Age One: Eye-Of-The-Storm the StormCutter
Eye-Of-The-Storm snuck through the human village during the dark of the moon. Her nest-brother (who now insisted on being referred to as Cloudjumper, rather than Leaping-Over-Dark-Clouds) had sounded so happy when speaking of the mate-of-his-heart that she needed to see this strange human for herself. This human female had a life-mate of her own and a hatchling, which were the only reasons Clever-Paws hadn't left the humans to join their flock.
Her nest-brother could think too often with his heart, rather than his head, so Eye-Of-The-Storm took it upon herself to check on Clever-Paws in her own den. It was large and wooden, with a single open hole towards the top. She hrrred a little in thought. Smart humans, not leaving their den open to the elements and predators, but how were they to escape if something set the wood on fire? This seemed to be a common failing among the squishy two-legs.
She could smell Clever-Paws and CloudJumper, so Eye-Of-The-Storm carefully climbed the side of the den to the hole. She could be quite stealthy when she wanted to be, despite her size and four wings.
When she pushed her head against the hole, she was surprised. There was no Clever-Paws, just her tiny hatchling! She let out an involuntary coo at the sight of pudgy pale forepaws emerging from a squirming bundle and the rounded softness of his head. While much different from a dragon hatchling, which was sturdier and capable of independent movement from the moment of birth, the human hatchling was similarly adorable. If not more vulnerable.
She cooed again, for the pleasure of it, and was shocked when the hatchling cooed back. He had rolled over in the padded nest, and bright green eyes were staring at her over a gummy smile (a smile being something humans did to show happiness). Eye-Of-The-Storm tilted her head to one side. The hatchling gurgled and waved a paw. Clear fluid dribbled from his mouth.
The den-hole wasn't very big, but there was enough space for Eye-Of-The-Storm to slide her head and neck in, if she tucked in her wings and twisted her head enough to fit in her crest. This brought her close enough to the hatchling to touch. Despite seeing his paw coming, the StormCutter couldn't help but flinch at the soft, slightly damp contact against her crest. She had never been touched by a human before. The hatchling gurgled again and came back with both paws. She shifted a little and nudged the hatchling in the stomach with as much gentleness as she could muster. This brought out the loudest gurgles yet. The scent of his happiness permeated the air.
Sniffing at the furs and nudging them away, Eye-Of-The-Storm couldn't find her nest-brother's scent.
He hasn't claimed you as kin yet? She asked the hatchling incredulously. The tiny being cooed and blew a bubble.
Eye-Of-The-Storm shook her crest slowly. Too much heart, not enough head, she grumbled wearily. That was just like CloudJumper. He was probably too smitten with his mate-of-his-heart to consider what such a claiming meant to Clever-Hands hatchling. So she'd just do it for him.
Her tongue rasped roughly over the hatchling's shoulder. A thin coat of saliva and more importantly, her scent, covered the soft skin. There, she hummed, you're a part of the flock now, hatchling. I'll make sure my nest-brother doesn't infect you with his stupidity – you can be fast and smart like me.
The hatchling cooed like it understood her, shoved both hands into his mouth, and pulled them out to drag along her crest. She blinked. Are you claiming me too, little one? Wet hands moved underneath one of her eyes and patted.
Eye-Of-The-Storm huffed a light, warm breath over the hatchling, who sneeze once before settling. Tiny, delicate eyelids blinked closed over those bright eyes. His hands still pressed against her scales, and she was loathe to move and disturb the hatchling. But the sun would be rising soon, and she needed to be out of the human village by then.
Shifting backwards a little, Eye-Of-The-Storm grasped the furs and dragged them over the tiny creature. On her way out, she hrrred another warm breath over the hatchling.
There. That will keep him warm.
(She regretted, years afterwards, not going back to the human-village after her nest-brother took the hatchling's dam away. The hatchling deserved better than a flock-claim so quickly ignored)
Age Three: Mist-At-Dusk the RainCutter
Mist-At-Dusk was enjoying the storm. Far above and away he could hear a flock of Skrill's roaring, booming, letting their inner lightning mingle with the storm. He was perfectly content chasing raindrops, shattering them and admiring the shine, slicing them to test the edges of his wings.
Of course, that's when he heard it.
Something was crying in the rain.
It was coming from deeper in the forest, near a basin he could remember finding during the last storm. It was beautiful, but too close to the human village to visit regularly. Normally he wouldn't be able to tear himself away from playing in the rain, but something in that cry cut something in his chest like another RainCutter had sliced past without knowing he was in the way. It wasn't until he got closer that he realised just what was wrong with that cry.
It wasn't of a lost hatchling, crying for its mother. It wasn't scared. It was lonely, and hurt, and sad. It sounded like his Dam, after his nest-sister got taken by Red-Queen-Alpha – like the dragon she was crying for was never going to come back.
Mist-At-Dusk flapped harder, sending raindrops scattering in a way that would normally amuse him. Now? Now he was scared.
He pulled to a stop at the edge of the basin and stared around wildly. Where was the other dragon? Because it had to be a dragon. No other creature could sound so – sound so mournful. But there was no flash of scales, no wisp of fire or grind of talons into rock. Just a rippling lake, and a wet, shuddering form crouched by the edge of it. Mist-At-Dusk dropped down onto a rock outcrop and stared.
A – A hatchling?! A human hatchling?! He growled. Another glance around saw no other living creature. Where is its dam? Its sire? Mist-At-Dusk didn't care very much for humans – too sharp, too angry, too greedy – but hatchlings of any kind are to be treasured. He had only just left hatchling-hood behind himself. He couldn't image his dam leaving him out alone, especially not if he were crying like that.
And the hatchling was still crying. It – he, he realised after a moment of scenting the air – turned his pale face towards the storm and cried out once more. He was tiny and shuddering.
Mist-At-Dusk made up his mind. He leapt off the rock and swung towards the lake. When he dipped and twisted, the wave he created in the water was magnificent. The hatchling's cries stopped. He swung around again and sliced at some of the larger raindrops. They scattered beautifully around his blue-speckled scales, and the deep green underneath looked bright compared to the dark clouds around him. Glancing at the hatchling – who was standing now, with jaw wide open - Mist-At-Dusk flew high above the lake before curling his wings around himself as he dived. Spinning rapidly made the splash from his entry even more dramatic, water flying out of the lake in a large spiral. It looked even better from above, but the hatchling seemed to like it if his cries – happy, excited – were anything to go by.
He huffed as he swam to the lakes edge. He still wasn't strong enough to take off directly from the water like the larger RainCutters. The hatchling stumbled over his feet when Mist-At-Dusk came closer.
Did you like it? He hrrred.
Much to his surprise, the hatchling waved his forepaws around as he jumped up and down. He ran closer to Mist-At-Dusk, making him take a step back, before swinging around with both forepaws outstretched. He's copying me, he realised after a moment, as skinny forepaws made sparkles out of raindrops.
The hatchling was acting like a RainCutter, using his 'wings' to slash at the water near the lake's edge and send it into the air in mini arcs.
Huffing, Mist-At-Dusk decided to show the hatchling how it was really done.
Together, dragon and human splashed at the water, slashed at raindrops, stomped in the mud, and just generally made a mess of themselves and each other.
Once the hatchling started to shiver, Mist-At-Dusk called a stop to their game. He ducked under the water for a moment to rinse off the last of the grim before carefully herding the human towards a cave.
You need to warm up, he hrrred. Little humans shouldn't get so cold.
After everything they just did, the only thing that made the human smell of fear was when Mist-At-Dusk tried to nudge at his side. Then he smelt pain and growled. Why do you hurt, hatchling? He nudged at the hatchling's forepaws, which stopped that horrible fear smell, before hooking the damp furs with his nose-spike and tearing. As the hatchling grabbed the furs, he was able to pull back far enough to see it. A dark mark, similar in colour to Mist-At-Dusk's scales, curved over his shoulder. It looked like a human paw.
He growled again. No one hurts a hatchling.
Said hatchling cooed shakily and pet gently at his nose spike.
Silly hatchling, he hrrred, shaking his head slowly. I'm not angry at you.
Mist-At-Dusk curled up around the hatchling, resting his head beside the shivering body and drawing his wing over them both. This close, he could smell the fading claim of a StormCutter. Interesting.
We should play in the rain again, he cooed lowly. Mist-At-Dusk was feeling warm and content now. Maybe I can show you what the rain clouds look like when you slice them really, really quickly…
Age Five: Tides-At-Waning-Moon the ThunderDrum
The ThunderDrum, who called herself Tides-At-Waning-Moon, was not expecting to come across a human hatchling this far away from human settlements. After all, how can any human slip through the cracks that connect this cave with the island above, or swim up the deep underwater passage?
But nevertheless, a hatchling was making curious noises in the shallows of the cave, tiny despite the fur pelts wrapped around him.
Tides-At-Waning-Moon tilted her head. She was well hidden in the shadows, mouth closed and flattening her head till only her eyes and head-spikes were visible above the water. He didn't seem scared. Was his sire around? Sniffing the air, she could detect fish (both fresh and dead), sea week, tepid water, the unique scent of the hatchling (like embers and molten metal, ashes and earth), RainCutter, wet fur – wait, another dragon?
Being a water dragon, Tides-At-Waning-Moon wasn't as adept as her brethren in deciphering the nuances of scents. She never really had to. But she could distinctly smell a RainCutter – over the scent of the hatchling's own sire, which meant that he had to be spending quite some time with another dragon.
This realisation shadowed any wariness the ThunderDrum might have (a human is still a human, no matter how tiny) and she moved closer to the creature poking at the water's edge. The cave wasn't very large, made up predominately of the deep pool leading to the underwater passage. Large, skinny rocks hung down from the roof and poked up from the ground, like her teeth. In between some of the roof-rocks were cracks – too small for anything substantial to pass through – that steadily dripped water. They connected to a rocky bay some distance from the human settlement. The hatchling must have fallen from the largest crack, barely a Terror's wingspan wide at its largest point.
He was trying to climb back up to it.
The hatchling was huffing as he clawed his way up the nearest rock. It was slow progress, given his lack of size and strength, but the hatchling managed to get halfway up (a considerable distance) before losing his grip and sliding. The sharp tang of human-blood spread through the cave as he hit the ground with a ringing cry.
That cry called to something inside the ThunderDrum. She was reminded of her own hatchlings – gone for many moons now, fully grown and searching for their own hunting grounds – and the sounds they would make after losing a fight with other dragons or mistaking a predator for prey. It was hurt and scared and I'm alone. It was a sound the hatchling was trying to stifle, hiding his mouth behind his paws.
Salt water, different from that which lay around Tides-At-Waning-Moon, wafted from the hatchling. His cries had stopped, but his body still shuddered.
She cooed. Where's your sire, hatchling? Where's your dam?
Shockingly, the hatchling swung around immediately, bright eyes meeting hers despite the shadows. He let out another noise – shock surprise curious – and started to crawl to the water's edge.
And edge which had gotten a lot closer to him. The tide was rising.
The hatchling cooed in her direction, without any kind of message behind it. When she swam closer, he gurgled in glee. Lifting her head fully out of the water, almost beaching herself in the shallows, Tides-At-Waning-Moon was surprised to not smell any fear. Instead, the hatchling looked excited.
He began to babble in human words. When that didn't garner any reaction from her, he switched to short, melodic hrrrs. Pretty, he said haltingly. Big strong, water glinting off scales, pretty.
Tides-At-Waning-Moon couldn't help but preen, twisting her body to better show off her deep blue scales and spotless spikes. He'd definitely been spending time with a RainCutter – those speckled dragons didn't miss a chance to admire water droplets and had dozens of compliments regarding such things. The hatchling reached out with a bloodied paw to touch her nose spike and despite herself, she snarled.
The hatchling immediately threw himself backwards and curled up into a ball, paws cradling his head. The stench of his fear made her nose itch.
She sneezed.
The hatchling made a chuffing sound, the bitter smell cut through with a happier scent. He glanced out of the protective circle of his forepaws, mouth twitching.
You liked that? Tides-At-Waning-Moon cooed. She sniffed, hard, and forced another sneeze. The hatchling responded with another chuff and she couldn't help but melt. You are quite adorable, she told the hatchling, I'm not going to hurt something so precious.
He must have understood some of what she said, because the hatchling slowly uncurled his forepaws and came closer, back paws disappearing into the water. He didn't reach out again.
Tides-At-Waning-Moon huffed and scrambled at the soft sand and rock that made up the caves base. This pushed her far enough into the shallows to brush against the hatchling's middle with her nose spike. He chuffed again before petting the ThunderDrum with the soft skin on the back of his paws, curling the longer appendages protectively over the bloody insides. She cooed sadly. Unlike other dragons, ThunderDrums didn't have tongues due to their expansive jaws and ability to release waves of sound. She would have liked to soothe his wounds.
They stayed like that for some time, Tides-At-Waning-Moon closing her eyes and hrrring at the gentle sensation. It was interrupted by a warbling cry – a RainCutter was trying to force his head through the roof-crack.
Little-Ember! He cried. Are you here tiny one? Little-Ember! The RainCutter was barely out of hatchling-hood himself, Tides-At-Waning-Moon noticed as he shoved his snout into the crack. There was still evidence of an egg-beak, if mostly gone, and a patch of soft-scales.
Mist-At-Dusk! The hatchling cried in return. Here! Safe! He scrambled out of the water – which had shifted to his middle without her noticing – and ran closer to the crack. The sounds of crumbing rock stopped as the hatchling came into the RainCutter's view.
Can't leave you along for a moment, troublesome Little-Ember! The fellow dragon grumbled. Wander into a Nadder's nest, and then who'll play in the rain with me?
Tides-At-Waning-Moon shivered a little in amusement. All hatchlings find trouble, she cooed, they are attracted to it like Terrible Terrors to shiny lights.
An acrid, fearful scent wafted from the crack. Who has Little-Ember! The RainCutter growled. Give me back the tiny one or I'll cut you! I'll slice you and cut you and slash you and –
Her growl was louder, especially given the echo of the cave. You shall do no such thing hatchling! Tides-At-Waning-Moon hauled herself closer to the crack, stubby legs scrabbling at the ground. Calm yourself!
The hatchling pulled away from the crack to pet at the underside of her jaw. At the same time, he started cooing soothingly – calm calm, raindrops on lake, no fighting, all safe here, calm calm.
The RainCutter hrrred back. Silly tiny one – get out of the way!
Tides-At-Waning-Moon was amused to see the hatchling growl in response – it wasn't very intimidating, but quite adorable. No no no. Calm down. No fighting.
No fighting, she cooed soothingly. Brushing past the hatchling, Tides-At-Waning-Moon looked up at the RainCutter. From here, she could see the colours now – bright blue nose spike, fading into deep green along the snout and jaw. When the other dragon pulled back a little, she saw its eyes.
A ThunderDrum? He cooed questioningly. Lucky Little-Ember wasn't eaten!
Hatchling is too tiny, Tides-At-Waning-Moon grumbled back. Lots of bones, not enough meat. And too adorable, she added as an afterthought.
The RainCutter released a gravelly chortle in agreement.
The hatchling snarled. Not tiny!
Two sets of eyes met and rolled in unison. Hatchlings.
The comforting sensation of water swirling around her paws drew her attention back to the rising tide. The hatchling shivered beside her, where the water had risen to his waist once more. They had to get him out.
The hatchling must have noticed the same thing, because he wrapped his forepaws around her nose spike, pressing his face fearlessly against her teeth. Thank you, he hrrred haltingly. Gratitude swirled with sadness, muddying the clear notes of embers, ashes and heated metal in his scent.
I shall see you again, hatchling, Tides-At-Waning-Moon hummed in the depths of her throat. She wasn't going to leave a clearly accident-prone hatchling to the care of another hatchling.
Be ready to catch, she growled up to the RainCutter, who nodded with a confused hum.
The yelp the hatchling made as she caught his furs in her teeth was sharp. His squeal as she tossed him into the air was excited. It banished the lingering tones of sadness. The RainCutter caught him with his nose spike, hooding the furs neatly and drawing the hatchling out of sight.
After a moment, his pale face appeared. Play again soon!
Tides-At-Waning-Moon huffed. Play again soon. That hatchling really was quite adorable, she mused as the rising tide prompted a return under the water.
Age Eight: Sparks-In-Forest the Terrible Terror
Sparks-In-Forest grumbled as he struggled against the net. No salty mutton-meat is worth this, he snarled. Silly Flash-In-Rocks can find her own treat next time, stupid nest-sister spoiling the hatchlings, too old to be sneaking into human dens, don't even like mutton –
Something slipped through the den-door.
The Terror froze as a hatchling – tiny, twiggy, frail, unlike all the other human hatchlings – leant against the den-door. He was panting, great rushing breaths, as someone else banged on the wood. Sniffing the air, Sparks-In-Forest could smell other hatchlings. He could also smell RainCutter and ThunderDrum, which was strange.
The hatchling sighed when the noise stopped. He walked through the messy human den with ease despite the lack of light (all the den-openings were covered) and sat on the floor beside Sparks-In-Forest.
When their eyes met, he growled. Just because he was trapped in the tiniest, finest, best-made net he'd ever seen, didn't mean he'd hesitate to claw someone's eyes out. Even if it was a hatchling. But the hatchling didn't touch, just blinked.
Stuck? He hrrred.
Sparks-In-Forest didn't think, given his age, that anything could ever surprise him again. Wrong.
Stuck need help? The hatchling hrrred haltingly. His body wasn't built for such noises.
The offer of help stuck in his scales. No, he growled, don't need help from a hatchling like you!
There was some confusion muddying the hatchling's scent, but he nodded and turned away, grabbing more string and a skinny piece of wood. AS Sparks-In-Forest watched and struggled, the hatchling made more of the same net he was caught in. Skinny soft-not-claws twisted and tied the string in complicated patterns. Fishing, the hatchling cooed, for sire water-den, not dragon-catch.
Sparks-In-Forest had to give it to whoever had been teaching the tiny thing – he was very fluent in their language, for a human.
Impressive work for a hatchling, he grumbled, caught old-long-tooth like me.
The hatchling shook his head in distress. Not to dragon-catch, never never never, he cooed in increasing pitch. Not gonna, not hurt dragon-kin-flock. He took a deep breath and released it, like he was trying to breath flame like the Nightmares. Fishing. Fishing only, the hatchling growled decisively.
Sparks-In-Forest wriggled a little in his confinement, snarling a little as one of the loops caught on his horn as he tugged. The hatchling turned at the sound. Okay long-tooth?
Not long-tooth, he growled at the hatchling's audacity. Sparks-In-Forest, hatchling.
Little-Ember, the human snarled back. Not hatchling.
The Terror huffed. That's a hatchling name, hatchling. But appropriate – this den must belong to Little-Ember, given that the smell of melting metal had permanently imprinted onto his scent, alongside the ashes and embers.
The hatchling growled, a wordless expression of distaste, before glancing over. Trouble Sparks-In-Forest? Just little help, little little.
He looked, as best as he could, at his own body. His bright yellow wings were pinned awkwardly to his sides, the soft webbing chaffing between coarse string and bright red scales. There was a definite, possibly permanent, kink in his tail from how it had become twisted up on itself. His head was tilted to one side due to the loop of string around one horn, and one forepaw was tangled up beside the other. His back legs were free, but of no help. He stared mournfully at the shiny metal hooks (dull, thankfully) that started this whole mess. He hadn't been a hatchling for almost sixty winters! He shouldn't still be falling for shiny objects!
Sparks-In-Forest grumbled for a moment before agreeing. Little-Ember made the net. Little-Ember fix the net.
The pleased hum the hatchling made helped him feel a little less humiliated. His paws were gentle as he untwisted the string around his tail. The stroking he gave the scales afterwards was nice too. The rest of the net was removed like that – piece by piece, with a soothing rub to each caught section. By the end, Sparks-In-Forest was a limp pool of red and yellow Terror under the hatchling's hands. He didn't even notice when he was moved to the softer surface of the hatchling's back paws.
Then there was stomping at the den-entrance, and a sudden intrusion of sunlight. Little-Ember hissed, tucked Sparks-In-Forest underneath his furs and turned around. Human-words were shared – he didn't understand the language very well, but he understood 'dragon' and 'Terror'. He let out a low grumble, hidden easily by the louder human. Someone must have seen him enter the den.
When the hatchling moved, paw coming up to cradle him, Sparks-In-Forest got a glimpse of the other human. He was large, with long pale-yellow fur coming from his head and above his mouth. A strange piece of wood and metal replaced one of his forepaws, and glancing down, he saw a similar object on his opposite back paw. The human waved his real paw and walked away with the den-door closing behind him. There was darkness.
Little-Ember sighed. Close, he hrrred, metal-rust-Gobber saw you, Alpha-sire-scary laughed.
Sparks-In-Forest hummed a little. Metal-rust-Gobber makes tasty salty-mutton-meat, he hrred after a moment. Nest-sister-Flash-In-Rocks wanted some.
The hatchling laughed and sat the Terror beside a cold ember-pot. "Jerky," he said in the human tongue. Get some – work first. Little-Ember ran back and forth in the den, filling up the ember-pot with wood after setting aside the net pieces. Big pieces of metal-rock were laid out beside it, along with moulded-metal things.
Seeing his interest, the hatchling began to name them in the human tongue. "Tongs," he said, pointing to a joined pair of silvery sticks. "Hammer" was a lump of metal attached to a wooden stick. "Bellows" was a strange wood and leather thing that almost looked like his wings, with leather webbing and sticks going up and down. He sneezed when the hatchling pointed it at him and pressed down – air rushed out of the 'bellows' and almost pushed him into the ember-pot!
Fire in pot now, Little-Ember huffed collecting everything. He started to fiddle with some sticks when Sparks-In-Forest blew a fireball at the dry-kindling-wood in the bottom of the pot. After a moment, there was a fire sparkling and crackling.
The hatchling released a happy coo-whistle. Gratitude flooded his scent as he rubbed the nice spot between his horns. Sparks-In-Forest hrrred in contentment. A long-tooth could get used to this.
And the hatchling wasn't too bad either.
Age Ten: Silver-In-The-Trees the RazorWhip
Silver-In-The-Trees had seen the RainCutter before. They had played in the rain once, many winters ago, when they were both hatchlings and clumsy.
But she had never seen him with a hatchling. And not even a normal hatching, but a human hatchling.
She stared from her perch, concealed behind leafy branches. Mist-At-Dusk was darting around tree trunks, staying a whole wingspan away from the ground, as a hatchling chased him. The reason for the chase? Mist-At-Dusk was carrying a human weapon in one forepaw. He would cut just close enough for the hatchling to touch, before swerving around a rock or tree or branch and getting away. Despite not being able to catch up, the hatchling looked like he was enjoying himself. The scent of his excitement permeated the area to the exclusion of almost everything else.
So it's no surprise that she didn't notice the Terror until he was climbing her forepaw.
What do you want hatchling, the Terror growled in that frustrating way of all long-tooth dragons – anyone under fifty winters was a hatchling, no matter what.
Smelled Mist-At-Dusk, she hrrred in reply, didn't expect the hatchling. Did he try to hurt Mist-At-Dusk? That was the only reason she could think of for the other dragon to be playing with a human like this. He never did have the sense to stay away from human settlements.
The Terror gurgled in amusement. Little-Ember would never hurt Mist-At-Dusk. He was feeling sad-hurt-lonely. Mist-At-Dusk decided to make him feel better.
Silver-In-The-Trees nodded. That sounded right. Wait. Little-Ember? You named the hatchling?
Mist-At-Dusk named him. Little-Ember needed a proper name, not silly… and here the Terror made a strange sound, like a cough-gurgle-choke that made his chest jump. Human-sire stupid and doesn't care for his hatchling. He was about to continue, when the hatchling cried out. They both looked up.
He hadn't been looking where he was going and had caught his back paw on a root. He was curled over the limb now, shuddering but no longer crying. The acrid scent of hurt-pain-fear smothered the excitement. Mist-At-Dusk had landed now, nudging at the tiny form with his nose spike. He was cooing reassuringly.
Little-Ember let me see. The Terror had moved without her noticing, leaping from the branch and diving towards the crumpled form. He easily pushed past the curved forepaws and disappeared.
Silver-In-The-Trees landed beside the hatchling a moment later and he looked up. Salty-water run down his face. He cooed haltingly. There were no words behind it, just wow. She flared her wings proudly. There was a reason she was known as Silver-In-The-Trees – her scales shone like human-glass when she cleaned them, and more than once she had blinded human-hunters when they stumbled upon her.
For a moment, Little-Ember was calm, and then he cried out again. Sparks-In-Forest that hurts! He hrrred, don't touch!
The Terror pushed aside the hatchling's forepaws to reveal a back paw turning various sickly colours. Silly hatchling, not looking where he was going, Sparks-In-Forest huffed. You're not going to be playing any more. He started to lick at the injury, surprising Silver-In-The-Trees. The Terror must really care for the hatchling, to claim him as flock like that.
Mist-At-Dusk pushed at her side. What are you doing here? He hrrred questioningly.
Hunting, Silver-In-The-Trees answered after a moment. Why are you playing with a human hatchling?
There was a huff of air, tinged with enough heat to make nearby leaves wilt. Little-Ember is flock and kin, he growled. And more like a dragon in human skin. Sparks-In-Forest hrrred in agreement.
After a moment, Silver-In-The-Trees shrugged. He had been quite fast for a human, not to mention being able to understand them.
Said hatchling pushed Sparks-In-Forest away and started to stand. He received a nip to the uninjured back paw.
What do you think you're doing? The Terror snarled.
Alpha-sire-scary said I needed to collect wood for the fire-metal-den, Little-Ember growled. If I don't, he'll get angry. I've already taken too long. And ignoring the burn he received from the irate long-tooth, the hatchling started cutting at the nearby fallen tree branches with his weapon. There was pain drenching his natural scent with every step.
Mist-At-Dusk reached out to take the weapon, and the hatchling danced away. The snarl he released as almost scary – if it wasn't coming from a tiny twig of a human.
Silver-In-The-Trees sighed. Little-Ember is stubborn.
Little-Ember is stupid, Mist-At-Dusk corrected, and is going to make his paw worse if he doesn't stop!
But the hatchling kept moving, looking for more branches to cut and collect.
So Silver-In-The-Trees decided to do it first. Unlike the TimberJacks, RazorWhips had sharp tails that were more precise and cleaner in their cuts. It was easy for her to snatch the branch out from under the hatchling and slice it into four even pieces.
Maybe you should let your flock help, she cooed, rather than hurt yourself more.
The hatchling stared at her with wide green eyes. His whistle was long and high. That was so fast!
RazorWhips were also very vain.
Silver-In-The-Trees flared her wings at the praise, even as she sliced another branch. Mist-At-Dusk decided to help, dragging the pieces over to where Sparks-In-Forest had bullied the hatchling into sitting.
It only took another eight branches for Little-Ember to be satisfied, tying all the wood together with a net that made the Terror hiss.
Mist-At-Dust gurgled. Sparks-in-Forest got caught in that net, he explained, and he keeps trying to light it on fire, but Little-Ember won't let him.
And indeed, the Terror was staring at the next distrustfully from his perch on the hatchling's shoulder. He hissed again as Little-Ember went to pick the bundle up. Don't you dare hatchling.
I need to get it back to the human-village, he hrrred. Alpha-sire-scary wants it!
Mist-At-Dusk pushed himself into the air, swooping down to scoop up the bundle before shooting through the trees. I'll leave it at the rocks! He cried back as he disappeared.
Little-Ember sighed. He's going to be seen.
Sparks-In-Forest just shrugged as he hrrred, he's fast. He'll be fine.
The hatching waved a paw in her direction. Thank you for helping, he cooed, that went a lot faster than me doing it on my own.
She hummed. It was easier than cutting up rocks, which her nest-brother's preferred. The hatchling must have taken that as a goodbye, because he began to limp in the direction of the human-village, pain-scent spiking each time his foot hit the ground. Sparks-In-Forest snarled, tiny embers flashing between his teeth, but didn't say anything.
Well, if a long-tooth trusts him…
Silver-In-The-Trees launched herself into the air in much the same fashion as Mist-At-Dusk did. Except this time, when she swooped down, she wasn't picking up wood.
Little-Ember's scent flared in excitement. His cries rang through the forest, mingling with those of Sparks-In-Forest, who climbed to a more secure perch among her back-spikes. Another call rang out, with Mist-At-Dusk appearing from behind a moment later. The hatchling was fearless in her claws, despite the fact that, at any moment, she could drop him.
Even when they broke the tree line.
By the time they reached the rock pile, just out of sight and hearing of the human-village, it almost would have been faster for the hatchling to walk.
Age Twelve: After-Shocks the Skrill
After-Shocks had seen the human many times. It seemed that during every lightning storm the reckless hatchling could be found on the same cliff, paws swinging off the edge, drenched with rain, awe and exhilaration mixing with his ember and molten metal scent.
One time, After-Shocks had swung close enough to make the hatchling's fur stand on edge. The very tips of his tail-spikes brushed the hatchling's covered back-paws before pulling away. Other passes hadn't been quite as close. Sometimes he was joined by other dragons – a long-tooth Terror who snarled at him when they locked eyes, a protective RazorWhip who held the hatchling away from the edge, a playful RainCutter who swirled around him before returning to whatever game he'd been playing, even a ThunderDrum who shielded the hatchling from the rain with her own wing.
But this time, the hatchling had been alone.
And this time, the Skrill's wings failed him.
After-Shocks knew he was getting too old to keep up with the younglings. Too old to race the thunder and ride the lightning. His scales were becoming faded – no longer deep purple like the storm clouds, but pale like the flowers. But the storm had called him. The winds were perfect, wild and unpredictable. The waves were threatening to pull them out of the sky if they dipped too low. Static charged the clouds.
The winds were too much. The sea spray blinded him. A stray lightning bolt zapped his open, panting mouth – shocking him just enough to stop flapping.
After-Shocks dropped like a stone.
The last thing he heard was the hatchling's cry as he collided with the cliff, tail whipping around and hitting something soft.
Then the storm ended.
When After-Shocks opened his eyes, the sky was clear, even if his head wasn't. The moon shone brightly. There were steady paws stroking his side. When one brushed a rib that flared with pain, he couldn't help but snarl. The paws left. The paws came back. They avoided that rib, and all others that made him snarl or growl, and instead began to rub at his wing joint. Both wings were then stretched out, with gentle paws pressing at the webbing and bones. No pain, except for a twinge on the wing he must have rolled over when he crashed.
The fuzzy feeling in After-Shocks head lessened, and he carefully turned. The hatchling was rubbing at his backpaw now, stretching out the claws and stroking gently at their curve. He looked up at the movement. You're awake!
I am, After-Shocks hrrred. Why are you touching me?
The paws moved immediately, and he mourned their loss. You had a bad fall, the hatchling explained, and I was just trying to see where you were hurt.
There was pain in the air. After-Shocks didn't think it was all his. He thought back to the crash – the pressure of the ground against his sensitive stomach, the hasty scramble to roll, relieve the pressure, relieve the pain, the twist of his tail as he thrashed, the soft-hardness of a collision.
Thankfully, he couldn't smell any blood.
Did I hit you, hatchling? He cooed carefully.
There was a twist in the hatchling's scent, and his forepaw wrapped slowly around his middle. Yes, he cooed in response, but you didn't mean to. I tried to get out of your way, but I wasn't fast enough.
After-Shocks would have been surprised if he was. Very few dragons were faster than a Skrill – the elusive Night-Fury hatching who'd been flying around recently being one of them. He cooed reassuringly at the hatchling. Not your fault, hatchling. I am not as young as I used to be, and the storm was too strong.
Not a hatchling… was growled lowly, and After-Shocks restrained a mirthful gurgle. Said like a true hatchling.
What do you call yourself then? I am After-Shocks.
Little-Ember, the hatchling hrrred after a moment. That's what my flock-kin call me. Alpha-sire-scary uses a different name.
After-Shocks scented Little-Ember as he came closer to his snout. The scent of his sire was very faint – almost complately smothered by the scent of other dragons. What kind of sire doesn't spend time with his hatchling?
He hadn't realised Little-Ember had picked up on his anger until a soft paw was rubbing at the nice spot under his crest. It smelled of sadness and resignation.
Alpha-sire-scary is always busy, the hatchling cooed quietly, I spend most of my time in metal-rust-Gobber's fire-metal-den so that I don't get in his way.
After-Shock's huffed. Silly sire. But that salty smell didn't leave, so he decided to change the subject. Thank you for checking on me, hatchling.
I was really worried when you fell. You're the most graceful of the Skrill, Little-Ember cooed. His paw moved to rub the front of his crest, and he melted into the ground. That felt really nice…
Not so graceful anymore… After-Shock's hrrred weakly. It's the younglings' place in the sky now… oooh, scratch right there, that's nice… a little bit higher…
Little-Ember stretched up and over to reach and hissed.
After-Shocks' raised his head. You're hurt! He nosed at the hatchling's fur till he lifted it out of the way – a dark mark stretched across a thin ribcage. When he pressed against it lightly, the hatchling whimpered. Carefully, mindful of his chin-spikes, After-Shocks coated the mark with his saliva.
There. That will help. Humans were so much more fragile than dragons. It was incredible that they lived past hatchling-hood.
The wind rushed past and Little-Ember shivered. After-Shocks shuffled into a more comfortable position and raised a wing. Sit with me, hatchling. Tell me about your flock-kin.
Little-Ember pressed as close to his scales as he could, sighing as the wind was blocked by the curl of the Skrill's wing. He might not run as hot as his fire-breathing brethren, but the riders of lightning were anything but cold.
Mist-At-Dusk loves to show me how to cut the rain drops. He carried me up to the clouds, one day. Dropped me so that I could try to cut the cloud like he did. Tides-At-Waning-Moon snarled at him for ages when she found out! And Silver-In-The-Trees chased him down and sat on him as punishment! Sparks-In-Forest had said it was okay though – he talked to Mist-At-Dusk's dam, and she agreed to keep an eye on us in case…
Age Thirteen: Last-Breath-of-Autumn the Sentinel
Last-Breath-Of-Autumn knew what to expect when he followed the scent of the dying Skrill to the basin near the human-village. He had helped many dragons pass on – some of them from age, but most from injuries caused by human-weapons.
He wasn't expecting a human to be cuddling the dying Skrill.
The human – barely out of the hatchling age, if not still one – was fearlessly wrapped around the Skrill's neck and side, forepaw slotted between spikes. He was warbling, great cries that echoed in the basin, and the scent of his grief was strong.
The Skrill was warbling in kind, trying to soothe.
Don't want you to go, stay with me, please stay…
It's okay hatchling, all will be well, don't cry…
The Sentinel landed heavily beside the pair. His scales – strong, thick, larger than most dragons – didn't allow for graceful movement. He also wasn't the most graceful of Sentinels in the first place.
The hatchling looked up at his arrival and snarled. No! You can't have him!
He wasn't even given a moment to be surprised at the vehemence before the hatchling was on him, scratching at his eyes with metal claws attached to his own paws, surprisingly strong back limbs latching onto his neck and squeezing, roaring out a war cry that seemed too big for such a thin frame.
Last-Breath-Of-Autumn fell backwards with a squawk, wings flapping uselessly.
After a moment of this assault, a pale purple wing swatted the hatchling off. Little-Ember! Calm yourself! The Skrill snarled.
The hatchling – Little-Ember? – snarled back. No! I'm not going to let you just give up! Apparently forgetting about the Sentinel, the hatchling threw himself at the dying Skrill. He was quickly trapped under a paw that had lost none of its strength.
The Skrill screeched. There was a crackle of lightning running down the whip-like tail. Sparks snapped around the open jaw. You will calm yourself.
Little-Ember squirmed once. Claws clenched threateningly. The stifling heat of anger and confusion and loss faded away into sadness. Salt-water ran down the hatchling's face. Don't want you to go, After-Shocks. Only known you for a few moons.
The Skrill crooned. I'm tired, Little-Ember. I can't fly like I used to. You can't change that.
But why?! The hatchling's cry rang in Last-Breath-Of-Autumn's ears. He felt his heart turn to stone in his chest.
That's the life of a dragon, he hrrred slowly, dragging himself forward with his wing-claws. But leaving does not mean he's gone. That was a lesson he had struggled to learn as a hatchling.
Little-Ember craned his head to see him. But he's leaving.
After-Shocks' let the hatchling up and immediately curled a wing around him, tucking him against the wing joint. You are part of my flock, Little-Ember. Death cannot change that.
But your scent will fade, like my dam's! The poor little hatchling was distraught. Last-Breath-Of-Autumn hated this part.
Scent will fade. But you'll remember. The mulish tinge to the hatchling's scent – the precursor to angry, the sharpening of the ember tang – made him rush on. It's not fair to After-Shocks, to keep him here.
That stopped the hatchling short.
You are tired, aren't you? Last-Breath-Of-Autumn directed this at the Skrill. You have raced your storms and raised your hatchlings. You have lived a long life.
After-Shocks bowed his head. I have. I am tired. Will you help me?
The hatchling began to keen and turned his face into the Skrill's side.
I will, he cooed. This was his duty, and his honour. To help dragons pass onto the Great Hunting Grounds.
I have one final request. I ask that you watch over the hatchling, until such time as your duty takes you away. The tone of After-Shocks' hrrr did not leave any room for argument.
This must not have been discussed with the hatchling, because shock ran through his scent.
If this is what you wish, Last-Breath-Of-Autumn cooed numbly. He had never watched over a hatchling before. And a human hatchling…
After-Shocks' nudged Little-Ember closer, licking a long line up his face before pulling away. Goodbye, tiny one. I shall meet you at the Great Hunting Grounds.
Little-Ember shuffled to Last-Breath-Of-Autumn's side, face downturned. Quiet keens escaped his jaw. Goodbye After-Shocks. Good hunting.
Last-Breath-Of-Autumn unhinged his jaw. The fire grew in his belly. When it passed his teeth, they tingled. When it collided with After-Shocks' body, he threw his head to the sky and gave one final screech. Last-Breath-Of-Autumn didn't stop until even the Skrill's bones were burnt to ash.
The hatchling stayed by his side. The keening did not falter, only growing in pitch and volume. When the Sentinel closed his jaw, he slumped to the ground.
After-Shocks… he crooned. I'm gonna miss you…
Awkwardly, Last-Breath-Of-Autumn crouched beside the hatchling and wrapped a wing loosely around him. You… did not know him for long, he hrrred hesitantly. Why are you so… distraught?
He was kind to me, the hatchling cooed. Him and Sparks-In-Forest, and Tides-At-Waning-Moon, and Mist-At-Dusk, and Silver-Through-The-Trees. They are my flock. After-Shocks acts – acted – more like my sire than my sire does. He was proud of me.
Last-Breath-Of-Autumn thought of the hatchling's fury, the strength of his attacks, the ferocity in which he tried to defend others. He had a lot to be proud of.
Maybe watching over this hatchling wouldn't be too bad.
Age Fifteen: Toothless the NightFury
In another life, Toothless would let the hatchling go in return for a life spared. He would fly away and try not to think about the tiny creature with scared eyes.
In this life, Toothless was struck so dumb by the conflicting scents – RainCutter, Sentinel, Terror, ThunderDrum, RazorWhip – that he didn't move when the ropes released. When the hatchling cooed in apology for a creation misused, keened in shared pain for the torn tailfin. He would only move when soft paws brushed under his chin. Hrrr when the fearless little hatchling pulled at his claws and wings and head-flaps to check for injury. Coo about sires and dams who must be worried sick at how reckless their hatchling is. Gurgle in amusement at the annoyed snarl of not a hatchling.
Green eyes met green eyes.
Turns out not all dragons wear scales.
Author's Notes
This is late, this is late, this is very, very late. It took me ages to write this, namely because I got too caught up reading about various HTTYD dragons, and then proceeded to watch the first movie (because that's the only one I have access to). I did my very best to write consistently from a 'draconic' perspective through all this, which was a challenge that I enjoyed. I considered changing the dragon species to reflect the naming conventions I gave them (being attributes in-a-hyphenated-matter) but decided to stop procrastinating.
Hope you enjoyed it!
PS: Depending on my schedule and what people think of this work, I'm thinking about writing this from Hiccups perspective too, maybe even a couple of oneshots of assorted messes/adventures Hiccup and his flock get into. There's also the first movie to look at with the changes I've made, and the series… Hmmm….