomplishment for a long time. Gobber had told him that some of the parents were calling him the Night Vanquisher, which the smaller children had made up to honor him. When he walks around, they would call out to him using that moniker and sometimes he would have to remember hard that they mean him.
Everything felt surreal—so surreal and dreamlike that the young lad had actually forgotten about the beast that had given him this glory. It was not until Fishlegs had asked the height, weight and number of shots the dragon could make that Hiccup truly recalled the Night Fury.
Despite his new status, he had subconsciously made certain to avoid the ring. In the night, images were conjured: the sky hazy, the sun's hot face sending flames to lick the ash; black thick clouds would swirl, molding its shape over red tongues, absorbing the ash into its wispy skin, and he'd hear the booming shout of thunder. Lightning flashed, a brilliant white thin strip that stabbed a mountainside, and from the debris, a shadow emerged, powerful, godlike, emanating raw energy, specks of color in the black. Teeth gleamed, perfect rows of moonstones, lightning illuminating the double-edged knives, and they burned crimson stains when the maw opened, the sun peering over the deadly stakes and the scream would burst from his lips when a ray seared into him, obliterating his whole being, the very last thing he would ever hear being the demonic cry for revenge—
Cold sweat clung to his skin and Hiccup would breathe in and out, shuddery weak gasps and he can never remember that dream, though he's had it every night for the past month.
He'd been brought here on a whim, but inside he knew it had to have been for a different accord.
Was this a smart idea? Probably not… there was no one here but him, the door, and the hellish ghoul of darkness that was behind it. This was the only time that he'd be able to see it on his own, for in the day no one would be able to let him view it, observe it, learn about it. But learn what? What had he wanted to keep it for?
He gulped.
One footstep forward…
His digits touch cool metal, pry away the wood.
Gods this was not going to be a smart idea.
Hiccup pulled it with all his strength, the hinges squeaking in protest—
And he looked into the black, saw nothing, nothing but the pair of beryl that reminded him so much of nature in a fit of tumultuous rage.
Air rushes out of his lungs, pinned against the floor of the ring, and he meets the eyes up close, hatred stinging his skin.
No, this was not a smart idea. Not at all…
XXX
The full moon was too much, too much and the beautiful celestial body whispered that now was the time for him to come back, come back and taste freedom, return home.
Solitary confinement had taken its toll upon the mind, the feeling of captivity pressing upon the fragility of his thoughts.
When stark white bathed the floor, spilling heaven's wine upon his senses, the dragon had thought this was another waking dream meant to torment him further. The salty fragrant air, the first breeze to filter into his being nearly made it purr.
Another scent infiltrated its senses, disrupting the perfect moment.
That one: him.
A blur of sable, black lightning in motion, it remembered, breaks from the peace, and pounced upon the creature. Wrath boiled beneath its skin, seeing the puny little nobody that had managed to bring it down. He salivated—not to eat the pathetic little bag of flesh, but for the desire to sink into the body and rip it limb from limb.
The dragon knew that the being knew what it wants to do, saw the flicker of fear and relished it.
It stared into the peculiar shade of green that reminded the beast of the vast ocean when the sun hit the blue just right, reminded it of the forest in which it made its earthly domain. It pinched the small brittle shoulders; saw the wince.
Good.
One quick movement of his jaw and the job would be done. But he wanted more than that—a swift death did not seem like enough; to make the human pay for all that the beast had endured. He wanted more than retribution, more than mere vengeance. He wanted to make the human suffer.
He stares at the human; the human stares back.
Why was the human not screaming, calling for its members to help?
The human licks its fleshy lips, making the dragon snarl.
"I'm sorry,"
The words mean nothing to the dragon though he knows what it means; the tone is what catches it off guard. The remorse, the shame—it puzzled the dragon briefly. No matter.
The human's eyes flicker down somewhere. The dragon growls deep in his chest, not wanting the human to make any movement. Then… he felt something. Something horribly wrong…
Pinning the human closer to the ground, the dragon moves his tail. No…
He whirls around to look, disbelieving, and his left tail fin is gone. It's gone! How can it be gone?
Hiccup rises quickly and scurries over to the farthest corner of the ring, watching in dreaded fascination as the dragon bucks around the vicinity in what looks to be rage but it felt deeper than that. It was so much more than that. It does not make a sound, aware that if it does the others would come and lock it away again. Hiccup knew it was intelligent but thought that it might be more animalistic. It certainly was behaving like one, having realized an important piece of its appendage was torn, ripped away forever.
And that is his fault too.
Hiccup tried to ease along the side of the ring to safety but that was a mistake as soon as his body went through with it. The dragon recalled that he was there and snarls quietly; eyeing him with such intensity he froze to the spot. His eyes glance at the missing fin; the dragon lets out a warning growl.
Hiccup kneels down slowly, just staring, knowing that nothing can be done. He'll be killed before the first Viking enters the ring if he calls for aid.
The dragon and he stare for what feels an eternity.
Hiccup licks his lips once more; leans a little inward. The dragon bares its teeth.
"I… I'm sorry."
The dragon narrows its eyes.
Hiccup swallows, trying to clear the sudden dry cavern, the tight esophagus. "Look… I didn't mean…" no he couldn't say that—he had meant to catch it. But had he meant to inflict such damage, no, he did not.
Shadows moved and the beast blended perfectly with the black, silver painting the hide aglow with richness. Hiccup lowered himself to a sitting position. The dragon mimicked his movement by lowering its belly upon the ground, resembling a gigantic serpent.
The soft hisses that came toward him sent shivers down his spine. Hiccup cleared his throat again, saw the elongated ears twitch; the claws drag across the ground…
What was he to do? Why had he kept this thing that causes him nightmares he could never remember as soon as he woke up? He wanted to save its life but look at how well that went. The dragon, obviously, would have preferred death above anything and everything if it could not have its freedom. Hiccup saw, even in the dim moving light, that the dragon was not faring well.
Rising to full height, the young Viking takes a tentative step forward; it hisses.
Hiccup was not sure if he wanted to put the humongous being back in its place. He is sure that he will not be able to, not by himself. He should attempt it though…
"Go back in."
Shadows remain stiff.
He takes another step towards it, hand outstretched. There's no sound this time but he feels its eyes. "It's alright. I'm not going to hurt you."
He finds it peculiar; the way the human is speaking to him, as though he were a dumb, lame creature. He didn't like that pity coating each word either, that tone that grates his ears. He rises, causing the human to halt in his tracks. He fights back the burble of laughter that threatens his intimidating pose. He knew what the human was saying. Return to his prison. He bit back the growl. One does not dwell amongst their enemies without learning how they speak and what the words mean. His brethren could comprehend the words, but only a fair few knew them all completely like he does.
He did not want to be ordered around like some pathetic sniveling pet. He wants this human to pay. But without his tail fin… he feels another fresh pang of loss sweep along and through him. To lose his ability to fly… is he no longer a dragon?
Hiccup continues to look at the dragon, not wanting to waver. His gaze flickers down at the tail, hears the snarl and immediately returns his eyes back upwards. Did it want to mourn in privacy? He does not understand the creature, but it was worth a try…
The Viking comes forward, pulling the gate further open. He clears his throat. Waits… and to his astonishment the dragon, too, moves toward its cell, shoulders tense, a rumbling reverberating within its broad chest. As Hiccup shuts the gate, he does not see the stance droop, see the dragon flop upon the ground, lifeless, questioning if it should just give up.
What good was a dragon if he cannot fly?
XXX
The dragon continues to look at him. It has not lost its ability to think.
Since that night Hiccup has made it his business to come every evening, when all have fallen asleep, to check on the dragon. Setting the torch onto one of the drier places of the cell, for he'd never guessed it'd be so damp at nightfall, he reaches into the basket, wet from fish slime and water, and pulls out a trout. He dangles it in front of dragon's face, not mockingly, just to show what he had brought it.
The dragon only remains unmoving. Half the time he feels its eyes bore into him and the other half is when the beast ignores him completely, a forlorn appearance spreading over its demonic features and he'd feel the guilt nettle.
But what does a dragon think about that causes such sadness to be display to the world? This one clearly wants to kill him—that can be seen by anyone. Hiccup only knows one thing that could make it look so miserable: the loss of flight.
The human continues to stare. The dragon wishes the thing was gone from sight.
Hiccup sighs, "Well, this is difficult…"
Silence.
"I am sorry about this whole thing," he says to it, knowing it won't have a clue what he's saying.
Nothing: only hate borne on invisible waves.
"You probably want to kill me. I know that much about you."
He doesn't see the dragon look at him differently.
The Viking chuckles a little, "You'd have to wait in line for that—there's bound to be some people that want to do that first still."
Suddenly, the dragon snorts, rolls its eyes.
Hiccup stares, trying to place whether or not he had imagined it. He sees the dragon resume looking at him, vigilant in its gaze. And his own thought hits him: why he wanted it saved, the level of intelligence that he never sees in any creature but his own kind, the look just now, the subconscious recollection of a cry that resounds in his sleep. And something else—the way his ancestors used to talk about dragons, that the dragons were creatures that communicated in their own special way, creations of the gods that they used to strike fear into man.
Or speak to them.
"You understand me."
The dragon rises, suspicious.
And he figures out the truth of why he wanted it, even though he hadn't known it before. Maybe the gods had sent it to him… "Teach me your language."