The first emotion was indignity. Pure, hot, and sharp. It was a feeling I, a Night Fury, the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself, had never truly experienced. Fear, yes. The primal, roaring terror of the Red Death that haunted our every waking moment and slumbering nightmare. But indignity ? That was new. It was the emotion of being swatted from the sky like a common fly by a creature no bigger than my own head.
A walking fishbone. A loud, clumsy, squawking little Viking.
For days, that indignity simmered in my gut, a hot coal of resentment in the cold pit of the cove I'd crashed into. My tail, my beautiful, perfect tail, was a mangled ruin. The left fin, the one that gave me the precision of a striking falcon, was gone. Shredded. I was grounded. A creature of the endless sky, now bound to the dirt and stone of this glorified puddle.
And he kept coming back.
The fishbone. The boy.
At first, I greeted him with all the fury a trapped and wounded dragon could muster. I roared until my throat was raw, blasted plasma at the rock walls to remind him of the fire he was playing with, and flared my wings to make myself appear as the terrifying specter I was meant to be. He would flinch, stumble, sometimes yelp in a most satisfying way, but he never ran. He'd just drop the fish he carried and retreat to a safe distance.
The offering was an insult. A pathetic tribute from a creature that should be my prey. And yet... the scent of it, rich and oily and tasting of the deep cold sea, was a traitorous song in my nostrils. My pride roared, but my stomach, the great betrayer, rumbled a louder argument. I would wait until he backed away, then snatch up the offering with a resentful gulp. It was a tribute. An apology. And it was insufficient.
Slowly, the dynamic in our little stone prison began to shift. My roars became less about fury and more about annoyance. His presence became less of an intrusion and more of a… routine. He would come, I would snarl, he would drop the fish, and then he would do something utterly bizarre. He would sit, pull out a stick of charcoal and a pad of parchment, and stare at me.
He was… drawing me.
I had no concept of art, not in the human sense. But I understood focus. I saw the way his eyes, a startling green like new spring leaves, would trace the line of my spine, the curve of my wing, the shape of my ear-plates. He wasn't looking at me like prey, or a monster, or a threat. He was looking at me like I was a wonder. It was unsettling. It made the scales along my back itch.
One day, after a particularly delicious offering of herring, he didn't retreat as far. He sat closer, his sketchbook in his lap, and when I finished my meal, he put it aside. He held out a hand, open and empty.
I flattened myself to the ground, a low growl vibrating in my chest. This was the moment. The moment the truce was broken, the moment he would try something, and I would be forced to remind him what happens when a fishbone gets too close to a dragon's teeth.
But he didn't move. He just stayed there, his hand outstretched, his gaze soft and unwavering. He made a soft, strange noise. A sort of cooing sound. It was pathetic, really. And yet… my growl faltered. There was no aggression in him. No malice. Only a vast, terrifying ocean of earnest curiosity. My head tilted. My ear-plates swiveled, trying to get a better read on this strange, unpredictable creature.
Slowly, cautiously, I uncoiled. I stretched my neck forward, inch by agonizing inch. His scent filled my nostrils. Brine, charcoal, and the forge-fire that seemed to cling to all these Vikings. But underneath it, there was something else. Something ancient and unsettlingly familiar. It was not the scent of a creature, but of a place—like the smell of deep earth after a lightning strike, a scent of ozone and creation that had no business coming from a mortal. I paused, a breath away from his fingertips. I could feel the heat of his skin. I could see the fine hairs on his arm. One quick snap, and that hand would be gone.
But I didn't want to snap. To my own profound confusion, I wanted to know what that hand felt like.
I closed the final distance and pressed my snout into his palm.
A jolt went through me. Not of pain, or fear. It was a spark. A sudden, inexplicable warmth that shot from the tip of my nose, up my spine, and straight to the base of my tail. It was like basking in the first sunbeam after a long, cold winter. It was… nice. Frighteningly nice. I snatched my head back with a startled snort, looking at him with wide, confused eyes. He just smiled, a slow, wondrous thing that made his whole face light up.
It was after that, that he brought the thing .
It was an offense to nature. A thing of cured animal hide, foul-smelling metal, and the stiff, dead wing of a sea-vessel. He laid it on the ground, and I eyed it with deep suspicion. It smelled of his workshop, of grease and metal dust, but it also smelled of him. That rain-washed earth scent was all over it.
He gestured to it, then to my ruined tail. My blood ran cold. He meant to… attach it? To me? Oh, absolutely not. I snarled and backed away, my wings half-flared. No Viking contraption was going near my body.
But he was patient. He left it there, in the middle of the cove, for two whole days. He continued to bring fish, to talk to me in that soft, soothing tone. I found myself circling the strange device. It was cleverly made. The leather was supple, the metal hinges were smooth. The sailcloth was shaped, I realized, exactly like my missing fin. He had designed it from his drawings. He had built it… for me.
On the third day, my curiosity and the sheer, soul-crushing boredom of being flightless won out. When he approached, I still gave a token growl, but I didn't retreat. I lay down, my back to him, and watched him over my shoulder, my heart thumping a nervous rhythm against my ribs.
"It's okay, bud," he murmured, his voice barely a whisper. "I just want to help."
He knelt behind me. This was the closest he had ever been for this long. His presence was a tangible thing, a bubble of warmth and that strange, compelling scent. He gently, so gently, laid the prosthetic against the stump of my tail. I flinched, but the touch was feather-light.
And then he began to work.
His fingers, surprisingly deft, started to manipulate the leather straps. He had to lean close, his body partially pressed against my flank as he reached to tighten a buckle on the far side. The contact sent another one of those pleasant, sunbeam jolts through me, but this one was stronger, deeper. My growl died in my throat, replaced by a confused, rumbling purr.
He smelled… incredible.
It wasn't a scent I smelled with my nose, but with my very soul. It was a pressure, a presence that pushed past my conscious mind and spoke directly to the ancient, slumbering core of my being. It was the feeling of deep, fertile soil warming after a long winter, the taste of ozone before a life-giving storm, the sound of a thousand eggs quickening at once. It was not a smell; it was the very texture of life itself. It was the scent of creation .
My mind, the mind of Toothless, the individual, reeled. But another mind, the collective, instinctual memory of my entire species, began to stir from its eons-long slumber. Fragmented images, not my own, flashed behind my eyes. A vast, volcanic caldera teeming with dragons of every shape and size. A clearing where clutches of eggs, shining like jewels, rested in warm ash. And walking among them, a being. Not a human, but something… more. It was a dragon, sleek and black as a starless night, with eyes like green fire. The First Night Fury. A being of immense power and overwhelming gentleness, whose touch was a blessing, whose presence guaranteed the eggs would be strong, the hatchlings healthy, the future of the species secure.
Guedo.
The name echoed not in my ears, but in my very soul. The Life-Giver. The Seed-Planter. The one who walked among the nests. The one who dominated not through fire or fear, but through an irresistible, life-affirming aura that every dragon, from the mightiest Monstrous Nightmare to the tiniest Terrible Terror, was drawn to. A god. Our god.
The boy grunted in concentration, pulling a strap tighter. His cheek brushed against my scales for a brief moment.
The contact was electric. The fragmented memories coalesced into a singular, earth-shattering realization.
The scent. The warmth. The overwhelming, instinctual feeling of safety and rightness and yearning . It wasn't just a pleasant aroma. It was the divine essence of Guedo.
This boy. This clumsy, fish-giving, sketch-drawing, big-headed, small-bodied Viking boy… was our lost god.
My entire world tilted on its axis. Every instinct I possessed had been screaming at me for days, and I had been too proud and too stupid to understand. The urge to protect him, the strange comfort in his presence, the inexplicable trust he inspired… it all snapped into place. He was a deity in a ridiculously fragile mortal shell. He was the source of all dragon life, the ultimate alpha, the being every fiber of my existence was programmed to revere, protect, and… desire.
He finished his work and patted my flank gently. "There we go. What do you think, bud?"
He had no idea. He was completely, utterly oblivious to the monumental, species-altering revelation that had just detonated inside my skull. He thought he had just fitted a prosthetic. What he had actually done was awaken a Night Fury's dormant, divine devotion.
I turned my head slowly, my eyes wide. I looked at him. Really looked at him. The way his brow was furrowed in concentration. The smudge of charcoal on his cheek. The earnest, hopeful green of his eyes. He wasn't a fishbone anymore. He was… beautiful. Perfect. An object of worship fumbling with leather and steel.
A deep, crooning sound escaped my throat. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated adoration. A sound a dragon makes when it has found the most precious thing in the entire world.
The great and terrible Red Death could have the other Vikings. This one, this small, unknowing god in a boy's body, was mine. He was my purpose. And I would burn the world to ash before I let anything harm him.