Chapter Text
It’s cold.
It’s colder than he can ever remember being, but he doesn’t feel it, not now. His breath escapes in rapid plumes, disappearing behind him as he tears through the brush, stumbling along the Black Sea coast. Earlier, he had been trying very hard not to think about how much colder it would be getting, once winter rolled in properly. Now, he thinks of nothing, deaf to the explosions of spells far too close. He ignores the shouts, the bright flashes of light; everything that could spell danger is drowned out by the suffocating panic threatening to overwhelm him now.
Cavalry One, coded and cleared for war zone deployment, had taken to the air only minutes ago. It wasn’t her first flight into the battle; nor was it her second or even her third. Countless witches and wizards had been saved by her brutal, terrifying power and blistering hellfire. Great swathes of the Eastern Front had been scorched to blackened, glassy fields thanks to her, and while the loss of life was difficult to swallow, the lives she saved remained grateful, no matter how much of a distance they kept from her.
He couldn’t really blame them, he supposed. She was a great beast, and even now, when he summoned her back after each bout of destruction, she returned unwillingly, and a multitude of the scars he had gathered over the last several months had been narrow escapes from her claws and firebrand teeth. No other Cavalry compared, not yet. Likely not ever. Even for a dragon, her temper was monstrous. It was why she was kept closest to battle, and away from the others- the first Cavalry to be called, from his own little outpost.
He had appreciated the solitude, somewhat, even if it was a bit lonely, waiting for orders by owl and coded wand blasts to let him know when he would be relieved. Now, he appreciates that solitude with a renewed force as he goes against direct orders, legs and lungs burning as he pushes himself further from his post, towards the battle.
She’d been in flight all of a minute. Maybe less. She hadn’t made it to the frontline, he knows that much at least. Which means that whoever had executed the strike was within shouting distance to him, now. It must have been dozens of them, all with precision aim, directed at the soft, barely-visible tendons under her wing joints. The clench of his heart and the shock down his spine had been the last thing he had felt, watching her cripple midair before he’d been off and into the woodland.
He hadn’t seen the completion of her fall- hadn’t needed to, because it had shaken the ground with the force of her impact. Now, he stumbles to a stop at the edge of a light hill, breath gone backwards at the sight before him. A line of trees crushed, and the ridge of one slate grey wing cresting over them all. He doesn’t know how much noise he makes as he stumbles down the slope- doesn’t care. His wand is out and he dimly hopes that he doesn’t run into one of the witches or wizards responsible for this now, as he would do something very regrettable.
The underbrush catches at his boots and branches scratch his face but it doesn’t matter, nothing matters until he’s found the edge of the clearing. The body of the giant creature is failing but her claws still flash, tail thrashing and leaving gouges in the earth.
It doesn’t slow him, and Second Lieutenant Newton Scamander skids to a stop on his knees, only feet away from the giant head of the downed form of Cavalry One.
“Oh, Adina…”
Cavalry One, his Adina. His lovely, beautiful girl. He doesn’t bother with a stunning spell to get close- he can easily see that the damage is irreparable. For all her grace in the sky and destruction on the battlefield, a body her size simply couldn’t take a fall from that height. Even if it did, the joints of her wings are far beyond hope. Her head moves to face him in small, aborted movements, and a brilliant claret eye rolls to meet his own.
There’s intelligence there. Just as he can see that her chest isn’t rising or falling as it should be, he can see that she knows. A wing pulls forward and her breath exhales in a pained gust of wind, scorching his skin. He’s never been close to her like this before- not without three dozen other soldiers at least, all with stunning spells in place. It’s foolish. Reckless. Completely suicidal, and none of this stops Newt from closing the distance to rest a trembling hand on her burning snout.
“Sweet Addie, what have they done-?”
Somewhere, it registers that his face is wet from tears, just as it registers that his palm is wet from blood. Here, close enough to feel her wheezing breath burning through his clothes, he knows that she could kill him without a thought. One lunge and a snap of jaws that wouldn’t see any resistance in his negligible form. One breath with the intent to burn, and he would be ashes. And she has it in her, he knows. Even now, even like this, she is rage and fire, and she could consume him whole.
But, instead. Instead of Cavalry One keeping to her title until the very end, his Addie wuffs softly, a low grumble that he feels in his bones, and closes her eyes. He closes his own, but only for a moment, choking back the wretched sobs he knows are building in his chest. This isn’t the time. He should end this. She’s suffering; in pain, and the enemy is god-knows-where, but far too close. And he knows, listening to the heavy, shaking rattle of her lungs, that she doesn’t have much longer. Her death throes alone could kill him.
It takes a moment to realize that the pitched, breathless cry is from himself. He can’t. He can’t do it. Not Addie. Not his girl. His free hand cuffs at his eyes, holds his wand tighter in a sweat slicked grip, and he leans further, protectively crouched over her monstrous head. It might be minutes or hours, or even seconds he doesn’t know, but one last, shuddering gasp that he’s sure has left blisters on his skin, and her great body falls still. Wings slump to the ground and giving up their futile attempt to ever work properly again, and Newt folds into himself, tears renewed and breath heaving as he rests his forehead against shining, iron scales that are tinged with red.
“Rest, Addie. Sweet girl, you’ve done so well.”
It takes too long to extricate himself from the form of the Ukrainian Ironbelly, but he manages. He manages, and he stands, body slumped, hands helpless at his sides. Cavalry One is down. He’s left his post. He’ll be facing an official inquiry, and he simply cannot bring himself to care. His body is warm now, but he feels much colder than before.
Second Lieutenant Newton Scamander gives his first dragon one last, long look, before turning away. It was time to let her go.