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As he came to, all he knew was pain. His tail fin was burning fiercely, and thin strands of something were cutting into his skin, rubbing his scales off.
Next, his hearing came back. Mixed together with chattering birds and distant waves was the sound of quick, labored breathing from right next to him.
His eyes snapped open.
A gangly thing was standing in front of him.
A Viking, his slow mind supplied. It seemed young, maybe even a hatchling.
It had big green eyes, which weren’t filled with bloodlust, unlike every other of its species he had seen.
But nonetheless, it was holding one of those sharp, silvery, tooth-like things, brandishing it in front of its stomach with both paws, looking awfully uncoordinated with such a weapon.
And it was desperate. Anxiety was flowing off it in waves, and he knew a cornered animal was a dangerous one.
He wanted to turn, to at least cover his belly, but his cutting constraints wouldn’t even give him that much leeway.
Slowly, memories trickled back into the forefront of his mind. He had been caught, ripped out of inky skies mid-flight. His wings and legs had been bound so tightly against his body that he could do nothing to slow his fall as the ground had raced to meet him.
The Viking—he had decided it was a hatchling—started speaking a string of words in their garbled, weird language as it shifted its grip on the weapon, pointing it downwards. Pointing it directly to his heart.
Huffing out breath after breath, he could do little more than watch as the little thing yelled something at him before clenching its eyes shut and lifting the weapon higher. But it didn’t keep them closed. Before long, they peeked open again, gaze seemingly drawn to his own, and he saw hesitation.
But it was fleeting. Soon it ripped its eyes away from his, and the flicker of hope in his chest that had just started to flare was promptly extinguished. Closing his eyes, he let his head fall back down to earth with a low whine.
It was futile. Hatchling or not, Vikings were Vikings after all.
One wingbeat passed.
Two wingbeats passed.
Three wingbeats.
Five.
He had yet to feel the anguish of the pain. He was debating trying to wiggle free again when he suddenly heard a… sawing noise?
At first, he thought the hatchling was taking his claws, but that didn’t make sense since his feet hadn't been moved.
Then, the pressure lessened. Just ever so slightly. But none of the bounds were off. Yet.
Eyes snapping open, he stayed perfectly still. Lest the thing stop.
With a resounding snap, his wing was free. But the vines holding him back were weirdly interwoven, tangling him still, so he could not yet move.
He had to be just a little more patient.
Another snap.
Shortly thereafter, one more.
Then, the last one freed his legs.
Quick as lightning, he shot up, the hatchling stumbling back in fright before he pounced on it.
His paw pressed on its feeble chest right after its head hit a big stone with a dull thump.
Sniffing it, he couldn’t smell the blood of his kin on it, so it had never killed one of his own. But that meant next to nothing. Because in the not-so-far future, it would.
He should kill it. Inching his claws closer to its unprotected neck, he prepared for a blast.
But then, its eyes met his. Unlike before, it wasn’t just anxious anymore. Fear was oozing out of its every pore, thickening the air around them with its sharp stench.
Growling in frustration, he wrestled with his still-shaken-up mind before giving up and screaming at the hatchling as loud as he could. There weren’t any words conveyed through it. No, it was just pure, unadulterated fury.
The Viking beneath him had gone rigid, eyes clenched shut, when he lifted off him.
Distantly, he hoped he wouldn’t regret leaving it alive, but now, he just needed to get away.
Pounding off, he tried to lift into the waiting arms of the ever-familiar air when he suddenly careened in the completely wrong direction.
Through a panicked haze, he tried again. The wind had always caught him. It had to this time as well.
But it didn’t. He narrowly avoided crashing head-first into a tree, his wings clipping it as he tried to steady his body.
Glancing back at his searing tail fin told him all he needed to know.
For a second, everything seemed to slow. One half of it was ripped off completely. He wouldn’t be able to fly like this. He wouldn’t even be able to glide.
A downed dragon was a dead one.
Clenching his jaw, he hurried on.
Hopping more than flying, he crashed through the underbrush, scaring off wild animals and breaking through branches as he tried to get as far away as he could from the hatchling that had crippled him so.
The same hatchling he had just spared.