Her breath came faster. Leaving the castle, she hadn’t expected to catch more than a deer, maybe the odd quail or two. Not something so massive. Excitement made her heart flutter. What if it was something not yet discovered? She would go down in the history books. Even now, guarded hand and bowstring brushing her cheek, she imagined the scholars and scribes of the future scratching her name onto thick parchment and shelving it for posterity. The prospect made her smile; she would be remembered as the Huntress, the Discoverer. Not the little sister of the great and sharp Prince Alistair, the bargaining chip if war should strike. Guilt immediately struck her. Her father would never do such a thing, she was sure of it. Just before nocking the arrow, she realized that she’d forgotten something in her nervousness.

 “Drat,” she whispered, lowering the bow and tossing the arrow back into its quiver. A quick glance at the ground revealed what she needed: a small, smooth stone. It fit rather nicely in the palm of her hand as she hefted it, testing its weight. With a little quirk of the eyebrow and a squint, she grabbed the bow and removed the arrow and clutched them in one hand. She narrowed her eyes again, approximating how far away the massive bird was. Her arm reared back and, sling-like, catapulted the rock forward and just to the right. As the saplings rustled and the visible wing snapped shut and open again, she quickly readied her weapon. The sharp, iron point of the arrow was held aloft, ready to trace the giant fowl’s crashing thunderous path and strike.

 Nothing happened.

 Very slowly, almost cautiously, the feathered appendage unfurled itself. Again, it was shrouded in dappled light. Ava almost let out a sigh, and aimed again, this time a little to the left of the huge wing that seemed to be mocking her.

 “Why didn’t you fly away, you dumb bird,” she whispered to herself, wishing she had a clear target rather than a vaguely obstructed one. She didn’t dare move, lest she frighten the stupid thing into a frenzy.

 Inhale. Exhale.

 Release.

 Thunk. Her arrow buried itself into something that sounded soft just as a shrill cry pierced the greenery around her.

 “Yes!” She whooped, not caring now for stealth and walking towards her prize.

 “What in the blazes?!” A tight voice that was most certainly not her brother’s yelled from the direction of the bird.    

 “Look sir,” she began, looking down to pick her way over the branches, “I do apologize if you were stalking the thing but, well, you should have shot first.” She couldn’t keep the smile from her voice. It fled when she looked up. The color drained from her face.

 A man and a dead bird. That’s what she expected to see.

 A man with an arrow stuck solidly in his right shoulder, sitting on the ground, long legs arranged haphazardly in front of his body. And massive wings erupting from what should have been arm sockets.

 “What was that for?” He asked in a voice half accusatory, half afraid. There was a delirious lilt to his words that made fear nestle in her gut.

 “I – I’m sorry! I thought, uh, I shot, um,” she floundered.

 “You nearly killed me!”

 And now she was noticing his shock of bright copper-red hair, and the burn on his face. It was yellow and inflamed, something she did not feel boded well for his health. One wing, the left one, she noticed with a twist of nausea, was hideously broken. It was bent the wrong way, and she could tell by the way he held himself that it still hurt.

 “You need help,” she said.

 “Well . . .” he trailed off, as if realizing for the first time his intense disarray. Blood oozed sluggishly from the wound in his shoulder. His eyelids fluttered.

 “Come with me.” She tried not to make it sound like an order. There was a sort of hungriness in his face, something beyond the physical. Her mother would have helped this man. The thought struck her randomly, and surprised tears pricked her eyelids. He heaved himself to his feet with a pained grunt and dragged her out of her head.

 “Amos,” he said by way of introduction, putting out the good wing experimentally and wincing. He swayed a little on his feet.

Sometimes he howled at night.

 He didn’t know how he managed to do it, but the massive beast would haul himself onto the roof, poison-green armor glinting in the night like offbeat stars, and bay at the sky. It was different than a battle cry, more soulful than a shriek. The great dragon, quite plainly, was mourning.

At first, Eret didn’t know how to handle it. Skullcrusher still felt like a loaner to him, an animal, a companion, that he didn’t quite deserve, that wasn’t quite his. Not yet, anyway. So he would let him pour grief into the moon, vicious weight pushing down on the beams and rafters that he swore would be the death of him someday. His roof was getting scarred from the beast’s claws.

 One night, when the sky was obscured by thick, Berkian clouds and Skullcrusher was crying particularly loud and Eret could not for the life of him find sleep, he joined the dragon on the roof. His first attempt to scale the house left him with a sore backside and snow in his hair.

 “Bloody dragon,” he muttered, without heat. It still felt surreal to him – that a dragon was living with him, and further that he was okay with it (comforted even, not that he would tell anyone that). Skullcrusher carried on with his loud grief and Eret tried again. Miraculously, his feet found purchase on the slanted house’s side and within a few minutes he was standing precariously on the central beam of his house. Steps away from the chief’s old dragon. His dragon, he reminded himself. Steam rolled away from the massive thing’s body, blowing up in hazy swirls. If the dragon knew he was there, he didn’t show it.

 “Uh … hey there, Skullcrusher, um, easy now.” His feet inched through the thin veneer of snow dusting the wood. The dragon’s crying turned into moaning, and then silence. Only shaking a little, Eret’s hand found itself on the dragon’s warm hide.

 Skullcrusher turned, nostrils dilating in the cold air. Eret, not for the first time, wished he had known the big man that had owned the big dragon. He’d heard the stories, sure. Ruffnut, more somber than usual, had told him of the man’s legendary mead-drinking. Astrid had regaled him with tales of the raids. Hiccup, when asked, would give him a tight smile and say, “He was a great man.” Still, he wished he could ask the former cheif how to connect to Skullcrusher. What did the dragon like? How should he sit in the saddle? Why hadn’t he stopped howling? Well, that one at least he could answer. Eret absently brought a hand to his chest. Sometimes, it helped to mourn.

 Huffing and wild-eyed, the dragon faced him now. Eret brought a hand up to the dragon’s rough chin, hoping to give it some comfort. He rumbled against it, eyes closing.

 “Look … uh, Skullcrusher,” he took a deep breath and tried to expel the absurdity of speaking to a dragon, “I know it hurts, but … you don’t have to go through it alone.”

 The huge beast just moved its head against his palm.