The horn blew again, and they were off, dragons pumping their wings as they launched themselves into the air. The rush of wind past John's ear felt cold and intense and oh so refreshing. Baldr's wing beats below him belied the same strength and excitement John himself was experiencing. As the two of them took to the sky, John let his preoccupation with Sherlock Holmes and his stupid smirk remain behind him on the ground. This, right here and now, was what John Watson was born to do.
To fly.
Well, to ride, technically, but the distinction was practically irrelevant. One of the things that made John such a skilled rider was the way he and Baldr worked together. Some people, watching John even as a youth, had commented on how when they flew together, the rider and dragon appeared to be one.
That was certainly how it felt, especially during races, when the audience and end goal was so palpable and - in the former's case - loud. John and Baldr flew up to the correct altitude, the screams of the spectators fading slightly under the rushing wind. Once they had climbed to the prescribed height, they leveled out and shot forward.
The race course was altered slightly each time, and though it always followed the same sort of format and direction in general, the contestants never knew what to expect specifically. It began and ended at the dragon training enclosure, making a wide loop around the island. Sometimes the course, which was marked by flags on tall poles, deviated from the shore to cross through some of the natural obstacles the island provided. The reptilian-human teams of two had only two objectives: stay within the flags' path - not above or below the altitude and directional marks on them - and to get through the course as quickly as possible. It wasn't called a race for nothing, after all.
Baldr gave a shriek of excitement as they whipped past the first flag, the arrow fluttering on its surface pointing them east. John grinned. They were being shepherded to the woods, which was always a delight. The trees were immense, much taller than the altitude of the flight path, and were populated by dozens of wild dragons. Not overly aggressive creatures but simply untrained to carry humans. However, if the race contestants slowed down too much, a frequent necessity in the dense woods, the smaller wild dragons would shoot out spurts of flame to encourage the intruders to leave the territory that didn't belong to them. These defense mechanisms, though understandable, had resulted in many burns and crashes over the years. None too serious, but a common enough occurrence that any time the race led through the woods, many teams protested.
As if on cue, John heard Molly cry out behind him. "You've got to be kidding me!" She sounded exasperated, and John couldn't help the laugh that slipped past his lips.
"Oh, shut your face, Watson!" she yelled.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. "Love you too, Molls!"
Baldr leaned to the side as the next set of flags turned them farther into the woods, and John leaned with him, enabling the turn to sharpen further. He bit down a whoop of exhilaration and focused on the next bit - the trees in this area were the oldest and tallest, their trunks barely allowing for clearance of a dragon with its wings fully extended.
Time for some creative navigating. And potentially thrilling heroics.
But John and Baldr had done this more times than he could count. Baldr kept his wings close to his body, half-folded in, tilting and twisting and using the wind he created to propel forward. John eased them in and out of curves, avoiding side branches of trees as best he could. Still, they could never avoid a few nicks and scratches. Well, John couldn't; Baldr's scaly hide protected him. They swooped through the trees, weaving left and right, up and down, following the flags and taking advantage of any clearings to flap. Small blasts of flame sometimes shot out from trees, and angry growls from the wild dragons echoed behind them. But John and Baldr ducked them all, feeling the heat but never the burn.
When they burst through the trees into the bright sunlight again, John heard a horn bellow. It was a signal to the villagers, who often scattered throughout the less-dangerous terrain of the race path, that the riders were emerging. John raised his eyes to the open expanse of shore before him. They were first to emerge, in the lead as always. A smug grin spread across this face...
A grin which was abruptly erased as a streak of purple and black suddenly rushed past them. He blinked, and Baldr tensed. It was Sherlock and his dragon, whatever her name was.
"Oh you've got to be kidding me," John muttered and he and Baldr launched themselves forward even faster, until they were directly in line with the other team.
Sherlock ignored him, focused on the race path, which was curving again toward the cliffs on the shore. In a quarter of a mile, the headlands stood, battered by waves and wind. Several had tall, narrow arches, which the riders were usually expected to fly through. The thin gap usually made Baldr nervous, a fear resulting from an injury when he was younger attempting the same stunt with John. However, confronted with Sherlock, the scarlet dragon only let out a growl and fearlessly winged his way toward the arches.
"Not unlike the pillars, is it?" Sherlock shouted without warning. "I hope you'll keep in the air this time, Watson."
John would later hate himself for allowing it, but the goading worked. He glanced over and yelled back. "I could say the same to you, Holmes!"
Baldr shrieked and faltered, clearly startled, and John cursed. He righted them, patting Baldr's side. "Sorry." But the correction cost them valuable seconds, and the narrow arches - a row of about a half-dozen - were approaching rapidly. John groaned as Sherlock swept into the arch first, his dragon's sleeker body a javelin as they shot through. John and Baldr rushed through, a tighter fit that always made John clench his teeth.
The next instant, however, as the two teams soared around a curve in the cliff, a massive gust of wind from the west blasted in. John watched in shock as Sherlock's dragon, her wings fully extended at just the wrong moment, was blown backwards. He forced his gaze forward as he and Baldr regained the lead, knowing that Sherlock Holmes and his fearsome dragon were probably on a collision course with the cliffs and then the water.
It was a thought that shouldn't have bothered him, considering his dislike of the other rider. But for some reason, it did.
"Come on, Baldr," he said, ignoring the slight pang of worry in his gut. And they soared away, following the flags back around to the village and the finish line.
Sherlock wasn't expecting the wind when it hit, and it slammed all the breath from his lungs so he couldn't even cry out. If he had not been strapped onto Asteria so securely, then he surely would have fallen into the ocean. Asteria's wings had been spread, trying to gain the altitude dictated by the upcoming flag, so she was thrown like a sailboat caught on a tidal wave. Pushed backward, the force of the air too much for her slender body, she was as helpless as Sherlock in that moment.
But by some miracle, their trajectory did not prove to be injurious. Only the tip of her wing caught on the headland arch, for barely an instant, but the rest of her body was pushed back through without any impact with stone. Then, safely on the other side of the cliff's curve, she and Sherlock managed to right themselves.
"Are you alright?" Molly's voice carried over. She and her emerald dragon passed them, but Sherlock caught the briefest of glimpses of her wide eyes.
He glanced at Asteria, who was heaving for breath but had fiery determination in her eyes. He smirked, and she seemed to read his mind. Without slowing their continuing momentum caused by the wind, they flipped over in the air, reversing their direction in a massive but quick loop. Straightening into a rod again, Asteria shot past Molly. Sherlock winked at her as they passed, then they were back around the curve again.
The wind was still strong, but manageable now that they were prepared for it. Asteria, always quick to adapt, this time used its gusts to push herself upward over the cliff to the next flag. Clearing the worst of the rough air currents, Sherlock could see the village again. The final obstacle appeared to be a flat area, one he and Asteria had seen the previous week. Black dragons lived underground but weren't afraid to snap out at any intruders.
Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. John was ahead, a good rider yes, but clearly more relaxed than he should be so close to the end. He obviously was not counting on any close competition, even with Molly within sight had he bothered to look back.
And he obviously was not counting on Sherlock either.
Asteria pushed forward, her streamlined body whipping through and around the air currents as if possessing them. Sherlock bent down as low as he could - the very thing the cocky John Watson was not doing - and they started gaining.
They reached the flats, and the first of the wild dragons shot their necks up, long rippling spurts of orange fire flaring out at them. But Asteria managed to evade them all with either speed or agility. Sherlock only felt a slight singe on his hand, but otherwise the leather protected him. They were nearly there, and Sherlock let himself really believe for the first time since the race had started that they may be able to win. Lovely.
Up ahead, John and Baldr were stopped short as a massive black dragon ripped itself free of its underground home and roared. Baldr did his best to backtrack, but the much larger dragon was simply too domineering.
Before Sherlock could see if the other team managed to extract themselves from the situation, he and Asteria were past them. He grinned, and Asteria gave a happy gurgle.
Enjoy second place, Watson, he gloated silently. And enjoy being taken down off your precious pedestal.
Asteria winged her way over the rooftops, letting loose several puffs of purple-tinged smoke in response to the cheers of the villagers. But to Sherlock's surprise, Baldr pulled up beside them.
"You're aren't the only one with a few acrobatic tricks, Holmes," John Watson looked so smug, but for some reason it didn't grate on Sherlock like he so very wanted it to. In fact, he felt rather impressed. He regretted not seeing how the man had extricated himself and his dragon so quickly, and without more than a single visible injury, a small cut on John's cheek.
The final dash was aggressive. When it came to interacting with the other teams, breathing fire at opponents was strictly forbidden, but nothing else was explicitly mentioned. As long as they weren't cheating, the teams could nip and swipe at each other all they wanted. Barbaric, yes, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to care when he nearly received a swipe from the sharp tip of Baldr's wing, and Asteria got so irritated with the neck-and-neck nature of things that she too lashed out. Both teams twisted and rolled through the air, neither willing to concede a second place finish, nor to allow the other to win. Sherlock, for his part, was determined to not let John Watson, proud and entitled John Watson, to not get the lesson in humility he seemed to so desperately need. He barely paid attention to the terrain below them, only focused on the final few flags and the team beside him.
John Watson would not win this race, he vowed as they passed the penultimate flag. Asteria was tense beneath him, obviously in agreement with her rider.
This promise only proved half true, it turned out. Sherlock saw it as Asteria swooped over the finish line and the crowd exploded into screams and wild applause. The sound was deafening, exhilarating, and Sherlock could see why racing here was so popular. It was adrenaline-fueled passionate flight, and he loved it.
And he had tied for first. His first real race and he had tied for first.
For a few moments, as Asteria took a short victory lap over the heads of the spectators, Sherlock let himself bask in the sound and light, for once appreciating the wind and sun and freedom. And he'd won, he reminded himself. John did not have a monopoly on bragging rights anymore. Mission accomplished.
They landed on the platform where they had started to watch the remaining teams finish (Molly coming in second), and Sherlock carefully schooled his expression, though internally he was cheering just as loud as the villagers. He glanced at John as he pulled off his helmet and tried to smooth his messy curls. John was glaring daggers, and Sherlock was certain that had the man been a dragon, rings of smoke would be billowing out of his nose. He looked ready and willing to scream.
Well, this would be interesting.
Now I know how JK Rowling felt writing all those Quidditch games. It's a strange and difficult experience.
