chapter 4
If there was one thing I had learned in my human life, it was that books and movies are very bad preparation for actually being a dragon.
At least, that was what I told myself as I crouched—relatively gently—on the cliffs above Berk, trying to figure out how the hell to approach a Night Fury without immediately terrifying it.
"Okay, Aegis," I muttered to myself. My voice was low, rumbling, vibrating the cliffside. "You know what they do in the movies. You know what Hiccup does. You know… all the books."
Books. That's a laugh. I had read encyclopedias on dragons, novels, manuals, fan-fiction—even wikis. I had memorized everything: the stealthy leaps, the tail maneuvers, the subtle ear flicks that meant "I'm curious, but don't touch me." Movies taught me patience and observation, and some… well, slightly exaggerated bonding techniques that probably wouldn't survive in real life.
Now it was time to try.
Toothless was perched on a tree, wings partially open, eyes bright, watching the village bustle.
Step one: don't scare him.
I remembered a scene from the first movie: Hiccup crouches low, keeps his movements small, soft, and non-threatening. Soft voice. Gentle gestures. Slowly… slowly.
I crouched, tail carefully coiled, wings tucked so the tips didn't scrape the cliff. My claws clicked gently against stone, each step calculated. I breathed through my nose, trying to make my scales "glow less"—something about purple-black scales pulsing with nervousness apparently made a very bad first impression.
Toothless tilted his head.
Great. He's judging me.
I held up a claw in what I hoped was a "friendly wave." In theory, it was exactly what Hiccup would have done.
In practice… it looked like a gargantuan, jagged paw flailing at him.
Toothless chirped. I froze. His ears twitched. His tail flicked lightly.
It was working. I think.
I tried again, using a technique I remembered from a fan-theory book about dragon psychology:
Mimic movements, but slightly smaller than the dragon.
Allow the dragon to approach.
Offer no sudden motions.
I flapped one wing gently, just enough to shift balance. Then crouched even lower. Then… I sneezed.
Again.
Really? Twice in one week?
Toothless jumped slightly but didn't fly away. Instead, he made a low, amused chirp—like he was actively laughing at me.
Victory, maybe? I muttered.
I began experimenting with mimicry. I remembered Hiccup teaching Toothless to chase his hand or respond to gentle nudges. I tried nudging a small boulder forward with my nose. Toothless batted it back.
Yes, yes, exactly like the movies!
Then I pushed it too hard. It rolled off the cliff. My tail swung instinctively to stop it. It didn't stop. My wing flapped. Wind gust. Cliff edge rattled. Fish below scattered. Toothless… watched with a level of judgment that almost hurt.
I sighed.
Maybe they exaggerated how easy this is in the movies.
I spent the next few hours analyzing his behavior, comparing it to the countless hours of fictional observation I had done. Every ear twitch, every tail flick, every head tilt.
Tilt left, ears forward = curious
Tilt left, ears flat = cautious
Tail thump, low vibration = playful
Tail thump, high vibration = irritation
Glow of eyes = emotional state
I noted everything, occasionally whispering commentary to myself. "Hiccup does it like this… no, maybe softer… yes, that's it. Or maybe… uh… OH GOD he's flying."
By midday, I was exhausted but… making progress. Toothless had approached slightly closer. I tried another technique: low chirp, soft tail wag. Slight head tilt. Encouraging posture.
It worked.
Not perfectly. Not gracefully. But he stayed.
This was also when I started observing Berk more closely, integrating dragon observation with human life. Vikings were messy. Loud. Completely unaware of just how dangerous a titanwing dragon could be.
Snotlout tried to impress everyone with daring stunts on Hookfang, yelling constantly.
Ruffnut and Tuffnut argued mid-flight while their dragons barely maintained altitude.
Fishlegs recorded everything meticulously.
Astrid was precise, perfect, calculating.
And Hiccup… Hiccup was calm. He moved like he was part of the ecosystem, part of the dragons, but not dominant. Careful, cautious, confident.
I admired him, and resented him slightly. I had memorized all his moves. I had seen everything on screen. Yet here, in reality, he was… naturally good.
Then came my first real flight interaction with Toothless.
I flapped carefully, hovering a few meters off the ground. Tail tucked. Wings angled just so. Toothless tilted, chirped, then darted underneath me, weaving and looping.
I tried to follow, remembering Hiccup's movie maneuvers: lean slightly, adjust weight, anticipate movement.
I failed spectacularly.
I tipped sideways, wings beat furiously, tail smacked a boulder, and I skidded across the cliff face before righting myself. Toothless landed nearby, eyes wide, chirping softly. Not aggressive, not angry—just… surprised.
Progress, I told myself. Small, humiliating progress.
Evenings became my favorite. I perched above the village, observing daily life, dragons, and humans.
Women weaving nets along the harbor.
Children chasing small dragons through the streets.
Blacksmiths hammering in rhythm, sparks flying.
Smoke curling from hearths.
I realized something important: Vikings and dragons were entwined, not opposed. Just like in the movies. Just like the books. My human brain had assumed dragons would be solitary, wild, uncontrollable forces. Not here. Here, dragons were partners. Allies. Companions.
And that meant… I was the anomaly.
I experimented further with using my knowledge from fiction to predict dragon reactions:
Mimic their sounds. Slight pitch changes. Tail gestures.
Offer non-threatening posture.
Avoid direct eye glare.
Reward small positive behaviors with attention (or, in my case, friendly wing pats).
It worked inconsistently. I learned that Toothless, like any dragon, wasn't scripted. He wasn't a movie character. He was alive. Clever. Capable of independent thought—and judgment.
Comedy returned mid-afternoon when I attempted to hunt a fish using the "movie logic" of a dramatic swoop.
I dove. A fish leapt in panic. I misjudged trajectory. Ended up belly-flopping into the water. Tail flailing. Splash radius: ten meters. Water sprayed an unlucky seagull. Toothless watched from above, utterly unamused.
Maybe books weren't completely useless, I muttered, shaking water from wings. But movies… movies lied.
By sunset, I had learned two key things:
My size is a blessing… and terrifyingly obvious.
My knowledge of dragons from fiction is helpful in theory, chaotic in practice.
Toothless approached my perch one last time, circling slowly. Not threatening. Not aggressive. Just… curious.
Yes, I thought. We're getting somewhere.
And as the sun dipped below the horizon, my violet-black scales reflecting the fading light, I realized: I was no longer in the movies. No longer in the books. I was something entirely new. Aegis. Titanwing. Observer. Shadow. And maybe… one day, something more.