Einar Grimm was a man accustomed to getting his way.
Regardless of the circumstances, whether he had to cheat like a bastard or fight with tooth and claw like a dog, he and his will would always emerge victorious.
He could not be blamed, therefore, for trying to persuade himself that he was still in control of his current predicament. He hung by one arm thousands of feet above the city of Fjordheim, his right arm clasped firmly in the bronze talons of a perfect clockwork flying machine, piloted by an arrogant noblegirl who was somehow able to perform magic as powerful as his. His nose was still streaming blood, courtesy of the palace's marble floors, and his ribs were throbbing with fresh bruises. Einar was unable to persuade himself that he was still the one in control.
And it terrified him. His mind reeled and his blood shuddered in his veins as he hung from the dragon's single paw. Every muscle was strung tight. The last time he had felt such heavy things, he had been beaten and dumped in a canal, saved only by a snake of an information broker. Einar clung to the machine more tightly, locking his other arm around it as if he intended to strangle it, All he could feel was unfamiliar, animalistic flushes of panic that warmed his whole body and the gentle rocking of the dragon as it flew.
Silence hung with them in the air as the dragon slid, serpent-like and silent, through the night. The city coiled below them like a crumpled map of stars nestled between harsh mountains. The palace that sat like a crown halfway up on the face of the North Peak had long since faded into the mists. Factories belched poison into the air so far below, spewing billows of black smoke, and the clouds pressed down from above with their freezing darkness. Without the great twirling Northern Lights that flowed somewhere too high and too cold for them that night, the only light was the hazy, garish glow filtering up from oil lamps and log fires.
Each of the dragon's wingbeats sent ripples of pain through his fragile, battered body. If he craned his neck in just the right painful way and squinted up into the foggy darkness of the night, then he could make out the faint coppery shape of the machine. Its wingtips dipped through the mist every so often, more steady and reliable than his own heart in their beating. Its legs were tucked up against its flanks and, with every heave of its wings, it puffed belches of smoke from its glowing nostrils. Its streamlined back was half-shrouded with the polar night as it soared, its smooth spine-line broken only by the young royal crouched over its neck, guiding it through the darkness with a grim, thin-set expression. She hadn't spoken since they'd fled the palace - and she'd, for some unthinkable reason, taken him with her.
And she had snatched his dragon from him. She worked the delicate controls on its neck and shifted her weight on its back to guide its delicate machinery through the skies as if it had been her father who'd sacrificed his life to building a perfect machine, as if she was the one who'd stayed up all through the dark to memorise its notes. Fear boiled and billowed into something more raw and impulsive, like the rage of a circus tiger let out of his cage.
He had waited eight years for this day. He had memorised every scrap of writing he could find on the clockwork dragon. He had crept into the royal palace after climbing the North Peak, and slain the guards that lay in wait. He had risked his life for his father's machine - no, his machine - and he wasn't going to let a spoilt brat with a false sense of righteousness take what belonged to him.
Einar's lips curled up into something reminiscent of a feral snarl - something he'd learnt off of fellow slumdwellers and their fighting dogs - and he shouted a string of words into the wind. They were smothered like snow dampening a forest, but their effect was immediate. His magic loosened the dragon's grip around his arm and allowed him to twist like a desperate rat scrabbling for his life.
He grabbed onto the brat's leg and pulled himself up with a grunt, swinging his legs over the dragon's back and steadying himself as the dragon shifted to stabilise their weights, as his father had designed it to. The brat turned to stare at him, her mouth forming into an imperfect expression of shock with her pupils dilating and her eyebrows arching as she turned - stupid! - and unbalanced the dragon's weight yet again.
"Hey, thief, what -"
"Goodbye, your highness..."
Einar was going what he had to do - experiences bitter as arsenic had taught him how important it was to do what he had to. He cut her off with a huge shove to the small of her back, a shove so large it jarred his shoulder blades and made his ribs hurt worse, his mouth dead-set and determined. Guilt dripped in the darkest, most human parts of him, the parts he hated most, as she was thrown backwards off of the dragon's neck. He tried his best to ignore it.
She grabbed his wrist and tugged hard as she muttered something, her mouth forming desperate sentences as they both lunged forwards. Her magic did nothing to change their falling. Einar yelped with surprise as he was dragged forwards and reminded of every ache in his body, sliding effortlessly over the flawless metal of the dragon's back. Just as they were about to tumble all the way back down to Fjordheim's industrial centre, the row of factories along the riverside, the machine banked sharply, rolling to the right and catching them in the dip in its neck - just where his father had designed the riders to sit.
She clung to the dragon's horns, her scrawny chest moving like a prisoner about to be executed. And, in a way, she was. Einar growled - another trick he'd picked up from slumdwellers and fighting dogs - and threw a punch at her face. She ducked and flattened herself to the right, throwing the dragon into a steep rightwards bank that soon became a dive.
"Hey!" she screamed, going ridgid against the dragon's spine, "hey, you Goddamned thief, what do you think -"
"I know how to fly the thing! Let me fly it!" Einar shouted back, his voice strained and on the brink of pleading. "You don't know what you're doing!"
"No! You're just going to try to kill me!"
"Oh, my God! Do you want both of us to die?!" Einar hollered again, before pushing her aside in an effort to get to the main controls on its neck, the controls his magic wouldn't reach. She didn't retaliate this time, and let him stretch himself over the falling dragon like a cat.
Her eyes were wide and fearful. He couldn't blame her.
Pounding terror rushed in his ears as he fumbled with the switch that controlled the dragon's wings. The dragon began to spin as it stooped and it, drawing its wings out in like a peregrine stooping out of its dive. Fjordheim's lights got closer, closer, closer, before the machine fully eased its wings out to stop the fall.
By then, it was too late.
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