Chapter Text
There are major pros and cons to maintaining the ancient traditions and the secrecy of the dragons.
The downside of the ancient secrecy of his people is on the rare occasion he gets caught, whichever form he's caught in has to be the one he sticks with. No arguments. No exceptions. It is the oldest rule regarding setting foot outside the homeland. It is the backbone of their spy network. They will not tip their hand just for a quick escape; they are the eyes of their nation and the souls who brave the outside. They can persevere. They can withstand the dangers of the world without risking the safety of the people.
It just figures when the hired thugs of the Todoroki Dynasty stumbled upon him he was in his scales trying to stretch his wings for a midnight flight. It just figures.
When Shouta throws off these restraints, he's char-broiling them until their armor melts. This he swears.
He knows he's on the other side of the forest, close to a mountain pass that leads to hunting villages. The idiots who shackled him down didn't bother to obscure his eyes. He watched them roll his cage along the road until an encampment came into sight, and he's well aware of exactly how far he is from his original destination.
The upside of the ancient secrecy of his people is no human ever expects a “wild dragon” to be as smart as they are. He knows exactly which part of the cage to melt to make the whole thing fall apart and plans to do so as soon as he feels the need. Anyone with an education past age six knows how a fucking lock works.
The soldiers who have been boasting about his pathetic fight laugh. They poke him through the bars and make faces. A few run off, probably to tell whoever is giving their orders about their prize. Shouta patiently waits. He observes. Something irks him just a bit about why there were so many soldiers in what was supposed to be an empty forest, so he'll wait it out until he has his answers.
The tents differ from the standard soldier gatherings. Sure, there are the regular foot soldier accommodations, but there are more that are sturdier. Built better. He smells roasted meat with herbs, perfumes, gold and silks—nobles? Commanding officers can't drag gold with them everywhere. Nobles, then.
He smells blood, too. Animal blood. A hunting party would seem likely. Nobles enjoy the idea that they're actually any good at it.
Except hunting parties don't require this much security.
Something isn't right.
One of the soldiers pokes him, and Shouta puffs smoke.
His cage is rolled again. He's being moved to the center of the camp. He makes a lazy sweep with his eyes as he goes—two noble tents, commanding officer tents, multiple foot soldier tents. There are weapons laying on tables, discarded. Small for their size. Some are bloodied. The center of the camp lacks a fire, and instead is covered in footprints and evidence of fighting.
He smells ice. That isn't right. It's midsummer.
“Beautiful.”
He knows the man speaking. He's seen the emblem adorned on his sword printed on every simple-minded human who's touched him today. The face of the king is no stranger. He doesn't speak to Shouta, but to himself as his eyes roam over every scale and tooth kept safely tucked behind bars. He almost seems tempted to touch, just to prove he can, but steps back.
Not as stupid as his officers, then.
“Excellent work. This game is much better than the simple forest animals,” Todoroki Enji praises the captain standing at his side, who preens at the attention. The king remains focused on the shining onyx of Shouta's scales and misses it entirely. “And you're sure there was no rider?”
“Positive. No saddle, no gear,” the captain answers.
“Perfect,” the king grins. Then, smile melting from his face, he turns. “Shouto!”
Shouta's eyes widen.
There is a hatchling here. He is small, ten years at most, and he emerges from one of the noble tents with a pulse of ache ache dread humiliation anger resignation.
Humans keep their hearts so closed, so selfish, but a hatchling is a hatchling. Even born human, their souls can speak until they learn to close themselves. The king calls for the boy again, angrier this time. The hatchling only stays still for a few moments longer before finally moving. The form of the smallest prince of the dynasty limps toward the cage, slowly but surely, until he stands next to his father.
He smells of ice and blood and sadness. Up close, Shouta can see the bandages hidden under silks, the trembling way he holds himself. This child has been fighting for hours. He meets Shouta's red eyes through the bars, and the fear that pulses in him is not the fear of claws and teeth.
“This is your next assignment,” the king tells him.
Skies above, they're going to make the child fight him? Do they not want a prince anymore?
The soldiers don't move to open the cage. They all move back, to the perimeter of the tents, with only the king remaining close.
“Kill it, Shouto.”
The hatchling’s eyes crumple in agony. Ice forms at his fingertips, sparking with magic, and Shouta realizes what this is. This child is a mage.
The weapons, the soldiers, the secluded camp that reeks of animal blood—this is training. He is a test.
The hatchling pulses with tired tired so tired and meets Shouta's eyes through the bars once more. The hatchling’s eyes don't match. One side is burned terribly. Everything about him seems split in two. Unlike his father, who grows impatient, as the moment drags, the hatchling loses what little energy he has to keep his shoulders high and suddenly sags as if the strings holding him up were cut.
“No.”
The king blinks. “Shouto—”
“No. I won't do it,” the hatchling repeats, firmer this time.
“You must,” the king presses. His brow furrows in anger, and the hatchling folds into himself. His shoulders rise to his ears, eyes ducking to the ground.
“No!”
“And what would you do? Doom your kingdom to turmoil at the hands of the savages who tame these beasts?” The king gestures to the cage, putting emphasis on beasts, and Shouta's eyes narrow.
“I won't do it!” The hatchling is trembling, the magic at his fingertips sparking bright blue. “I'm not killing another thing for you!”
The king reaches the end of his rope.
“This is what you were made for!”
The backhanded slap hits the hatchling across the face and sends him into the dirt. Shouta decides, quite promptly, fuck this.
The cage falls apart too easily. The soldiers scream, some raise crossbows in an attempt to slow him down, but fire boils in his throat and Shouta unleashes it with all the anger that has been building inside him since these idiots and their hubris came within twenty feet of his presence.
The camp burns, and he feels satisfied.
He burns the tents. He melts the weapons set aside for tiny hands. The soldiers who had been taunting him are boiled alive inside their armor.
His tail hits the king and throws him away from the frozen form of the hatchling on the ground. He wants to do more, wants to make this human fear the thought of touching the boy again, but kings are such a pain when they're dead and he’d rather put this day behind him as fast as possible.
He roars, loud and echoing through the mountain like thunder directly into the man’s face, and decides that will have to do.
He turns back to the hatchling, whose face is bruised and bleeding from the thick rings on his father’s hand, and there is a pulse.
Fear fear fear glee hope acceptance.
Shouta moves in closer, snout barely inches from the hatchling’s face. The boy watches, eyes wide, and stills.
If I die, so be it.
Shouta retreats.
He wraps one claw around the hatchling, ignoring the angry screams of the father and the soldiers who haven’t died, and spreads his wings to take to the sky. He doesn't look back.
~
The hatchling passes out almost as soon as they're in the air. Shouta is careful to keep him still, because he was hurt before the slap ever made contact and humans are fragile things, but every so often he takes his eyes from the horizon and checks on the prone body kept safe in his claws. His silks are ripped and stained with dirt, the blood from his face dried in an ugly clotted mess, but he still breathes. He thinks the boy moves when they cross the sea but he stills before Shouta can see if he's awake.
Probably for the best. Humans dream of flight, but the few he's ever carried like this scream relentlessly. He'd rather not try to grab a squirming, panicked mess when he's approaching the cliffs.
The homeland passes by in a blur, the occasional sentries peeping their heads from the treetops when they hear him approach. Shouta doesn't bid them hello and flies faster.
He sends a pulse as soon as he's within range of the village.
Help assistance injured.
It isn't dire, he doesn't send it with the flare of urgent attached, but when he circles the slopes that form the village, a sizable crowd gathers in the clearing. He isn’t supposed to be back for another two weeks; they're curious.
Chiyo is waiting ahead of the rest. Her tiny two-legged silhouette stands apart from the masses. Shouta lands as delicately as possible, facing her with his cargo held close.
“Well? What's the brush fire?” she asks, leaning on her cane.
Shouta puts forward his claw and opens it. Chiyo doesn't gasp—some of the crowd does, mothers who hold their own hatchlings closer—but her face does harden. A sharp whistle calls forward her apprentices, who rush forward with a stretcher and make quick work of gently moving the boy.
The second the boy isn't in his hands, he shrinks. His mission is complete. Scales and teeth give way to pale skin and dark hair, ruby red eyes getting smaller but not losing their slits, until a man is where a dragon once stood. The only evidence of his larger form that remains is the bright red in his eyes and the occasional black scale dotting his skin.
This sight is nothing special here. He does it with the ease of breathing, then returns to the task of addressing the medic.
“They weren't taking care of it,” Shouta tells her.
“I can see that,” Chiyo answers, not breaking her gaze from where her apprentices are checking the boy over. “What happened out there?”
He stands a bit taller. He reviews the information, sorting out what is important and will have to be given to his superiors later, before summarizing as succinctly as he can. “He's a mage. They stuck me in a cage and told him to kill me. As training.”
Chiyo hmphs. Her apprentices pause, disgust coloring their features, before they resume making sure the boy is okay. He must pass muster, because they nod to one another before taking the stretcher and hurrying away to Chiyo's hut as fast as they can without jostling the poor thing.
Shouta takes a moment to look over the crowd. People are wandering off, now that the boy has been taken care of, but plenty more linger waiting for the chance to ask him what happened. A face is missing, and Shouta can't stop the scowl that twists his expression.
“Where the blazes is Yagi?”
“Looking into an issue in the east villages. I'll send word for him to deal with this as soon as he gets back.” Chiyo looks him over. “You're not injured, are you?”
“No. The dynasty's men couldn't hurt the broad side of a barn. I just have some concerns in my report he should know,” Shouta answers.
Chiyo frowns, because concerns in his reports are never good. These concerns are especially not good, since they center entirely on the Todoroki Dynasty training a child to have the ability to kill a dragon. He'd very much like to report those concerns to the chief as early as possible. Chiyo, in her infinite wisdom as an elder, doesn't press for all of that and merely nods, moving to return to her hut.
“I'll send a messenger to speed things up. Go get some rest, Aizawa.”
He'd like to say no, but she is an elder. If what he’s done is any cause for concern, she’d have yelled at him for it by now.
~
Shouto thinks he may have flown. He isn't sure, it's so hazy in his mind, but he could have sworn he opened his eyes to the wind roaring in his ears and the sky all around him as he laid on something warm. It must have been a dream. Dreams are the only places anymore where something nice like that happens. It isn't so terrible, though. It's one nice thing that's all his. Something just for him to enjoy.
He soaks up the dream for as long as he can before it slips away into darkness, back to the depths of his mind. He hopes maybe it will come back one day. It would be nice to fly again.
He wakes slowly, then very quickly. Consciousness prickles at his mind in a faint urging, which almost gives way to succumbing back to the siren call of sleep before he suddenly jolts awake with the frightened realization that something is very wrong.
He's never allowed to wake up peacefully. He hasn't slept in since the day he spread frost on Mother's rug.
He isn't where he should be.
This isn't a medical tent. Instead of the royal blue fabric marking the workspace of the royal physician, the walls are a rough wood. Herbs are drying on a wall in bunches. A chair next to the unfamiliar bed he's been left in holds his clothes, folded neatly with his boots tucked under the legs. A window tells him there are trees outside—that should be good, right? He was in the forest last. Father always takes him deep into the forest for training.
Oh.
Oh, god.
The training camp.
Shouto sits up and winces. His face stings. Except…not as much as it should. He pauses. He lifts up the cheery pink blanket left on top of his body; the bruises peeking from the edges of his underclothes are already yellow. His leg is wrapped tightly with a splint that looks fresh. Shouto reaches up to touch his face and hisses when his fingers brush his cheek, the skin feeling tender around the bandage that had been plastered on it.
How long has he been asleep?
Where is he?
What happened to the dragon?
He should be dead. That's what happens when wild dragons attack. They set things on fire, and people die or get carried off and eaten. Everyone knows that, because everyone knows dragons are dangerous and like the taste of people. Shouto was carried off. He remembers it. He remembers freezing because the dragon's face was so close, he remembers its red eyes staring at him, and he remembers the feeling of its claws grabbing him before being lifted into the air so fast his head spun.
So why isn't he in a dragon's stomach?
He's so lost in thought, trying to think of why the dragon isn't using his rib as a toothpick, that he jumps when the door opens and a very tall man comes in.
The tall man pauses, staring at him with wide golden eyes, before slowly shutting the door and giving a slight bow.
“Apologies for the intrusion.”
He's…funny looking, Shouto thinks. He's got bright green hair, flecked with yellow and slicked down to his head so it doesn't stick up, like Father does to Shouto's hair when he has to meet important people. He looks like he's going to meet important people. He has on a fancy cloak that looks really thick and boots that he thinks Natsuo uses when he's riding horses. There are skinny glasses resting on his nose, too. They look like the kind Fuyumi used to wear. The ones that helped her read better but made her look like the stuffy librarian.
This man doesn't really look like a stuffy librarian. He looks more like a bird. It's the long neck, probably. And maybe the polka-dotted scarf thing around his collar.
He steps forward, as if to come close to the bed, and Shouto scoots back. The man stops.
“I can stay back, if it makes you feel more comfortable,” he says. Slowly, and watching Shouto the whole time, he steps backwards until he reaches a desk sitting on the other side of the room. He pulls out the little chair and sits in it, which looks silly because his legs are so long and the chair is so tiny, but Shouto doesn't laugh. Adults hate it when you laugh at them.
The man settles into his seat, and he makes a gesture. Shouto sees adults do it all the time. He thinks it's asking permission.
Testing the waters, Shouto nods.
“Do you feel okay? You were quite hurt when you arrived here,” the man asks.
Shouto fidgets. He hurts quite a bit now, really, but it's not nearly as bad as it could be. He could likely get out of bed without falling, which he should probably do because adults think kids who stay in bed are lazy.
“Please don't try to get up. You still have some healing to do,” the man tells him, holding up a hand as if to stop him. Shouto freezes, and the man blinks before putting his hand down. “There was a hairline fracture in your leg, and your cheekbone was cracked. If you jostle them, you could ruin the work our healer did to help you.”
Oh. That's serious, he thinks. Broken bones are very bad. Father gets angry when those come up, and when Father is angry, nobody is allowed to be happy.
“Sorry,” he apologizes, because adults always demand you say so when you mess up. If you're lucky, you say it fast enough and they don't punish you too badly. The man doesn't look all that strong, but even if he decides to just slap him, it'll still hurt.
“It's all right. I'm going to ask you some questions now. Is that okay with you?” The man tilts his head a bit, in a gesture Shouto's pretty sure means the question is real. Not one of those questions you're supposed to shut up and take as an order.
He nods, still nervous because he's been wrong before, and relaxes a little when the man doesn't seem angry.
“Can you tell me your name? Or what you would prefer to be called?”
That's weird. People always know who he is. But he's had to introduce himself to important people before, because that's half of what those stupid balls are for, so maybe this is like that? Maybe this is some of that “etiquette” always being drilled into him at home, and he needs to hurry up and answer before the man gets snappy with him.
“…Shouto.”
The man smiles. Good. He didn't get it wrong.
“Hello, Shouto. I'm called Nighteye. How old are you?”
That's another weird question. No one really asks him that—they turn to his father, who boasts that he's nine and can make glaciers without a sweat and then everyone makes impressed noises over their drinks while Shouto shuts up and stands there until he's called on.
But his father isn't here, so maybe it's okay?
“Nine.”
The smile comes back, and even though it's smaller, Shouto considers it a victory. It's been ages since he's talked to an adult this long without it ending badly.
The man called Nighteye opens his mouth, then hesitates. He seems to think over his words, careful and slow, before shuffling a little in his tiny chair and lacing his fingers over his lap. “Can you tell me the last thing you remember?”
Shouto's fingers tighten in his blanket.
“…I,” he starts, hesitant.
He could talk about the flying. But that probably isn't what Nighteye wants. Adults don't like that stuff. It's a waste of time to dally on about fantasies—which is what his father says to Natsuo and Fuyumi and Touya when he catches them doing stuff that's not “productive.” All the other adults repeat it to him and say his father is right, and so far no adult has ever really said otherwise.
But the last thing before flying wasn't good.
“I was…training. And I said I wouldn't… I wouldn't…”
It's always easier to give them what they want. He's been giving and giving and giving for so long, he knows it's better to just give them something so maybe he'll be let go quicker—and he knows what Nighteye wants. He wants to know about the dragon.
But that story means explaining things. It means talking about the camp, and his powers, and the bunnies and the deer they put in front of him over and over again. He's never talked to anyone about it before except maybe Fuyumi, who he hasn't seen in weeks because Father thinks she babies him. Or Mother. He always told Mother.
He doesn't want to talk about that. He doesn't even want to think about it.
He must take too long, sorting through the difficult whirl of things in his head, because Nighteye says, “You don't need to answer, if you don't want to. It's all right.”
It isn't; failure to answer means punishment. He used to sulk and refuse to talk all the time but his face started swelling really bad from all the swatting. This Nighteye man has been very good so far at not getting mad but no adult is this nice. There has to be a limit somewhere.
“I'm sorry,” Shouto hurries out, urgent.
“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Nighteye tells him, still calm. “I have one last question.”
Shouto swallows, double checking he isn't really mad and not just lying, and nods. Nighteye spends a little more time seeming to prepare, like the last question, and when he finally asks, it comes out very soft.
“Does…what was happening, before, does that happen often?”
Shouto's heart drops to his stomach. Oh. Oh, he should have known better. Adults are never this kind. Not unless it's a lie. Not unless it's a trick. He steels his expression into something carefully blank, focusing on the patient face across the room and nothing else.
“Is this a test?” Shouto asks, with a weary acceptance coloring every word.
He expects to be told yes. He expects to be told whether he's passed or failed, and summarily punished or praised for his performance. He hopes this time he's passed. He didn't say anything about training, or the dragon, so maybe this time he won't have to be lectured. He remembers the last one, where the general his father likes so much told him everything the enemy could do if he kept his lips loose. How much damage he could do just by telling a kind stranger what happened to him.
But that doesn't happen.
Nighteye doesn't tell him yes. Instead he looks angry—furious, for a pulsing moment that makes the hairs on Shouto's neck stand up in anticipation, before it's wiped clean and he pushes his glasses up so they shine too bright to see his eyes.
“The only test here is one your father has failed,” he hisses through clenched teeth. He stands, rough enough Shouto flinches, before he takes a deep breath and forces his shoulders down. When he speaks again, the anger is less obvious. It's still there, hiding, but it can only be found in the rigid way Nighteye forces his voice to stay even. “You should rest. Chiyo will bring you supper, and we'll see about fixing the rest of your injuries.”
He leaves with a short bow, vanishing out the door as suddenly as he entered. Shouto is left in the bed feeling more confused than ever.
True to Nighteye's word, though, an old woman in healers’ robes comes by later with food. She smiles as he eats, savoring the taste of chicken and vegetables in a thick soup that warms his stomach, and he falls asleep to the pleasant feeling of magic fixing the ache in his bones.
It's the most restful sleep he's had in months.
~
He wakes up to a scratching noise.
It's difficult, opening his eyes and blinking away the exhaustion. He hasn't been allowed to sleep in for so long that the idea of savoring his rest threatens to pull him back under with ease. But the noise—the faint little clicks and scratches tickle his ears enough his sleep addled brain needs to figure out what it is so he can make it stop.
Shouto reluctantly joins the waking world only to freeze in fear.
There's a dragon in the room.
It isn't the big one that took him. It's small—maybe the size of a large dog. Like the hounds hunters breed. Its body is long and thin, with glittering green scales like spring and a curly mane in a sleek forest color tracing its spine; nearly the entirety of its body is wrapped around the back of the chair holding Shouto's clothes, with its hind feet perched carefully so its front claws can fiddle with his shirt.
The dragon is staring at him with wide eyes in a vibrant emerald. The golden buttons of Shouto's shirt are clenched in its mouth.
There is an incredibly tense moment where neither of them move.
Then, reality catches up and Shouto shoots upward, hurriedly plastering himself against the wall and screaming bloody murder. The dragon scrambles from the chair—knocking it over with a thundering crash from the push of its feet—and scuttles to the open door as fast as its legs can carry it. It knocks into a stool and a coat rack along the way, bouncing off the offending items in its mad scramble to leave with a furious scrtch scrtch scrtch of its claws on the floorboards.
Shouto is left panting with his heart thundering in his ears, wondering what just happened when the old woman called Chiyo wanders in.
She sees Shouto against the wall, and the disastrous state of the furniture, before tutting and shaking her head. “What in the Mountain Maker's name is going on in here?”
“Dr—” Shouto tries, pointing toward the knocked over chair with a shaking hand. “Dragon!”
She blinks at him, confused, before something dawns on her.
“Wha—? Oh. Midoriya. That boy.” She mutters something to herself, shaking her head as she slowly puts the room back the way it's supposed to be. “It's fine, dear. Lay back down so you don't upset your leg.”
It is not fine; there was a dragon next to him as he slept! Taking his buttons! It could have killed him in his sleep! Even if that one was small, it still had teeth; he's only nine. It wouldn't take much to rip open his neck.
“But—what if, what if it comes back?” Shouto asks, pressing his back more firmly against the wall. He doesn't want to die because the dragon comes back to finish the job. He's too young to die! He still has things to do! Experiences to have!
“It'll be fine, dearie.” Miss Chiyo straightens up the chair that was tipped over, refolding his clothes. The buttons are all gone and the shirt itself is smeared with crusted blood, earning a frown as she rearranges the pile.
“It's a dragon,” Shouto points out. He feels like she's not quite getting it. Adults are usually afraid of dragons the most out of anyone. That's the whole reason Shouto was even born.
“I know. There are quite a bit of them here,” she tosses out dismissively, moving to straighten his leg. The adrenaline of the moment is finally fading and his leg is, in fact, pulsing just a bit in irritation.
Shouto's eyes bug out of his skull. “What!?”
“Did Nighteye not tell you?” she asks, watching him carefully. At Shouto's horrified expression not going away, she purses her lips. “Oh, he's getting a talking to tonight.”
She seems angry. She has that pinched look saying she is, but she's gentle as she tucks him back in and props the pillows up so he can sit comfortably, never getting rough or impatient with her movements.
“Should have told you immediately,” she tuts. When she's finished, she looks him right in the eye and takes on a face he thinks his mother used to make, when she was being firm. “Dearie, you're in Musutafu. The dragon that snatched you up brought you right to us.”
Musutafu?
Shouto's thoughts come to a screeching halt.
The Musutafu?
The centerpiece of the dragon rider territory? The isle where the chief lives, where the largest dragons are, where All Might supposedly nests? The isle his father believes is the doom of their country? The territory no outsider returns from? The isle where, again, All Might—the largest dragon seen in generations—supposedly nests in the caldera of a dormant volcano?
That Musutafu?
That would mean he's in the heart of the dragon riders’ homeland. That would mean he's in enemy territory. That would mean every lecture Father has drilled into him, every warning about the awful, awful things the dragon people would do if they ever learned about him, actually has some meaning and may come true.
The perfect storm of fear and anticipation boils inside his stomach, churning and threatening to make him vomit up the previous night's dinner, but Miss Chiyo only pats his leg through the blanket and continues talking.
“It's a right good thing he did, too. Whatever they were doing to you was breaking your poor body down. Young boys need rest,” she says. “I'd give the leg another day or so. Your stamina was already down to nothing when I got you so each healing just sets you back to where you were.”
Tears prickle at Shouto's eyes, but he blinks them away.
He doesn't know what to think—he's in Musutafu. He's never gone farther than the forests where training camps are held. There are so many things that could happen. He could be a prisoner. He could be put in a cell, or interrogated, or fed to a dragon if they decide not to…what's the word? The one where you demand things after a kidnapping?
Ransom! That's it. He could be ransomed. Or not ransomed and fed to a dragon while the riders laugh at his screams.
Although it doesn't make much sense, since he's apparently been here for a whole day and all they've done is feed him and heal him. That doesn't match anything he's heard about dragon riders. There's supposed to be torture and pain by now. With fire. Lots and lots of fire.
“Now what's all that about?” Miss Chiyo puts a hand on his head, yanking him out of his thoughts so abruptly he jolts. “I can feel your heart trying to thump out of your chest.”
Shouto tangles his fingers in the blankets, working over the swirling storm in his head. He's in enemy territory. He's in a place he's been told is absolutely lethal and filled with people who would hurt him. So far he's been fed, and allowed to sleep in, and Miss Chiyo hasn't snapped at him once even though he's not on his best behavior, and there was a dragon in his room that ran away instead of trying to bite him—
It's so much all at once, and he isn't sure what to do about it.
“What's going to happen to me?” he asks. Instead of prying deeper, instead of vomiting all his questions, he focuses on the thing that matters most. It's almost like working through the camps, really. He focuses on what will come. What will happen. When he can expect it.
Maybe, if he just thinks like he does in the camps, it will be easier.
“Well, that'll be up for debate.” Miss Chiyo taps her chin, thinking. She moves away, shuffling out of the room at a slow pace, but her voice carries easily through the open door. “But for the most part, once you're done getting better, you'll move to the caverns. Make some friends. Run around and play outside, since the weather's good.”
Shouto blinks, because none of that makes any sense.
“But…I'm. I'm not— The dragon took me from—” he tries, not sure how to articulate the words to explain; not sure if he wants to explain, because maybe they don't know who he is? Maybe they think he's a normal little boy and not the youngest prince of the dynasty? If they knew just who they took, then all the awful things might really happen.
She shuffles back in with a basket hooked on one arm, seeming to have a quick moment where her eyes are sharp before her face smooths out again into a cheerful smile. “That's not for you to worry about, dear. The only thing you should fret about from here on out is grass stains and finding where the best berry bushes grow.”
That makes even less sense, but before he can say so, a breakfast of rolls with thick cuts of ham wedged inside appear and his concerns fall to the wayside of his empty stomach.
~
He wakes up again, after another healing leaves him sleeping through most of the day, to the faintest scratching noise. He tenses, waiting it out with baited breath, before finally rolling over and cracking one eye open.
Instead of a dragon staring at him there's a rock on top of his folded shirt. The window is wide open and there's no sign of green scales anywhere. Shouto sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He squints into the dark corners of the room to double check. Then triple checks.
Slowly, as if waiting for the rug to be pulled out, he reaches over and picks up the gift.
The outside is as rough and dull as he expects. It's a rock. It's the same as any other rock he's ever seen. He blinks, confused, turning it over in his hands before gasping.
The other side opens up to glittering crystal, shining like freshly fallen snow. It sparkles in the light given by the window, showing the swirls and delicate patterns hidden just under the surface. It's…remarkably pretty.
Shouto looks back to the window, where outside the trees sway in the summer breeze, before he notices something else. A folded slip of parchment sits where the rock had on top of his shirt. He doesn't hesitate this time to reach over and snatch it up, hurriedly unfolding it.
sorry for scaring you
It's scrawled out in uneven, childlike handwriting. The lines are crooked, some doubling back over one another as if the author had decided it wasn't thick enough and overcompensated greatly.
Shouto looks the note over once. Twice. Then he looks over the rock, taking in its shine and weight. Then he looks to the window, where the croaking of frogs drifts in with an uneven song.
His confusion keeps him awake for a good long while after that.
~
Shouto is…nervous, about leaving Miss Chiyo's care. But he doesn't say so when the time comes for him to go, burying it deep in his chest. He knows better than to complain and beg.
His shirt is still missing all its buttons and the blood on it has turned an ugly shade of brown, so Miss Chiyo tuts and packs it away in a little satchel with a meager collection of belongings. She presents him with a faded red tunic to replace it, which she shows him how to put on and to hold in place with a belt.
“The shirt's a lost cause. Maybe later you can turn it into something nice,” she tells him, tucking in some wrapped parcels Shouto thinks may be food or the start of a field pack. He sneaks in the rock when she hands the bag to him and even then it's still so light he may as well be carrying air. She walks him through the rest of the hut to the front door—he eagerly looks as much as he can without being obvious, taking in the cauldron by the fireplace, the jars and salves on shelves, the rolls of bandages in a stark, clean white—before his eyes find a familiar figure at the doorway.
“Hello, Shouto,” Nighteye greets. He's still wearing the weird polka-dot scarf around his neck, but the cloak is gone. Instead he's in a very nicely embroidered jacket, the kind Shouto's used to seeing on scholars and the mages who spend all their time studying old books.
He doesn't look angry like he was when he left, but Shouto still tenses.
“Hello,” he greets back, quiet.
“He's good as new. Just make sure to stuff him at mealtimes so he can really build himself back up.” Miss Chiyo looks up at Nighteye—which is almost funny, since she's Shouto's size and Nighteye is so tall—squinting at him in what can be called a scolding expression. “I better not see him back again if it can be helped.”
Nighteye nods, accepting her words before bowing low. “Understood, Chiyo. Thank you for your hard work.”
Shouto blinks, stone still and watching Nighteye bend before hurriedly copying him.
“Thank you, ma'am.”
“No thanks needed, dearie.” Miss Chiyo pats him on the shoulder as he rises, beaming at him and slipping something into his hand before opening the door and ushering him and Nighteye outside. Whatever scolding she had been delivering is gone from her expression entirely as the door shuts and Shouto is left to face the strange land he'd unknowingly entered.
There is a beat of silence as he and Nighteye stand in the summer sun, just looking at one another. Somewhere in the distance, a bird chirps.
Eventually, Nighteye clears his throat. “How are you feeling?”
There are a lot of ways Shouto could respond. Confused. Nervous. Anxious to see if he's been tricked into a false sense of security, if there really was a test all along and he's failed massively. He could also reply he's better than he's felt in weeks. He isn't bruised anywhere. His leg doesn't throb. By all means, he's right as rain and is overjoyed, deep in the part of himself where he can speak freely, that he isn't going to be in pain for weeks after this and might enjoy his summer.
But he doesn't say any of that, because he knows better, and focuses on his shoes with rigid shoulders. “Okay.”
“That's good to hear,” Nighteye says, soft. It's like how he was when he came into the room before; he speaks lowly, and unhurried, without urgency or any hardness. “We're going to walk to that building over there—do you see it? The big one built into the mountain.”
Shouto can see it through the trees, just a bit. The massive form of an almost artful wooden structure jutting out of the rock, with stone steps leading the way to its colossal doors mounted with massive shields that glitter in the sun. It looks gigantic even in the distance so it must be huge.
(Momentarily, he wonders how that's possible. General Hoshida told him the dragon people don’t know how to build anything better than a mud-brick hut.)
He nods, because he's not so out of it he'll forget to respond to an adult entirely, and Nighteye offers his hand. Shouto only stares at it for a moment or two before taking it. The surprise Miss Chiyo passed on is tucked into his new satchel as subtly as possible with his free hand as Nighteye steps forward to lead the way.
It takes Shouto a few minutes to realize he's too tense. He isn't being pulled like normal, dragged along roughly to match steps he's too small to catch up to, so he doesn't need to prepare his arm to lessen bruising. Letting his grip go slack is both entirely relaxing and entirely foreign.
If Nighteye notices, he says nothing.
The path is winding and nestled neatly between thickets of trees. Shouto catches glimpses of a field in the few gaps that emerge, briefly spotting movement that may be a massive wing. He doesn't jump but he does inch a bit closer to Nighteye, eyeing the next gap just a bit more intently. It's entirely silent, with only the sounds of birds and their footsteps breaking the quiet as the lush greenery passes them by.
So, of course, it's thundering when Nighteye breaks it.
“I have to apologize, for before. Chiyo gave me quite the tongue lashing,” he says, turning his head to look down at Shouto. “I was supposed to explain some things, but I'm afraid I was so angry I couldn't do it. It wasn't very responsible of me to run off like that.”
Shouto tenses. Nighteye raises an eyebrow, confused, before something dawns on his face and he suddenly appears very frantic.
“I wasn't angry at you. I was angry for you. I know it doesn't sound like there's a difference, but there is. A rather large one,” he explains, words stumbling out of his mouth just a bit faster. It's almost like when Fuyumi is nervous and loses track of her point.
The idea of an adult being nervous is so startling Shouto forgets to be tense, and Nighteye relaxes just a bit to breathe before he continues.
“I was very angry because the adults taking care of you weren't doing their jobs,” he says, stopping their walk so he can take one knee and bend to Shouto's eye level. “Fathers are supposed to support their children. Yours was harming you.”
Shouto knows that. He's lived every day with that knowledge since his magic manifested. Natsuo says Father is a “barrel of moldy dicks,” which sounds really good at describing how nasty he is because it's gross, but Shouto's not supposed to say it or Fuyumi gets upset about him repeating bad words and yells at Natsuo over it. He doesn't say so now, though, since he wasn't asked, so Nighteye doesn't stop and instead keeps going.
“You should have been removed from his care ages ago, but I suppose since he's a king there isn't anyone with the authority to do that. I'm sorry it took this long for someone to finally help you.”
That's not true. Fuyumi helps him when she can. She can't do much, because she's not an adult yet and she's not that strong of a mage, but she brings him treats and tells him stories. Touya used to help, too. He would distract the tutors so they wouldn't focus so hard on their jobs and lessons would be a little easier. Natsuo talks to him sometimes and tells him things that aren't proper for princes, but it's fun so it's like their little secret—
Wait.
“Um…” he starts, unsure and suddenly very, very cold. “You said…”
“Hm?” Nighteye tilts his head, waiting for him to finish.
He can feel the urge to shake and suppresses it—it's always worse when he trembles. He shouldn't move, even when his voice comes out hollow. “You said. You know my father is the king.”
“I did.” Nighteye nods.
His heart thunders in his ears. “So you know I'm a prince.”
“I do.”
Ah. That's it then. He shouldn't have gotten his hopes up. That's always what ruins it, that sliver of hope he clings to like a raft in the storm. Eventually it capsizes and he's left to drown.
“Are they going to do something to me?” he asks, voice wobbling. He tries to stop it, tries to keep back the flood of panic and fear and uncertainty he's pushed back since waking up still alive, but he feels the hot tears running down his cheeks before he has the chance to wipe them away. “I don't want to be fed to a dragon! Don't let them eat me!”
His vision has gone blurry, but he can see Nighteye shift.
“What on Earth have they been telling you?” the man asks, voice sounding off somehow. Either way, it doesn't sound angry, which would normally make Shouto very happy but the tears won't stop.
“I don't want to be locked up in a cave, or fed to a dragon, or fed to people!” he blurts out, words ripping themselves out of his throat with abandon. “I don't know things, so I'm not a good prisoner!”
There's a sound, like a choking noise crossed with a gasp gone wrong, but he can't really hear it over the sound of his own heaving. “Prisoner!?”
He only cries harder. It's stupid, when he gets like this. So stupid. It never ends in a good way and he only ever feels like an idiot who can't control himself. But it just builds, and builds, and suddenly he can't stop and sooner or later he gets hit and told to stop throwing tantrums like a baby even though he can't make it stop—
“I promise I won't tell my father anything! I'll lie and say I was blindfolded, just—”
Hands slam down on his shoulders, and the wince Shouto performs is painful. But the hit never comes. Instead the hands ground him, keeping him steady, and Nighteye talks to him in a voice that's all at once commanding and unbending but soothing to the blood rushing through Shouto's ears.
“Breathe.”
He tries. He can't, the first few times, heaving and wheezing instead. But Nighteye waits him out, letting him keep going until he manages to breathe without sounding like an out of shape barn animal. There's the sound of cloth rustling, and a soft handkerchief is rubbing away all the snot and tears that have built up over the course of his episode.
The nostalgia that suddenly overcomes him—the faint memory of his mother doing the same thing, drying his tears with a sad smile—almost knocks him off his feet. He hasn't been touched like this in years. He would have forgotten altogether, he thinks, if it wasn’t for the soft fabric against his skin.
“You aren't a prisoner. No one is feeding you to anything. I don't know who told you all that, but they're idiots.” Nighteye talks as he works, calm as ever without a single ripple disrupting his peace. When Shouto finally looks at him, he's surprised the other man isn't reacting to anything. Both the outburst and the spectacle his crying must have been.
Natsuo had told him once he was an ugly crier. He makes faces and drips everywhere. Adults hate it, but his siblings had tolerated it with either faint amusement or pity. He's not sure which one he disliked more.
“But— But the generals and soldiers said—” Shouto huffs. Breathing is easier but talking isn't, which just upsets him even more.
Nighteye makes a face, wrinkling his nose like he smelled something bad. “The soldiers were wrong. They've told you a lot of things about the dragon riders, haven't they?”
Shouto nods. Of course they have. They're going to fight the dragon riders one day. He's going to fight the dragon riders one day, that's what he's been trained to do for as long as he can remember. He's had to listen to them talk because they know the enemy best.
“Well, then I'm willing to bet they never told you about me.”
Shouto blinks, confused. “Why would they?”
Nighteye grins.
“I'm a dragon rider,” he says.
All Shouto can do for a bit is stare at him like he's grown another head.
Nighteye? A dragon rider? That makes no sense. That makes no sense at all. Dragon riders are huge, and have big muscles, and wear furs and leathers. They're supposed to be scary people who don't act like people. They're all sorts of awful things wrapped up into the kind of bad guys that should only exist in bedtime stories. That's what everybody says, and everybody can't be wrong all at once. But…
Nighteye is dressed in nice clothes. Like civilized people wear. He has glasses that look like they were made by a very talented smith. He talks proper, like the old stuffy tutors that Father hires all the time. His skin is clear of dirt, his hair is combed, and he smells like floral soap and clean linens. That stupid polka dot scarf is still there, still sticking out like a sore thumb. Aside from the fact he's stupidly tall, he looks like a normal man Shouto would see every day back home. Nothing like…like…
“This is what I was supposed to talk to you about, so this mess is on me. I apologize again for the distress,” Nighteye says, the smile fading from his face as he adjusts his glasses. When he finishes, he looks Shouto in the eye with the kind of face a teacher has when they're going to quiz you. “Why do you think that dragon took you?”
Well, that's a stupid question.
“Because it was angry. Because I was there— I was supposed to kill it, and I didn't, and I didn't run,” Shouto murmurs. That's obvious. It was stupid of him. Everyone knows you're supposed to run as fast as possible if you can't kill a dragon yourself. But instead he sat there, just watching, because it was the first time he'd ever seen anything knock over his father.
Nighteye purses his lips, adjusting his glasses again.
“Not exactly. Dragons are particular about certain things. One of those things, that they consider very important, is hatchlings. They don't like it when they see children get hurt. That dragon took you because it wanted you to go somewhere better, where you wouldn't be hurt anymore,” he explains, slowly and with care in each word.
“I've never heard of dragons doing that.” Shouto eyes him skeptically.
“You wouldn't. They don't like to return what they call theirs.” The smile returns, tiny but there and having a bit of humor. “I can assure you you're in no danger here. I was the same as you, once.”
Shouto stands up straighter. “You were?”
Nighteye taps his glasses, nudging them down, and they spark—his eyes change, the whites turning dark as amber turns to a glowing gold.
Shouto has met quite a few mages. His entire family is made of mages. He's seen fire, he's seen ice, he's seen wind and vines and pure magic in so many forms; he's never seen a mage with the powers of a soothsayer before. He knows they're rare, though. He knows they're one in a million. He knows his father would pay handsomely to ever have one of his very own.
And here this one is, showing him eyes the entire world would want, and his father is nowhere to be seen.
The gold eventually fades. The white returns to his eyes like paint bleeding into water, and the glasses return to their proper place. Through it all Shouto is absolutely enraptured, especially when Nighteye speaks again.
“I grew up somewhere far away. My magic is very peculiar, and also very useful, so the adults taking care of me became selfish. My training wasn't particularly nice. It hurt me more often than not, but no one cared because I was giving them what they wanted.”
He tells it like a story. Like a story Shouto knows, because he's lived it, except it's not him this time. It's not him, it's someone else, and it's an adult. An adult who was like him who seems happy now.
“So…the dragons took you,” Shouto continues for him, unsure but feeling that dangerous sliver of hope creeping back into his veins.
Nighteye nods, then leans closer. “The dragons took me. And you know what?”
“What?” Shouto asks, hoping for the answer in his mind to match the one he's about to hear. The little raft in the storm finally seems to bob above the waves enough he can see the shore, and beyond anything he hopes this time it stays afloat.
And Nighteye smiles, wide and genuine and everything adults haven't been in years.
“I've been very happy here ever since.”