Snart's Saga, Part I Chapter 2
If a warrior from Hulm village had approached an injured dragon, alone and unarmed, his fellows probably would have written songs about him. It would be called an amazingly brave act (and a foolish one, though that word wouldn't be in the song). But when Snart went back to his woodlot to face the injured dragon, alone and unarmed, no songs were written, and no one saw it but the dragon.
He didn't feel very heroic. He was carrying an armful of light timbers, rope, and some worn-out saddle blankets from the barn. He had no plan beyond setting the broken bone; even his need for firewood had taken a back seat to this insane new idea. The dragon had not moved by the time he returned. He took a deep breath and slowly approached his people's great enemy again.
To his surprise, the dragon slowly extended its injured wing. How much had it understood him? How intelligent were dragons, anyway? Probably no one knew — dragons were for killing, nothing more. A thought passed through his mind: he might be learning things about the huge lizards that no one else knew, because no one else had ever asked the right questions before. But his mind was on the impossible task before him.
"I need you" — he pointed to the dragon — "to fold your wing. Like this." He demonstrated with his arm. The dragon chuffed, its hot breath raising a cloud of steam in the cold air. He showed it again. This time, the Nadder folded its wing as best it could. He saw it wince when the wing would fold no farther. He wrapped the blankets around the timbers, and put the ropes nearby. Now, for the hard part.
"This is going to hurt," he said. He flexed his arm, made a crunching sound, and grabbed his elbow as if it hurt. The dragon's eye went wide and it stepped away from him. He showed it his empty palms, tried to sound reassuring. "It's the only way I can help you," he said, almost pleading with it. "If I don't fix your wing, you'll die. And if you lash out and kill me, you'll die. It's going to hurt, but it's the only way."
For several long seconds, nothing happened. Then, slowly, reluctantly, the Nadder stepped back toward him and lay down in the snow. It quivered as he laid both his hands on the wing. "I'll try to do this quickly," he said.
When he turned the broken bone to set it, the dragon let out a howl of pain that must have been audible all the way to the village. Its body went rigid; its tail lashed the ground and its spines stood erect. Behind him, he heard the clash of teeth and felt a sudden draft, as though the dragon had tried to bite him and held itself back at the last moment. But it didn't move, and it didn't unfurl its wing. Snart felt the broken ends fit together. Working fast, he laid a wrapped timber against each side of the folded wing. He tied them together with the ropes to make a splint. The blankets would keep the timbers from rubbing the skin of the wing. He stepped back to examine his handiwork.
The Nadder slowly relaxed. It looked back at its splinted wing, then at him. It seemed confused. Had it thought he was going to make it all better with a touch? It tried to move the wing. It flexed at the shoulder normally, but the splint kept it from bending in any other way. It stumbled to its feet and reached its head back to bite at the splint.
"No, no, no, you can't do that!" Snart shouted, then softened his voice. "It's going to take at least six weeks to heal. Well, it would take a human six weeks; I don't know about dragon bones. Torden og lyn! How do I make you understand about six weeks?" He'd already done something close to a miracle; he wasn't going to be stopped now.
He found a small rise where the snow wasn't so deep. He brushed away the snow and the pine needles until he had a bare patch of ground showing. A chuffing sound and a cloud of steam told him that the dragon was watching over his shoulder. Could he communicate the concept of passing time to this animal, this killer?
"Okay, that's the sun up in the sky." He pointed. "When it goes down" — he gestured with his arm — "and comes up again" — he gestured with the other arm — "that's one day." He drew a circle in the dirt with his finger. "When the sun goes down and comes up again, that's another day." He drew another circle. "Your wing" — he pointed at it — "is going to take forty-two days to heal." He drew in the dirt until he had six rows of seven circles. The dragon watched, silent, motionless. Was it getting the idea at all?
Snart stood up. He found himself looking straight at the dragon's nose. The Nadder suddenly lifted its head and turned it to the side so it could watch him with one eye. Could the dragon have a blind spot right in front of its head? The way its eyes were placed, it seemed possible, and it definitely preferred to keep one side of its head toward him. He would have to remember that.
"Okay, six weeks. I'll be here every day to check on you, and... hey, you'll need to eat, won't you? What do you dragons eat, anyway?" The dragon stared, uncomprehending. "Oh, that's right. Whatever you can steal. I'll see if I have anything in the cellar that might be fresh enough to interest a dragon. Come to think of it, I'm getting hungry, too."
He turned for home. The dragon turned as if to follow him. "No! No, you can't follow me. If those burned-out villagers come here to buy some food, they'll see you, and they'll kill you. Both of us. There's not much chance of them coming here, but..." He pointed to the clearing in the woodlot, then repeated his walk-away, walk-back gestures. The Nadder seemed to understand, and returned to the clearing.
The afternoon was well past when Snart returned with a bag of food. He offered each kind of meat to the dragon from about five feet away, then tossed it into the gaping mouth. It accepted the chicken, it wasn't enthusiastic about the mutton, and it rejected the beef, but it swallowed the codfish with obvious enjoyment. "So you like fish? That's good. Fish are easy to find around here." He sat down on the empty food bag, with his back against a tree, and pulled out his own lunch.
Without warning, the dragon stepped toward him, flexing its neck and making an odd choking noise. Was it going to breathe fire on him? He cringed. The next thing he knew, half a codfish was lying next to him on the snow. The dragon looked down on him and waited.
"I shared my food with you, so you're sharing yours with me? Is that it? Well, thank you. I'll eat it later, after I cook it." He put it in his lap and tried to return to his dried-beef sandwich. The dragon blew a puff of steam at him from its nose and stomped the ground.
"Now, not later?" Snart sighed. "Well, you're bigger than me, so I guess I shouldn't argue with you." He reluctantly picked up the fish, found a fleshy part, and took a bite. It took effort to chew it and swallow it. This appeared to satisfy the dragon. It walked a few steps away and lay down, and was soon asleep.
Snart took a long look at the great beast. He realized that he had probably spent more time next to a dragon than any other Viking and survived. It hadn't attacked him; it had let him set its broken bone; and they had shared a meal together. Of course, no one would believe him if he tried to tell the tale. And if they did believe him, they'd cast him out of the village for letting a dragon live when he had the chance to kill it. For the first time in a very long while, Snart wished there was someone he could talk to. His childhood sweetheart, long since married to someone else, would not have understood; she had been far too traditional in her thinking. His childhood best friend, now a warrior who had no time for a lowly farmer, would have killed the thing outright. He didn't know anyone else he could talk to about this.
He rose, stretched, and looked for his axe. He still needed some firewood, if only to get him through the night. He selected a few small trees on the edges of the woodlot, cut them down quickly, and dragged them home, where he cut them to length and carried them inside. It was past sunset when he was done. He ate a quick supper, collapsed onto his bed, and fell into a deep sleep.
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A/N Torden og lyn! — Thunder and lightning! (I use a few Norwegian words throughout the story for verisimilitude)