In Lieu Of A Tail

13. Poisoned Visions And Astrid Is Pissed

The moment they landed, Toothless checked the surroundings with his keen eyes and ears, the others had eyes only for Aurora, who had been helped off the saddle by Hiccup and was now leaning against Astra's side, between the dragon's head and wing joint. It had always seemed to settle her during one of her 'episodes' and this time was no different – already her body was less tense and she had stopped hyperventilating. The girl sat with her legs pulled up close to her chest and her back pressed firmly up against her dragon. Said dragon curled herself around her hatchling, looking up at her with soft, scared eyes. Astra adjusted herself so that her wing lay nearby to Aurora, not fully stretched, but also curved around her broken sister – another sign of protection, a message of I am here now, and I won't leave, but most importantly: you are safe.

A rider's bond with their dragon is a truly beautiful and mysterious phenomenon. It somehow grants both parties a deeper understanding of many things. It is believed – by some dragon-friendly tribes – that a truly strong bond between dragon and rider can grant certain abilities to both. Nothing too flashy, but things like accelerated healing or telepathic connections. And they also believe that dragons are born with human counterparts, they say that you will meet your dragon – and they will meet you – when you need each other the most. It isn't always as dramatic as that, but it is believed that bonds forged in the flames of fear and necessity are the strongest.

Some say these are old stories, but stories always have a grain of truth within them.

For example, mere hours after being reunited with her dragon, Aurora was breathing slightly easier.

The girl was far from her usual self, the cell alone had brought back some terrible memories, and entrapped her within them.

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To be stuck in one's memories is an experience. It's terrifying, the images of your worst experiences appear and envelope you, it's hard to remember that it isn't real.

A shadowed cell appeared, rusty iron bars. A metallic tang poisoned the air, a beat. A new room, gruff voices muttering in the darkness, the rough wooden chair scratched at her arms, her bonds dug into her, the rope unyielding and sharp.

"Aurora!" A voice echoed, faraway, it seemed friendly and familiar, but she couldn't place it.

"Aurora! Snap out of it!" Aurora? Was that her name? Funny, she couldn't recall, she couldn't see where the voice was coming from either. She shook her head, trying to clear the fuzziness from it, but three images surfaced and remained. A shadowed figure, a dagger, the jagged; unnatural criss-crossed patterns. She squeezed her eyes shut – they were open? – and tried to block everything out. But the voice, the gentle trills that sounded friendly and familiar broke through, perhaps it wouldn't be so bad to follow it? It sounded reassuring, an instinct deep inside told her it was protection. She tried to follow it out of her nightmare, blocking all else out. The shadowed figure faded away, the dagger disappeared, the patterns paled, another voice joined the one she followed. It was deeper and soft, like that of a brother, but retained a slight youth in the pitch, another voice joined. The third voice was warm, like dragon fire, and more similar to the second than the first in how deep it was, but retained the soft growling edge of the first.

The voices became clearer, but faded all too quickly and she found herself in a dark, dingy corridor that stretched and faded into black. No, not again! Her heart rate quickened, she saw a young girl, perhaps 10, run forward, and she found herself following. She wasn't sure if she was chasing the child or running from the same thing, but she began to think that the latter was correct, as she heard heavy footfalls behind her. She kept going, speeding past the little girl. Looking back, she saw a face weathered with fear and maturity, eyes so dark they almost snuffed out the now-dim spark of youth, skin that hadn't seen the sun for far too long. The girl was leached of life, but she kept running, as though her life depended on it – perhaps it did? – the little girl's ragged tunic rode up as she ran, revealing a painfully protruding ribcage. The scene was familiar, but not in the same way the soft voice had been, where was that voice now?