He drank quietly at the shore, for a time, and even dared dip his wing down into the water and flip some back up onto his body, soothing some of his aches and wounds. He rested, then, napping on the warm stones, forgetting, for once, to hide.

It was curled up, coiled so that his forelegs and head rested on his tail, that he woke. His eyes snapped open, and he realized that there was a soft skittering nearby--a shifting of light stones--that must have woken up. His serpentine head flicked up and toward the source--and he saw a rat, impossibly large, staring at him.

He stared back.

It bristled, and slowly set down the forepaw it had raised--and Dread instantly recognized an impending attack. The rat was likely as heavy as he was, with far more deadly teeth, and he scrambled up, feeling the heat boil up overwhelmingly in his gut. It was all he could do to open his mouth before it exploded forth.

The torrent of flames that spewed over the rat left it no chance to react. Hell, even Dread hadn't had a chance to react--he felt only agony searing through him as the fire poured forth, alarm spiking into fear as the pain burnt him, unable to see if he was even hitting his target.

As the jet of incinerating fire guttered abruptly out, he saw only a charred and steaming hunk of fur, still lightly aflame here and there, smoke billowing up. It had managed only a few scurrying steps before falling. Dread, however, barely looked--just enough to see that the rat was no longer a danger. He was too busy turning, his mind remembering the soothing nature of water after the burns, and he plunged into the lake.

If a dragon could cry, he would surely be in tears; the pain was surreal, nightmarish. Perhaps if he had not been a dragon, it would have been worse, but as it was he squeaked and gulped water, spitting it out only to fill his mouth with more, the singed flesh throbbing.

(mild gore warning for fairly detailed account of rat-eating)

When he at last returned to the rat, it was still hot, charred, its fur rank with the stench of burnt hair--but it was no longer burning. The thing was huge--big, bristling--and bulkier than he himself. He'd been born, after the manner of reptiles, nearly fully-formed in the sense that he was able to fly fairly soon after hatching, and so forth; but to manage this he was very slender and light, and the rat was a heavy brute.

Cautious, he hissed, circling it, wings spread in a threat display--but it did not move. He lashed it with his tail, drawing blood the second time, but again it did not move, and at last (satisfied that the blackened rat was not about to leap up at him with long incisors bared), he carefully and clumsily crawled onto it. There he perched, a hunter posing with his prey, wings spread for balance.

He sniffed it over. He could smell blood where his talons were puncturing its hide, and so he stepped back, sniffing at the wounds. He began to bite at the thing, the burning hunger in his stomach resurfacing vehemently. His first mouthful came away with fur turned half to ashes, which he spat out and ignored; the second tore the hide only a little. The third pulled free a long strip of skin, and he found burnt meat beneath, and--for the first time--began to feast upon rat.

Again and again the baby dragon tore off long shreds of meat, and each time he tossed it back, gulping it down with his head to the ceiling. It hurt to swallow past the burns, but the hunger was more intense than the pain, and instinct drove him on. After a few moments of tearing at lightly-muscled ribs, he hoped down, peering snakelike at the rat's belly. A few tearing bites and claw-rips later he had disemboweled it, and began tearing out and consuming the organ meats. Some tasted delicious, and he revelled in devouring them. Some tasted less so.

When at last he felt heavy and drowsy with meat, he pulled back and looked around. The bank remained bare, and the light was fading. With a few sluggish hops and a scraping climb, the dragon clambered up into his niche to rest, licking the blood from his jaws before settling his head back over his spike tail. Leathery wings pressed down over his back, and he felt himself drifting quickly off to sleep.

When orb-dawn came, the little dragon left his cave--after some cautious watching for giant snakes, of course.

He did baby dragon things: drink water, poop, sniff around for prey. He remembered the remains of the rat, and found most had been eaten overnight by something or other--and half torn away, dragged off to who knew where. There was, however, enough meat left in scraps to satisfy what little hunger had returned after the previous night's feast.

Afterward, he sniffed around, trying to figure out where the rest of the remains had been dragged off to--more out of curiosity than anything.

At first, the stench of dead, burnt rat was overpowering--but as he circled out, slowly (absorbed in his task and not nearly as alert as he should have been) sniffing over the stones, he found that it had left an equally strong trail. Shaking himself out--his tiny spines rattling, briefly--he began to make his way along the rocky shore.

Unfortunately, it didn't go very far; something had dragged it into the water to one side of the beach. The dragonling shook himself again, and began to play among the stones, leaping and tossing them and chasing them when they skittered over the other. He was growing less utterly clumsy in his movements, gaining some coordination and some muscle tone.

He began to kick the stones up and try to lash them with his tail, or bat them higher with his wings, bright-eyed with enthusiasm at this game he had invented alone. Some part of him, though--perhaps some instinctive side that expected rowdy siblings and parents and a nest--felt lonely, despite not knowing what loneliness was.

Still, he did not dwell on this; the light was warm, he was fed, the pain of his wounds was fading.

Life, for now, was good.

The baby dragon bounded through the ferns. He had been afraid to enter them, at first--afraid of what might lurk within--but once he'd crept within and braved them, he'd found that he loved the sense of the plants brushing over his scaly hide.

With an excited squeak he raced out of them--then back in. He'd seen a single, small brown mouse, but it had vanished before he could pounce it--not that it mattered. He was more inclined to play, now, than to hunt. A bound, a leap--dirt, loose stone, warmth--and suddenly, cold.

He paused, blinking, then crept back a step.

There was a hole here--and not a small one. It was a big hole, a cave mouth half hidden behind foliage, at least from his height. He peered into the tunnel, quiet, sniffing--an odd, bitter-cold wind blew from it, and it was dark, shadowed.

He didn't like it.

With a squeak he turned tail, hopping back away through the ferns and out, sprint-galloping as best he could with hind feet and winged forelimbs. He leapt up, trying to break into flight, running clumsily on hind legs while flapping his wings, only to fall and skid over the rocks. Fearful, he glanced back--but the cave mouth hadn't come alive, nothing was roaring after him through its cold. He pulled himself up, quiet, and--now at a safe distant--watched it.

The baby dragon had now taken to tossing rocks into the air as high as he could. He then chased them, bounding after them, though he'd managed to accidentally hit himself with rocks twice now. They were small, though, worn smooth by water, so he wasn't much hurt.

This continued until he found that new and most innovative of toys: the stick.

It was a slender stick, dark, wet and smelling of earth, and he picked it from the pebbled with snout and wing-clawed carefully, sniffing at it.

With an excited squeak he tossed it, and watched it clatter lightly down.

He tossed it again, and chased it again. He dug at it for a moment before he could get it free from the pebbles once more, then seized it in his jaws and pranced off with it, holding it high as if to keep it from some unseen competitors.

Then he stopped, and looked around.

The cave was empty. There were bugs, here and there--but the water was empty of the cries of kin, and no vast bulk settled beside him to protect him. No siblings leapt at him to fight him for his stick, and there was no one to chase and to play with, to fight.

With a quiet exhale the dragon sat, lowering himself then to lay on the stones, staring out over the empty water. He closed his eyes, alone, and he slept.

When he woke, the first thing he did was take his new stick up to his den. Then he began to pick along the pebbles, absently, and chose the shinier ones for his collection. A few shone silver, threads of quartz or mica within, and a few glittered, simple metallic granite.

He added them to the niche, scattering the stones about and enjoying listening to the quiet clatter they made. It was company, of a sort; having his own place, his own things, was a comfort in this strange, lonely existence. It was just he, the world, and a predatory snake that had tried to eat him once. And some rats, some bugs, and some fish, but none of these things were his friends, his family, or his allies.

The baby dragon nudged again at the stones with his soft snout, and then laid over them with an exhale. They were, in some sense, his only companions.

He could feel the pain of the wounds down his chest, now healing, but they felt good against the smooth, warm stone. He nestled in further, laying with eyes open. He'd be hungry again soon, but for now he simply lay, blankly quiet.

Memories went through his mind in no particular order. The crystals of the ceiling of Fornax. The great snake's crushing coils. Silver-flecked stones catching the light; silvery fish glinting in the water. The pain of flame; the taste of rat.

His life had thus far been short... yet he had learned much.

He closed his eyes, and slept.

Upon awakening in the early hours of the morning, he'd taken to preening his scales as best he could. Tiny tongue smoothed the ones that had been nudged out of place, and cautiously, he cleaned his wounds once more.

Then he took flight, careful and still clumsy, flapping over the island and its lake. His flight was bobbing, uneven, but it was still flight, and every day his muscles improved. His tiny, lizard-like body was easily kept aloft, lightweight and slender.

He might have exulted in his freedom, in his strength, but he hated the rock ceiling above--and he was hungry. He flew in silence, instead of roaring--or rather, squeaking--and, from high on the wing, he watched for prey.

He spotted the silver flashes of fish in the water before he saw anything else, and swept unsteadily lower, the memory of the taste of fish flesh strong in his mind and stoking his hunger. He eyed them, hovering, unsure as to how to go about it--did he try and grab one with his jaws, or his feet? Did he dive right into the water, or try to snatch it on the wing?

The dragon huffed, and half-folded his wings, sweeping down and letting instinct take hold. Eyes fixed on one of the silvery shapes, he arrowed down, plunging into the lake. He felt his jaws close around something slippery and held on, curving back up, feeling himself erupt at the surface once more. He flapped at the surface for a moment, floating and floundering there, feeling the other fish hit his feet and swim away; then he was slowly half-flapping again.

Partly-airborne, partly-flying, he struggled his way back to shore and bashed the fish on the rocks until it stopped moving.

Wings spread, he eyed it; when it was clearly well and truly dead, he began to feed.

The little dragon's scales were hardly adamantine, but they were still quite solid. When he was set upon by another rat later that evening, its first bite didn't do more than scratch his skin.

He hadn't heard it coming, and he wheeled in sharp fear and defiant anger, all his spines lifting in a threat display. A squeak-roar was followed by a pathetic puff of smoke, and he found himself bowled over and over by the rat's next lunging attack. His tail whipped up into it, but the pair were, for a moment, a tangle of claws and scales and whiskers and wings, and the two tumbled over the loose stones.

His angry squeaks and its own combined and after a moment he broke free, springing back and spreading wings, hissing and squeaking furiously at the bristling rat.

Why was life so hard?! Why was everything trying to eat him?!

Fear and anger continued to surge through him, and he arched his neck, feeling the heat well up within him again. This time it burst forth in a torrent, not visible flames but shimmering, boiling air. The rat hesitated, but Dread took several swift steps forward as the exhale finished, and when its whiskers began to singe its common sense got the better of it.

It turned and made its way quickly into the bushes, and Dread shook his neck out, spines rattling, pleased with this little victory--his heart was racing, his skin freshly-scratched, but he'd won. Only a brief confrontation, to be sure--but still, he had won.

With a few hissing huffs, the little dragon stretched out again, squeaking after the rat. His tail lashed slowly over the smooth, loose rocks, and his wings beat into the air in a tiny threat display.

Quiet, then, he looked around. He was alone once more.

All was again silent--peaceful, but silent.

With a squeak after the rat, he suddenly decided he wanted to follow it. He was alone--lonely, yes, but the rat was an enemy, and it was something to do. But he'd never taken flight before--not properly--without climbing high, and gliding.

Skittering and scrabbling over the loose stones, Dread began to bound forward--then leaned up, his hind legs doing all the running and rushing, his little wings beating in a clumsy attempt to lift him airborne.

He felt the warm air of Fornax billow--one wingbeat, two, and then his feet had left the ground and he was rapidly gaining height. He soared after the rat--over the foliage, beating his wings again and rising even higher. He didn't see it anywhere, but he circled nonetheless, peering down, now flying in near-silence like any good predator.

After some time he broke off. The rat had gone into hiding, or was long gone; there was no point in circling over the cave foliage for much longer. He turned, banking, and spiralled slowly higher into the air.

At least when flying, he felt free, despite the cave roof locking him in high above. It did not, however, make him forget that he was alone. Some part of him instinctively expected a sibling or three in the skies with him--or many more, perhaps. Some part of him knew that their cries should fill the air, that they should be rivals, and allies, sparring and fighting and chasing.

But bar for him, Fornax's air was empty.