“I’m all right,” he said automatically, taking an offered hand and pulling himself to his feet again. Yet here he was, on his stomach in the middle of the square with Vikings all rushing over to help him stand, his dragon Toothless staring down at him with unmistakable worry. He ought to have been able to walk around market without his leg giving out from underneath him. Was he ever going to get used to it? It had been four months since the battle with the Red Death. The sixteen-year-old boy grimaced and looked up from his prone position on the ground. I just wanted to give you a little warning in advance.
This story is merely the result of my utter hatred of the hurt-him-to-save-him cliché as well as a desire to try something new: I’ve never written anything with real angst before and thought I’d try it. I promise I am perfectly fine, I’m not depressed, and I’m not having suicidal thoughts. Author’s Note: Fair warning, this story is going to get dark.
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