In the three years following my first hunting experience, I spent more time in my dragon shape than human. Because of this, the dragon side of my development went into hyper-drive, specifically my urge to fly.
When I wasn't eating or looking for more food, I spent my time leaping from high surfaces. For a toddler, this might have seemed dangerous. For me, not so much. There wasn't, I quickly discovered, a surface so high I would ever be in danger of hurting myself by jumping off (in dragon form, at least). I tried to avoid high jumps in human form after the table incident.
The best method was to start on the back of the couch; it was easiest to climb. I'd get into position, and leap as far out toward the centre of the living room as I could with wings spread. Then, I'd flap fast and hard to gain height. The first time I tried, I crashed into the ceiling. Next, I introduced my snout to the wall above the armchair. This was an improvement in control, but not much. Then I learned to tilt sideways to turn. With this, I was able to angle toward the hall, giving myself more time in the air. First few dozen attempts, my face become personally acquainted with several more hard, vertical surfaces. Eventually, my aim improved, and I actually made it into the hallway. The problem was, it was too narrow for my five foot wingspan and I ended up eating wallpaper more than was probably healthy. Regardless, I was persistent. Instead of continuing straight down the hall after turning, I learned to turn a second time and glide into the kitchen. By this point, I'd have used up most of my height and would have to flap hard to make it over table and the island counter. This, however, was the end of the road. It was either land on the counter, or smack headlong into the cupboards. It was a wonder I didn't break my neck.
Within half a year, this simple, S-shaped path was so familiar I could have flown it with my eyes closed. The long hours of continuous practice strengthened my flight muscles and eventually, I began to gain more height with less wing-beats, power and speed buoying me up. This gave me a module more control and, instead of heading directly for the hall, I was able to perform a tight loop around the living room first.
Next, I worked on landing. At first, I'd skitter madly against momentum to stay atop the counter. If, that is, I managed to hit it at all. By watching an eagle on the Discovery Channel land on top of a hydro pole, I learned to back-beat my wings. This took a little finagling as a dragon's wings are not the same as an eagle's, but eventually I was able to gently drop into place. In addition, this afforded me some protection from the walls. I was able to slow if I was in danger of crashing and, if I was lucky, stop mid-flight. Instead of full on collisions, my crashes were buffeted and reduced to small clips. Also, by back-beating my wings, I was momentarily turned vertical. Instead of hitting things face-first, I hit them feet-first, a marked improvement. It was another eight months before I discovered how to hook my claws into the drywall and hang on. But, like cats, dragons were not built for hanging off vertical surfaces. Climbing them short distances, sure, but clinging like bats? Not so much. Dragons were better runners, jumpers and, of course, fliers.
But, like a child convinced she could build a fort of twigs in the backyard, I dreamed of being able to hang from the ceiling like a bat. This fantasy drove me to practice clinging for as long as possible before dropping to the floor, a messy business in itself. Though impractical, this habit developed strength in my legs.
When I eventually grew tired of fruitlessly clinging, I began developing a technique to use the walls as springboards instead to change directions fast. Direct reversals were a bust; if I pushed straight off I simply fell, unable to right myself fast enough. But, if I was nearing a wall from an angle, I could tilt my wings and put my feet in position. Touching down just once, I'd then shove off, arching my back and neck to sharpen the angle. I'd loose momentum, but not so much that with a few hard wing-beats I couldn't stay airborne. It was perfect for tight quarters. The only problem was that my young brain had trouble coordinating so many precise movements all at once. But, by the age of five, I had it down pat and was bouncing around the house like a pinball. The walls looked like someone had taken a switchblade to them.
David disapproved. The one time he caught me flying, his eyes had flashed with something like fear. He'd knocked me from the air with an outstretched arm and, flailing wildly, I pile-drove into the floor. I lay still, wings askew, stunned. After a moment, I groaned and rolled onto my stomach. Pain spiked through the wing I'd awkwardly pinned beneath my body. I whimpered, scared to see if it was broken. I cried out again when David pulled my head up by my mane.
I felt...betrayed. David had stolen my wind. It was an instinctive taboo and, had anyone asked, I couldn't have articulated my feelings, not then. I was five. Ask any five year old why mommy or daddy would never shove them off their bike. They wouldn't have an answer any more articulate than, "Mommy wouldn't do that; it's mean." I had been convinced of the same. David would never steal my wind. But he had and, for the first time in my life I looked at my leader and felt - anger. I growled, baring my razor baby teeth.
David ignored me. "Never," he said loudly, "ever do that again!" He shook me and my vision wobbled. "Never. Do you hear me?"
I blinked, dazed by his vehemence.
When I didn't respond right away, his grip on my mane tightened. "Do you hear me?" David growled.
Cowed, I quietly trilled. He dropped me, looking disgusted, and stomped into his room.
I lay still on the carpet hearing the mice scampering beneath me. The old mice had had babies and the population was slowly rising. I happily did my part to keep it down and, in return, gave them handfuls of cereal every once and a while. I listened to them for a moment, screwing up the courage to turn my head, terrified my wing would never hold me aloft again. Finally, I looked - and breathed out in relief. There was no blood. I carefully stretched the wing out, wincing when it complained with sharp darts of pain that spiderwebbed along my nerve endings. But it didn't look broken, just wrenched. It would be fine, like my leg had been when I jumped from the table.
Tucking my wings close to my body, I slunk toward the couch. My ears swivelled as they tracked David, slamming about his room. He always made noise when he was angry, almost as much noise as his human women. I burrowed under the rumpled blanket. It was in the corner, having fallen off the arm of couch. Hidden from the rest of the room, I settled in to wait. David would be leaving soon and I wanted to be alone.
This anger toward David was very new for me. David had always been my god; he could do no wrong. Feeling it toward him now seriously upset my worldview. That bright light I saw him in had been dimmed and suddenly I could see shadows. They scared me on a basic level. The same emotion would never have scared a human child for whom anger at a parent was as common as love. But, for a young dragon, this monumental betrayal of trust created a break, a small one between his commands and my need to follow them. David was still my leader, but the power he wielded had paled.
