Chapter Text

DREKI

i.

Drekinn Tannlaus 

Toothless the Dragon

The clear night sky paints its reflection in the dark water of the natural cove, stars scattered and glimmering. The cove is shrouded in darkness, protected by tall pines and smooth, moss-covered rock; a hollow where it is easy to hide. Partly obscured by a large stone, a shadow lays curled on its belly, its dark scales blending into the night. At a glance, human eyes would not see it other than a ghost, a trick of the eye, an impossibly large bird. Black scales, deceptively smooth at a distance. The creature has its head resting on its large, clawed front paws. Black wings reach out from its back and are being held protectively, yet relaxed, around its sides like shields. An owl, awake, hoots distantly. A soft gentle wind, carried inland from the sea, rustles the brush and branches. Late spring is turning to autumn, the days shortening. A chill is in the air, but the dragon keeps itself warm by its inner fire. Despite its relaxed position the dragon is not asleep.

Large keen eyes, the only brightness piercing the night, are wide open and staring toward the other side of the cove where the rock is split in two unevenly—the result of the slow movement of the eons as the Earth turns and the ground churns. Beyond, the dragon sees more forest, wild and free, and wishes it could reach it somehow. The dragon observes this jagged opening for some time, heart heavy. It is too small for it to squeeze through, especially with the round shield stuck in the way.

The small-human-hatchling-no-danger had visited while the sun was still up. The hatchling had come with fish to eat, offering it, and the dragon ponders that act of kindness. The human was the smallest which the dragon had thus far seen up close, thin limbs—hardly a meal worth the effort of procuring if the dragon could be bothered. Humans are not good food, too much strange fake skin in the way and metals and sometimes wood where limbs should be; that is at least what the dragon has heard from others of its kin. There was a flame-self-at-will one time, back at the nest-of-the-bad-Queen, who claimed that humans were unsavoury, crunchy, and too much trouble to be worth eating. Better with stick with fish or sheep.

No human has ever before gotten this close to this particular dragon. Until the hatchling. The dragon is … intrigued. It has, for as long as it can recall, associated humans with screams of fear and fury, with gleaming weapons of metal and wood, waved in the air or thrown uselessly against them; nothing could match the dragon’s speed, so no such weapons have scared it. Before. Until now. Until it was pulled brutally from the sky and came crashing into the forest against its will.

No human had come so close, until this strange little hatchling. The hatchling had smelled of fear and guilt and curiosity, at least inasmuch the dragon could perceive these things and put words to them. The hatchling had freed them from the bonds trapping them after being felled from the sky.

The injures are healing now, only a dull pain, but the dragon would rather live with pain forever if it meant everything was whole and it could fly. But it could not. Cannot. Part of its body is gone forever and with it the dragon cannot properly stay airborne. The sky had been torn away violently and suddenly. At first, the dragon was angry. Very, very angry. It nearly killed the hatchling after it cut the ropes, until their eyes met and it saw purpose, fear, thought in the human. The dragon had never considered that humans could think or communicate. It had never mattered. But it had realized then, just then, that it could not hear the stinging commands of its Queen. Only silence. Freedom. No punishment, no call to return to the nest-where-it-is-unsafe. Only silence. As if by cutting the rope the hatchling had freed it from the Queen as well, and now it was its own dragon. So the dragon had held back its fire and only roared a warning before flying off—only to realize too late that it could not fly, crashing into the cove helplessly. Trapped.

The waters of the small cove do not hold much. By the time the small hatchling Viking came with food, the dragon had already hunted and eaten most of the fish to be found and there are no other animals save for a small bird’s nest out of reach. No doubt the noise and scent of the dragon will scare off any nearby wildlife. The sheer stone surrounds them like a prison.

The hatchling will return, it is sure. It has many times already, bearing food and vocalizing and drawing with a stick in the dirt. The last part was quite amusing and intriguing. The dragon had tried to mimic the hatchling’s motions, creating patterns of its own. If its survival now depends on the hatchling, it must make friends with it; perhaps drawing in the dirt is how Vikings do that. Before, when the Queen was all that mattered—(feed Her or be eaten)—the dragon had never considered anything about human behaviour except the best way to shoot down their wooden-devices-protects-nests with its shearing blasts of fire.

Then the human had danced around the dragon’s creation, and its small pale paw had touched its snout. The dragon wondered at that. Fear and tension evaporating. A greeting. The hatchling lacks scales, soft and colder than a dragon, explaining the layers of fake fur on its body. For a moment, they had connected; not out loud, not with a thought; but for a moment, dragon and human had felt safe with each other.

The dragon stays awake the whole night. It looks, and longs, and waits.

The sun rises gently. The dragon moves from its perch of burned ground and goes to the water to drink. Every now and then it looks around, considering the stone walls. Perhaps it could try to climb again? Must sharpen its claws first. Or blast the rock until it falls away? It would take hours, maybe days, and the dragon is unsure how close the Viking-nest is, if that much noise would lead to discovery and death.

However, it is not long until the dragon smells the hatchling approaching. It is not very subtle even when it tries to be quiet. The dragon takes one final sip of the cool water before stepping closer to the opening, sniffing at the wooden shield. The hatchling comes into view and startles, seeing the dragon already so close. Its mouth moves as it makes some human sounds. Soft and careful. It steps closer. It does not smell afraid anymore, like it did the first time they met. This time the hatchling does not carry the fake metal claw, but a basket of fish. The dragon flicks its tail in excitement and gratitude. It was a long night and healing its injury makes it hungrier than usual.

It is still strange not to hear the Queen or her demands, to not be overcome by it. A marvel for which it is very thankful toward the hatchling. The hatchling keeps vocalizing as it tips open the basket and a dozen fish spill onto the ground. The dragon takes a step closer to start eating, grateful for the offering, until it smells and sees the eel—poison! danger!

With a shriek the dragon flinches back, wings raised and eyes large. It shows its teeth. Is it a trick? Surely humans cannot eat such poison!

The hatchling waves its front paws in a calming gesture and shakes its head. It grabs the eel and tosses it away.

The dragon relaxes slightly and noses at the rest of the fish, but does not eat until it is content that there are no more unpleasant surprises. Once it starts eating it realizes the depth of its hunger and devours one, two, three cods in rapid succession. Its tail wags back and forth in satisfaction.

Suddenly, in mid-bite of a salmon found at the bottom of the basket, the dragon realizes there is something on its tail, an unfamiliar weight being strapped onto it. And yet it is almost like … almost like it is being balanced again? But. Its tail? Was broken, gone, torn away painfully. Gone. But back now? How? Startled and a little afraid, it raises its wings. What is the hatchling doing?

With a mighty flap they are airborne.

Halfway across the water, the dragon glances back to see the hatchling clinging to its tail and there is something (not flesh, not wing) where the lost tailfin should be. Immovable, uncontrollable, heavier on one side. The imbalance is causing them to sink. The dragon flaps its wings panickedly with a cry and suddenly, the hatchling does something to the tail-not-tail and there is balance! there is force! equilibrium!

The dragon manages to move them up, up, up! to the edge of the rocks and above the trees. Freedom! Flight! Delight and hope in equal measure burn in its lungs and it catches the wind, a hot updraft, and it carries them higher and out toward the sea. The hatchling is shouting now, and dragon cannot understand the words but there is excitement and fear.

Humans do not have wings. They do not fly. That is why the hatchling is afraid? The hatchling is afraid, because humans do not fly! It does not fly, but know how to give flight back to a dragon, to make new wings. Afraid, and yet the hatchling has given them a new tail! They can fly again. They can fly together!

The hatchling manipulates the fin with its paws, veering them toward the left, circling back to the island. The dragon aims for somewhere to land and the hatchling guides them to the cove. But that is not good. Not good! The cove is unescapable without flight! Not a good place to land.

No! Too late. They crash into the water, the hatchling flung from the dragon. The moment the hatchling no longer controls the tail, the dragon also loses control, unbalanced and unable to steer. The dragon snorts and growls, displeased, shaking its head, water droplets cascading.

But the hatchling surfaces with a jump and a cry of victory, smiling. It swims toward the dragon and reaches out with small clawless a paw. The dragon accepts it, so small on its snout. The hatchling vocalizes excitedly and through the barrage of noise, the dragon makes out two things, although the words yet hold no meaning:

“flyagain!” and “toothless!”

Whatever it means it is making the human happy, and if the human could give them back flight …

They could fly together!

While the human is away at its nest full of Vikings-dangerous-angry during mid-day, the dragon sleeps. It prefers to stay awake at night and sleep when the sun is up at its highest, but the hatchling tends to visit at sunrise and shortly before sundown. Stuck in the cove the dragon is restless and finds it difficult to sleep, trying both lying on scorched ground and hanging upside down from a thick branch. Restlessness disturbs its dreams. In the dream, it is trapped in the nest-of-bad-Queen, surrounded by other dragons which are very angry and baring their fires and teeth, and they battle a long time for freedom.

When the hatchling returns with food in a small lidless basket, the sun is setting and the dragon is pacing impatiently. It has tried sharpening its claws against a rock in preparation of climbing, in case the hatchling fails to return. But it is back! Very good. And the smell of fish is unmistakable. The dragon warbles softly in greeting and wastes no time in eating. Sadly, there are only three fish. The hatchling laughs in amusement at the speed of which they disappear, no longer fearful of the dragon’s teeth in close proximity.

In addition to the basket, the hatchling is holding a broad patch of worked leather stitched together with more leather, and the human raises it proudly, vocalizing. The dragon sniffs at it and snorts in disappointment when it realizes it is not food.

“lookitsgood itwillhelpyou flyagain toothless.”

The hatchling reaches out, trying to put its paw on the dragon’s back, near its shoulder between the wings. The dragon huffs at it but allows it, for a moment. This behaviour is new. What does it mean? Then the hatchling slowly, gently lifts the leather device and tries placing it on the dragon’s back. That will not do! It looks and smells strange and no dragon has ever carried a human-made thing on its back. The dragon bucks and leaps away.

The human cries out: “nono! toothless! itisnotdangerous! toothless! itsallright!”

The dragon peers at the human for a while through narrowed, lidded eyes, suspicious. Is this a trick? But then it recalls the day before, the brief flight with the fin-not-fin tied to its tail. The hatching has brought the fake-tail today too: it lies on the grass, innocently folded up next to a coil of rope. It had given them flight. Is this part of it? To make them fly together?

One hesitant coiling step after the other, body more sideways than facing forward, the dragon moves closer and inspects the leathers with eyes and nose. It puffs it with its snout a couple of times. Nothing happens. A lick reveals it does not taste good. No, it would not be good food. The dragon shakes its head and snorts. If not food and if not a new tailfin, then what is it?

The human laughs. “itisallright toothless.”

The dragon looks at the boy. It wishes it could understand the words; the segments of noise have begun to separate in its ears, smaller units, but still it remains nonsensical. What if the hatchling could properly understand the noises, movements, and thoughts of a dragon? But its mind remains closed and the dragon must rely on basic bodily cues to get its point across.

“itsasaddle, withitwecan flyagain, trustme?”

The hatchling saved it when it could have killed it. Should have if it were fiercer and more like the usual human who fear and hate dragons. It keeps coming back with food and friendship and yesterday they flew. The dragon decides that for now it is trustworthy, and in a rare display of trust it lowers its belly to the ground and lifts its wings out of the way, letting the human put the leathers on its back. There are straps and coils which the hatchling attaches with certainty, securing it in place so that it does not slide. It is strange but not heavy or uncomfortable.

“thankyou toothless, fortrustingme, wow! Ididntthink itwouldactaullywork, theresagooddragon.”

A black ear twitches and the dragon hums as the human pats its head and scratches behind its ear. The hum turns into a purr. That is very nice. Very nice. The human paws can move much more delicately than a claw, calming an itch the dragon did not realize was there.

“toothless,” the human says, repeating that particular string of noise which the dragon has heard several times now. Is it a command? Or a designation? It must be important, the way the hatchling keeps adding it to its speech. “sometimesiwonder ifyoucanactually understandwhat imsaying.”

The human sighs and withdraws its paws.

The dragon raises its head questioningly.

“allright. weregoingtotrynow, willyouletme?”

The hatching places its paws on the leather and, taking a deep breath as if before a plunge into water, hoists itself up. It swings a leg over so that is sitting astride the dragon’s shoulder. The dragon tenses. What is this? Is this … good? Or bad? Dangerous?

Using the rope, coiled in its paw, the human gives an experimental tug. And the fin-not-fin moves, opening and closing. The dragon flaps its tail up and down, testing the weight. It feels almost like normal except the balance is wrong and it cannot actually move the prosthesis. This … will give them flight? This will give them flight!

“allrightbud, weregoingtotry trytoflytogether, yougotthis. yougotthis …”

As if sensing the hatchling’s wish and intent, the dragon spreads its wings and takes a leap.

Only to fall down moments later when the hatchling does not move the fin quite right and tumbles from the saddle, sending the dragon careening in the opposite direction. The dragon lands in a roll, righting itself swiftly before waddling over to the human, who sits in the grass rubbing the back of its head.

“slightcalibrationissue … dontworry, toothless! illfigureitout.” The dragon can smell no blood which is good; if the hatchling was injured, they would not fly every again. The human bends its knees and crawls to its feet. “ineedtogetbacktoberk andfixthis intheforge. ihavesomeideasbut illbebackas soonasican allright, toothless?”

The dragon is fairly sure the utterance ends with a question rather than statement, but what about it cannot tell. It allows the human to pet its snout for a moment and scratch behind the ears before the hatchling removes the leather contraption and fin.

“andillbringfish!” the human shouts over its shoulder before it leaves. A promise? A goodbye?

The dragon grunts and snorts, digging into the soil for a moment with its front-claws, before huffing, shaking itself head to tail before walking to the water for a well-earned drink. Then it flames the earth to make it nice and warm to rest on.

And it waits.

The saddle is different but the human sits more comfortably, using its foot rather than hand to control the fin. It is much better. They manage to stay airborne for a long time, but the dragon finds it ridiculous that they do it this way: instead of soaring free over the forest or sea, the human insists on tying them to a tree stump. They catch the wind but do not move anywhere. But the dragon notices how the human’s control of the fin is better each time they lift off the ground, translating movement from its foot to the tail.

And so it goes, for several days and nights. The hatchling returns and each stay is longer than the last. They fly briefly in segments—training, not true flight, mostly tied to the stump—and they eat together. The human does not like it when the dragon offers half a regurgitated fish, unlike proper dragon hatchlings. It rather scorches food over a fire, making the meat crispy before eating it. The dragon thinks that is strange and wasteful but maybe humans need to do it that way because their teeth are weaker and bellies so small, no fires of their own. Of course! The fires must be made outside, not inside.

After eating, the hatchling often gives nice pets and scratches, especially behind the ears and under the dragon’s chin where it feels so good.

The human sometimes sits by the waterside and scratches with dark coal onto a strange flat piece which the dragon has not seen before, drawing symbols and things, like it had done with a stick in the dirt a fortnight ago. The hatchling does not mind the dragon peering over its shoulder. The markings designate human-language-words, the dragon thinks, and the drawings show the likeness of many things, but mostly the dragon itself, whole or in detail: a wing, a tailfin, a claw. Once the dragon understands this, it proudly strikes a pose, making the human laugh.

After a while—days turning to weeks—the human is comfortable enough to stay through the evenings into late night, napping under the dragon’s wing, and the dragon is happy to let the human do that; the hatchling is small and fits easily in that space, where normally a dragon would reverently guard eggs or newly hatched little ones. The human is tiny and weak and obviously needs to be protected and better fed. Do the other Vikings at their Viking-nest not care for their young?

When that thought strikes the dragon, it does not want the human to leave. Young hatchlings are to be protected, kept warm through winters and well-fed. Even Vikings should know that! This one is merely a fishbone and that cannot be right. All other Vikings the dragon is aware of are louder and larger, tall and broad. Do they not feed this hatchling? Is it because it is a runt of its litter? The dragon will make sure it eats! Many, many fish!

But the human leaves, again and again, especially during mid-day so that the dragon can sleep on its own. The human sounds apologetic and guilty:

“ihavetogo, toothless, orthe otherswill getsuspicious. Ihavetobethere fortraining andtheforge forgobber. butdontworry! Illbeback, toothless.”

The reverberation of the word toothless stays with the dragon once the human has gone back to its Viking nest. What does toothless mean? Is toothless—dragon?

Dragon is toothless. Toothless is me, the dragon realizes that night while resting by the side of the lake, watching its dark waters and the stars above. Toothless is a name!

Toothless likes it.

I will find out the hatchling’s name, Toothless decides. It is only fair.

“itsgotime, Toothless, itsgotime. weregonna takethis niceandslow.”

Toothless is happy. They are flying—together—for real this time! Not tied to some silly stump. The wind carries them higher, out of the cove and across the woods and toward the sea; the boy sits in the saddle, controlling the tailfin. Struggling a little to synchronize it with the real one.

The sea froths beneath them and Toothless roars joyfully to greet it. Freedom! Freedom! Flight!

“allright positionthree! nofour.”

Higher, and then lower, over fern and pine and shore and they approach the seastacks rapidly. Water briefly splits beneath them as a wingtip touches the waves, for a moment unbalanced before they regain it together. Toothless chooses a path between two tall outcrops of rock.

A flock of seagulls cry above them, fleeing from their shelter when the dragon glides beneath them. Some other time Toothless would have liked to go after them, a playful hunt (birds are not good food—too many feathers and too little meat—but are good for play). The dragon’s wings are spread wide and it seeks the next updraft.

“yesitworked!”

The human struggles with control. They dive, unintended, first to the left and then right, bumping into a small seastack, the rock hard and unforgiving but Toothless bears the brunt of it. Toothless growls and shakes his head. Hatchling must be more careful!

“sorry! sorry! thatwasmyfault! sorry! allrightletstry togoup, Toothless.”

Sensing the hatchling’s intent from the adjustment of the pedal and fin, Toothless angles his body and flaps his wings to gain altitude. The human’s shouts are happy and wonderous. Marvelling at their speed and ability to climb the air. This is their first real flight; and the hatchling is awed and joyful and unafraid. Like a dragon. Yes, Toothless will make a dragon of this hatchling yet. Fly together! Hunt together! Free together! Hatchling just needs to learn.

“ohthisisamazing! thewindinmy cheatsheet! STOP!”

Almost vertical, a sudden loss of speed—but the hatchling is carried onward by momentum, slipping loose. Toothless senses it the exact moment it happens, the weight (slight as it is) lifting from his back and the foot coming away from its pedal. All of a sudden there is no control, no control at all of the fin, and they are fall. Falling! Oh no! Toothless roars and spins and tries to find the hatchling, falling beside him. The ground is rapidly approaching and below is not sea but forest, a long sloping hill. If they land like this they could both be injured or die, crushed, especially the little hatchling without scales.

The hatchling shouts words and Toothless tries to roll so that they are level, side by side—if the hatchling could just reach out and grab ... There! A hand and then a foot and then the boy settles, and if not for the roaring wind Toothless would have heard the boy’s panicking breathing, loud pounding heartbeats.

Toothless spreads his wings fully, front and back, and the boy deploys the tail to catch as much air as possible. They strain. Toothless cries out. The ground is so close and they miss it narrowly, the shape of it being to their aid. The fog parts to reveal more rocks beyond the trees, meeting a frothy sea, and they gain control—together—just in time to avoid them. A tight turn, then another. To a dragon this kind of manoeuvring is instinctive, and the boy lets go of the parchment to rely on instinct too. Trusting that together they can do this.

Together—as one—Toothless and his human fly in-between the rocks until they reach open water, stretching endlessly free before them. Toothless aims for the horizon, full of glee, and the boy cries out triumphantly at their success. The dragon lets out a small, controlled burst of fire as it is wont when very happy, only realizing too late that the human hatchling is not born-dragon, fireproof.

Toothless wants to apologize. But human ears cannot understand the intent of every dragon noise and their minds are closed off.

[Did not mean to burn you], Toothless says anyway and offers half a fish. Luckily the hatchling is all right—Toothless has smelled and also licked it to be sure, and the skin is whole, unburned. No blood, no damage. The hatchling grimaced at the latter, a token protest, and had wiped its hand against its fake furs. Toothless had caught many, many fish in the sea and tries to get the hatchling to eat most of them once they find a cliff to set down on, far from humans. It is peaceful here. The sun is beginning to set.

“nothanks. imgood.” The hatchling is happy with one fish burned over fire.

Toothless grunts and huffs. [Eat too little, too small!] Human hatchling needs more food. But the human is very stubborn and it’s too bad any dragons’ words go unheard and unheeded. He nudges the human with his snout. [Eat more!]

They are interrupted by three small-fires-puffs, who approach the catch of fish all too unafraid. That is typical of small-fires-puffs. They are careless. Toothless bares his teeth and growls, even if the human hatchling seems more curious than wary. [Food! Food! Food!] They chatter and one bodly grabs a fish right in front of the large black dragon’s snout. Worse, one tries to take hatchling’s food. No! That is not right. A low growl builds in Toothless’ throat.

[No. Ours! This food is not yours. Toothless caught it! Go! Do not take Hatchling’s food. Go away.]

The small dragons tilt their heads in confusion and stare at Toothless and the human. [Hatchling? But it is not flying-kin?] They try to wrap their heads around this conundrum, and one of them concludes: [It came from a bad egg!]

Toothless grunts at the insult.

[Food, food, food! I will take], another one of them says. It scratches the ground with its claws in challenge, the tiny fool, and Toothless’ eyes narrow dangerously with a snarl. It is not a real threat. The small-fires-puffs draws a breath and gathers its gas to light its fire, and just as it opens its mouth Toothless sends a small—almost harmless, were it not for the other dragon’s tiny size—burst of fire into it. The small-fires-puffs makes a pathetic noise as it falls, then scrambles to get back on its feet, wobbling uncertainly for a few moments. At least it realizes that stealing will not work. Not from Toothless and his human!

“huh. notsofireproof onthesinide areyou.”

Toothless blinks in surprise and growls quietly in dismay when the hatchling actually gives the annoying little terror a fish. One that Toothless had just defended for them! Silly hatchling is being too kind. It even lets the small dragons, all three of them, crawl closer. One of them settles by the boy’s leg to accept scratches and headrubs.

[No! This food is for hatchling and Toothless only!] Toothless glares at the small-fires-puffs in warning.

“itsallright, Toothless. idontmind.”

Toothless stretches a wing lazily and bumps the hatchling’s face with his snout. He still requires a name.

There is wonder in the hatchling’s voice:

“everything weknow aboutdragons…is wrong.”

With time, spending weeks together eating and resting and training to fly as One, Toothless has listened to quite a lot of human speech. And slowly the segments of noise are breaking down into smaller pieces. Toothless is Toothless. Fish is all kinds of fish, grey and brown and slimy and crunchy and even eels. There is also something called a Fishlegs, which is not a fish with legs but a Viking person, Toothless deciphers. And, finally, the boy says his own name. It takes some time to figure out where it begins and ends in the boy’s long sentences, but he says it a few times. It sounds like he is complaining, speaking of some other person, other Vikings. The little human does not sound happy when talking about his nest. His nest is called Berk, and Berk-the-nest is not a good place.

“everyonesgangingup onme but nowitsridiculous. Hiccuptheuseless nomore everyonesuddenly wantstoknow hiccupthedragonfighter ohÞórimnotafighter andworstthingis dadwillsoonbeback andhellsay …” And at this point the boy’s voice changes, as if in imitation of someone with deeper, raspier, grating tones: “hiccup! tellme son howyoure goingto defeatthe nightmare itwill makeareal viking outofyou.”

A sigh, and the hatchling deflates and sits heavily on the ground, slumping over, and Toothless nudges him gently and drapes a wing over him.

Hiccup. Hiccup is the name. Toothless is pleased to finally know, even if the introduction is late, and he cannot even let the human understand that is listening. He has tried many times, but it seems humans cannot hear with their inner voice. Do they not have one?

“thanksbud. Idontknow whatim gonnado oncethey getback … itsonlya matteroftimenow. ifimknot hiccup thehorrendous haddockthethird slayerofdragons! dadwillbe sodissapointed…”

The boy is quiet for some time, not even drawing in his notebook, just looking at the water. They are back in the cove which is safe and hidden. The meal was good and the flight before better, and Toothless is ready to sleep for awhile once the hatchling has returned to Berk-the-nest. But he does not want Hiccup to go. Hiccup is unhappy there and not fed enough and sometimes he returns with bruises or cuts, smelling like other Vikings.

Those times Toothless is angry and licks Hiccup’s wounds, despite the boy’s initial protests, but they heal fast after that. Toothless commits those scents to memory: the Vikings are hurting Hiccup, and if Toothless ever meets them they shall know the full rage of this dragon. They shall know fear. For a brief time before they die, anyway.

Days pass and the first snows of winter hang threateningly in the air; soon they will fall. The boy wears thicker fake furs but returns every day with food nonetheless, even days when the wind howls icily. They fly, training together to be better and stronger and faster. Each flight is easier than the last and they go further: reaching beyond the island to various rocks and seastacks and the neighbouring island, which is empty of people but sometimes dragons stay there.

There they meet the small-fires-puffs again and a wild stone-eater, who is suspicious at first but accepts Toothless and Hiccup once it is clear they do not intend to harm or steal its food. The stone-eater is alone, without a flock, lost. Its family heeded the call of the Queen a long time and it dares not leave the barren island, afraid of being caught again. They return three more times to that island, and Hiccup brings his notebook to write about and sketch the wild dragons.

It should be a free and happy time. They keep flying and Toothless is tempted to steer them away from Berk, the Viking-nest, forever, but Hiccup insists they go back. something is wearing Hiccup down; it is more and more noticeable every day. Guilt, fear, something else which Toothless can taste but not name. Toothless, too, is restless. Two moon cycles he has now stayed here, and when not airborne with Hiccup on his back he is trapped in the cove.

“Stayhere, itis safehere,” Hiccup says, sensing the dragon’s frustration. This is their secret place; no other Vikings come here, nor other dragons. There have been no raids since Toothless was shot down from the sky. Toothless wonders if the Queen is content with raiding other human settlements or if winter has come early to the bad-dangerous-nest and She has gone to sleep to awaken in spring.

Toothless is ready to leave, to travel afar; free from the Queen, free to fly where they want, hunt their own food, and share it only with the human hatchling. But Hiccup insists they stay here, close to Berk-the-nest, even if the place makes him unhappy. Because the boy does not know where else to go, and Toothless cannot speak with him, cannot communicate all that he knows. And since the Queen’s presence was cleared from his mind, Toothless cannot remember much of Before. There was time before he was in her thrall; he knows, because he is full-grown now and is not sure he was when she caught him.

There is a whole world out there they could explore, flying far away to settle in a new nest, a good nest. But Hiccup does not want to go.

Not yet.

It is sundown when Hiccup reaches the cove. His smells of distress and guilt and shame—Toothless approaches at once, wagging his tail in greeting and sniffing the air. Hiccup is alone and has brought fish.

The saddle, fin and other flight gear are already stored here, nestled between two rocks at the far end of the cove; Hiccup tired of carrying it back and forth between here and the village many days ago. Toothless thinks it is also to withdraw suspicion. For two moons they have flown together without any other Vikings noticing, but luck never holds forever. Surely some Viking will notice how much time Hiccup spends away in the forest and try to follow him, eventually. Not that one or two Viking warriors would be much issue for Toothless to fight off.

“Wecant stayhere, Toothless.” The tone is dejected.

Toothless lowers his head and croons, sensing the boy’s fear, grief, hesitation. Something is not right; it is that feeling before something bad happens; before a storm, raging violently across a whole horizon, one which is impossible to escape no matter how fast your flight. And this is a storm which is clear to Hiccup but not to Toothless, not yet. He will try his best to support the boy, to protect him. He must. Together they fly free. They must stay together.

[Stay here in-cove tonight?] he asks. [Safe and warm.]

To the dragon’s distress, the boy starts smelling of salt as his eyes suddenly start growing wet and droplets of water roll slowly out of his eyes, down across his cheeks. What is this? This has never happened before! Is it normal? It cannot be normal. Can it? Toothless makes a worried noise.

“We can’t stay here!” the boy says, as if meaning to shout but it comes out as a hoarse whisper. Toothless focuses on listening. He can understand more and more words, give the noises meaning. Not-safe-here, Hiccup is saying. Not-stay-here. Hiccup sinks to the cold ground in a crouch, rubbing at his face. His eyes are still leaking.

“Toothless, they’ll killyou and, and, and thenI’ll haveto k…” there is a strange noise: an actual hiccup: “killthenightmare.” That is the second time he has said that: kill-the-nightmare. The words ‘kill-you’ and ‘kill-the-nightmare’ are similar. What is ‘kill’?

The boy’s breaths hitch, words ceasing momentarily, and his heart beats too fast and it is all wrong. Toothless is very alarmed now and he does not know what to do. Lacking other options, he wraps himself around the boy, forelegs and wings a firm gentle embrace where it is warm and safe. The dragon tries to lick away the wetness from Hiccup’s face. It tastes salty. It is as if seawater is raining from his eyes.

Hiccup shudders and suddenly laughs brokenly; not a happy sound, not at all. “And here I am, crying likeababe, comfortedby adragon … Thanks, Toothless.”

Toothless warbles softly as if Hiccup were newly hatched from a shell and scared of the wide new world; and Toothless vows to protect him—no matter what.

[I know you not-understand Toothless, Hiccup], Toothless reaches out with his inner voice. [Toothless not-like when Hiccup is hurting. Toothless wants Hiccup to stop-hurting.]

“I know you don’t understand,” Hiccup sighs, and his words are clearing; “but. I’ve been training and learned so much from you, how to calm dragons down, to subdue without hurting them, and now it’s gone too well. They all think I’m this…this fierce dragon-killing Viking, except Astrid … who hates me.” Again, Hiccup says, through sniffling, congested sounds: “if they choose me, I have to kill the Nightmare, and I can’t. Can’t do that. And then Astrid will. It’s going to die, Toothless.”

Toothless licks his face, which finally as ceased leaking water. Hiccup does not protest, for once. He is red but no longer shaking and his shoulders are less tense.

And Toothless understands. The insight comes upon him while the hatchling is speaking, as the words emerge and settle in Toothless’ mind not as large inexplicable chunks but as smaller understandable pieces. These units have meaning, connecting to make sense, and now he understands; how, exactly, he is unsure, but they will figure it out together. Yes. They will figure out everything together.

[Hiccup], he says with his inner voice and tries, in vain, to form a noise with his throat and tongue similar to human voices. The closest Toothless comes is an exhale-sharp grunt-warble-click. Nonsensical to human ears, but the boy glances up at him anyway, blinking a couple of times.

[Must leave], Toothless says, projecting as clearly as he can, [because Hiccups has to … fight-and-kill Nightmare? And you not-want fight-and-kill Nightmare.]

A Nightmare? A Nightmare, Toothless realizes then, is a dragonkind. A human name for not an individual (not like Toothless) but for a group. It matters not what particular type, although in this case Toothless assumes a Nightmare is one of the larger ones, vicious in human eyes, something to be feared more than, say, small-fires-puffs. The boy has been coerced to train to fight dragons, as is wont for his kin; all Vikings of Berk do that; a rite of passage, as obligatory as flight is for a dragon. Hiccup has talked about this, ranting his complaints, unaware of Toothless’ listening ears or memory of the words, which he now in hindsight is beginning to unravel.

[You not-want to kill dragons, so we must leave.]

“Yeah,” the boy sighs, and Toothless momentarily holds his breath.

Is the boy listening?

Fire! Foes! Attack! Flee!

Toothless smells them before he hears them. The whine of a hundred wings rising and falling, coming closer and closer. Far above in the night, blotting out stars. Tense, ears straining and eyes large, Toothless crouches to make himself smaller, harder to spot. He peers upward. There is a trail of dust and fire: dragons. Many dragons. A raid!

They are heading for the Viking nest. It is not a good place and Toothless would not care if it burned, but his human hatchling is there. Unprotected without Toothless. A worried growl burns in his throat, alongside his fire which almost reaches his mouth before he swallows it back down.

No. He is on his own and no longer answering to the Queen. The other dragons will see him as outsider, as a threat, as a stranger and without flight he cannot escape them, and even his fire is no match for so many angry, hungry, desperate kin. They would not recognize him as one of their own in this state.

Their voices, inner and outer, are unclear, thoughts shattered by the Queen into submission and Toothless is angry for them. No dragon deserves such a fate, being a shell of their former self, knowing only the fear for the Queen and hunger, hunger, hunger unstilling because at the bad-dangerous-nest they are not allowed to eat their fill.

But Hiccup! Hiccup is not a warrior, even if he is training, returning to the cove day after day smelling like other dragons’ wrath: stone-eater and sharp-spikes and small-fires-puffs. And Toothless does not trust the other Vikings in the least to care for the hatchling and provide enough shelter. No. Far too often Hiccup has come with bruises and cuts and the scent of other Vikings on him, confirming the humans, not dragons, are to blame.

The sky darkens as the great mass of dragons—a dozen, two dozen—move over the area, past the cove. Toward the village. Hiccup!

The dragons shriek and shout and yellow fire casts a trail like shooting starts from a flame-self-at-will. There are sharp-spikes and two-heads-one-body and many more that Toothless can see. They fly overhead, not noticing Toothless or not caring: their quarry lies ahead. Then they are out of sight.

Toothless scrambles at the rock, tries to climb. Tries to fly. But Hiccup removed the tailfin and the saddle before he left this morning, not wanting Toothless to be uncomfortable. He rolls down the steep slope, aching at the impact. No! No! Must get out of here!

And there is other noise meeting the chaos of the dragons, coming from afar: Viking voices echoing across forest and water, battle cries, fear, anger, hostility. Berk is awake. A horn blows a warning, and Toothless hears explosions as fire meets wooden huts unforgivingly.

Weapons of metal and wood are thrown but Toothless only hears it, too far away and too far down inside the cove to see. The black dragon leaps across the soil toward the entrance of the cove, digging and clawing and gnawing helplessly at the sundering rock. A plasma blast destroys the round shield but is not enough. Too small! He crams his wings tightly against his back and tries worming through, in vain. No!

Hiccup. Toothless must get to Hiccup. Must protect Hiccup!

Snarling, Toothless sends another blast at the rock. The shield is completely disintegrated, charring ash, and the stone groans and cracks a little at the force of it; but it will not yield. Toothless throws himself at it. Must get out! Must protect Hiccup!

[Hiccup! HICCUP!]

Chapter Text

ii.

Drengurinn Hiksti

Hiccup the Boy

There are a few things certain in life and far too many uncertainties.

To Hiccup, it amounts to this: he will forever remain the unwanted, useless runt-child of Stoick the Vast (who only wanted to have a son of strength and renown to one day be Chief). The gods hate him. All his agemates at the village either actively hate him and bully him, or remain indifferent, uncaring when he is mocked and shoved around and punched. It is Hiccup’s own fault that he cannot fight back, not other Vikings’ business to interfere in. Hiccup is weak and thin and unable to defend himself beyond running fast or talking fast, but the latter is mostly a useless strategy. Too clever for his own good.

Gobber the Belch (Þór bless the old coot) at least sees that his apprentice is good at something: thinking, making, creating things. Not fighting or destroying or killing. Gobber is the only Viking in Berk who is somewhat kind to him and values him for his skills, arguing for his sake with Hiccup’s father. To be honest, Hiccup would rather have Gobber as a father than Stoick.

And overnight, during a disastrous raid where Hiccup ends up nearly eaten by a Monstrous Nightmare and his father chews him out for putting people in danger—“I told you to stay inside! Why don’t you ever listen?!”—it all changes.

He shoots down the Night Fury.

The Night Fury: the most feared of all dragon kind his people heard of or named in the Book. No one has actually laid eyes on a Night Fury. Only heard its terrible, haunting shriek before it strikes, its fire never missing its target. People have died in those fires, flames consuming houses and all within unforgivingly, the village’s defences toppling like leaves in the wind. The Night Fury is feared and hated more than any other dragon, and Hiccup the Runt, Useless Little Hiccup, has shot one down.

Of course, no one believes him.

Of course, when he finds it in the woods, tangled in rope, injured and unable to flee—Hiccup the Useless fails to kill it.

Oh, what irony. Loki must be laughing!

The dragon’s eyes meet his, and there is thought there, intent and fury and determination and fear. It wants to live. It does not want to die. Hiccup finds himself cutting the ropes instead and the dragon ought to have eaten him right then and there. Blasted him to bits. “Dragons always go for the kill!” Gobber tends to claim. But it doesn’t. It scares him mightily (Hiccup fears that his heart ceases functioning for a moment, unable to breathe, unable to move) when it roars and then …

And then it leaves. Flies off. Tries to. It roars in pain and anger and crashes in the woods further off.

It let Hiccup live.

And then, that very night, Stoick the Vast decides that his son must start training to fight dragons for real, to learn, just as Hiccup realizes that he does not want to fight or kill dragons. Ever. He would rather be a blacksmith or a baker. But no. His father looks at him sternly and hands him an axe: “With this you carry all of us with you. You think like us, you talk like us, you act like us.”

The gods hate me.

Hiccup stands on the cliffs above Berk and watches the longships in the harbour as they’re being loaded with supplies, weapons, people. A great gathering of folk waving them off. Half the village, most of the warriors, are leaving. Another hopeless expedition not to trade or explore but to find the Nest from which the dragons come. Eradicate the Nest, stop the raids. Simple. Most of those expeditions fail to return. His father is leaving, and Hiccup’s throat is tight. He wants to cry.

If his father dies on the journey, what will happen then, to Berk, to Hiccup?

He won’t be Chief, that is for sure. Small Useless Hiccup the Runt, only thirteen summers old? Stoick is leaving Spitelout in charge while he is gone, and Hiccup knows his uncle holds no great love for him. Gobber will be training the new recruits in the Dragon Ring and Hiccup shudders, thinking about it. He can’t fight dragons! Not after what happened with the Night Fury.

It’s difficult to put to words, but it … does not feel right. He made a choice. Isn’t it honourable to stand by a choice once it’s made? (Even if it may be a coward’s choice.)

He wonders what happened to the Night Fury. He saw it fail to fly away. Is it that badly injured? It crashed further inland, and maybe he could find it again. Follow the trail. Hiccup would rather walk through the woods all day than train to fight dragons, especially when he knows who will be there.

His annoying cousin Snotlout, who loves beating him up. Fishlegs, well, that boy is not too bad: not an outright bully, but he does not step in to help either. The twins, oh Þór (disastrous accidents waiting to happen). And Astrid, who is the one who probably hates Hiccup the most because she aspires to be so much that he was meant to be, if only he weren’t a (useless weak little) runt. Astrid is a shieldmaiden and fierce, strong, capable. If anyone is going to succeed in the Ring it will be Astrid, Hiccup is sure.

Hiccup sighs and sits down, pulling his knees to his chest. The longships have been filled to the brim and he sees his father, unmistakable: tall, broad, helmet shining in the sun, his red hair and beard like fire. Most Vikings are intimidated by the Chief and would never ever guess that Hiccup was his son. Little Useless Hiccup could not be the son of Stoick the Vast, who killed his first dragon as a child (Hiccup believes all of the stories, even if they may be embellished). Little Useless Hiccup could not be the son of Stoick the Warrior (worthy of a Saga of his own), who brokered peace with the neighbouring tribes of the nearby islands to unite in the fight against dragons. A war ongoing for seven generations, and Hiccup wonders if it will ever end.

People below are solemn but also trying to lift the mood with cheering and applauds as the longships push off, oars falling and rising in time with the steady beat of a drum, sails unfurling. Slowly, the sea carries them away.

Bye, dad, Hiccup thinks and closes his eyes to pray that Þór and Heimdall will be kind enough to bring back his father alive. Please don’t die.

“Where have you been?” Gobber demands to know when Hiccup enters the forge. Late. The sun is near the horizon, spilling red light like blood, and Hiccup's boots are covered in mud and twigs, heart beating fast in exhilaration from his too-brief visit in the cove.

“Uh, out, walking in the forest, there was, uhm…”

Gobber humours him with a sly wink. “Looking for trolls, were you?”

“Trolls! Yes. Yeah, trolls and goblins, I’m sure they’re around.” Hiccup chuckles nervously. “I’ll find them one day for sure.”

“Nevermind. Get to work. These must be polished and sharpened.”

The old blacksmith shakes his head and gestures with his hook, in lieu of a hand (lost that in a dragon fight before Hiccup was born), toward a pile of weapons: a few knives, an axe, a short broad sword. No time to waste. With Dragon Training, both Hiccup and Gobber were busy and the forge, normally manned all day, often stands empty. Not unlit, though; when no one else is available, Gobber is given help from the village to keep the fire running. If it goes cold, it would take hours to rekindle it to the right temperatures. Lately that duty has fallen to Old Man Ove, a carpenter by trade, and his grandson Alfred (only ten, too young for Dragon Training). Not that Hiccup has seen them inside the smithy; whenever he is not here or at the arena he’s in the forest, the cove. Trying to get to know a dragon. Isn’t that something? Not that Gobber would appreciate such an excuse.

“Go on!”

Hiccup sighs but obeys, routine taking over; he has done this type of work a hundred times. His thoughts wander. It’s been a long day. A long week. In-between working at the forge and training at the Dragon Ring, he is sore and tired all over. He doesn’t sleep much anymore, too preoccupied with duties and the Night Fury. If not for his daily (or nightly, sometimes) visits to the Night Fury in the cove, he wouldn’t have had the energy to care about work or training. There’s something about simply being with and watching the dragon that lifts his spirits, engaging his curiosity and happiness—which Hiccup hadn’t counted on at all after shooting it down.

The first time he encountered the Night Fury it was angry, maybe afraid, and Hiccup was scared too. But things changed so swiftly. He spent some time just observing it; trapped in the cove, unable to climb or fly out. Hiccup realized why when he saw its injured tail, missing a fin.

My fault. I did that.

He offered it food and it accepted. And though eating that regurgitated fish was the most disgusting thing he’s ever done, Hiccup understood it was progress. A show of trust. He’s not sure if all dragons do that with … friends? kin? … or only with their young ones. Maybe that is what the Night Fury thinks he is: a child (well, it’s not wrong) and thus not a threat. Maybe? It has gone from hostile and fearful to curious, indulging and even a tad protective. Yesterday, Hiccup had reached the cove with bruises on his arms and torso and face—he’d done too well in the Ring for Snotlout’s liking. The Night Fury licked Hiccup’s face in greeting, which was wet and rather disgusting, but the bruises had dulled and faded incredibly quickly after that.

And it can think. It can think! Hiccup doubts any Viking has ever noticed or cared before. Observing the dragon’s behaviour was so fascinating. It drew in the soil after watching Hiccup doing that with a stick. Drawing! What kind of wild beast does that? Sharing food, marking the ground with a branch almost like abstract art …

It? Or him? Or she? Hiccup still has no idea, and he hasn’t tried yet to get a closer look to answer that particular question.

But Hiccup had to name it, because a name would make it more real, more like a person (sometimes he goes to sleep wondering if it all is a vivid dream). Toothless, because of the retracting teeth. A deceptively unassuming name for a dragon. Hiccup has so much new information that he can never share: it’s kind of sad. His people would benefit from a new point of view. But it’s not like Hiccup could walk into the Mead Hall, grab the Book of Dragons and fill out the empty pages for ‘Night Fury’ with sketches of its shape and his newfound knowledge of its habits: ‘Likes fish: cod and salmon particularly, but definitely not eel (poisonous or simply tastes bad?).’ ‘Retractable teeth.’ ‘Apart from the high-pitched shriek as it dives before attacking, the Night Fury makes all kinds of sounds: grunts, growls, snarls and soft warbles (which are rather … cute?)’ 

But none of these things can be shared.

His people would never understand. If any Vikings got wind of a Night Fury being so close and unable to flee, they would launch a search party, find Toothless and kill the dragon in its cove. Hiccup is sure that his father would want Hiccup to do the deed himself and hang its skull in the Mead Hall as a memento.

No, Hiccup can’t take that risk.

And the days have passed swiftly by and it’s been a week now. Spring fading and the leaves are losing their greens. Hiccup has been so preoccupied with the Night Fury that Gobber is starting to notice. Slipping off as soon as he has the chance. Not eating in the Mead Hall, and the thin lie that he’s eating at his and his father’s mostly empty house is not very believable. There’s the fish he’s been pilfering from the store house next to the Mead Hall, as well. One of these days, Gobber or someone else might find out.

And as he’s sitting there, sliding the whetstone against the blade of an axe, Hiccup pauses. An idea striking him. Toothless can’t fly because of the damaged tail. With his mind and the skill of his hands, Hiccup can surely create something, a replica, a prosthesis like Gobber’s hand or leg except much more sophisticated. It must be able to move and bend at will, carrying the wind …

That night, Hiccup stays awake, working in the forge tirelessly, using his many sketches as a base. He has to sacrifice a shield for its nails and some other minor parts, but Gobber isn’t unused to Hiccups many ‘projects’ and won’t mind. (He’ll just have to come up with a good excuse. Maybe improvements of his catapult? Yeah.)

The work is completed right before sunup—the fastest, most focused he has ever worked.

It’s his fault Toothless lost his flight, his freedom; it’s only fair that Hiccup tries to give that back.

“Today is about attack!”

Gobber’s teaching methods are not the best, Hiccup wants to say. Where are the preparations and lectures, the note-taking and observation? No, they’re ‘learning on the job’. Fishlegs’ similar sentiment was only scoffed at so there is no point in Hiccup questioning Gobber now.

Clutching his round shield tightly, Hiccup watches with apprehension as the door opens. But he isn’t afraid, exactly. Not after all the time he has spent with Toothless.  Not all dragons are deadly, unthinking monsters which will go for the kill. In fact, Hiccup suspects that if that were the case, they’d all be dead after that first lesson with the Gronckle.

There have been several moments thus far in training where some of the dragons—the Gronckle, the Zippleback, even the Terrible Terror—would have had the chance to burn or bite the heads off any of the teenagers in the Ring. But they don’t. Perhaps they are scared too?

Scared, because the final challenge is always the ‘honour’ of the kill of whichever is the strongest, scariest, meanest dragon in the Viking’s possession. This autumn it is a Monstrous Nightmare, which has the nasty habit of setting itself on fire, and Hiccup doesn’t like thinking about the future, the inevitability of its and all the other captive dragons’ death.

Are the dragons aware of that?

Dragons are capable of fearing death. He had seen that in Toothless, their first meeting.

The doors open and the Nadder, blue and white scales reflecting the sunlight brightly, saunters out. Its long sharp teeth would have scared the spirits out of Hiccup a year prior. He considers its shape, the folded wings, the way it sways its head for a moment, sniffing the air. The Ring has been filled with temporary walls of wood, a labyrinth to hide within, and from his position he can see the dragon. Behind him he hears Fishlegs’ panicked breathing and muttering about speed and strength and firepower. Snotlout grumbles (“Shut up, Fishlegs!”).

Hiccup considers what the Book said. There’s the blind spot right in front of the Nadder’s snout, a small area where its eyes cannot see unless it turns its head. If he could approach it … Would it like head-scratches like Toothless? Toothless purrs like a content cat when Hiccup reaches the right spot. Maybe …

With a snarl, the Nadder leaps to land atop of one of the temporary walls. The twins, not far from it, are already arguing with each other—”Hey! I was here first, get your own spot!” “I was here first!”—and above them, leaning on the edge of the arena, Gobber shouts: “Blind spot, not deaf spot!”

The Nadder roars and breathes fire in the twins’ direction, and they duck beneath their shields. If the fire had been a little bit closer, a little bit lower, they would not have survived. Hiccup realizes right then, looking at events unfolding: the Nadder is defending itself (or its territory within the arena?) without killing. On purpose.

The Nadder is …

Why?

Because it knows killing them would lead to its own quick demise? Deaths in the arena is far from unheard of, and each time the parents of the victim had the right to kill the dragon in question themselves. Putting them down. Is the Nadder aware of that?

Hiccup takes a deep breath. Okay. The task is to fell the dragon or lure it back in its pen, and he’s going with the latter. He unfolds from his crouched position and walks right for the Nadder, weaving between two timber walls. Walk, not run. Project calm, he tells himself. Like you would with Toothless.

“Hey there,” he says softly, “hi, uh.” The Nadder has no name. Should he give it one? Not now. Later. Once he figures out the dragon a bit more. He places himself in the dragon’s sight from its right-hand side, lowering his shield a little, seeking its gaze directly. “I don’t know if you can understand me, but it would be really good if you could go back inside.”

The Nadder tilts its head. Confused? No clever prey would just stand where it is easily seen and heard. It is a silly tactic and not what a Viking would do; other Vikings would charge, yelling, with axe or sword ready to draw blood. Not this one. Hiccup edges closer, one slow careful step after the other. Lifts his hand slightly, slightly. If he could reach that spot on its chin …

The Nadder, suspicious, rears back.

“No, no, it’s all right, I won’t hurt you.” Hiccup prays to Freyr that only the Nadder and no one else heard him say that. “That’s it. That’s it. Good dragon.”

Unseen from the other side of the arena, Astrid is shouting: “Out of the way!” Hiccup guesses she is coming closer but someone (Ruffnut and Tuffnut, possibly) tripped her up. Won’t be long until she appears with her axe. He has to be quick.

Hiccup has not even bothered with weapons. He addresses the dragon softly: “If you could go inside your pen now, that would be good. Do you understand? Or she’s really going to hurt you.”

He is so close now, so close, his hand within two feet from the dragon and he takes a chance; like with Toothless. Hiccup turns his face away, eyes downcast. He hears Gobber shouting in panic (worried mostly, Hiccup figures, because Hiccup is Stoick’s son and if the Chief returns to find his son dead, well, that’s on the blacksmith)—“Hiccup!”

His hand touches warm scales. Like Toothless they are rather soft, not scarily sharp, and his palm flattens against the Nadder’s snout. It blinks a couple of times. Oh, wow! Oh, wow! “Hi there. Look. You need to go inside now. Please?”

Astrid rounds the corner, coming to a sharp halt at the sight of Hiccup just standing in front of the Nadder, touching it, and not being eaten or engulfed in flames. For a brief yet eternal moment, Hiccup’s heart a drum in his ribcage, he is convinced he’s just done something very, very wrong in front of his peers, Gobber and half a dozen observing Vikings on the bleachers. An error that will lead to more questions than answers, lead to his secrets being discovered, to Toothless being found. He withdraws his hand and gestures toward the open doors some way behind the Nadder.

“Inside! Shoo! Get inside.”

“Hiccup!” Gobber shouts, the old man sounding like he’s running. Oh, great.

The Nadder lifts its wings, rustling in the breeze, appearing larger and more threatening. Its jaw, for a moment, is open as if to fill with gas and ignite it, and there is no chance Hiccup would survive at this close range. He remains calm and still. I am not afraid. I am a Viking … just not the right sort. He looks directly at the dragon, refusing to cower, holding his shield to the side.

Astrid regains her composure, tightening the hold of her axe and resuming her sprint. Hiccup ducks, wisely, holding his shield up. Just as Astrid reaches them, the Nadder leaps away, turns gracefully within the limited space of the caged arena.

To everyone’s astonishment the Nadder is flying back to its pen.

Hiccup doesn’t have much time to see it before Astrid and her rage is upon him, but he could have sworn the Nadder was seeking him with its gaze and nodding with its head. Like … acknowledgement. Understanding.

Astrid’s swipe with her axe misses by a long shot and ends up connecting forcefully with Hiccup’s shield, and he groans at the impact: sharp pain suddenly erupts in his arm, elbow, and ribs on his left side, where he holds it. He falls, landing on his backside hard. To his humiliation, Astrid places a foot on the shield, effectively holding him down, while tugging to get her axe free.

“Hiccup, you useless runt!” Astrid shouts. “You’re in my way! What in Helheim was that?!” She gets her axe loose and Hiccup rolls away from under the broken shield, leaving it lying there.

Hiccup staggers to his feet. “I was just—”

“Just what?!” She shoves him, hard, which is the last thing he needs. His side aches and his arm especially. Astrid had aimed that blow to kill and without the shield … He decides not to linger on it. No point. “I don’t know how you did it, but you had the Nadder fly off just as I was about to strike. You took that from me.”

“Sorry,” Hiccup says weakly.

Snotlout, the twins and Fishlegs come running and moments later Gobber appears. The blacksmith’s face is set in a deep frown whereas Ruffnut and Tuffnut are arguing (again), Fishlegs looks very concerned, and Snotlout immediately takes Astrid’s side.

“Hey! You ruined this for my girlfriend! You did great, Astrid.”

“Shut up, Snotlout. I am not anybody’s girlfriend.”

“Look, I said sorry.”

“Hiccup,” Gobber says, sternly, “that was the oddest thing I have ever seen. Did the beastie get to you?”

Hiccup shakes his head. He wishes the earth could open beneath his feet and swallow him up. Or, better, that he could magically sprout wings and fly off, never to be seen. His face burns hotly in shame. He would like to say ‘No, the only beast that got to me was Astrid’, but that wasn’t fair. She is and will be a great warrior, who just happens to hate him and, yeah, he was in her way. But it was that or let the Nadder be cut down, which is not a good argument at all. So he doesn’t say that. Instead: “Look, I, I’ve got to. Things to do and. Training’s over, isn’t it?”

Gobber sighs. “Yes, for now.”

As Hiccup quickly gathers the broken shield and makes for the exit, Astrid glares at him poisonously. “This isn’t over.”

Yeah, he was afraid she’d say that.

When he gets to the cove, Toothless greets him with concern and licks his face and then his arm, puffing at the sleeve of his green tunic. Can Toothless sense he’s hurt?

“It’s all right, I’m all right, just a bit of a, uh, a misunderstanding. Hey! Hey, Toothless, calm down. Look, I brought fish.”

He’s nearly finished with the prosthesis tailfin, just a few more adjustments which he didn’t have time for last night. While Toothless eats, Hiccup makes notes in his little book and double-checks the measurements, which he had done earlier (mostly by eye). If the prosthesis is too large or small the whole thing won’t work.

Toothless looks so content while eating. The warm sun is fading and Hiccup seats himself on a rock, still a bit warm, to eat his own food—some bread and cheese pilfered from the Mead Hall kitchen. Toothless is intrigued by the strange food, unimpressed by the lack of meat, and picks up one of the fish by its (his?) gums, dumping it in Hiccup’s lap. The dragon makes an encouraging noise.

“Thanks, Toothless, but I’m good. I’d rather cook it over a fire, anyway, not eat it raw.”

The dragon snorts at him, unconvinced.

Hiccup gives back the fish. “Go on. You can have it.”

Toothless shakes his head and places, shockingly gently, a large paw on Hiccup’s thin knee, careful not to put any actual weight on the boy. Like a rather large, scaly lapdog. That’s new. Hiccup scratches his chin and pats his head.

“Seriously, Toothless, eat it. It’s your fish.”

A disgruntled warble.

“Are you worried about me, bud?” Hiccup asks. “Don’t worry about me.” He pushes the fish into the dragon’s slightly open, for the moment toothless, mouth. “There you go. Your fish. Eat up.”

The dragon coos and grunts (an affirmative? does Toothless understand?) and, after a moment, chews down with suddenly-there teeth. After swallowing and licking its snout Toothless withdraws; he walks in a circle on the ground burning it neatly with a steady flow of blue fire. By now, Hiccup has learned to recognize that as one of Toothless’ sleeping rituals; either he lies down curled on the ground, either burned or a heated rock, or he hangs upside down from a thick branch like a very large bat.

Hiccup finishes the last of the cheese and brushes the crumbs from his fur coat before sliding down the stone and sitting down next to Toothless. “Mind if I sit here?”

In response, Toothless wags his tail and refolds his wings, making himself comfortable, but he doesn’t move away or try to hide like he did the first time Hiccup came this close during his rest. The dragon’s eyes slide half-shut, not entirely lidded, large dark pupils focused on Hiccup.

He pulls out his notebook, finding the page where he last took notes.

Toothless likes to sleep during the day or afternoon, preferably in a spot of sun. Dragonfire keep them warm from the inside but Toothless usually heats the soil or the rock to sleep on; sometimes hanging upside down from a tree. Never seen a sleeping dragon before, so I cannot compare. Toothless trust me enough now to sit next to him while he (?) rests. Must find that out. Toothless shared fish with me today, again, and licked my bruises (from training). Night Fury saliva must have some kind of healing properties because I feel much better already.

Lulled by the soft scratch of pen on paper, the dragon falls asleep.

A quick trial reveals that a tailfin is not enough. Without guidance from a hand, it doesn’t move, and it needs to be able to move between different positions (not just stay open)—like the real thing. A rope turns out to not be sensitive enough.

Within a couple of weeks, Hiccup thinks he has it: the perfect design. The saddle is connected to the tailfin by leather coils and moving metal, hinges which Gobber would’ve been astonished at if the old blacksmith ever got the chance to observe them. The pedal on one side, and stirrup on the other, giving balance, something to hold onto.

Toothless seems to understand what is going on and why Hiccup is doing this. He allows the saddle, allows him on his back. He lets the boy make adjustments and take measurements when necessary. He lets him attach the saddle by rope to a tree stump to practice flight in a controlled manner. Hiccup is amazed by all of that. Dragons aren’t unintelligent untameable beasts! Though ‘tame’ is not a word he would use in relation to Toothless. The Night Fury has a mind of his own, and when he does not agree with something it is impossible to change his mind. Hiccup does not want to call himself the dragon’s owner or rider or tamer.

It’s simply this: without him (or someone) controlling the tailfin, Toothless will never again fly.

And flying is amazing!

The first time they do it for real—not safely tied down, no second chances—Hiccup is scared and elated and he feels like this, this is what he’s meant to do. He’s not a warrior or killer of dragons or foes; he’s not a Chief or diplomat or leader; he’s simply Hiccup, flying, flying like a dragon.

(Wouldn’t having wings be something?)

He wants to hold onto that feeling, that experience, forever.

Nothing lasts forever.

Hiccup has faced all but one of the dragons in the arena: the Gronckle, the Terrible Terror, the Nadder, the Zippleback.

None of them scares him anymore.

The other teenagers are suspicious of him. Cheater! Lies and trickery! Somehow Hiccup manages to subdue or lure the dragons back into their pens without violence; a head-scratch, an offered rock to chew on, the threat of an eel hidden under his vest (he felt a little guilty after that one). Gobber is astonished and rumours spread in the village like a wildfire: Hiccup the Useless is actually, maybe, not that useless.

And Hiccup’s throat tightens in distress and his heart is heavy and he feels irreparably guilty, because he’s doing all of this not for himself but for Toothless and for his father. By playing along with Gobber and the rest, he hopes to avoid Toothless’ discovery; and through knowledge about Toothless he can approach other dragons safely. Stoick demanded him to train and with the progress he’s making he’s expected to reach the finals, facing off against Astrid (probably) and then the Elders have the choice who is to kill the Monstrous Nightmare.

Hiccup cannot do that.

Because he has doubts.

About Berk.

About training.

About his father’s return and what will happen then.

About … everything.

He and Toothless have known each other and flown together for two months. Toothless has carried him over forests and across the sea toward nearby islands, a few hours’ flight at most but faster than any longship. He has met wild, free dragons and they weren’t dangerous. Well, dangerous, yes, but not showing any ill intent toward him or Toothless once Hiccup offered them food and made it clear they weren’t going to harm any dragons. The Gronckle had happily eaten a rock from his hand—from his hand! The tiny Terrors had curled up at his side and nosed at his hair and Hiccup hadn’t felt afraid or threatened at all.

Because everything he thought he knew about dragons is completely wrong.

If he stays here in Berk, Toothless must stay, hidden in a cove forever and limited to brief uncertain flights whenever Hiccup could sneak away. That is no life for such a wild, beautiful creature. Dragons should be free to roam where they want to.

But there are the raids, which worry him. For weeks, Hiccup has been thinking about it. Toothless, the wild Terrors and the Gronckle—they’re all friendly. Or at least indifferent toward humans. The dragons trapped in the arena—they are forced to fight, have no choice, yet hesitate to kill even when logically they should have. Then why the raids?

The conundrum gnaws at him.

Maybe he could solve it, but not by staying here in Berk. But leaving Berk …

The notion terrifies him. He has only left Berk a handful of times in his life. A trading journey as a child. A visit to a nearby tribe, a month-long voyage by longship. But surrounded by Vikings, fed, sheltered, safe—safe? Hiccup isn’t sure, but at least he didn’t have to fare for himself. His father and others were there. He knows nothing about surviving in the wilderness, and to the wilderness he must go if he leaves with Toothless. He cannot exactly saunter into some other village with a dragon in tow. No, their life would be one in exile.

Lonely.

The two of them. Together. Alone.

Hiccup has had trouble sleeping.

As training progresses, nearing its climax—the killing of the Monstrous Nightmare—doubt creeps away. Is replaced by certainty. Hiccup may not be a warrior but he is a Viking, and stubborn enough once his mind is set. And it’s becoming clear that he does not belong here in Berk. Unseen by most, taunted by the rest, bullied by his agemates. There is only Gobber whom he’d regret, at least a little bit, for leaving.

And his father, if Stoick is still alive. If the expedition returns.

They need to leave.

And if he does that (no turning back), Hiccup would no longer be Viking but more of a dragon himself. Wouldn’t he?

Oh, Þór, please give me a sign.

There is no other choice. And when it dawns on him in clarity, he rushes toward the woods, to the cove, to Toothless.

“We can’t stay here, Toothless.” To his shame, Hiccup can’t hold back tears. Leave Berk! What in the name of Óðinn is he thinking? He knows nothing of surviving in the wild. They’ll be alone, at mercy to the elements. He will leave everything: the warm hearth, Gobber, his father. Stoick will be ashamed, probably, and angry. What kind of Viking is he to even consider the thought of abandoning his people?

But his people are wrong.

And Toothless deserves better.

“We can’t stay here!” It’s meant to be a shout, but the words get stuck hoarsely in his throat, and Hiccup can’t stay standing. Through his tears, face burning, he can’t see much but he feels Toothless’ snout concernedly pressing against him, and the dragon makes those noises of worry like he does whenever Hiccup shows up covered in bruises. He rubs at his face with the sleeve of his tunic. “Toothless, they’ll kill you, and … and, and then I’ll have to k…” Hiccup hiccups and swallows hard. Why can’t he stop crying? He is not a little babe anymore. He has no excuse to be this weak. “Kill the Nightmare.”

Slowly the tears cease—he runs out of them. Sniffling and shivering, despite the extra layers of fur, Hiccup sighs in relief when Toothless’ wings fall around him and the dragon’s warmth seeps into his bones. Safe. Warm. Comfortable. Safe. Toothless licks at his face, warbling a little at the unfamiliar taste of tears.

And he can’t help but chuckle. Unhappily. “And here I am, crying like a babe, comforted by a dragon …” He smiles up at the dragon’s large green eyes. They emit confusion and concern and for a moment Hiccup thinks about his dad, and the mother he never knew; when was the last time his dad or anyone was this focused on his well-being? Holding him while he cried?

He can’t recall.

“Thanks, Toothless. I know you don’t understand, but …” And he has to explain somehow, even if Norse words are beyond a dragon’s ears and comprehension. Has he told Toothless? He doesn’t think so. About the arena. About the goal to kill dragons. How he has been hurting other dragons at the same time as riding on Toothless’ back. What a hypocrite he is! “I’ve been training and learned so much from you, how to calm dragons down, to subdue without hurting them, and now it’s gone too well. They all think I’m this…this fierce dragon-killing Viking, except Astrid … who hates me. If they choose me, I have to kill the Nightmare, and I can’t. Can’t do that. And then Astrid will. It’s going to die, Toothless.”

And Hiccup could have sworn—to Baldur and Heimdall and Þór himself—that Toothless’ comforting presence, a blanket on his shoulder and around his heart, could be heard as words, a thought piercing his own:

[Hi-c-cup.]

Out loud the dragon makes a new series of sounds: exhale-sharp grunt-warble-click.

Did … did Toothless just try to say his name?

They have to leave. If they don’t, he’ll end up in that arena and be forced to kill a dragon. They have to leave. They have to leave.

And they can’t wait any longer.

“Yeah. I … I need to go back. To Berk. To pack, we can’t leave empty-handed. But I’ll be quick. I’ll be back tonight after dark, all right? Stay here, Toothless. I’ll return before you know it, and then we’ll be out of here.”

Away from Berk.

Forever.

Hiccup has made up his mind.

The raid happens in the middle of the night.

Hiccup heads straight for his room at the back of the forge. At this hour the village is mostly asleep and there is no sign of Gobber. He gathers his notes and drawings; leaving them for anyone to find to find is dangerous (not that anyone save Gobber or his father, if he returns, would look here). The desk, previously littered with plans and designs and ideas, is swiftly cleaned and he puts everything, orderly, in a satchel which he had fashioned of some leftover leather a few days ago. The satchel is made so he could carry it on his back or attach it to a belt or Toothless’ saddle.

Aside from his notes, he packs another satchel with other things. A knife, a coil of rope, a waterskin, an extra tunic and underthings, needle and thread, wax to treat the leathers of Toothless’ saddle, little bits and pieces that are useful. No tinderbox. Who needs a tinderbox when you have a fire-breathing dragon?

And Hiccup has just packed the two satchels and rolled up a fur blanket, when the warning shouts wakes the village. A call to arms. It is followed by a sharp blast of a horn.

“Dragons! Raid! Attack! Dragons!”

Oh no. Oh no!

Toothless. Toothless is stuck in the cove. Away from the village, but … if he’s found by other dragons, or Vikings …

Hastily Hiccup shoves the blanket into the satchel and shoulders it, grabs the other one, checks his room one more time. Anything he’s forgotten? His heart pounds loudly in his ears. Through the walls he can hear the oncoming storm: clattering weapons, shouts, dragon cries, an explosion followed by churning fire.

Now. He’s got to leave now.

He starts to run.

Outside, there is utter pandemonium. With half of their warriors away on the search for the Nest, there is a great scramble to get people in position to protect key areas of the village: the children, the life-stock. Children are ushered toward the Mead Hall, which is partially cut into the hill itself and able to withstand a longer assault of dragonfire. Sheep are blearing in alarm. Someone is crying, a young child, wet tears. Warriors are storming out of houses armed to the teeth, and others arms themselves with water in buckets to douse any flames. Already two huts are ablaze, shining beacons in the night like small suns.

Hiccup stumbles down the path, trying to avoid crashing into anyone, in the way. Someone sees him, shouts: “What are you doing outside? Get inside!”

He rushes past them. In-between two houses, he spots Astrid and Snotlout emerging with their parents; uncle Spitelout is giving orders, acting as Chief in Stoick’s absence. He can’t see Gobber.

He would have liked to say goodbye.

In the chaos of the raid, the thought strikes him: the dragons in the arena. It will be unguarded and if he could free them …

Toothless first.

Hiccup leaps over a fallen barrel, sprinting in the direction of the woods. With so much going on, slipping away into the dark, beyond the last row of houses, is easy. Most are running in the other direction. The noise is great and Hiccup is nearly under the cover of trees when the flaps of wings reaches him. Overhead. He ducks, rolls, catches himself against the ground. Hiccup winces. His hands burn from the slide.

It’s a Nadder. Beautiful and graceful, with gleaming eyes and unlike Toothless, there is hatred and anger and hunger, so much hunger. Is it starving? Is that why the dragons are attacking? Hiccup holds his breath. Could he calm down the Nadder like the one in the arena? He could try, but, he hesitates. The Nadder growls and opens its jaw, full of sharp teeth, gathering its gas to ignite. Without a shield or anything to hide behind, Hiccup resigns himself to his fate. So this is how it ends. And Toothless won’t even know what happened.

[HICCUP!]

The screech cuts through his mind and heart and ears all at once, and Hiccup can’t tell if it is from within or without. And then he does hear something else, a noise which terrifies all other humans but not him: the shrieking dive of a Night Fury. Toothless? Toothless! How? He was stuck in the cove! Did he get out? How could he fly without the tail? Did he run, leaping over rock and tree?

From far-away, down in the village, he hears voices full of fear: “Night Fury!”

Hiccup barely has time to think any of these questions before a bright plasma blast sears his vision and the Nadder stumbles, falling back. It snarls and shrieks and Toothless is there, appearing from above the trees, leaping onto its back. The Night Fury bares his teeth and presses down with his paws, holding the Nadder by the neck, but does not strike. Does not kill.

“Toothless!” Hiccup shouts. “Toothless, we’ve got to get out of here!” And then he realizes the dragon’s back is empty. The saddle! It’s still in the cove. “Saddle and tail,” he says, “Toothless, let the Nadder go.” It’s only hungry and following its instinct, attacking Vikings because Vikings are the enemy, and Hiccup cannot find himself to fault it for that even when it nearly killed him. And Toothless glares at the Nadder in warning but obeys, letting it live. The Nadder stills, uncertain or afraid of this development. Unsure of what it means. Slowly Toothless steps away, standing protectively in front of Hiccup.

The Nadder snarls. But it does not attempt to reach for either human or dragon with claw or tooth or spike.

Hiccup uses one hand to pull himself onto Toothless’ back, holding on tight and trying not to drop the satchel. “Let’s go, bud. Now!”

The Nadder doesn’t follow; perhaps it realizes that they would only be a wasteful kill, not yielding food, unlike attacking the Vikings and stealing their sheep.

Even without flight, Toothless is a fast runner and he leaps over the brush, occasionally trying to glide but the trees quickly become too thick and tangled. Hiccup presses himself close to his back, as flat as he can, staying low to avoid being struck by the odd branch as they run. He feels Toothless’ swift breaths and powerful stride beneath him as if they were his own. 

Soon—but to Hiccup it might as well have been a journey of years—they reach the cove, coming to a brief halt on one of the cliffs overlooking it. its waters a still and it is deceptively peaceful here, the sounds of battle faint. Hiccup hears the horn again and the whistling of arrows in multitude. Toothless spreads his wings fully and manages to, if ungracefully, glide down to the bottom of the cove. It’s not until they land and Hiccup slides off his back that he realizes that much of the stone around them is cracked and burned.

“You …?” Toothless had struggled with all his might to get free. And just in time to save Hiccup’s life. Toothless knew he was in danger. How? Could the dragon sense it? Or did Toothless panic at the sight and smell of the raiding dragons, following them? Whatever the reason, Hiccup is relieved and grateful. “Thank you.”

He hurries to get the tailfin and saddle in place, securing the two new satchels with coils of leather and rope. Tugs a couple of times to make sure they won’t fall. Toothless sniffs at them curiously, disappointed when they yield no fish. “No food, bud,” Hiccup says. Stress is coursing through his veins like wine, hot and strong. There isn’t much time. An attack can last for minutes or hours, and in that chaos there is the chance to save the dragons at the arena. Miss that window of opportunity …

No. They won’t miss it. There is no alternative.

“I think that’s everything,” Hiccup says. He checks on the tailfin, all the straps and moving pieces of metal one more time, before climbing onto Toothless’ back. “No turning back now. No turning back.”

Toothless is impatient: leave now, go now, hurry! hurry! hurry! Hiccup senses it beneath him as trembling emotions rather than explicit words, and he lays a calming one on Toothless’ neck.

“One more thing. We have to … The dragons in the ring. If we don’t let them go, they’ll be killed.”

Toothless warbles an affirmative. And he spreads his wings and Hiccup deploys the tail, and they leap into the air.

Chapter Text

iii.

Faðirinn

The Father

Berkeyja
958 C.E.

As the sun rises the ashes slowly fall back to the ground, revealing the devastation of the raid. Four or five huts are completely decimated. Others damaged superficially. They have several wounded but, thank Óðinn, no confirmed deaths. Gothi’s hands are full. Gobber works with Spitelout, coordinating help. Food and water is distributed and a careful count is made of heads, human and animal alike.

Two cows.

Fifteen sheep.

One goat.

A dozen or more hens.

Several barrels’ worth of fish.

Gobber sighs as the list keeps on growing. What ill luck! No raid for two blissful months, and they had all prayed that meant the raids of the season were over until next year. But no. Beyond the stolen food, so hard to replenish this time of year, they have buildings to repair and rebuild, and wounded to care for. Spitelout is in a foul mood, and Gobber’s report of the food taken will not lighten it the least. If the winter strikes as hard as usual, the harbour will not be visited by traders for months. They will all have to tighten their belts.

To top it off, somehow the dragons in the arena broke free; there was evidence of fire, chains blasted to pieces, doors left wide open. Somehow the beasts freed themselves, or dragons from the outside freed them, in the chaos of battle. That has never happened before and makes Gobber uneasy. Blasting chains, yes, that he understands. But opening doors, pulling levers? Only human hands should be able to do that! Yet, the dragons are gone. There’s no doubt about that. So now they have less food, fewer houses, and no more dragons to train the young recruits; the final fight will have to be postponed. He’s sure Astrid, Snotlout and the twins will be mightily upset about that. Not so sure about Fishlegs; the lad is good of heart but frightens easily, not the figure of a great warrior-to-be. But, well. Problems for another day. The food issue and broken houses are much more urgent.

Leaning heavily on his peg leg (a Zippleback got to him during the night, pushing him down a slope, but the result is mostly a bruised pride), Gobber walks through Berk, taking stock, stopping to talk to people but they are all heading in the same direction.

They have gathered the bodies of the few dragons they managed to slay in the center of the village where there is an empty space. On happy days when traders come to Berk, they would set up a market there and the square would be full of happy voices, the scent of exotic spices, flowing mead, sung stories, clattering coins. Today it is silent, the gruesome work done without celebration. They will take what dragon scales, teeth, claws, and horns they can, whatever is salvageable, before the beasts are burned. Their meat is not to be eaten. At least they will have these meagre trophies to trade come spring.

When Gobber reaches the Mead Hall, where Spitelout has ordered an assembly, almost all the village is there. Scared children cling to their mothers’ skirts, sniffling quietly. Food is handed out to the tired, old, little ones, and the lightly wounded warriors. Only Gothi and some women to assist her are not present, caring for the worst injuries.

As he scans the crowd, Gobber sees many familiar faces, thankfully unharmed: the twins (for once not arguing with each other), Astrid and her family, Snotlout faking a confident smile at his father’s side, Fishlegs (who stands close to his parents), Birgit the seamstress, Haldor the carpenter; almost the whole village. Their faces downcast by the night’s events. But … where is Hiccup? Gobber cannot see that auburn mop of hair anywhere. Blast, did the boy get himself into trouble? He cannot recall seeing him during the battle, although Helge the fishmongrel had earlier claimed to have seen the boy running past in the heat of battle, but cannot say any more than that, the meeting so brief. Gobber presses past the throng of people to reach Spitelout’s side at the head of the largest table, where the hearth is burning warmly, welcoming.

“Have you seen Hiccup?”

Spitelout frowns. “No.”

“Has anyone seen Hiccup?” he asks, louder. Hiccup the Runt is, after all, the Chief’s son which warrants some concern.

A murmur. A cough. Uneasy glances exchanged.

Dagmar, Helge’s wife, clears her throat. “I saw the lad running. Told him to get inside, but I lost sight of him when a pack of Terrors came in for a landing.”

Ah. Urging Hiccup to seek shelter with the other children in the Mead Hall? Gobber doubts the lad would have appreciated or heeded that particular piece of advice. But then where is he? Gobber did not find him at the forge when passing by, though he had not bothered to check the back room; climbing up the stairs right now, with his leg, was not something he wanted to do. He will check later. Gobber rubs at his forehead. The lad may have hidden somewhere. Run off into the forest maybe. Or his room? But surely Hiccup would know to come to the Mead Hall when they were all called for. It is always done so, to be sure who is missing or injured or dead. Who is safe. Where is Hiccup?

“All right. Anyone else?”

“I saw him.” The voice, usually brisk and proud, is uncharacteristically quiet. Gobber turns to her as Astrid stands up, slowly making her way to the table. She is pale and shaken. “I saw Hiccup. With the Night Fury.”

The Hall falls utterly, utterly silent. They had heard it in the night: a single sharp cry and blast, but then … nothing. They had counted themselves blessed that it had not stayed longer. Gobber’s chest tightens and suddenly he feels cold. A Night Fury. No. No. Not little Hiccup.

“I saw it, near the edge of the village. I was running to the well for more water and that’s when I saw it. It was … black as night and it blasted fire. There was a Nadder too, I think. And Hiccup was …”

No. No, not little Hiccup!

“Are you sure, lass?” Gobber asks. Swallows harshly. Stoick will have my head, he thinks briefly, and then curses at himself for being so selfish. Baldur ought to strike him down for thinking of own safety from the Chief’s rage, when Hiccup is the one deserving mercy.

Astrid nods sharply. Fists white-knuckled. Worried or angry; Gobber knows there is no great love between Hiccup and the lads and lasses his age, and Astrid has always been quite harsh toward the boy, but this is serious. Pity wells up in his heart. No, not little Hiccup. The Mead Hall is silent, aghast. The Chief’s son ... dead? Why did no one know sooner? Why did no one intervene? Gobber would not be surprised if thunder struck him down right where he stands for failing his duty; he had promised Stoick to look after his son while he was away. And he has failed. Utterly.

“The Night Fury took him.”

They search the village. They turn over the broken huts, every plank, every piece of wood, every stone. They search the forest and the coastline for a washed-ashore body. For several days they search, urged on my Gobber and (if reluctantly) ordered by Spitelout. The Chief’s son is missing: not a laughing matter. And the hours pass and Gobber is convinced by the end of the first day that they will not find the boy.

In the forest, the Vikings do find traces of a wild dragon: dropped scales, inky black and shining of a like they have not before seen—Night Fury. And broken branches and whole trees upturned in a dwindling path, as if something heavy came down here from the sky and traversed through the trees, burning soil and splitting branches like toothpicks. The path is slippery beneath newly fallen snow and frost and Gobber cannot go all the way himself, so he sends Astrid, trusting her eyes and her head.

She reports back that afternoon. The trail leads to a natural cove over a mile away, a decent walk, hidden by tree and rock. The water there is undisturbed, a frosty sheet of thin ice covering it, so she could not swim in it to search for a body. Gobber knows in his heart that there is none. No. The Night Fury would have carried the poor lad off to its nest to feed on its catch.

Oh, Hiccup.

And Astrid says, with astonishment, that the rock within that cove is cracked and burned by dragonfire, deeply damaged as if the dragon was raging against the world itself. One of the trees of the cove is completely felled and charred. In the cold mud she fins two footprints that could not be human.

No Hiccup. No blood.

She does bring back one thing: the broken, burned remnants of a round shield. The wood is gone, only the metal left, twisted and bent. He has forged many of these and immediately recognizes the scrap metal for that it is. Gobber takes the pieces and holds them loosely to his chest. This is only more damning evidence. The poor lad must have been holding a shield when the Night Fury grabbed him, and they ended up in this cove where Hiccup tried and failed to defend himself, and then the vicious beast flew away from Berk with its catch.

“It doesn’t mean that he’s dead,” she says as if trying to cheer Gobber up. “Maybe he managed to escape.” Even as she says it, Astrid sounds unconvinced.

But Gobber shakes his head. Of course he is dead! A dragon always goes for the kill. Of course Hiccup is dead! Like Valka all those years ago, so brutally taken from them, now Stoick’s only son is gone. Once taken by a dragon there is nothing but death.

He prays to Óðinn that at least the boy’s passing was swift and painless.

They do not hold a funeral until Stoick returns eight days later.

The mood is solemn as the longships come ashore; half of what they left with, and there are injuries and dead bodies and Stoick sports a new scar on his arm, a jagged line from a claw. Gobber greets him quietly at the harbour and Stoick announces they did not find the Nest, not even close.

“Chief …” No. This is not a matter for a blacksmith to tell a Chief. This is matter for a friend to tell a father. “Stoick.”

Stoick frowns, catching onto the grief heavy in Gobber’s voice. The lack of cheers at their return. Why have the village gathered to greet them, yet they remain silent, as if in shame?

“What is it, Gobber?”

Something is wrong.

“Hiccup. He … There was a raid eight days ago, and the lad—Hiccup was—”

Gobber struggles to finish the sentence. The lad might have been small and to many a useless runt, surviving only because he was the Chief’s son, eating food undeservingly without serving his people a good purpose as warrior or leader. But the lad was good-hearted and clever and should not have suffered such a death so early. By Þór, Gobber will miss him terribly.

“No. No,” Stoick doesn’t move, barely breathes. He stares at Gobber with a pale face and then grabs his shoulders violently, grip harsh. “No! Tell me it isn’t so!”

“I’m so sorry, Stoick.”

“Where is he? Where is my son?!”

And they cannot even give the father a body to grieve over, to give a proper Viking funeral. At least the lad died in battle, fighting a dragon. He will be in Valhalla, with honour. Gobber prays that it is so.

“The beast took him.”

Not even a body.

Not even a body.

“No. No. No.”

Stoick sinks to his knees. The whole village watches, quiet. Murmurs rise and fall on the longships being offloaded as word spreads.

“No!” A roar.

Shuddering, Stoick breathes deeply but he is breaking down in a manner he has not done for years. Since Valka.

“No.” A whisper.

Gobber kneels in front of him. “He died a warrior’s death.” Hiccup had showed, for a brief instant, such potential. Fighting until the last. Gobber hands Stoick the charred pieces of twisted metal, the remains of the shield which in the end failed Hiccup, the only thing that is left of him now. Stoick’s hands are trembling as he receives them.

“Did he?” Stoick chokes. Little Hiccup, a warrior. He cannot say it. “Which … which of the beasts killed my son?”

“… The Night Fury.” It need not be said that the beast got away. Otherwise, its head would already be lying in the village square, severed from its body.

Stoick does not speak for a long while. Gobber urges the people around them to disperse and give the Chief some breathing room, to keep unloading the boats, but the crowd is unwilling with their Chief like this. It is a rare sight: a great man so broken, and Berk is and has always been a dangerous place but for all that, Gobber suspects Stoick never truly thought, believed, that his son would one day die. The fragility of mortality has never come into question. Even that day when Gobber convinced Stoick that, yes, the boy should begin training, a chance to prepare himself for the world ahead, to prove himself … even then (“The boy would be dead before he saw his first dragon.”) Stoick never believed. His son would not die. No. The lad, so cunning and clever, would find some way to make his mark and he would live on to one day become a great man, worthy of the responsibility of being Chief. And with a fell swoop all of that is gone. Forever.

“The Night Fury,” Stoick whispers. “The Night Fury.”

Then Stoick rises. He is still pale and his eyes shine with unshed tears, but then he blinks them away and with cold rage he declares: “I will find that beast. And I will have its head for taking my son from me!”

They send an empty longship into the sea. No body or bones, but Stoick places an axe there, the one he gave to Hiccup for his training. He places a helmet fashioned from his late wife’s armour, and a knife and sword alongside. The broken shield. A warrior’s funeral, befitting, because Hiccup died fighting a dragon, and at least that is something. At least that is something. The longship is one they can sacrifice, damaged during Stoick’s voyage, and it wobbles on the waves. The fire on the lit hay, fuel for it, quickly overtakes the whole boat, crackling noisily.

Hiccup. Oh, son. I’m so sorry.

The boat is suddenly caught and carried out by a sharp gust of wind as if Týr himself, giving his blessing, wants to ensure Hiccup’s safe journey to Valhalla. Enforcing that Hiccup did indeed fall in valour, courage in his heart, and he will be greeted by their forebearers in great honour.

The mast crumbles.

Even as the villagers disperse, Stoick remains standing on the pier watching the boat be taken by flames and slowly sink into the sunset. Soon it is gone altogether.

Like the similar promise he had made a decade earlier, after Valka, he swears on his honour and his life and Chiefdom, all that he is. He swears to Baldur and Þór, to Heimdall and Óðinn—to Hiccup—that Stoick the Vast shall never again rest or be merry, until the Night Fury is dead.

“I will avenge you, my son.”

Chapter Text

iv.

Frjálsræði

To Be (Greatly) Free

Hiccup!

Unsafe!

Danger!

Toothless drives the sharp-spikes back with a warning, roar in his throat, fire in his belly: [Touch this hatchling and you die!]

The sharp-spikes hisses and spits fire, but not enough to truly harm its foe, struggling beneath Toothless’ claws. This is too much trouble for a human, for food. There are easier kills elsewhere; no need to fight this unruly unseen-blasts-from-the-darkness. It chose badly when going after Hiccup. Toothless both pities it and hates it for nearly hurting Hiccup, and growls in warning before letting it go ask Hiccup asks, the human hatchling too forgiving. It snarls but turns away, deterred, and does not follow.

They leave the burning village behind.

Toothless is on edge as they return to the cove under the cover of starlight. The flight on four feet with Hiccup tightly clinging to his back was not safe, even if the sharp-spikes is not following. The Vikings heard Toothless’ battle cry, are aware of his presence now; what if they follow? What if they try to take away Hiccup? But Toothless cannot care about that.  They are leaving now. They are leaving!

Shaking a little, Hiccup slides off his back and gathers the saddle and fin. The boy is wearing those extra furs including coverings for his hands, yet he trembles. Not cold, then, but excitement and shock and fast-pumping blood. Toothless wishes to give comfort, but there is no time. Must leave. Must leave now! Once the saddle is on, the two new satchels are attached to either side of the saddle, snug and secure. They are full of things that are not food. Humans need things to survive; fake furs on their skin to stave off the cold and protect them from rain; fake claws (knife? yes, knife, Toothless thinks) and other weapons of metal to hunt, to carve meat, to defend themselves. It is a wonder that humans can survive on their own!

“I think that’s everything,” Hiccup says. “No turning back now. No turning back,” a mere whisper, and there is fear, there is so much fear; and guilt; but no regret. Hiccup is afraid—the hatchling has never left Berk (not-good-nest), could not survive the wilderness alone—but Toothless will take care of him, keep him warm, find them food, provide shelter from wind and snow and hail. The dragon is impatient, more than ready to leave; he has no emotional ties to this place, the not-good-nest-of-Vikings.

[Go now? Go now!]

“One more thing. We have to … The dragons in the ring. If we don’t let them go, they’ll be killed.”

[Yes, Toothless and Hiccup will rescue them.]

Toothless is pleased with this, but also apprehensive. He does not know those dragons except from the scents left on Hiccup: fear, wrath, desperation. He has only seen the village Berk from above, from afar, when attacking it under the Queen’s control, a haze on his mind causing only rage and burning hunger. This arena Hiccup speaks of is further inland from the main village, partly surrounded by mountains, cut into the rock. Will there be Vikings there guarding it? Will they need to blast through the stone to free the other dragons? He has wasted much of his fire already and will need to rest before attempting to crack rock open with force or fight any foes.

“We’ll be careful. In and out.” Hiccup reaches down to pat Toothless between the ears. “Quick and silent.”

[Like shadows], Toothless confirms, and they leap into the air with only a sharp gust of flapping wings.

Berk is in chaos. Burning. But most of it is getting under control, the Berkians far too used to these attacks, and the warriors are driving back the dragons. Most dragons dive down and grab whatever they can, a cow or goat or sheep, or fish stolen from the storehouse which many are defending but there’s a hole in the roof. Some dragons howl in agony from injures and fail to take anything at all. Some meet a fatal blow of an axe or sword, crumbling onto the ground or falling off the cliffs into the cold unforgiving sea. The horn blows again. The cacophony of noise echoes coldly across the waters. The sea froths and foams angrily at the harbour and manmade piers as if in vengeance.

The Night Fury and his human glide soundlessly above it all, circling around the rocks above the Fighting Ring. The arena is unlit and deserted, but the lack of fire is no issue for Toothless. Hiccup strains his gaze to look. The arena is covered with a web of chains, tough enough to withstand most dragons’ claws or bite. Fire is another matter. Toothless doubts these chains could hold them back if they tried. The dragon holds back the characteristic shriek of his kin as they dive; this is no open assault but a sneak-attack; they must be quiet. He lights no fire, because there are no guards to burn, and Toothless lets Hiccup steer them downward in a spiral to a landing site just outside the main doors. Huddled there for a few moments, peering into the dark to make sure they have not been seen; Toothless grunts softly, glancing over his shoulder. Hiccup is tense and the knuckles of his hands white, the grip on the saddle edge tight and concerned.

Beyond and below, Berk-the-Viking-nest is ablaze. The noise of battle reaches them faintly.

[Hiccup. We must have a plan. Is there a plan?]

He waits for his human to make a decision. The boy climbs off the saddle. “I’m going in, you stay here.” Toothless grumbles and warbles, disagreeing. “No, it’s all right, Toothless. It’s not …”

[Not-safe! Toothless smell-senses stone-eater and flame-self-at-will down there, and sharp-spikes! It is not safe. Battle too close! Toothless will-go with hatchling.]

Whether or not Hiccup is listening, is able to listen, he does hesitate for a moment. And then he says, “All right, Toothless. Together. Quietly. I’ll open the doors and then we’ll all fly out of here. I’m just hoping they won’t make a fuss, especially the Nightmare or the Nadder.”

Careful but swift, Hiccup opens the gates to the outside of the arena, tense as it creaks seemingly as loud as thunder in the night. So loud that surely the Vikings will hear it and come running with spears and axes; Toothless’ body is tense like the string of a bow, ready to spring into action without notice. What if the Vikings come? But they are alone. The heavy doors slide open, and they rush side-by-side across the packed soil to the far end of the arena where the dragons are trapped. Hiccup knows how to work the levers but can only open one cage at a time.

The first to emerge is a small-fires-puffs (Terrible Terror are Hiccup’s words for it) and it crawls blinking into the starlit arena and freezes at the sight of Toothless and his little human hatchling. All the dragons can smell each other at this point and inside the doors there is restless movement, grunts and growls of unease, uncertainty. Toothless lowers his head a little in a show of friendliness.

[No-fear, we are freeing you.]

[Free?] The tiny dragon takes a few uncertain steps forward, waggling from side to side.

[Yes, free, but must be quiet to not-alert-Vikings.]

[Viking!] The fear is evident, as well as resentment, as the Terrible Terror skitters away from Hiccup; the human boy is busy opening the next door to take note of the dragons’ silent exchange. Toothless sniffs the air. Can sense no Vikings yet. The winds are confused by the battling dragons, so many wingflaps and there is fire and smoke ruining the scent-trails of the Viking-nest. He strains his ears but cannot hear anyone approach. Hurry! Must hurry! Not safe here!

[Hiccup is good-dragon-friend-kin, not bad-Viking. Hiccup is hatchling-who-flies-with-Toothless.]

The stone-eater, called a Gronckle by Hiccup, looks dazed and tired and they smell of fresh blood, a deep gash in its side: the wielder of the weapon must have been strong and determined, because stone-eater hide is very thick and can withstand much. Injured recently in ‘training’. Toothless holds back an angry growl. Again, he repeats: [We are freeing you. Have no fear.]

The sharp-spikes, or Deadly Nadder, has blue pale scales littered with scars from months or years of forced fighting. How long has she been a prisoner here? Cruel-bad-Vikings have her hurt badly. There is anger, hesitation, disbelief. She postures defensively, distrustful and doubting: [Freedom? But how? And why would this little thing do that?] She means to harm Hiccup but Toothless leaps in-between, baring his teeth.

[Because Hiccup is dragon with Toothless. We fly together. Harm him and you die!]

[Flies-through-storms remembers Viking-hatchling], the sharp-spikes reveals. [Did no harm when others did. Unseen-blast-out-of-darkness has claimed human-hatchling as kin?]

[Yes!] Toothless growls impatiently. 

“Okay, bud, just two left,” Hiccup whispers, hurrying to the next door.

Two-heads-one-body slither out of their pen with gas already slipping from one mouth like a dark green cloud, the other threatening to ignite it. They are hot wholly convinced even when Toothless soothes them with his inner voice, repeating that Hiccup is good-Viking and dragonkind and flying-together-with-Toothless. They are dragons together and now the hatchling is helping them escape. Freedom! Toothless knows from experience that two-heads-one-body can be very stubborn and at times disagree with themself, two minds stitched together. Close but with their own opinions. 

[Escape? Freedom?] one head says, and the other: [Grateful, but will not be in debt, unseen-blast-out-of-darkness!], and together: [We do not trust Vikings.]

[Hiccup dragon now. We fly together], Toothless insists. Believe him or not, if they will, but it must be said. There is no time to argue about it. Whether or not the other dragons will follow them hereafter or part ways forever, Toothless does not much care right now. Hiccup is opening the final door. Almost. Almost free! Hurry, hurry, hurry. The battle in Viking-nest will not last forever and then Vikings may come here to look. They must be gone before then.

The flame-self-at-will, the Monstrous Nightmare, does not douse himself in flame at once. Like the others he is confused. [What is happening? Unseen-blast-out-of-darkness, why are you here?] it addresses Toothless, haughty and prideful as many of its kind are. It does not fear Toothless, but sees a fellow hunter worthy of the name. [Shall we fight this puny Viking together? It makes no more than a mouthful.]

[Touch him means you die. Hiccup the hatchling is with Toothless, we fly together. Now you are all free thanks to Hiccup-and-Toothless!]

For a terrifying moment, unaware of this conversation or unable to fully listen to it, Hiccup stands frozen as the Nightmare stretches itself to its full length and width, wings on display and eyes glowing in the dark, fangs bared, a flame starting to form in its mouth. So easily it could crush Hiccup and (try to) harm Toothless. The human’s instincts are to flee and hide. But the boy refuses to be moved. Why be afraid when he is dragonkind now?

Hiccup’s voice is soft. “You are free to leave. You should get as far away as possible from Berk. There’s a battle out there. Now is your chance.”

And then the flame-self-at-will bows its neck and folds its wings, looking at Hiccup with stern unblinking eyes. Decision. Trustful. [We recognize this one by scent, it has been here with the other Viking-hatchlings, but it does not fight to kill. Gratitude.] 

Then Hiccup climbs onto Toothless’ back. The Night Fury fires the first blast at the chains above; sharp-spikes and flame-self-at-will join in, and the chains rattle and glow red and then white. Finally, they sunder completely, opening a free sky. Several dragons cry out in delight. Sharp-spikes spreads her wings and takes flight without hesitation, as do two-heads-one-body. But stone-eater is slower to move, and small-fires-puffs linger; the little one scrambles to keep up with Toothless, retracting its claws to clumsily climb onto his back. Hiccup is startled and Toothless hisses a warning. Small annoyance! Pitiful and scared. 

[Stay with unseen-blast-out-of-darkness. Safe!] it pleads.

“It’s all right. You’re safe now,” Hiccup says and lets the little dragon settle near the nape of Toothless’ neck, claws digging into the saddle securely. One human hand on its back supportively. Toothless relents. The hatchling is attached, and the small-fires-puffs is no danger. “Let’s go.”

The large flame-self-at-will follows behind them at a steady pace, as a rear guard. To Toothless’ surprise sharp-spikes has not left entirely; she circles them once in the air and says: [We have nowhere to go.]

[Song of Queen-of-bad-nest?] Toothless wonders. Are they free, like him? Could their isolation in the arena for months and years untold be a reason?

[I lost Her voice many seasons ago. We all did], sharp-spikes speaks for her fellow once-imprisoned dragons. Lost. Alone. Unsure. Dragons should stay together; most kinds live in groups, many pairs nesting in the same area. A flock. Toothless cannot recall a time Before when he might have lived with others of his kin. He cannot even be sure if there are others, or if they have all been shot down by Vikings or killed by the Queen in a rage, eggs crushed.

But Toothless is not alone anymore. He has Hiccup. Will they make a big flock, free to roam? Will these dragons join them?

[Where is freedom-nest?], [Will go to freedom-nest], two-heads-one-body declare.

[We have no nest yet. Leaving this place to search], Toothless explains. Where will they go? Which direction? He had not thought that far. Only away! away! away! from the Viking village.

“Bud,” Hiccup whispers; sensing that something is happening beyond his own hearing, passing between all the dragons. Yet, as if perceiving every word correctly, he says: “They can come with us. Just fly slow enough to let the Gronckle keep up. Let’s head to the island with the Terrors. All right?”

Toothless assents, although flying slow enough for a Gronckle is not his preference. He flaps his wings and angles himself in the requested direction, and the other five follow them around and behind in a new formation; it was so long since Toothless flew together with other dragons, it is strange, but it is also good.

It is good.

And like shadows
six dragons and a boy slip into the night.

Chapter Text

v.

Vetrarlag

Wintertime

Hiccup loses the context of time and distance as they fly. He thanks Þór for remembering the extra furs and gloves. It is cold, especially at this altitude. Wind whips in his hair and his ears are red from the chill. His belly has started growling and he ignores it. Most of all he’d like to sleep.

He hopes Gobber, Astrid and the others in the village are all right. Despite their flaws, they do not deserve to die with Berk burning around them. But they are used to the raids. Their defences are good, they have warriors, and the raid will be over before sunrise; the attacking dragons have never stayed that long. Berk will bounce back quickly, rebuild broken homes, sweep away the ashes. And no one will miss Hiccup the Useless Runt, will they? They will be glad to be rid of the annoying nuisance!

Bile rises in his throat and he forces those thoughts away.

“Toothless!” he shouts over the howling wind and flapping, buzzing wings. They might have flown an hour or three, it’s difficult to tell; not morning yet, darkness heavy. The sky is full of heavy ominous clouds. “We need to set down.”

Aside from his hunger, he can tell that the Terrible Terror is anxious to be let down and the Gronckle is tiring, its wings slowing down exponentially. He cannot see its injury in this darkness, but he remembers the ugly wound, how it looked when they freed the dragons in the arena; and he remembers the strike when it happened, himself, a little over a day ago. Astrid had nearly felled the Gronckle altogether in Training and Snotlout had been so irritatingly proud and Hiccup’s guts had twisted as the stone-eating dragon cried out in pain and crawled back into its pen. Hiccup did pack some medicinals he had borrowed from Gothi, clean strips of cloth and herbs that can be boiled in water to lessen pain. Would that work?

Shouldn’t it be morning soon? They need to eat and rest. And then decide what to do next. Hiccup hadn’t counted on being accompanied by the freed dragons, especially the Nadder, Zippleback and Nightmare. He honestly thought they would be all too happy to get as far away as they could, as fast as they could, leaving the Viking runt and Night Fury behind. Yet they follow, even this slowly so that the Gronckle can keep up. Hiccup can’t see it properly, especially when the wind picks up and he tastes rain on his tongue, but there’s a glimpse of the Gronckle being supported by the Zippleback.

Soon enough rain is falling, ice-cold droplets. Hiccup uses one hand to pull his fur coat closer around himself. Guiding him with the pedal, he steers Toothless down a little, sideways. There! Land. Not much more than a rock, dark against the waters, but it will do. He isn’t sure if it is the same islet with the Terrors he and Toothless have visited before. It doesn’t matter, they need to land before the Gronckle collapses.

The descent is swift. Toothless lands first, not tired at all apparently, followed by the others. The Nadder is very graceful and the Nightmare majestic, but the Gronckle more or less crashes onto the rock and heaves a deep sigh.

“Well done, bud.” He pats Toothless’ back in affirmation.

It’s done.

They’re out of Berk.

The dragons are free.

Stiffly, Hiccup slides out of the saddle. His backside is a little sore from sitting for so long and his ears very, very cold, and his nose too. He blinks against the rain: sluggish but not too heavy, thankfully, and he hopes the clouds will pass swiftly by. He looks around for firewood but realizes to his disappointment that the island is only grass, moss and rock. He has to walk carefully; the rock is slippery wet, and he doesn’t fancy falling down the sheer cliff to the icy waters below. The little Terror rubs itself against Hiccup’s leg and then Toothless’ front paw. Toothless huffs as if annoyed but allows it.

The Night Fury nudges Hiccup’s side with his snout. “Yeah, bud. I’m cold and wet and hungry, I forgot to bring any kind of food provisions. But don’t worry, we can fish in the morning. Yeah, in the morning. First we’ve got to rest. I could sleep for a year, I think.”

Then he looks at the other dragons which are gathered around expectantly in a semi-circle as if seeking directions. The Nightmare lights itself on fire and Hiccup’s eyes feel sore at the sudden, warm light. But he isn’t afraid to step closer. How could he be? If the large dragon had meant to harm him or Toothless, it would have had a hundred chances already. “You don’t have to follow us, you know? You’re free now. You can go anywhere you like,” he says, feeling the need to express that there are no obligations, even if he does not actually mind them sticking around. Having a Nadder and Nightmare nearby should not comfort a Viking, but it does.

Toothless warbles and grunts, several of the dragons replying in turn with soft undulations and a flicking tail, a rustling wing, a turned head. A conversation of some sort as far as Hiccup can gather. The Zippleback twists its two long necks together and then unfolds them. Hiccup wishes he could understand the dragons fully; he hasn’t got a handle of them yet like he does Toothless. Because he is sure that Toothless understands if not human words then body language, tone, emotion, purpose; and there was that shriek before, in his mind. His name cried out in such fear and ferocity and protectiveness. Inside, not outside. After his tumultuous experience, Hiccup had nearly forgotten, but now he looks at and listens to the dragons communicating. They’re communicating!

What was that? Had that been Toothless? Toothless’ voice?

And then the Nightmare bows its neck. The Nadder wriggles its body in preparation for flight and exchanges a look with the Nightmare. Then they both take to the air, gone from sight swiftly because of the dark night. The Nightmare’s fire disappears and with it any light to see by.

“Oh.” Hiccup can’t feel but a little … disappointed? They are both dangerous dragons and of course they will revel in their newfound freedom. But he had sort of hoped that they would linger for awhile so that he could get to know them, and learn more about Nadders and Nightmares. Maybe give them names.

A sigh. There is no point in lingering on the dragons. They are free. It is their choice to stay or go.

He lays a hand on Toothless’ neck, fumbling a little in the dark, the Nightmare and its glow gone. “I need to take off your saddle, but I need light. Help me out?”

In response, Toothless walks around for a bit, searching. Hiccup stands where he was left, feeling directionless and lost and wondering what in Helheim he’s doing. Rain lashes at his face and his furs will soon be soaked. He forgot to pack any treated leathers or oilskin to keep rain out, and feels woefully ill prepared for surviving in the wild. But shortly, Toothless is back, gripping a pile of sticks in his gums. The island is very bare so these were probably carried here by waves and wind over the years from other islands. He places them on the ground and ignites them with a blast. The wood smells sour but at least there is fire now. The crackling fire is very welcome. Won’t hold for long, probably, in this wind and rain. Toothless breathes life into it again when the fire splutters and fades. Hiccup works as fast as he can.

The Zippleback has made itself comfortable on a rock, next to the Gronckle, which looks exhausted, the poor thing. Hiccup rolls his shoulders and stretches. An unwilling yawn. Gods, he’s tired. But before going to sleep (he could collapse right then and there, to be honest), Hiccup loosens the saddle and fin and satchels. “There. Are you sore anywhere, Toothless? I know the saddle is probably uncomfortable after too long.”

Toothless grumbles a negative response, making him smile. Stubborn dragon. (Like Viking, like dragon.)

Looking through the satchels (protected from the rain by a raised black wing) Hiccup searches until he finds a piece of fabric and the medicinal herbs. Then he stops short. Oh, Hel! He forgot to bring any sort of pan or cup. The need for eating utensils was completely lost on him when he was packing. He only has a little water, which has drunk a little of, and the cliff is sheer; no way he could reach the ocean to get any. Besides, seawater would be no good. He needs fresh water. Hiccup sighs and glances at the Gronckle. It is squirming a little as it tries to get comfortable, making little noises as if trying to hide the pain it is in. All right, he’ll improvise. The least he can do is clean the wound. He takes the fabric and holds it out in the heavy rain. It’s cold but it doesn’t take long to soak the fabric, which Hiccup then warms a little over the fire. 

Toothless watches in bemusement. Probably wondering what the boy is doing. But he diligently follows with a wing raised to shield from the worst of the rain as Hiccup crosses the rocky outcrop to the Gronckle’s side. The brown tired blinks at them tiredly but doesn’t shy away. Hiccup realizes he has no idea if dragons can even get sick from injures, like humans can: if a wound could fester and limbs enflame, followed by fever or even death. Are dragons too hardy for that? But the wound looks bad.

“So, um, Gronckle … no, I’ve got to give you a name. Stone-eater is a little simple, but …” Toothless warbles an interruption. A question? He sounds a little amused. “It’s all right,” Hiccup soothes. “I’ll help. All right? I’m going to clean that up. I know, I know.” Gently he swipes the wound clean with the cloth, Gronckle startled but it doesn’t protest with more than a grunt. Then Toothless bows his head and licks the wound. “I don’t know if—” Hiccup starts to say. Stops himself. Remembers his bruises and cuts from being beat up by Snotlout or Astrid quickly disappearing after Toothless’ licking; hadn’t he theorized that Night Fury saliva had healing properties? He recalls how quickly the marks had gone and the pain faded.

Hiccup ties the fabric like a bandage as well as he can around the dragon’s side to cover the injury and the Gronckle calmly lets him do that, reaching around it (him? her?) to tie a knot. “All right. Is that better?” he asks the Gronckle, not expecting any response. The dragon hums and settles down to sleep, curling its short tail a little and folding its legs underneath it. That answers that, at least. 

“Think that will work, buddy?”

Toothless looks pleased with himself, looking at Hiccup expectantly. He nods once. Leaving Hiccup beyond any doubt certain that Toothless understands every word he says.

“I need to sleep.” Hiccup he pulls out the fur blanket from the satchel; mostly dry except one of the edges is cold and wet, and he ducks back under Toothless’ wing for cover as soon as he’s grabbed it. Toothless huffs, dismissively and a bit affronted. “I know, bud, but this plus your wings will keep me warm for sure. I really don’t want to get sick.” It’s the start of winter and soon the times of storm will come: Berk is known for its harsh clime. This particular summer was warm and gentle, and to Hiccup that usually means the winter will be bleaker. He wraps himself in the blanket and lets Toothless place a wing around him so that he could only see a sliver of the fire (which is steadily dying).

Hiccup has almost nodded off when the Nightmare comes back, the Deadly Nadder close behind. The two dragons swoop in low above them, turn swiftly and land next to the resting Zippleback. One head remains asleep, the other startles, lifting, greeting the arrivals with a happy gurgle.

“Huh?”

Gently pushing Toothless’ wing aside so that he can see, Hiccup is greeted by the sight and smell of freshly caught fish. Both large dragons have their claws full and, apparently, their mouths because they regurgitate quite the pile next to the fire. The other dragons wake from their near-slumber and grunt, warble, and cry out in happiness, relief, joy. The little Terror especially. Hiccup’s belly growls again in reminder.

“Oh! Wow. Thank you!”

Selecting one fish that had been carried in a claw, not a mouth, Hiccup grabs one of the sticks not yet burned by the fire to skewer it. Most of the dragons are busy eating but the Terror watches with interest as Hiccup holds it over the fire. Then it shakes its little head, as if the human is being silly, and resumes its eating.

He manages to eat most of it and makes sure Toothless gets his share of food before curling up on his side under the Night Fury’s wing.

“Goodnight, Toothless.”

And Hiccup sleeps the rest of that night entirely free from fears and nightmares.

The human hatchling sleeps, wrapped in a blanked and huddled under his wing, but Toothless remains awake. He is tired, yes, but he must stay awake. Guard. Vigilant. They are still too close to Viking-nest for comfort, and Toothless does not fully trust the newly-freed dragons who accompanied them. Little small-fires-puffs maybe, yes. It cannot do much harm. But two-heads-one-body and sharp-spikes? Although they did bring food. Good food. Very kind.

He observes them quietly. Stone-eater is soundly asleep, and the little small-fires-puffs, but the flame-self-at-will meets Toothless’ gaze steadily.

[Wary.]

Toothless snorts softly.

[We will-not harm Viking-not-Viking-hatchling.]

[Hatching has name, name is Hiccup. And I am Toothless! Hiccup gives names. Maybe, if-you-are-good, you will have word-name as well.]

Flame-self-at-will ascents. [Word-names are not necessary.]

Toothless’ tail flickers; he is sure that, given enough time (or perhaps not so long), Hiccup will have named all the dragons. He would name all creatures of the world, if given the chance. Silly hatchling. But also good hatchling.

[We will see.]

Night passes into the day.

Toothless lets Hiccup sleep even as dawn’s light sting their eyes and the other dragons wake up. Two-heads-one-body and sharp-spikes leave for a brief hunt, to catch more fish if they can, but they must be swift and careful. Too close to Viking-nest. They are all aware of this. Toothless’ wings rustle as he lifts them, gently, sensing Hiccup’s rising wakefulness. The hatchling yawns and stretches. His cheeks are red from warmth.

[Comfortable sleep?] Toothless asks.

Hiccup scratches his chin and rubs at his own shoulders with his other hand. “I haven’t sleep that well in … I can’t even tell how many weeks.” He looks around their makeshift camp once Toothless’ wings are out of the way, standing, stretching his legs. “Where are the Nadder and Zippleback?” he asks, noticing their absence. “Have they gone?” Disappointment.

Toothless stands also and nudges him with his snout. [Hunting for food. They will return.]

As if on cue, the human hatchling’s belly growls. Empty and hungry.

[Food will be-here soon.]

“I wish I could understand,” Hiccup sighs suddenly. Stays curled in his fur blanket, knees to his thin chest. “What you’re saying.”

Toothless stands up and looks at him with bright eyes and focuses his inner voice with great concentration. [Hiccup. Hi-c-cup! Hiccup listen! Listen!]

Hiccup frowns but does not react. Toothless warbles in disappointment.

“Because I’m sure I heard at least one time, unless I was dreaming … I think I heard you say my name? Back in Berk, when that wild Nadder was about to—”

[Hiccup! HI-C-CUP. Listen. Listen. Listen!]

No use. No reaction.

“—breathe fire on me. Did I imagine that?”

[Hiccup. Toothless-voice-you-hear-listen! listen! listen to Toothless!]

Impatiently, Toothless scratches at the ground with his front paw. The human pauses his talk and reaches out a soothing hand. The petting is nice and good, but Toothless is still disappointed. How to make Hiccup hear? How to make Hiccup know? It would be so much easier to fly together if they could communicate properly! Why are human hearts closed off and their inner voices silent? Do they not have inner voices? That sounds dreadful! A great cause of sadness if it is so.

He had attempted to reach Hiccup only, focus sharp and pointed like a long claw. Toothless he tries again, shouting loud for all nearby to hear: [Hiccup listen-now! Why not-listen?]

Small-fires-puffs shakes its head. [Human-hatchling not-hear], it says.

No! Cannot accept that! Toothless with teach the human hatchling. If so it takes a lifetime! He is dragon now, dragon with Toothless. Must learn. Toothless opts for using outside noise with lungs and snout as well as inner voice: exhale-sharp grunt-warble-click. [Hiccup.] 

Hiccup looks at him sharply. Remembering the cove and name-saying there. Good! Good that he remembers. “… Toothless? Is everything all right?"

Exhale-sharp grunt-warble-click. [Hiccup.]

“Is everything all right?" Hiccup shoves the blanket away and reaches for Toothless. Is something wrong? The dragon’s body is tense and he’s scratching at the rock and huffing impatiently. And he’s repeating the same noises over and over, three or four times, each time louder and clearer. Exhale-sharp grunt-warble-click. The same sequence as, so many weeks ago, back in the cove when Hiccup was fairly sure the dragon tried to communicate with as close to words as a dragon can.

A word?

“Toothless,” he says softly.

Exhale-sharp grunt-warble-click.

They’re gaining an audience; the Gronckle, awake and appearing much better already and eating a stone lazily unbothered by its wound, and the little Terror sitting on its haunches. The Nightmare half-asleep watching through lidded eyes. Curiosity. Hiccup has to remember that they are still basically strangers and the dragons hadn’t met Toothless until last night. They can’t know that this is a new behaviour; that the Night Fury isn’t usually acting this way. He’s not in pain or sad or angry. Annoyed? Yes. Annoyed. And … upset?

“Buddy, I don’t—” No. But he does, doesn’t he? With some imagination, he could imagine the noise being translated to something roughly resembling hi-c-cu-p. “I do understand. Hiccup. You’re trying to say Hiccup, aren’t you?”

Except Toothless doesn’t calm down. He stares down Hiccup with unnerving focus. Hiccup frowns and reaches out a hand for his snout to stroke, maybe that’ll help. Focused on Toothless in turn. Palm touches dark scales.

And he nearly stumbles back. Pain shoots through his head, front to back, sudden and instant. Something not unlike a voice but inhuman, echoing like a bell, some beautiful musical instrument; a growl, a click, exhale, soft grunt, all happening at once; exhale-sharp grunt-warble-click HICCUP! and Hiccup’s hand slips away out of shock. The noise stops immediately.

What—?

Dragons speak. Oh, wow! Oh,  Óðinn’s  great ghost, dragons  can speak!

“Toothless!" he shouts nearly jumping up and down in excitement. 

The dragon presses his snout back into Hiccup’s palm and there is warmth (fire glowing), growl-click-click-sigh-warble, clarifying into [hiccup human-hatchling] or possibly [human-little-young-hiccup-boy].

“Oh wow. Oh wow.”

Sharp-spikes (who likes-flying-through-storms) and two-heads-one-body return to the temporary resting site with mouths, bellies and claws full of fish. They found many, easy in the daylight. Hunting was good after a night of rest, and they had flown as far as they dared, finally free. Finally free! Thanks to unseen-blast-from-darkness and his human-hatchling. Sharp-spikes still has her doubts but will reserve them for time being. Time still young. The human-hatchling can prove himself true to his prior actions (fly free, no more Red-Death-Queen, no Vikings, freedom!). But he could also be a liar. Vikings are bad and liars and harm nests and eggs and dragons without mercy. Sharp-spikes knows too well.

They return and offer the fish. Unseen-blast-from-darkness (Toothless? Toothless a word-name) is very, very excited, as is the human-hatchling, who has a pale paw placed at his head.

[Very happy], she remarks.

[Yes! Toothless very happy. Hiccup-hatchling-boy speaks with Toothless now.]

[Yes, many loud-words.]

[Inner voice! Hiccup speaks-hears with inner voice. Must touch but can hear!]

Sharp-spikes snaps her tail back and forth and ruffles her wings. Cannot be true. Viking-human-minds closed off and cold and empty. Has always known it to be so. But why would unseen-blast-from-darkness be lying about such a thing?

[Hiccup] exhale-sharp grunt-warble-click [dragon-now, not-Viking. Hiccup will learn all-things to be good-strong-dragon.]

The human’s mouth is stretched oddly (not quite a snarl) so that there are dimples in its cheeks and teeth are showing. Not ferocious though. Happy? That is sign of happiness? Not threat. Its teeth are very weak, anyway, and would not pose a threat to anyone except perhaps very small fish.

Sharp-spikes snorts. Well. Humans strange and this unseen-blast-from-darkness even stranger, though she can understand his reasoning. Tail-fin damaged and the not-true-dragon new part gives lift and support to ride the air. Needs human to fly. This human small enough to carry and also defend from in case it turns out to be a liar. The word-name (Toothless? but Toothless does have teeth?) makes sense if they can only fly together and not apart. Losing a wing is terrible and can kill. Sharp-spikes pities Toothless then, accepting that he and human-hatchling-Hiccup must remain together in small flock to survive.

They are interrupted by the small-fires-puffs. It chirps and grabs the nearest fish, which one mouth of two-heads-one-body heaved up. [Fish! Food! Very happy!]

Soon enough they are all eating, though human-hatchling-Hiccup must heat its food over a fire. Frail belly with no fire inside, unable to eat good raw fish. Toothless seems happy nonetheless, even if his flying-partner is such a feeble thing. Once the food is gone and they are content, Toothless stands on all fours and lets human-hatchling fasten the devices of dead-hide and metal and wood on his back and tail.

[Hiccup-hatchling asks all-you-dragons to stay with Hiccup and Toothless. Be flock together-free?] Toothless says for them all to hear, including hatchling-Hiccup who has a hand on his head. He can hear Toothless but no other dragons. Not yet, but maybe he could learn. Maybe.

Sharp-spikes sways in place. Flock? Together? Flock is good; flock means safety, hunting for food together, sharing shelter and warmth. Caring for young. Eggs. Nest. Flock needs a nest and it is easier to defend if together. Could they be flock? Sharp-spikes, two-heads-one-body, flame-self-at-will, stone-eater, small-fires-puffs and human-hatchling together with unseen-blast-from-darkness? Such flock has never existed before. Needs different things. Height above sea or burrow in ground. Need big, empty place.

She misses having flock. She cannot recall a before-time when Red-Death-Queen did not sing control over sharp-spikes; and then she had been trapped by humans of bad-Viking-nest, in a cage to pace in there and fake-fight human hatchlings for untold years. Scars on her belly and wings from this time. But before? Cannot recall. But knows deep down that flock is good and dragons survive better together. Flock is good.

Yes. Flock is good.

[Flock needs nest], flame-self-at-will declares, having similar thoughts.

[Will search. Will find a nest, good place. Must hurry, winter soon very cold], Toothless says. [Hiccup-says there is island, has map? Map-human-thing shows places-to-be that exist.]

[Human-hatchling knows place?] stone-eater asks. She too looks forward to having a safe burrow.

[Maybe. Never been there, only seen on map], Toothless relies.

[Then we go!] sharp-spikes says. Toothless is right. Winter is soon very cold and not all of them can fly through snowstorms like sharp-spikes can.

The human hatchling climbs onto Toothless’ back. Human-words spoken out loud make little sense to sharp-spikes. But Toothless says, [Will go now, will fly to find nest-place for winter.]

And all of the dragons follow, none left behind.

By Óðinn, it is cold.

The snowstorm had come suddenly out of impenetrable grey clouds and they had no choice but to turn around, cutting the hunt for fish short. The flight back to their hidden-rock-nest was hazardous but they made it. They made it. Hiccup feels as if his toes and ears are around to fall off. He struggles to get out of the wet furs and clothes, stripping down entirely. At least living in Berk has taught him that if you’re wet and cold, don’t keep wearing the drained clothes or the risk of fevers and death is inevitable. Dragons don’t really grasp nakedness and don’t care; Toothless only worries that Hiccup is too thin (if his insistent fish-feeding is anything to go by) and comprehends that fur and linen keeps him protected from the elements. Mostly.

Toothless grumbles and warbles and warms a stone with his fire, impatiently, before pulling Hiccup under his wings. [Warm here. Safe here.]

Hiccup's teeth chatter violently. “D-did we get anything?” Please, let us have caught something!

In response, Toothless heaves up two halves of fish.

“C-can't eat it like that, bud.”

[Human belly weak], Toothless agrees but obliges, breathing fire on the fish in a steady stream for several moments. It is an art he has learned to near perfection now. The fish are cooked and the ground beneath is burned; the same spot every time, which Hiccup has dubbed as their hearth. Sometimes he gathers sticks and rocks in a proper fireplace near the cave’s opening, to let the smoke drift outside without choking them, but lately Toothless has gotten better at the skill of cooking this way and Hiccup would only need light for writing and drawing in his notebook.

He has gotten better at understanding Toothless. There is a deep intent in his actions and responses, and thoughts that might be words but mostly instil emotions in Hiccup. It is unclear most of the time but he no longer doubts that dragons are intelligent enough to speak, even if they can’t physically make human-like noises with their throats and tongues and sharp teeth. Instead they share their thoughts. Inner conversations. Hiccup has to concentrate hard to pick up these actual thoughts, words or manifestations, but he does sense Toothless’ intent, like gut instinct. Right now he is fairly sure Toothless is thinking about weak human bodies that are so helpless they can’t even eat raw food without being ill.

The cave is a gift from Óðinn; cut into the rock of an islet where, otherwise, not much lives. No trees, only bush and low-growing foliage. Some wild rodents but otherwise no wildlife. The entrance of the cave is partially obscured by rock and brush, and Hiccup is thinking of building some kind of a door. But that means wood, timber, nails. For that he needs tools. A village. Not the best idea. The cave is spacious enough for Toothless and him to rest in and for him to keep his satchels and other things, storing them away from wind and rain and, now, snow.

He had anticipated some things before leaving Berk. That it would be hard. That food might be scarce, that he might have to learn to hunt. That he will need to search for fresh water in rivers and springs, no wells available anymore. That he would rely entirely on himself and Toothless for every aspect of life. But he had not realized how difficult it is to live without a house, without a door. The first few weeks, before they had found this place and skittered from island to rock to cove, Hiccup went to sleep curled in Toothless' wings scared of waking up to dangers. Being found by Vikings, mostly. But up here, fifty feet above the sea, they are safe. The cave and the plateau it rests on is reachable only by wings, not unlike a bird-nest.  No way any Vikings would reach them here; from the outside, there is no sign of habitation. And for as long as they have been in this area, Hiccup has seen no boats. Not so strange since the island is so small and bare: not worth settling on, for humans, and out of the way of Berk and other major villages he knows of. Hiccup plans on expanding that knowledge with a map.

For a month it has been home.

It cannot house the other dragons. They need to find a better, larger nest in spring. Right now, Hookfang, protective and fierce (not uncommon for a flame-self-at-will) and Stormfly the Deadly Nadder, named thus because she loves flying in hail and rain (unlike Hiccup and Toothless) are still out there hunting, though Hiccup and Toothless urged them to find shelter when they turned back. Hiccup hopes they’re all right. Surely they will be. They’re tough and seasoned and Stormfly especially has flown through many snowstorms.

Meatlug the stone-eater has burrowed with teeth and tail to make a nest in the rock and soil some bit away from the cave but on the same small island. But it is not a good nest for having hatchlings, too small and shallow; yes, they need something better, soon. The little Terror, whom Hiccup has affectionally named Fierce (for she is, despite her size), is the only one that fits with them in the cave, and now she is curled up beneath Toothless' wings alongside Hiccup, worriedly. She knows little of humans but being cold is never good. And human-hatchling has no fire in his belly!

One month. Thus far they have only encountered a handful of other dragons who are wild and free and unbound by raids. Not under control of the Queen of the bad-dangerous-nest, as Toothless had explained. And finally Hiccup has an answer to the raids and why some dragons are so deadly toward humans, and not others. Those not under Her sway can go where they like and fill their belly, but those bound to Her thought are inevitably drawn back to the bad-dangerous-nest, starving themselves in the process, bringing all food back to Her to consume alone. She sits buried in a mountain, snug and comfortable and safe, out of reach. Oh, what his father would not give to know these things! Stoick the Vast would launch a voyage with all the warriors of the village to strike that Nest if he knew how to find it. But Hiccup has no way of letting him know, and he doesn’t want to endanger all of the dragons in the Nest, swayed by the Red-Death-Queen as they are. Hiccup and Toothless are flying south away from Berk for a reason. They cannot go that way.

No. The risk to Toothless and the other dragons is too great, even if Hiccup's gut reaction had been to exclaim: “We've got to do something! We've got to free the dragons!”

[Silly hatchling!] Toothless had scolded him then: [Queen-Red-Death-dangerous-large-terrible-strong! We-one-dragon-only-weakness. Many-many-servants-Hers-dangerous!] Only a fool would wage war with those odds. So, for now, they wait. They fly together, eat together, rest together. getting stronger and better at working together every day.

Except today Hiccup doesn't feel very strong at all. He curls into a foetal position. He often was ill with fevers as a child and feels now the familiar signs: the heaviness of his limbs, the cold and then the heat, the headache. Oh, this is going to be bad. “T-T-Toothless.” Cold. I think I’ll be ill? He has never been sick or ill in front of Toothless. Bruised and cut-up and punched by Snotlout or Astrid, yes. But not like this. This new scary thing startles Toothless greatly.

Toothless opens his wing enough to reach inside and lick the boy's face with a wet tongue. The dragon tastes sweat. Not good. Not good! The human hatchling is not well. He barely ate of the fish and now he smells of too-hot-bad-blood. Not good! [Hiccup], Toothless warbles. [What Toothless should-do?]

“Just stay here with me, bud … I'll be all right. I just … need to rest …”

With a sigh, sleep takes him.

The dragon stays awake all right, uneasy. The storm outside whines and snow and hail builds up on the stone around them. No sign of Hookfang or Stormfly. The darkness of the night is heavier than usual, clouds blotting out stars and moon. The ocean below crests and falls in large crashing waves. Toothless tightens his hold of his human and listens to his breathing, accompanied by the purring snores of the small-fires-puffs. 

He will watch over them.

“Ow, my head …”

Hiccup tries to roll over, except he is already on his side and quite firmly jammed between wings and scaly legs. Fierce has settled on top of him, still asleep. But Toothless is awake and soon moves a little, gently, glancing down at him.

[Hiccup not-well!] the dragon worries. Licks at his face again.

“Water,” he manages to rasp. His waterskin seems to be miles and miles away where it is stored in a satchel out of arm’s reach. His body feels sore and his throat hurts. He doesn’t want to move.

Toothless slowly unfurls himself and Hiccup only has to roll a little to the side, then back, to free the wing that was below him like a soft, light cushion. Free to move, Toothless walks the two steps to the human-things stored at the far end of the cave, where they are least likely to be damaged, and gingerly picks the waterskin with his gums. Luckily it lays at the top of the pile, where Hiccup carelessly left is yesterday. Easy to reach. Hiccup accepts it and drinks greedily, unable to stop gulping it down eagerly.

Not much left. Must find a source of fresh water to refill it. But the storm still rages outside.

[Fire-on-snow?] Toothless suggests.

“Not … a bad idea. But I just want to sleep.”

[Eat? Hiccup must eat!]

“Not hungry, bud.” Hiccup sighs and his eyes slide shut. He can’t help it. “Thank you, Toothless.”

The dragon never falters from his side.

The harshest time of winter crests and passes. The snows linger for many, many days. 

Hiccup is relieved and uplifted; if they can survive the coldest, most meagre time of year, they can overcome anything. The days pass and when they're not hunting for fish, they spent time in the cave or, on calm days when the wind is not that bad and the sun shines, visiting the other spots on this island where the dragons have bunkered down. Meatlug has burrowed a little deeper since they arrived but isn't entirely happy--needs a bigger, better, safer nest. Farther from human-Viking settlements, with more rock to dig into and to eat. Stormfly, Hookfang, and Barf-and-Belch are the most exposed to the elements and have also attempted to make burrows, to various degrees of success.

Most of the time, though, Hiccup and Toothless stay in the cave. Once the weather is better they'll go flying more often and for longer, not just to find food but to fly for flying's sake. Freedom, peace, joy. Together-as-one. Yes, once spring comes they'll search for new islands to nest on, and, who knows, maybe they'll find more wild dragons?

Hiccup draws and writes in his journal. He catalogues every bit of information he can about the dragons. He plans for the future; he needs some tools, and wax for the leathers, furs, more paper or parchment; that requires visiting a village. [Risky! Not-good!] Toothless doesn't like the idea, even if the dragon could understand the need. Fish is good but other food would not go amiss—once the snows melt he can search for berries, fruits, mushrooms. Then. For now, all they can do is wait. He sketches a map of this island and places it in relation to Berk and other known lands and seastacks.

Once spring blooms, they'll fly south.

Chapter Text

vi.

Vorlag

Springtime

“It looks nice. Well done, girl!”

Toothless snorts, less impressed. [Nest-in-ground could be bigger.]

Meatlug the Gronckle is happy to show them the burrow. Large enough for two Gronckles now; Hiccup crouches at the entrance. Warm and snug and safe, the location a lit inland so that it won’t be seen from the sea. Hidden. But Hiccup senses upset, sadness, disappointment—not solid enough to pinpoint or put to words like he can Toothless' voice. That inner voice, which he has become better and better at hearing and deciphering.

There’s only one Gronckle, just as there's only one Nadder, one Nightmare, one Zippelback. Together they’re a flock but as blood-kin they’re alone. They’ve encountered wild Terrors and on one island a handful of Timberjacks (who did not like strangers; they left quickly). Toothless and Hiccup once flew back to the islet of Terrors where they once, months ago, before leaving Berk, found a Gronckle. But there was no sign of it now, and Hiccup wonders what happened to it. Did it leave by choice or was it forced to?

[No-eggs], Hiccup feels Toothless explain. He needs to keep close to him to fully grasp the words, make sense of them. [Nest should be full of good-hatching-eggs!]

“I’m sorry,” Hiccup says and pats her sturdy head. The Gronckle grunts sadly. “Maybe we’ll find more Gronckles to the south. Free, wild Gronckles! Wouldn’t that be something?”

[Maybe], Toothless says. Doubt. The Night Fury has a lot of doubt about finding more dragons to the south, because dragons tend to keep to the north, to the cold, where there are less humans to bother them. Hiccup struggles to grasp the numbers but according to his father and to traders, the mainland to the south houses not hundreds, or thousands, but hundreds of thousands of people. Maybe even millions! So impossibly many people, spread out in countless villages and towns, unbothered by dragons. Too far south they cannot go, because they’ll have to encounter and possibly struggle with humans then, but ... somewhere in the middle. Maybe. Somewhere in the middle.

There is also the bad-evil-nest of the Red-Death, the evil-bad-Queen that keeps so many prisoners. Her song has so many dragons trapped in or around Helheim's Gate and its impenetrable fog. For hundreds of years, it has been that way.

Old stories and songs tell of times (how long ago?) when the world was young and newly-made, springing from the roots of Yggdrasil, and humans wandered the seas and lands and found dragons everywhere. Everywhere! But there was strife and battle, and the dragons were driven north to the coldest most inhospitable places. And there they have lingered and festered ever since. Berk and the Archipelago was settled for that very reason, to drive the dragons back and make borders. At least, that is what Hiccup remembers from his history lessons. Stoick was never too focused on those. Yes, he let his son learn the sagas and songs, to read and write and count, some tact and diplomacy fitting a future Chief, but he tried and failed to make him into a proper Viking warrior. Fighting, battle, strategy, weapon-wielding. He regrets he doesn’t know more.

(Maybe Vikings don't know anything more? It's been so long. Centuries. So many generations.)

[Will-fly south in future?] Toothless asks.

“Yeah. There are some islands with no or not a lot of people on them, I think. Some of them much bigger than Berk!” Hiccup tries to recall their names. The map he took with him from Berk only covers part of the Archipelago. But there were lessons where he once memorized these things, back when Stoick still hoped his son could become a Viking Chief. “Ísland and ... Hjaltland? Yeah. And the Færeyjar.”

[Are there many Vikings (bad-dangerous-unsafe) there?]

“I hope not. If the islands are really big, there should be forests and places to hide.” And faraway from the Red-Death-Queen and her deadly, luring song. Hiccup doesn’t want to risk the dragons, his friends, being trapped again. “But we won't fly straight down. We'll stay in the Archipelago for a while and search the islands here for dragons.” Do any other villages train their youth to fight dragons like Berk does? Do they have cages and arenas? If so, Hiccup and Toothless have to find them. “And I need supplies.”

Toothless snorts and grunts. [Viking-village no-good-places, dangerous! Must we go-there?]

“I know, I know, buddy,” Hiccup smiles gently and pets his chin, making Toothless relax and purr. "We’ll be really careful.”

The village is set on a two-pronged island in the Archipelago. Its harbour frequents visitors and traders far more often than Berk, slightly further south and closer to other islands. Easier to reach. But the size is similar as is its layout. The island has a small forest but no fields for growing wheat, not large enough for that. The dragon and his boy land under the cover of night. They wait until dawn, uneasily (Toothless refuses to sleep; Hiccup doesn’t find much rest either), and then Hiccup doesn’t want to go. For a month and a half, he hasn’t left Toothless’ side for more than a few moments at the time. Now the prospect of walking away from his dragon for an hour or more frightens him.

What if something happens? Toothless was right to worry. He’ll have to stay quiet and hidden in the forest. 

But he must. He’s prepared for this. He has a list of things he needs to acquire or at least ask for, if they’re not available here. He washed himself yesterday in a cold stream (warmed afterward under Toothless’ wing) and tamed his hair with a bone-comb which he had remembered to pack before leaving Berk, somewhat presentable. He doesn’t want to look like he’s emerged from the wilderness. Hiccup doesn’t know if any news or rumours of a red-haired freckled boy disappearing from Berk in a dragon raid, but he doesn’t want to take any chances of being recognized. 

Their flock knows to wait for them at their nest for a few days. If they’re not back then, Stormfly or Hookfang might come looking for them. They tend to worry, Hiccup has realized, if anyone from their flock unexpectedly disappears or is gone for a hunt or flight longer than promised. One time, before the snows fell, he and Toothless were out for a flight—happy and free—and stopped at a seastack to rest. Hadn’t come back to the nest-island for almost a day. The two dragons had scolded them like disruptive, disobedient bairns! Besides, any attempted rescue would be dangerous. Very dangerous. 

This Viking village also experiences raids and has warriors to fight dragons.

The ground is a little slippery. Hiccup walks through the woods, lacking a proper path, until he reaches the north-west edge of the village. It is ragged and its streets muddy, huts crammed tightly together. He realizes he has no idea what day it is. Counting names and giving them names isn’t necessary on dragon-back, in flight. Surviving each day as they come. The thought of missing passing-by holy days or Laugardag (why wait to wash when he can simply do it when he finds the chance?) should horrify the Viking in him, but it doesn’t. He hadn’t celebrated Midwinter though he’s sure it has passed now. Time is marked by the turns of light and weather. The coldest days (huddled down in the cave) there was constant darkness, but the flights afterward so utterly beautiful, the gleaming auroras so close he could’ve reached out and grasped them with his hands.

He tries to appear small and nonconfrontational and like just a boy. Human boy. Viking boy. He pats his side, the satchel: still there. He does not have much but a Nadder dragon-scale, seven copper coins (the little money he had brought from Berk), and his knife (Toothless reminded him to bring that). [Viking-nest dangerous! Must be able to defend self.]. As he walks, Hiccup clears his throat and whispers, just to remind himself how to speak: “Hello. Greetings. I’m ... traveller? trader?” By Bragi, I should have thought this through better! What name should I give?  What should he do if he loses his tongue out of anxiety?

He reaches the village; he has to climb over a stone (nearly falls because it is slippery) and squeeze in-between two huts, but eventually he gets inside. It is early but its people are awake. The ground is sloped so that Hiccup can from this angle see the sea and three longships armed with shields (battleships?) tied there, sails furled, no cargo. There are many other boats, most quite small. Fishermen are preparing for casting off, gathering nets and tools. One ship is docked there which is quite large and its sails colourful, the head of the ship shaped like a dragonhead spewing fire. Nothing like the real thing, of course. The ship looks to be full of baskets, boxes, things; cargo? A trading ship?

Hiccup looks around. Is there a marketplace here?

Wax for leathers, he reminds himself, and parchment or paper. Food? Fish and other meat hunted for him by the dragons is filling but Hiccup misses the taste of spices, even salt, and bread. Cheese and bread would be heavenly! Not the most important thing, though. If he has to make a choice, it has to be longer-lasting practical things. Cloth, fabric, medicinally. Some extra leather would be good in case of repairs to the saddle, leather string for securing things, but treated hide is very expensive.

His feet lead him to the harbour. The trade-ship there is in the middle of being loaded, not unloaded, from the lack of excited people; an unloading trading ship about to sell its wares would draw an eager crowd. Hiccup’s heart sinks. Maybe the traders have finished their business and have nothing to offer, even in exchange for coin?

The voice startles him. Hiccup jumps.

“Hello, lad. Can I help you?” The accent is a little odd, as if the speaker’s native tongue is similar but not the exact same as Hiccup’s. He is understandable, though, thankfully.

“Yes, um." He chuckles nervous. “Are you traders?”

The man is middle-aged, and his hands worn, his blonde hair sun-bleached and tied back in a knot. His clothes are not those of a warrior, no armour, but there are some weapons on the boat behind him. Hiccup shuffles his weight nervously from left to right. Unsure of what to say. It’s been so long since he interacted with human people.

"Aye. Traders and news-bearers from Denmark. Hjalmar Leifrsson," the man introduces himself. “I’m afraid you’re late, lad. We’re about to leave. We’re going further north to do more business there. Unless you’re interested in joining us? We lost one of our crew to a fever." The man shakes his head, perhaps cursing that ill luck, or perhaps counting themselves fortunate that the rest had been spared and they had reached their destination.

“No, no, thank you. I think I’ll stay. I, I was wondering. If you had anything? I have copper coins. If I could have a look? Please?" At least he remembers his manners. Why are his hands trembling, heartbeat rushing hard and fast? Why is he afraid as if fleeing from Berk all over again?

The man strokes his beard. “We’ve exchanged most goods but if you’re willing to buy back your village’s wares, be my guest. Let me see." He shows the way down the pier; some baskets have not yet been carried onto the ship. The man calls out for one of the crew, a lad only a few years older than Hiccup, to pause his work for a moment. “Now, what in particular are you looking for?”

“Wax. For treating leathers.”

“Hmm. Well, I’m afraid I cannot help you there, lad.”

“How about leather? Hides? Or furs?”

“Here.” The trader opens a basket and shows him a patch of fur some half fathom long and nearly as wide. It could be fashioned into a short cloak or into smaller garments. The colour is a dark grey, which grabs Hiccup’s attention. Wearing black or greys would make it easier to hide on Toothless’ back. Better than brows or his green tunic. And furs keep out the cold winds. “Five copper coins.”

Five? That is far too much! Hiccup forces confidence into his voice. “Two.” The trader has to realize it is an outrageous price!

The man grins shrewdly. Realizing the boy is not so naive after all, despite his scrawny appearance and demure demeanour. “Four.”

“Three, or no deal.”

Hjalmar offers a hand to shake. “Three coppers. You drive a hard bargain, lad.”

Hiccup shakes the hand (an odd gesture after so many weeks surrounded only by dragons who have no concept for trading or money, no need to; Toothless would think this whole thing ridiculous. Why don’t humans live in flocks and share food and foods? That would make more sense). As the exchange is being made and the man calls for that lad from earlier, who had taken a break, to bring him the weighing scales to measure the coppers, Hiccup asks: “Can I ask where you’re headed next?” Knowing would help him and Toothless avoid being seen by them leaving this harbour.

“North,” Hjalmar says. “Further up the Barbaric Archipelago. Our goal is the village named Berk. We might bring back stories and news. Well, it’s all in good order.” He hands over the fur.

Hiccup’s heart freezes in his chest.

Hjalmar looks at him curiously when Hiccup is suddenly slow to take the fur. “You appear like you have seen a ghost."

“I’m fine,” he chokes. Clutches the fur, which is soft. Burrows his fingers in it. Calm down! Calm down! Is he about to be found out? Oh, Týr! “Surprised. I’ve, I’ve heard of Berk.”

“Oh? I do not know much of it; this is my first voyage there. They say there are dragons in multitude there, though. More than here in Thorp." Thorp? Must be the name of this village. Hiccup can’t remember if the map had a name for this place on it. “More than in Danish country, to be certain! If we’re lucky, we’ll return with our longships brimming with dragon-scales."

“I have dragon-scales,” Hiccup bursts out, and immediately the trader is interested. “Well. One scale,” he amends. “What’s that worth?”

“I would say that depends. May I see?”

Nervously, Hiccup digs through his satchel and hold up the Nadder scale. It gleams in the sun iridescently, very beautifully. Hjalmar’s eyes are wide and full of awe. “Well! Well. Tell you what, I’ll give you the fur for the scale. And for the three coppers, I could offer, say—”

“A knife,” Hiccup decides. He only has a short one and having a spare couldn’t hurt.

Hjalmar ponders this for a moment. Then he goes to his ship and grabs one of the weapons there: axes and shields and spears, but no swords. Swords are expensive and only seasoned warriors can afford them. Knives are easier to come by, though one for three coppers is hardly a good enough bargain for the trader, surely? Perhaps he should’ve tried for foodstuffs or spices instead. But food can be caught in the sea and forests. I can survive on fish and forest roots and wild meat, Hiccup thinks to himself. And a knife is an invaluable tool, especially when he’s only a boy without claw or spike or dragon-tooth. He can’t fairly rely on Toothless for everything.

The knife is a little longer than the one he already owns, a simple blade with a handle of wood wrapped in leather. Hjalmar lets him inspect it and at least here is something he knows: iron and steel. He weights it on a finger to find its center-point (good balance) and taps to listen to the steel.

“Have an eye for steel, have you?”

“I was a blacksmith’s apprentice.”

Hjalmar nods, accepting the explanation.

“All right. Three coppers ...”—they’ve already been paid; Hjalmar could simply keep them, refuse to give them back in case Hiccup refused the deal. He is a full-grown man. No chance that Hiccup could reclaim those coins by force—“... and a dragon-scale.”

Hiccup hands it over, a flash of regret tugging at his heart. But why? Because it was felled by Stormfly, his friend? But Stormfly and Toothless and all the other dragons drop scales all the time. In scuffles, when moulting, when scratching their backs against a rock to cure an itch. They grow new scales all of the time; Hiccup has an endless supply to pick from the ground. He shudders and tries to shake off that feeling. He fastens the new knife in his belt and clutches the fur to his chest so not to drop it.

“This kind of dragon this belonged to, what did it look like? Was it very large? Did it breathe fire?”

“Yes. Most dragons do, breathe fire that is, and the Nadder is fairly large," Hiccup says and bites his tongue. Has he said too much? What would a simple boy know of these things? But Hjalmar Leifrsson is too enamoured with the scale, admiring it in the light, to notice or care. “Thank you for the trade,” Hiccup says and hurries away.

“No, thank you!” Hjalmar says and smiles.

As he leaves, Hiccup hears the man call for his crew (none of which must have seen a dragon up close in their entire lives judging by their behaviour) to have an envious look at his newest possession.

[Hiccup!] Toothless greets him worriedly and licks his face. He sniffs at the new fur and knife, sensing a stranger’s scent on them.

[Got from trader-sails-people from over-sea.] It’s a difficult concept to explain with an inner dragon-voice, which Hiccup still needs a lot of focus to muster and more time to master. “But I couldn’t find everything we needed, so we’ll have to try later or at another village. Not now,” he adds, sensing the dragon’s unease. Wants to leave, go far away from the human settlement. Hiccup couldn’t agree more. And isn’t that odd? Isn’t it odd that is feels safer and more comfortable in a dragon nest than a human village?

“Let’s head back to the nest.”

Wind whips through his hair. The flight is not a dire hunt for food or shelter but a leisurely spin. Across the waves; the waters break and sunder and reshape anew, constant movement. They are briefly gliding close enough for Hiccup to lean over Toothless’ side and touch the rippling surface with his fingertips. Then they’re off, rising. Rising. Toothless is vibrating with excitement. Loves flying!

It’ll be evening soon but the weather is warming steadily, and Hiccup left his thickest furs back in the cave-nest, and he’d like to stay airborne for a few more hours, exploring the world, experiencing flight together. They aren’t too far from the nest, of course. And they have to be careful and on-guard all the time. The low, red sun offers enough light to give them away if any human longship crosses the horizon. They make a wide half-circle, avoiding known Viking islands but for a short while settling down on a seastack to rest and eat freshly caught fish. Hiccup wants to fly to the moon and through the aurora tonight, and Toothless slept deeply most of the day-hours so he’s strong and full of energy.

[Over there?] is easier to think than to shout, and Hiccup points with his hand toward a strange cloud breaking the waters. No, not clouds! Whales! Hiccup has heard of the large creatures, and some islands in the Archipelago hunt them for meat and oil. But he so rarely left the village by ship before and can’t recall seeing one. [Closer?]

Toothless overtakes the creature as it comes to the surface; water is sprayed from the whale’s back, and now Hiccup can see it is not one but two. A really, really big one and one smaller but still almost Toothless’ size, he guesses, cresting the waves briefly. They turn back around just in time for Toothless to fly straight through one of the sprays playfully, twisting away gracefully to avoid being struck by the whale’s tailfin rising as the whale prepares to dive again.

Wonder how deep down they live?

[Matters-not], Toothless says, catching the stray thought. [We go up! Fly high. Hiccup wants to see nighlight-sky?]

[Yes!]

And they rise and rise and rise.

[Human-hatchling silly.]

One week later, Hiccup asks to land on a forested island to forage; Toothless touches down carefully to avoid sharp branches and bramble. They’ll be swift and careful, just in case there are human nearby, though Toothless sniffs the air and scents no recent Vikings. Good. Hiccup needs some time. He has brought his short old knife and a satchel, and he looks not up toward the sky but down at the ground. Toothless follows on his heels, wings tucked in to fit the untrodden path, squeezing between rock and tree. The dragon leaves deep footprints in the soft moss.

The season is finally right to search for some of the forest treasures. Morels, hopefully, maybe some edible roots, maybe even berries although some are more readily available in autumn. Hiccup is glad he did pay attention to his lessons back in Berk; as the son of the Chief, he was lucky to have access to more of an education than many other Viking children, rune-writing and calculating numbers and long rants from his father about leadership. Well, Hiccup didn’t feel very lucky about that last one. But he did sit with Gothi the Elder and Healer of Berk for many, many hours to recognize herbs and roots and berries, to know edible ones from poison. There was a brief time when he was seven and he thought that maybe he could be a healer, because Hiccup the Runt was so useless at many other things; but then Gobber took him on as an apprentice and he found that forging, building, metal-working was something he was good at. (If there’s anything of Berk that he actually misses, it’s the old blacksmith’s forge.)

So, he is fairly sure what to look for.

Toothless is confounded and bemused. They have fish, good food, and other things back at the cave-nest. Why are they digging into the ground of this forest?

Hiccup keeps his eyes peeled as they walk. “Mushrooms," he’s already explained ones, “and roots. I’m only human, I want more things to eat.”

[Silly hatchling. Much good food in sea!]

There! A glimpse of gold at a sloping tree-trunk, where some soil has eroded by rain. Hiccup nearly dives for them and carefully picks them all. Toothless noses at them before Hiccup puts them in the satchel, and the dragon shudders and shakes his head and sticks out his tongue in distaste. "Now who’s being silly?” Hiccup laughs. "It’s all right. More for me. Come on, let’s see what else we can find.”

A few hours later, Toothless and his human return to the cave-nest; Hiccup is content, the satchel full. Toothless still doesn’t understand why humans can eat some of those things that the boy gathered, but if Hiccup is happy, then Toothless is happy. The human hatchling smiles and greets the dragons at the nest (stone-eater is resting in soil-dwelling; Hookfang is out hunting) with smiles and good scratches. Little Fierce follows them back to the cave, where Hiccup sits on a soft fur-hide and opens his satchel to sort through it. Small-fires-puffs watches wide-eyed, sniffing at the foodstuffs and reacting much as Toothless had earlier.

[Strange food-things! What for?]

[Hiccup-food-eat], Hiccup explains with a smile. “See? These are mushrooms.” [Mushroom, root, berry, herb.] “Morels and a few velvet shanks. Yes, I know, silly names. My favourites grow in autumn, though. And some blueberries, most weren’t ripe yet, and even some cloudberries!” [Good-food for Hiccup.] “And these roots can be eaten, and these leaves are good against pain. At least that’s what I remember from Gothi’s lessons. Chop and boil in some water and drink.” [Medicine, no-pain, good.]

[Small mouthful], Fierce notes. [Ends quick!]

“Yeah, but I’ll have to eat these soon anyway, before they go bad.” Hiccup sorts the winnings of the forest-hunt into neat piles and places these in small leather-hide-sacks, belt-pouches, which Hiccup had fashioned and bound together with string, one of winter-time projects when they were snowed in. Then he puts the foods in the satchel and places it with the other things in a corner of the cave. “But first, let’s get you more comfortable, Toothless.”

He removes the saddle and tailfin and scratches the dragon’s chin, and cheeks to make sure Toothless has no sores. The routine is comfortable and Toothless has never had issue with the saddle, though it is good to have it off. He licks Hiccup’s face, then goes to his sleep-stone-place, heats it with fire in a circle, settles down. Looks at Hiccup expectantly.

[Rest-time.]

[Not-bad idea], Hiccup admits. “The sun is low and I’m tired for all that foraging.” [But must-wake greet Hookfang back-from-hunt.] He switches between loud-words and inner-words easily, at ease with Toothless; easiest to speak with Toothless, but he must keep training to keep his mind open for listening to speak better with all other dragons. Toothless is easily jealous and does not mind too much that Hiccup struggles when speaking with inner-voice with other dragons than himself.

The hatchling rolls up the fur to use as a pillow, lying under Toothless’ extended wing. Good place, safe place, warm. Fierce, the small-fires-puffs, crawls underneath the wing too to settle at Hiccup’s elbow, and the boy strokes the tiny dragon’s back.

[Will wake when Hookfang back-at-nest], Toothless promises, knowing Hiccup will want to make sure flame-self-at-will returns unhurt. Hatchling worries much. Cares deeply. But good. Good to care for their flock, however small and mismatched it is.

[Good-sleep.]

Three moon-cycles have passed since the snowstorm when Hiccup fell ill. The cave-nest has new things. Twice they flew to the island with the village, and twice Hiccup and Toothless return to the nest with items Hiccup has acquired there through exchanging coin or dragon-scale. He now has a wooden bucket, useful for carrying things and gathering fresh water, a small cooking pot and a wooden spoon. But no more visits; the villagers are getting suspicious of this strange, freckled boy who hesitates to give a name and place of origin, who appears and disappears at random intervals, who cannot say where he lives.

No, it’s time to leave Thorpe behind. Fortunately, the Archipelago is large, many scattered islands and seastacks and plenty more villages to choose from. But, hopefully, they won’t have to for weeks and weeks. He has a few more tools now and between that and the dragons, they should be self-sufficient.

At his last visit to Thorpe he managed to buy a jar of wax to treat leathers, and he spends the following day look over the saddle and every other thing of leather he owns, checking for wear and tear, scrubbing away any dirt, and polishing the surface to a shine. That means, unfortunately, no flying. Toothless sleeps a lot that day, curled up on his rock in the cave but on the cliff, basking in the sun. Hiccup checks on him often, scratching his ears, conversation, eating together in the company of Meatlug, Fierce, Hookfang, Barf-and-Belch, and Stormfly. All the dragons are intrigued about what Hiccup is doing and stick a head into the cave or peer inside with a wide eye at some point, to Hiccup’s amusement.

Once the work is done, Hiccup and Toothless descend by wing to the seashore on the other side of the cave-nest island, where the rocks are not jagged but have been worn smooth and flat, a good place to land. Hiccup bathes in the sea and Toothless happy finds fish, though there is more play than both washing and hunting. When they emerge, Hiccup’s teeth chatter—the water is cold, and the shock of emerging out of it even more so—and Toothless worries and warbles and grabs the fur (which Hiccup remembered to bring) by his gums, covering Hiccup with it. Then he covers him with his wing and heat rises in his belly, like it does before he is about to breathe fire, though he holds back any flame.

[Cold not-good! Cold bad! Could get sick!] Toothless says sharply.

Oh, is Toothless that scared that he’ll be ill? Like in the winter? [All-fine, all-right, Toothless], Hiccup says comfortingly. [No-harm! Safe-warm under wing.] He wraps the furs closer around himself, and the two of them sit like that on the smooth rocks for a while, the sea lapping at Toothless’ tail as it hangs over the edge of the stone. It doesn’t take too long to get dry and warm, and then Hiccup redresses in a simple tunic and breeches. He left his boots back in the cave.

[Fly back?] he asks. [Ready?]

[Hiccup not-sick?] Toothless licks at the boy’s face and curves his dark back like an anxious cat.

[Not-sick!] Hiccup smiles and spreads his arms wide, gesturing at himself. “I’m practically cooking now instead, from all that heat.”

[Not good when hatchling-Hiccup sick-not-well.]

“Oh, it’s all right, Toothless. Come on, let’s get back. Stormfly and the others are probably waiting and wondering what’s taking us so long. Did you catch anything?”

[Small fish this part of sea. Big-fish further out.]

“Then let’s go back to the cave, I need my boats and my fur-vest, then we can go fishing. How’s that sound?” [Fly far-our together, night-fly sunset.]

That idea cheers up the dragon, and the inseparable pair spend the next few hours flying close to the water, and Toothless finds many fish, some of which he eats in-flight, and some he gathers in his paws and half-swallows to bring back to their flock.

And in the gentle warmth of spring, life at their nest is good.

Chapter Text

vii.

Stóískur Gríðarstór

Stoick the Vast

Berkeyia
959 C.E.

A thousand sea-miles to the north of the continental mainland, the temporary snows are slowly melting away and the first flowers of the year bloom on the Isle of Berk.

In the last few months, they have regrouped, planned a new expedition to be launched as soon as the winds are favourable. Stoick will find that Nest and take it out with his sword and axe and bare hands. But not yet; the winds blow in the wrong direction. Soon. Soon. Stoick bides his time while caring for the village as Chief, because that is all that he can do. He orders new, better fortifications to be built, larger torches, two catapults to throw rocks at any dragon that dares come too close. Most nights, sleep eludes him; he dreams of Valka, carried off by claws and smoke; of Hiccup, burning alive surrounded by black scales. Gobber stays by his side much of the time, more than a blacksmith; a loyal friend and advisor. Without him, Stoick fears he would be lost, too deeply buried in anger and grief to function. But Berk needs its Chief.

Berk needs him.

So he keeps fighting to rise in the mornings. He greets his subjects gladly, listens to complaints, tries to rule fairly. He walks through the village every day, rain or sun, inspecting newly built huts and the longships in construction. When Gobber suggests the idea of a type of arrow-launcher, more effective than bows, Stoick agrees to have it built. It not until work has started that Gobber reveals that the design is not his own; he found some old drawings of Hiccup’s half-hidden under a broken floorboard in his apprentice’s old room.

Clever little Hiccup.

Stoick takes it as a sign from Vidar, the god of vengeance, that the time is near: soon, soon, they will find the Nest and he will face down the Night Fury, and it shall know fear before it dies.

The Training arena stands empty. They have not been raided yet and not had the chance to capture any new dragons. Nevertheless, Stoick is certain that Astrid Hildasdottír and the other younglings are ready to join the adult warriors when the next time comes, trial or no trial. They must. They have to be.

He will find the Nest.

If so it takes a year or ten or a lifetime.

“Ships! Ships on the horizon!”

Finally. It has been too long since they had any traders. Stoick leaves his Hall to go down to the docks to greet the travellers. They shall be warmly welcomed by all of this people. Berk is not known well in the world for its trade, or art, or songs, or deeds. Indeed, all that it may be known for is how they stubbornly remain and rebuild, generation after generation, despite frequent dragon attacks. Traders from beyond the Archipelago are rare, frightened off by the mere prospect of dragons. From what Stoick has learned through the years as Chief, knowledge passed on from his father, the islands of Barbaric Archipelago of the North are plagued by dragons yearly, but the vast unknown lands of the South are not. Some islands and the mainland beyond only experience one dragon attack in a generation, or none at all. For some reason, the gods have decided that dragons will linger and hunt near their birthplace, near their Nest.

The Nest of Dragons is located to the far northwest, where the cold is intense all year round and a heavy mist lays on the seas there. Many islands and rocks are cluttered throughout miles and miles of icy sea, obscured and hidden by murky fog; an evil spell lies over all that land. The water is sometimes deep, hundreds of fathoms, and at other times so shallow that even longships built for faring in small rivers run aground. For generations they have tried to locate that Nest and failed. But Stoick’s determination burns with a new vengeance now. He will not cease, not until he is dead or the Night Fury is.

Gobber is working in the forge, but Spitelout joins him by the harbour. “Visitors,” he remarks. Peering into the distance: the sails unfurling are blank canvases, and they cannot tell who exactly are on those ships, but they are longships indicating another tribe from the south or east. “What a relief. What do you say, Chief?”

“Aye. It is good. I know our stores are low, but we will serve good mead in the Hall tonight," Stoick says. “Have the kitchens prepare a yak and a boar.”

It is luxurious to waste such meat when already their belts are tight, but if they impress the traders, they are more likely to return in the future. And spring has come, a time of light and growth and renewal after the harsh winter. At least, Stoick hopes, deep down, that it is traders carrying some goods, not hopeful missionaries from afar seeking a place to settle. Berk does not have much but some furs, wood (but they must be careful in felling it so not to strip the island bare), and, of course, dragon scales.

(After that raid, Stoick ordered all black Night Fury scales to be gathered for him. He keeps them in a chest by his bedside. He will not trade those. They serve as a reminder of his son, and of his sworn duty, his unwavering oath.)

“All right, Chief, I’ll see to it.”

“Good man.”

The boats, it turns out, are filled to the brim; humans (weary from their journey), baskets and boxes overflowing with goods, spices, jewellery, metals, furs. No sign of any þrælar; Stoick is relieved. His grandfather denounced such trade (uncommon and by other Chiefs the decision was frowned upon) and Stoick has no interest in reviving it. Some of the travellers are armed with axe and spear, as a precaution, but their intents are friendly. Not an invasion. Stoick steps forward as the first of the three boats reaches the harbour; by that time, the sun is already setting, and the brief warmth of day is replaced by chilling winds. Spring is still early and here on Berk it never lasts long.

“Greetings!” one of them calls out, a man with blonde hair tied back from his face. The dialect is slightly removed from that of Berk, but understandable enough. “We are Danes who have travelled many sea-miles, past Nidaross and through the Archipelago, to reach you. We bear news and goods for trade. May we step ashore?”

“Welcome to Berk! I am Stoick, the Chief. I greet you warmly and welcome you to my Hall.”

“Thank you. I am Hjalmar Leifrsson,” the leader of the group introduces himself. The Danes look happy to have reached land; their skins have been burned from many hours in the sun and salt is in their hair. Upon closer inspection Stoick notices that some of their cargo is live animals: a few chickens, a goat. Useful but also a hassle to carry across the sea in this manner.

He directs Spitelout and a few others to help the Danes unload. He will let them rest in the Hall tonight and sleep around the great hearth there. They eat, drink, and share news; trade can wait until the morning.

“There is one thing, Chief Stoick,” Hjalmar says as they, some hour later, walk together to the Mead Hall. “A great piece of news, if it could be announced to your people tonight. There was war in Denmark last year. Harald Gormsson is now King of all of Denmark.”

King of all of it? Well. That sounds like a chore. Denmark is not an enemy nor a close friend. The Danes visit sporadically but Berk is simply so far away, other allies to trade with closer to home. Other Vikings do come to Berk, sometimes, yes, winding their way through the many islands of the Archipelago; a few years ago they were visited by an envoy from Birka. Stoick will take what he can get.

“He is a wise king,” Hjalmar continues, “though bears new ideas. He worships the Christian God and has built a church.” Hjalmar says this quite neutrally, probably ordered to be the bearer of news whether he agrees with them or not.

“We all have our faith,” Stoick says diplomatically. “Berk follows the old ways, as we always shall.” They reach the top of the hill and the grand doors are already open. Within there is warmth and laughter, the scent of meat being prepared with herbs and spices permeates the air. “Here we are. Welcome to the Mead Hall of Berk! Your people may rest here tonight.”

“Thank you. May I ask, is it true, what they say? There are more dragons near Berkeyja than anywhere else in the world?”

The man must have been lucky not to have encountered any on his voyage. Lucky indeed! No raids at the time of being ashore at other settlements, or happenstance encounters at uncharted dragon-islets. There is the Nest far to the north in Helheim’s Gate swarming with hundreds of dragons, but there are also an odd, uncertain number of them half-hidden in the Archipelago, nesting on islands too small or barren for human life. Some villages and Viking tribes with which Berk has frequent contact go out of their way to sail and row to these places, to crush every dragonegg they can find, to deter the beasts; the Meatheads, and the people of Víkaby, and the villagers of the Long Row. But Berk is the place closest to Helheim’s Gate. That is their duty. The infamous Great Nest hidden in mist and mystery.

Yes, the Danes are lucky indeed not to have encountered any dragons on their journey.

Curiosity burns in the man’s face like fire, mirrored in many of his companions. As far as Stoick is aware, Denmark has only been visited by dragons a handful of times in recent history; the beast carried by winds across the sea, lost and angry and hungry, no doubt, far from their Nest. The Danes know not how to fight them. Dragons, to them, are stories and legends to be excited about.

The question stills Stoick’s heart. Against his will, the image of the sinking funeral boat rises to his mind. Stoick, for a moment, wishes he could lose composure and shout at the man, curse him for his glee: how dare he? how dare he question the very reason his wife and son are gone?

“Aye, we fight dragons often enough,” he says heavily. “But not today, Þór willing.”

Hjalmar frowns. “There is a big risk such beasts will come here?”

“Oh, yes,” Spitelout cuts in without ado or sense of decorum, “every year. I can’t recall any summer where they haven’t shown up. Isn’t that right, Chief?”

Stoick’s throat is all of a sudden tight and chest heavy and why is there physical pain? How come grief is not a thing merely of the mind, but spirit and body combined?

“Dragons are very real, and very dangerous.” Something in Stoick’s grave tone makes Hjalmar fall silent, stopping any questions that he may have. The good mood is replaced by unease among them all. “Let us not speak of such things, not tonight,” Stoick declares. “Let the mead flow!”

No one protests to that. The Danes are guided into the Hall, and soon the night is merry. Food and drink aplenty. But Stoick refuses to cheer, only nodding politely at his guests and sharing pleasantries when there is no other choice. Thankfully, Ivar the bard has stringed his lute and sings a tune, and soon everyone is singing and clapping along. Gobber, on his right side, taps his goblet (hook temporarily replaced) against the table in time with the song. It is good. It should be good. But Stoick had sworn an oath to not be joyful until his son was avenged.

He sips his mead and watches the fire.

In its twirling reds and yellows, he sees the shadow of dragons.

The night drags on but eventually the guests are tired and the food spent, and the hearth burns low. The invited villagers scatter and the Danes settle down for the night, wrapping themselves in furs and blankets on benches and on the floor when there is no more space available. Before Stoick takes his leave, Hjalmar approaches again.

“Chief Stoick, if I may. I noticed the absence of your wife and children. Are you not married?”

Stoick wonders if Hjalmar has been sent to find out if Berk is a potential ally to the Danes in more ways than one. Maybe their new King has a daughter they want married off to a nobleman or jarl or, better yet, a Chief.

“Not anymore.”

“My condolences. No sons or daughters?”

“Not anymore.”

Hjalmar clears his throat, awkwardly, embarrassed. “I apologize. Let me be straightforward. I gather you prefer that, Chief Stoick. Harald Gormsson has two daughters and one is of age, and, that is, we seek new opportunities and friendships. I have been asked to bring this message to you. It is an opportunity for a close alliance. I ask you to at least consider.”

Stoick stands up. He will not be known as an oathbreaker. Three-fourths of a year has passed since the death of his son, and Stoick is refusing to remarry or take a mistress to produce a new one, even when urged by Spitelout and others to move on, to think of the future of Berk. No. Once he dies, Chiefdom will go to Spitelout. The bloodline of Stoick the Vast will end with him.

“I welcome your people to my Hall, to drink my mead to your hearts’ delight. My people welcome trade and friendship with yours. I welcome you to all these things. But I will not marry any daughters of your King or any other King or Chief, even if Óðinn himself were to demand it. To do so would be to betray my oath, which I swore after the death of my wife."

Hjalmar bows his head. “I understand. I will let the King know and hope he does not take offense.” He does not ask about mistresses or bastard children or the future of Berk’s Chiefdom. Instead, he says: “Goodnight, Chief Stoick.” and takes his leave, to rest with his people.

Stoick exits the Hall. He does not go to bed right away. He walks down to the harbour, the spot where he stood half a year earlier watching the funeral boat burn.

I swore an oath.

At the one-year mark of the death of his son, Stoick visits the empty gravemound of his wife. Nearly a dozen mounds have been raised on a hill to the south part of the Isle of Berk over the generations, and the stone and soil is covered in moss and grass. They keep them clear of trees. When he reaches the mound this year, Stoick finds it covered in blue and white and red wildflowers like a sign from Freya that his wife is at least at peace.

“Oh, Valka.”

He lets himself grieve for a while, openly weeping in a manner he can’t back in the village. While he is away, Gobber and Spitelout are caring for things, and he trusts them to keep Berk running smoothly (or as near as). This is a journey Stoick insisted on walking alone, promising to be back within a couple of days. The island is not that large, after all, but the path has grown wild, full of thornbushes and fallen trees from wind and storm. Stoick had walked slowly.

“You’d be proud. Hiccup was ... unconventional, but he was brave in the end. So much like you, my love.”

A Viking.

One day, the pain will cease. Not be this fresh and sharp. One day he will think about Hiccup’s death as a faint dream like Valka’s (carried off by a dragon, claws, fire, screams; “No!”—“Stoick!”—“Valka! Valka!”—the boy crying helplessly in the crib); painful, yes, but not disturbingly so. Stoick shall overcome it.

“The search for the Nest failed. We lost ten men and we are low on boats and warriors ... I doubt the village will agree to another try next summer. No. We must stay and defend the village. Berk has changed since you were lost. So much fire.”

He falls silent.

A soft breeze rustles the leaves. The sun is warm and peaceful, as if this land was not at all ravaged by dragons and death and blood has been spilt on nearly every inch of the island. Stoick will not give up, though. He will find the Nest and the Night Fury, and the sea will run red.

“I’ll come back,” he promises. “Next year. And the next. Until I’ve avenged our boy.”

Gobber is hammering away at newly smelted steel when Stoick returns. Smelting of new ore is a rare event, the furnace hot, and half the village had gathered to watch the spectacle. By now most have returned to work or play, except a haggle of children watching the blacksmith with wide eyes. Gobber has some lads helping him out but not named a proper apprentice yet to replace Hiccup.

“The lad was clever, and I need a clever lad in his stead,” had been his first excuse. After six months, it was: “These boys are good are carrying things, aye, but I wouldn’t trust them with a hammer and anvil just yet.” Lately, Gobber has not tried to argue his side of the matter and Stoick hasn’t pushed. Until today.

“You need a new apprentice.”

“I suppose,” Gobber says, wiping sweat from his brow.

“Well?”

Gobber doesn’t answer right away. Touches up the piece he’s shaping—the head of an axe—before cooling it in a bucket of water. The water sizzles and bubbles angrily.

“Gustaf is eager and willing but too careless. Anvils and molten iron near that lad, what could possibly go wrong?” Gobber shakes his head. “Alfred has a good head but is not that old yet, not strong enough.”

Hiccup was small and weak, a runt. Never would have been considered strong enough for such work by other villagers. Gobber took him in anyway. Not only because the lad was brilliant, his thoughts outstanding and new and sometimes scary; his inventions too quick and strange for Berk; but because Stoick asked (begged) his loyal friend to give his son something to do. As a blacksmith Hiccup could use his mind and hands with skill, contribute. Because, honestly, Stoick had no idea what else to do with the lad; he had lessons in writing and diplomacy and singing sagas, and the rest Hiccup figured out himself. He was always a wild soul, running through the forest searching for gnomes and trolls and fireflies, ignoring his father’s warnings to be careful out there. Drawing and making things, if just in thought, ever since he was a tiny lad of four or five years old, expressing himself through the strokes of a pen. With Gobber’s help some of his creations became reality. Had he not been the Chief’s son, Hiccup would not have been Gobber’s apprentice.

“I’m ordering you to take on an apprentice,” Stoick says, somewhat reluctant but the village needs apprentices of all trades. Gobber is getting older and weaker. They all are. The next generation must learn to be able to fill their shoes. Or shoe, in Gobber’s case. “Think of the future of Berk.”

Gobber sighs but relents. “All right, Chief. I’ll let you know in the morning.”

That year, Astrid kills her first dragon.

Since her and the other youths’ training was interrupted last summer, her test is truly a trial by fire. The raid is intense, over a dozen dragons roaring and spewing flame, and Astrid abandons her water-bucket and takes her axe instead. A Zippelback has been downed by an arrow and it crashes into one of the village huts, still alive and shrieking. One mouth breathes a cloud of green gas and lightning flashes in the other, and Astrid is just in time: leaping over the fence of the sheep enclosure, running, running, axe raised. She brings the steel down hard and severs the bulbous head from the long, thin neck. The dragon’s remaining head cries out and its wings trash, and Astrid loses her balance. Rolls, gets back on her feet. As the dragon is in its death-throes, she brings the axe down again to silence it forever.

Her family is very proud and celebrate merrily. Their daughter is no longer a girl but a woman. Dragon-slayer. A Zippleback is a very honourable kill. Two heads—twice the status.

Stoick is also proud. That’s the girl he had one day hoped would grow fond of Hiccup and vice versa; clever, bright, a warrior’s heart, and now she has killed her first dragon. He highly doubts that the shieldmaiden would like to marry Snotlout; her family has an old, childish feud with Spitelout and the others of that clan, some incident two generations ago barely worth mentioning. And Astrid has some personal strife with Snotlout; the lad obviously (judging by his loud claims) expects Astrid to marry him at some point. Astrid denies this. She will rather remain a shieldmaiden forever.

The boy is admittedly overbearing, irritating, at times, but with his Uncle at Stoick’s side and the expectation of future Chiefdom, Snotlout faces a heavy burden and Stoick has started giving him lessons. Far in-between, his son’s loss still so fresh. Snotlout is an impatient pupil and his rune-reading slow and writing messy. His impatience gives much to wish for in terms of discussions, agreements, trade, trials, judgement and diplomacy. A Chief must be able to do all these things: to judge and decide punishment when a crime has been committed; to settle two neighbours’ quarrel (or allow a duel if all else fails); to gather and hold þings; to settle trade agreements with travellers from afar. Snotlout mostly yawns and sighs, and he can’t point out Birka on a map (how the lad even thought that the settlement was somewhere in the middle of the empty sea, Stoick will never know).

So, there is an issue. Astrid would honestly make a better Chief. But her family does not have the same high standing as Spitelout’s, and if Stoick choose her instead as his chosen heir, all Hel would surely break loose. Spitelout has a quick temper. It would end badly. Perhaps sometime in the future, Stoick could introduce the idea. Slow and gentle through months and years, fostering Astrid and Snotlout side-by-side, to let the people see who would be most worthy and suitable as Chief. That is not his fashion, but he knows when being slow and cautious is the best strategy. Just like sneaking up on a sleeping dragon.

The clean-up after the raid, the celebration for Astrid, the nagging worries for the future of Berk, it all makes his heart go heavy.

He thinks of Hiccup and all of what was denied the boy.

At least you are in Valhalla now, my child. With honour. 

There is excitement whenever a ship is spotted on the horizon. This time is no exception. As it nears, its colours are recognized as those of friendly traders: all the way from Birka, their distant kin. Stoick has the Mead Hall prepared for them and there is eating, merry-making, drinking, and singing. The marketplace is filled with people and goods early the next morning and there is much activity for several days. His people are always happy to host visitors.

The traders bear news, as well as goods, from the wider world. Old news, Stoick is aware, the distances of the sea causing inevitable delays of months or years. Most of it does not surprise him; uncertainties and war, conflict and clashing politics in many parts of Europa. He listens closely anyway, taking note of places and names and considering what, if any, repercussions there will be for Berk, for trade, long-term decisions. The Danish King is enforcing the strange new faith of single-god worship on his people, claiming more landmass to rule. The Byzantine Empire, half across the known world, is at war with an island called Crete. In the long run, it might affect trade, certain goods and the value of silver and gold. Longships from Birka have been sent out west across the cold lands to the east. The Norsemen of the Norwegian mainland are reinforcing their already weakening rule of Skotland; the people there are rebelling and have proclaimed a King of theirs to lead them. There are whispers of another war, battles to come.

The worries of the south are different from those up here in the Archipelago. Here, in the cold north, the land was unsettled by others when Vikings first found it. Except for the dragons, who were driven back, further and further until they disappeared into the fogs of Helheim’s Gate, the Treacherous Waters where so many longships sink or burn by dragonfire. Beyond the fog lies endless ice and, supposedly, a Land of Dragons whence all the beasts once came when the world as newly made. But the south is full of people, and Vikings have traded and bartered and explored, but also done battle, raided, stolen. Stoick is well aware of the habits and history of his kin. Some Viking tribes have dreams of conquering the world, whereas Berk is happy with its island and surrounding seastacks and desires no more.

What Stoick is most interested in is what is happening closer to home. The Archipelago has its own issues: dragon raids, mostly. Some Viking tribes are so tired of it whole villages and settlements are being abandoned, the search on for new land or they simply turn their boats south-east for Norway and Denmark. The traders report seeing three empty harbours which a few years ago were home to hundreds of people.

What he seeks most is word of the Night Fury. Any whisper, any rumour, any supposed sighting, any attack where it might have appeared. Never seen—in Berk only Astrid can claim to have laid eyes on it, briefly in the night, a shadow—but heard by many, not just Berk, its shriek having haunted so many villages over the years. And that is the oddest thing. Before Hiccup’s death, the Night Fury would appear in raids on many islands, chilling stories of its unholy shriek before it struck. Never seen but always heard. The beast’s strikes never miss and so many houses have burned and Stoick is certain that his child was not the first, nor last, to face the end in its jaws. But this year it is quiet. Raids have occurred here in Berk and other places, enraging news, but no sign of the Night Fury.

The Night Fury is so often a story within a story. No one can claim to have laid eyes on it in sunlight; no one can tell for sure how large it is, the shape of its wings. Stoick knows it scales are black as onyx—like those they found in the forest—and he knows that its fire is powerful enough to char stone. The cove remains scarred and no one from Berk goes there, except Stoick. Sometimes he walks out of the village and wanders to the cove where the broken shield was found, and he imagines the scene as it must have been two years ago: his boy struggling, the dragon’s teeth, its horrible fire. A battle unseen in the night.

Has the beast left the Archipelago to terrorise other lands? Hid itself, crawling into a hole in the ground like vermin? Disappeared into the depths of the sea? Died at a hand other than Stoick’s?

Stoick needs to find out.

Another failed expedition to find the Nest. Not many volunteers to go and the ships are few, the crews minimal. Three longships, with Stoick the Vast at the helm, leave Berk; months later, two return. One longship is lost in the fogs and two men drown and five warriors are never seen again, their souls adrift. They nearly lose it all, searching and searching in vain, expending their water and food. No choice but to turn back.

All of Berk is in mourning for weeks afterward and the burial-mounds and funeral-boats empty.

“Maybe,” Gobber says one evening in the Mead Hall as they share a meal by the hearth, “it’s time to let it go.”

“Never.” Stoick swore an oath to his wife and son and the old gods.

He will not be known as Stoick the Oathbreaker.

Gobber sighs. “Stubborn as a Viking,” he mutters, but does not speak of the matter further.

Building new ships is a slow craft which requires much patience. Berk has many skilled in woodworking and carpentry and ship-making, and they are busy for the next couple of years. A portion of Berk’s forest is carefully cleared to make timber, but Stoick realizes that their island’s scarce resources must not be depleted too quickly, or they won’t recover, and that would in the end mean the end of their settlement. Some things they can trade for, but without wood to make boats, they would be trapped here so slowly die in isolation.

Each voyage into Helheim’s Gate has ended disastrously but has not been in vain. Over the years, what once was a blank spot on the map is clarifying. There is something foul in the air of that place, eerie noise and the fog which seems to enter the very mind. It causes confusion and they have always gotten lost; but each time, they go further north. Some of the bare islets of rock and barren seastacks have become familiar to Stoick. Each voyage he brings the map, and each voyage he manages to draw in at least one more rock or small island.

The damned fog! Some evil sorcery causes it, Stoick is sure. The eternal mists of the Treacherous Waters cannot be natural. The way it wears at the mind and heart and soul. So many generations of Vikings have travelled there to die, so few returning, no voyage successful.  But the Nest is there. It must be there!

Stoick sits in front of his hearth, his house now so empty: the largest of the village, and there should be a family, children, dogs to guard the door or sit in his lap. But Valka and Hiccup are dead. Stoick takes no mistress or new wife; there will be no more children. His son’s bed still stands empty in a corner and some of his things Stoick have hung on the wall as mementos: the helmet Hiccup never got to wear, some drawings left behind. He never found Hiccup’s notebook, the journal he tended to keep with him at all times. It must have burned in the Night Fury’s flames.

Stoick sits in front of his heart, all alone in this empty house, studying the map in the red glow of the dancing fire. With a finger he trails the routes he thinks that he remembers they took. Planning. They will not be ready for another expedition for years: they need boats, supplies, and most importantly Viking warriors with willing hearts. He cannot force them to follow. One day, he might have to leave Berk, alone, with only his axe and sword for company, and set sail in search for the Night Fury. Alone, if no others dare to follow—then so be it.

I will not be known as Stoick the Oathbreaker.

And so the years pass.

Chapter Text

viii.

Ferðin

The Journey

The village of the Stoneflats is small but often raided by dragons from the Red-Death-nest, so their fear and anger of dragons is great. Visits by traders are fewer than in places like Thorpe or even Berk, lying some way out of the established trade routes. While not often seen by traders from the south or the continental mainland, the Stoneflats are visited occasionally by Berk and the Meatheads.

Hiccup decides not to go in daylight, on foot, posing as a traveller to trade; the people here would simply be too suspicious. Besides, his business is not something the Vikings here—or any Vikings—would be happy to deal with through the exchange of coins and goods or services.

In the night, Hiccup and Toothless fly above the village soundlessly gliding on warm updrafts, not diving, not landing, wings flapping minimally to keep them airborne without detection. Toothless’ keen eyes see easily in the dark; together, they take note of the layout of the village, the huts with smoke rising from hearths, every fire or torch, the location of the harbour where many smaller fishing-ships are bobbing in the water. They do this for several nights in a row, noting villagers’ movements and habits.

It starts with a rumour several weeks earlier. On his final visit to Thorpe, Hiccup overheard a conversation: some men and women, Viking warriors, had come in a longship from the Meathead islands. They had been hunting for months and there was talk of a commission, to be paid richly in silver coins, by the Chief of the Stoneflats. Dragoneggs. Some villages, like Berk, train their youths to fight dragons by trapping dragons, caging them, subduing them. The easiest way for humans to do that is to find smaller nests and kill dragons and steal their eggs.

And anger had surged angrily through Hiccup, and guilt also when he recalled the arena in Berk. He hadn’t even considered what his people had done to trap dragons: both adults ones and hatchlings. When he was young, before he met Toothless, it was simply a part of his everyday life, something he knew of but never thought about. Sometimes Stoick would sail away not to find the great Nest but for various wild islands where no people live, to slay dragons there and steal eggs or hatchlings, or to trap the adult dragons if they could, and bring them to Berk for the youths to eventually kill.

Hookfang, Stormfly, Meatlug, Barf-and-Belch, Fierce, they were all stolen and imprisoned even if they struggle to recall the details now. Their minds had been fogged by the lure-song of the Red-Death-Queen, and Fierce was only an egg when taken to Berk. Three Terror eggs had been taken but two had died from the lack of a fire: a dragonegg needs constant warmth to survive. Fierce was the only hatchling to break free of its shell and then immediately into captivity, where he had quickly grown to fear Viking-humans and their hands and their metal-weapons. Surviving thanks to the other captive dragons taking him under their wing.

Hiccup owes it to them to at least try to free as many dragons as they can.

They lost sight of the longship. The weather turned and they were forced to return to the cave-nest. The dragons there were happy to help, volunteering to come, but Hiccup had explained at length the plan. Not an open attack, no fire! Stealth. Stealth and silence. That way, there was the least risk of harm. He cannot risk the flock. Hookfang especially had protested. The deal had been made for Hookfang, Stormfly, and Barf-and-Belch to wait on a seastack some way from the Stoneflats. If Hiccup and Toothless are in trouble, they will signal for aid by sending a blast into the sky, which will be heard and seen for a long way over the waters.

Hiccup has identified the Mead Hall and several storehouses by the harbour. On their final night-flight, they circle around, searching among the ships in the harbour. For days they have waited for it to arrive.

There! It is the Meathead longship with its precious cargo. The sails are folded, the ship anchored; it looks empty. They are ashore, then.

[Could you smell-sense it?] Hiccup wonders.

[Will-try. Must be closer.]

Slowly, they circle down, lower, lower, but not yet touching the ground. They avoid the fires and torches: this village is nearly as fortified as Berk, prepared for dragon raids. But dragon raids are usually very loud events, dozens of dragons, hungry and angry and shrieking. Toothless holds back his shriek, despite his fury for the what the Vikings are doing. He takes deep, sniffing breaths. Searching. Hiccup adjusts the tailfin and directs them toward the most shadowed part of the village; they will not land inside of it but near the edge.

The Stoneflats are surrounded by many smooth stones on all sides, trees struggling to stay standing in the eroding dirt, and many of the stones have carvings in them which when painted and under sunlight can be seen from afar by travellers nearing the village. Some are historical accounts, or scenes from myths and sagas; but many runes are written here, old spells to keep danger at bay. To keep dragons away. But in the dark, Hiccup cannot see these runes, and they land atop one of these shoreside rocks without harm or difficulty.

Toothless turns his head this way and that.

[Not-egg. Hatchling!]

[Alive?] Hiccup asks, please let it be alive!

But Toothless can only answer: [Not-knowing. Hurry!]

Now comes the most dangerous and risky part. There is an opening in the trees ahead and houses, smoke rising. Over there! The Mead Hall. Guests will be there; the Meatheads ought to be in there, resting or eating, with the Chief of the Stoneflats and its most important people. Others should be asleep. But the village has guarding watchmen sitting under three large torches, one to the north, one to the west and one to the east. Dragons do not usually come from the south, where Hiccup and Toothless now are, so there is no torch or watcher here.

They sneak closer. Toothless’ paws are large but he can soften his steps when he needs to. It is a windy night which may help them in terms of sound, but it also confuses the scent-trail. Hiccup stays in the saddle, lying low on Toothless’ back and facing ahead. As one, they reach the very edge of the village, an alley between two huts. One of the huts is dark and silent. Smoke rises from the roof of the other, its people yet awake or at least the hearth still alive.

Toothless’ ears twitch.

[Toothless?]

[Sound of many-Vikings, talk and happy-song. That way.] The Mead Hall. They’re celebrating, then. Merrymaking after a successful trade.

A knot is heavy in Hiccup’s gut. Heart pounding. Adrenaline rushing. This is it. [Is the hatchling there?]

Toothless listens and smells. The moments passing feel like miniature lifetimes in which a thousand things could go wrong. Hiccup’s racing pulse makes him skittish but his senses tenser too, and he shivers and startles when the wind picks up, a sharp breeze causing the trees behind them to sway and rustle and creak. He becomes aware of faint, faint voices: laughing, singing, a drum steady, a pipe or flute, clapping hands. The doors of the Mead Hall are closed to keep out the chill.

[That way. Inside, behind-wood-and-mud. Cold noise of iron-steel-bars. Whining, hatchling afraid-cold-lonely. Alive!] Toothless’ thoughts echo in Hiccup’s own, not as words as much as sensations and emotions and the image of one of the huts across of the open space (a place for gatherings and markets) in front of them, to the left. One of the storehouses. They can see no people at present, except the watchmen who have all their backs turned; they are looking toward the sea, not the village.

Slowly, Hiccup dismounts. A hand on Toothless’ neck. [Stay-here, Toothless. I’ll go, I’ll run and be-back-quickly.] 

[Careful!]

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. He looks toward the storehouse. Forty fathoms away, perhaps, but he must dodge two huts along the path and the ground is muddy. A short sprint. From here, Toothless cannot see anyone by the doors and no fire-glow from within.

He checks by feel that he has his knives hanging from his belt. He has been training to throw them at tree-trunks and stabbing the ground mimicking a claw-strike, and of course using them as tools, boning fish and such. But he has never actually used them against people, against moving targets. Despite everything, Hiccup does not know if he is able to kill Vikings even if confronted by an angry warrior who only sees an enemy, a consorter of dragons, even if a Viking came rushing in for the kill. They’re just humans who don’t know better. Do they deserve death for their ignorance and fear of dragons?

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Hiccup bends his knees. Takes aim. And then he runs.

The ground is slippery in places, a wet stone. Nearly falls. No! He catches himself with his hands, keeps running. Finds firmer ground. The dull thump-thump-thump-thump of his feet sound like hurricanes in his own ears. Surely, they will be heard! Almost there. Almost there!

Hiccup reaches the storehouse and presses himself flat against the timber wall. His heart thunders and his hands are shaking. He feels for the door, the handle. Fumbles with the latch—a wooden beam. Then he dives inside.

And stumbles over a barrel. His knee and then his face smashes into the mud-floor. The storehouse is crammed with things, and he narrowly avoids hitting some of the baskets stored there. His knee feels scraped up underneath his breeches, but otherwise there is no pain. Hiccup curses inwardly, barely daring to breathe though his lungs burn, and he lays still. Listens. Did someone hear that?

Silence.

A quiet and meek squeak-warble-whine. Tiny claws uselessly scratching in attempt to get free.

He looks up. There, atop of a barrel, there is a cage. Small, not even fit for chickens in a coop, a combination of metal and wood. The floor of it is lined with some straw and there, half-trapped in broken, wet eggshell, is a dragon hatchling. Small. He can’t tell at once what kind it is, but it does not seem to have fire yet.

It must have hatched this very night!

[All right, all-right, safe, safe now, safe, will-rescue], Hiccup projects, unsure if the hatchling could understand. So small and helpless and without parents. Does it even have an inner voice yet? Is it able to perceive others?

[Safe, safe, safe], he repeats. Gets to his knees. Reaches for the cage. It is so dark and hard to see, but the storehouse is not perfectly built, with cracks in the timber and mud letting in some starlight. The moon is only at its half; going in under full moonlight would be too risky, Hiccup and Toothless had decided.

Restlessness tugs at his mind. Toothless. Taking too long. Hiccup unlatches the cage, finding it does not require any key, no actual lock. He digs into the pouch at his belt and pulls out a few strips of dried meat. Slowly he reaches a hand toward the dragon but not fully inside, offering. With bated breath, Hiccup watches the hatchling as it blinks at him and warbles-whines-clicks. Confused. Scared.

[Safe, safe, safe! Eat, food, eat. Safe. Rescue.] He tries to sound calm and confident.

The hatchling accepts the meat. Tiny jaws open and close. The whine is replaced by a purr.

[Now go, now rescue. Safe, safe, safe.]

Confidently he reaches inside. The hatchling amazingly lets him grasp it and he cradles it close to his chest.

And then he runs toward Toothless.

“Who's there?"

[Toothless! Ready-go-quick!]

They’ve been spotted!

A man’s angry shout: “Halt! Stop! You there!” and then a horrified gasp: Toothless has been seen. The unsheathing of a sword. Hiccup runs, runs, runs. Abandoning stealth, Toothless leaps to meet him half-way, and Hiccup clutches the confused, scared hatchling to his chest with his left hand and grabs the saddle with the other. Slings himself up. Toothless turns slightly, tenses in preparation for flight.

“DRAGON! RAID! DRAGONS!”

The man is running toward them, shield and sword raised. The call is answered. “Dragons!” and a horn being blown, to wake the whole village. The merrymaking in the Mead Hall ceases and many doors are slammed open, firelight pouring out like liquid onto the ground. A sharp glare in Hiccup's eyes.

Hiccup’s foot clicks into place in the pedal, deploying the tailfin for a quick rise. [Now! go! go! go!]

Toothless wastes no time. One leap, and they’re up, climbing near-vertically.

An arrow flies beneath them and another nearly hits Toothless’ left wing. Fearful, astonished, angry voices; weapons clashing against shields to make confusing noise; but that does not throw Toothless off. Toothless twists and turns and then veers sharply eastward, circling around, and he fires one expertly aimed blast toward the Mead Hall. The explosion shatters the night and the straw roof immediately sparks into flames, rising high. The Vikings cry out and fall away. But he does not let out his well-known, feared shriek, that which is the one thing almost all Vikings can identify. Now, they see Toothless as a dragon, terrible and dangerous, but they might not know for sure that he is a Night Fury.

[Go! go! go!]

They climb toward the clouds and away. The seastacks. Their flock will surely have heard and seen the fire. Hiccup holds on tight and wraps himself and the hatchling, scales warm and wet still from the yolk against his chest, with his fur-cloak, leaning close over Toothless’ neck so that he can fly faster.

It does not take long to reach the seastacks. Hookfang and the others are airborne and flying to meet them.

[Discovery!] Hiccup calls out. [Must go! go no!]

[Egg?! Hatchling?!] Stormfly shouts.

[Yes, hatchling new-born safe!]

They fly the long way round back to the stone-cave nest, not returning until dawn. Just in case—Vikings may have tried to see their direction, and they cannot risk leading them to the safe-good-nest.

Meatlug and Fierce and the other Terrors greet them anxiously and bombarding them with questions before they’ve even landed. Stormfly and Barf-and-Belch follow closely behind. Hookfang was slightly upset to not have gotten a piece of the action.

[Hiccup-Toothless hurt?] an urgent question, and the dragons sniff but scent no blood.

[Egg? Where is egg? Did-save egg?]

[Hatchling!] 

They all feel the scent of the little one and rejoice.

At least the hatchling is calm. Once it realized it was among dragons, safe and sound, it fell asleep in Hiccup’s arms. It snoozed most of the flight, only waking once demanding to be fed, and Hiccup gave it more meat. At least dragons can chew that from the moment they hatch, not needing milk like humans do. But it is small and helpless otherwise, cannot carry its own weight yet nor breathe fire. It will be entirely dependent on them for the next few weeks.

[Easy, easy, space-please-to-breathe. Only one question one-time], Hiccup asks. They have had a long flight and the dragons are so curious and eager, he cannot keep up. He slides off Toothless’ back, legs stiff, and pulls back the fur-coat. The hatchling blinks sleepily at the crowd.

[Not-sure what blood-kin], he admits. Now in the soft glow of dawn, he can see that small pieces of eggshell is still stuck to its snout and he carefully picks them away. He lets Toothless and the others have a smell and look. Hookfang lowers his enormous head sideways to stare with a wide eye.

[Flame-self-at-will! Kin!] he exclaims, then hums sadly. [Parents dead, slain-by-Vikings?]

[Not-know], Toothless says, [but we fear it-is-so. Egg stolen by Vikings.] And Vikings who do that tend to leave nests destroyed and barren. There was no sign of any adult Nightmares in the village, no sound or scent; Toothless would have noticed. No other dragons. That means either its parents are dead, their bodies left to rot unburied who knows where, or they have been taken captive to some other places. The Vikings must have known somehow to keep the egg warm with fire to keep it alive, at least until it was carried ashore and put in a cold storehouse all alone. But there was no telling what happened to its parents.

Either way, there is little Hiccup and the flock can do about that right now. He looks at Hookfang. [Hookfang, know-how-to raise hatchlings? Care for hatchlings?] Hiccup has no idea what to do, really.

[Yes, but parent-hatchling bonded now. To break bond unsafe, harmful.] Hiccup frowns, not even a question. Hookfang explains: [Hiccup gave safe-first-touch, first-food.]

Oh? Oh! Oh.

He looks down at the hatchling in his arms. So tiny and helpless. How is he supposed to properly care for it and raise it? He is not a Monstrous Nightmare. He does not even know when they start using fire! It will need warmth and protection every day, every hour, until it can fly on its own. Hiccup suddenly very much feels like a fifteen-year-old boy who has never had so great a responsibility. So much could go wrong!

Then he looks at an equally wide-eyed Toothless, who warbles softly and then, oh so carefully, puffs at the little one with his snout. [So small!]

But Hookfang nods his heads several times. [Good choice, Hiccup-and-Toothless are gentle-careful and strong-protection. Will do well. Flame-self-at-will requires meat and fire once scales harden, but now scales-soft, so no fire.]

[But, but you-all will-help?] Hiccup asks nervously.

[Of course! But first-duty belongs to Hiccup-and-Toothless.]

“Well,” Hiccup sighs softly and strokes the hatchling’s back, “I suppose you’ll need a name.”

The thing about any young flame-self-at-will is that once they grow out of that first eight-day phase of helplessness and dependence on their parents, they do, Hiccup and Toothless discover, live up to the name nightmare. She is a handful. Hiccup cannot recall getting a good night’s sleep and Toothless is getting grumpy—they have to convince the rest of the flock to care more for the little one so that she learns that they are safe-flock-good too. That takes weeks but finally she seems just as comfortable being watched over or played with by Meatlug or Hookfang or Toothless. But she does demand to eat with Hiccup; hand-fed at first, until she figures out her own jaws and teeth and realizes she can grasp for things on her own.

The little one grows and grows so fast, and once she has found her balance and stopped drooling so infernally, she is fast on her feet and she keeps diving into Hiccup’s satchels to search for food (disappointed cries when there is none), and she shows an affinity for fishing in shallow water early on. Hookfang shows Clevertwist how to hold her breath for longer to find fish deeper down, and he shows her how to groom her wings proper when Hiccup obviously cannot. But she mostly follows Hiccup and Toothless around, and the only thing she does struggle with is telling them apart. They share a similar scent, Hiccup and Toothless always together, and they fly as one, and thus in her mind there is no need to separate the two.

Clevertwist is so named for the twisting shape of her rapidly growing horns and so the fact that on the third day after her rescue, she cleverly climbed down from the sleeping-stone where Hiccup and Toothless slept, ended up inside of a satchel where Hiccup kept the last of the dried meat strips, ate her full contently. After eating, she climbed back out, crawled under Hiccup’s elbow in the shadow of Toothless’ wing, and they wouldn’t have been any the wiser if not for the dangerously flammable trail of drool. Hiccup had sighed and cleaned it up, but also commended her for her clever little mind.

She gains more and more awareness of the world and her inner voice. Her first shared-thoughts are not words; they are impressions, emotions, strong and unguarded. Hunger! hunger! is the most common one, followed by Want-Toothless-Hiccup! and Bored! Want fly!

And the true trial is that of flight. Her wings strengthen over the following three weeks and then Hookfang says Clevertwist is ready to literally be dropped from a cliff.

“What? No!” Hiccup exclaims. But she is only little! A hatchling! A hatchling now well over ten pounds in weight and a wingspan of over a meter, ending in two sharp claws—her growth spurt has set in with a vengeance, and soon she will be two meters from snout to tail-tip—but a hatchling nonetheless. “What if something goes wrong? What if she falls and hurts herself?”

[Seawater to catch, if Clevertwist falls. Clevertwist swims, good-holding-breath-long and float-well], says Hookfang, very matter-of-fact. [No danger.]

Toothless does not think this strange at all. Sadly he can’t remember his own time as a hatchling, how old he really is, or his first flight; but this kind of thing is apparently common among dragons, most blood-kin; all those who fly. Only dragons who slither on the ground or swim deep, deep in the sea have a different trial. This is how Clevertwist will learn: a leap of faith.

But Toothless says, sensing and knowing his fears: [Hiccup-and-Toothless will fly, ready-to-catch if Clevertwist does not glide-on-air by herself.]

And Hiccup watches from Toothless’ back with his heart in his throat as Clevertwist, without fear, without hesitation, runs and spreads her wings and leaps after them. The drop makes him gasp. [Clevertwist!]

But she moves her wings, once, twice, and catches onto a stream of air, and she lets out a happy trill. She flaps her wings to gain altitude and circles around, and Toothless and Hiccup circle around her, a playful dance. Already she shows such grace and control that Hiccup is taken aback. A natural.

And should that surprise him? She is a dragon; flight is in her blood.

[Good flight!] Toothless praises. He warbles and snickers at Hiccup, glancing over his shoulder at the pale-faced boy. [See? Good flight!]

Before winter sets in, they leave the cave-nest behind.

As of late, too many Viking ships have been moving through the nearby waters. Close enough for the scent of humans-angry-fearful to be carried across the waves, diffused but certainly there, and upsetting the flock, especially Cleverwist and Meatlug. Hiccup finds himself surprisingly sad, even if he had planned to fly further south eventually. The cave-nest has been home. They have flown here and eaten here, bathed in the waters. This is the spot where Clevertwist first flew! It’s a special place. But it’s time to go.

They fly in loose formation, seeking. Some of this path Toothless and Hiccup have already flown, Hiccup making notes in his journal and map, which is expanding daily. Not a straight line south, but west, curving slightly north then back down again. There is a chain of islands here which are unoccupied by Vikings and on Hiccup’s map they are imprecise and unnamed, so he draws them anew and names them the Crescent Moon, from the shape. But there is no source of fresh water. They need fresh water.

For many days they fly, and only rest in temporary places. They fly east but that is too close to Viking-places. They turn south-west again, further than Hiccup and Toothless have been able to scout so they opt to fly even higher and mostly late at night, in starlight. During the day they rest if they find suitable seastacks.

Their flock is bigger now, needs more space. Clevertwist, of course; but also two stone-eaters, who were injured and lost and accepted gladly, and Meatlug has found a mate in one of them. No hatchlings yet. They wait for better-place, where the ground can be dug into deeply and a burrow made which would last for untold years, withstanding weather and wind. The small wild flock of small-fires-puffs whom Toothless and Hiccup first met over a year ago have also migrated south, fearing the lure-song of the Red-Death and when they meet, they are delighted. The one who stole fish from Toothless and ended up having fire spit in his mouth—but holding no grudge—remembers Hiccup [human-hatchling kind-give-fish] and Toothless [unseen-blast-from-darkness not-so-scary!], and Hiccup fondly asks to give him the name Littlethief. Littlethief has not had a name before and takes pride in the epithet, embellishing the story that he successfully fought over and claimed food from a dragon so many times his own size. Toothless huffs and grumbles and warbles a laugh, but lets the small-fire-puff be.

Out of the flock, Clevertwist is the one most excited about the change, fearless and curious. She has only been out of her egg for two moon-cycles and there are now so many things to see, smell, hear, think, experience! She has to be reminded many times to not try to fly ahead (not that she can; she does not have that much speed yet) and to stay at the center of the formation where she is safest, near Barf-and-Belch and Stormfly who can carry the littlest ones when they tire.

Hiccup is nearly asleep in the saddle after many hours of flight when suddenly there is a warning-cry going through the whole flock.

[Vikings! Vikings! Ships-fly-on-water!]

He peers down and sees the white canvases of sails, and Toothless can hear the echo of a rowing-drum. The sun is rising, a golden glow. Immediately, they climb, as much as they can; Clevertwist manages but two of the small-fires-puffs are tired, Fierce in Hiccup’s lap and Emeraldscale clutching onto Barf-and-Belch. They fly slow so that Meatlug and the other stone-eaters can keep up.

Hiccup wishes he had a means to see further, clearer, as he glances down at the sea; two or three longships. The clouds finally give the flock cover. Hiccup prays they were not seen. If they were, the Vikings cannot bring them down anyway, this far up and far away, pinpricks in the sky; they may as well have been seagulls or other birds.

The flight is tense for the next few hours, and their rest on a seastack uneasy; Stormfly stands guard and then Hookfang and then Toothless, a cycle, ready to give warning. They want to be ready to fly away easily, so Toothless demands not to have the saddle taken off; but Hiccup doesn’t want him uncomfortable. They compromise. Hiccup removes the saddle and gear, gives him scratches and brushes him down with a soft, wet cloth; then he puts everything back on, an anathema to their usual way. Hiccup dislikes Toothless having to rest with the leather and metal on, uncomfortable in places. But Toothless says: [Must be-ready! Must be-ready to fly-quick-easy.]

They see no more longships that day, or the following nights and days. 

Their winding flightpath reaches a curve of islands, some dry rocks, some with vegetation. They get progressively larger and more suitable for a nest. They follow the coastline east, and then south, and there are three larger islands with a bay between them, where many smaller isles and rocks and seastacks are hidden. There are trees and grass, and they can see the sparkle of a stream: fresh water.

This place might have what they need! So they set down, to camp for the night, and Toothless, Hiccup, and Stormfly decide to go further, to explore the nearest island for dangers, signs of Vikings, fresh water, and other things. Hookfang and the others stay to guard the hatchlings and to hunt for food.

The northernmost island is mostly grass and low-growing brush; it has the tallest mountain-peaks and a small jökull with ice almost all year, albeit it is tiny. That could provide them with water. Very good. Stormfly flies over the island and returns to say that she could see or smell no signs of Vikings or animals. The south-western island, the smallest of the three, has trees and grass and brush, and there are trails of wild hares and many birds here. The south-east island has a small lake fed by ice melting in spring and a lively shallow stream, and Hiccup drinks the water to find it cool and fresh. Again, no sign of Vikings. No one has yet settled here.

The many rocks and isles in-between these three offer many different places to shelter. Some are low, with water lapping over the edges; some are tall cliffs, and those are most preferred nests for dragons.

Hiccup, Toothless and Stormfly return to the flock with the good news.

[Good-place, has water and tree and wildlife], Hiccup says. Using a stick to draw in the sand, he makes a crude map, to show the dragons what they have seen. The flock watches with interest, though Fierce is so eager that he steps over the map causing it to smudge and Hiccup has to start over.

[Good-place! Cliffside nest suitable], Stormfly agrees. [Many cliffs, many perches-for-nests. Low-places for burrowing deep-into-ground as well.]

[Good-place], Toothless says. He and Hiccup saw a cave of a sort on the island with the stream, a little bit inland, with woods around it and flat stones. Not as small and closed-off as their old cave-nest. More of a neat tumble of rock, two walls and a partial roof. It will provide more shelter for Hiccup once the snows come, and if they could find more rock, they could build onto it to make it stronger, better. 

[What does flock say?] Hiccup looks at them all expectantly, suddenly anxiously. What if it will not do?

[Safe?] [No Vikings?] Barf-and-Belch ask, one question from each head.

[No Vikings. Safe! Safe, for now.] As safe as anywhere in the Archipelago, Hiccup thinks sadly. Vikings are spreading out, bit by bit. East, north, south, west. Once, hundreds of years ago, no one lived in the Archipelago, unexplored lands; there was people in Denmark and in Birka, and they took longships to explore. And then they found dragons and used sword, spear, shield to drive them back. 

How many dragon-bones now lie in the sea, discarded, unburied?

[Then good-place], two-heads-one-body decide.

[Agree. Then good-place], Hookfang says.

Clevertwist does not seem to care, beyond demanding: [Food now. Hungry! Eat!]

Hiccup laughs. [But Clevertwist had fish just-little-time ago!]

The hatchling licks her snout with a long, cleaved tongue. [Yes, food-then-gone. Food now-hungry!]

Tap-tap-tap!

Tap-tap-tap!

Toothless growls at the annoying bird, and it flees with a flutter. Very annoying! Why must bird peck-at-wood this early in day when Toothless tries to sleep? But it is only a minor price to pay for a good-nest such as this. Flock is happy, safer. They have water, and there is fish in the sea. Many rocks and stacks to dive from and rest on. The winter was shorter here than old-nest, and this year there was no such hard storm. Hiccup did not fall ill—much relief!

Stone-eaters Meatlug and mate Slowflow have dug a borrow and are trying to hatch eggs now, much excitement. Small-fires-puffs nest atop of stones near Hiccup and Toothless, and Clevertwist with them because the hatchling wants to be near Hiccup and Toothless.

The dragons helped Hiccup to find and place rocks like a wall around the new cave to better withstand wind, shelter for human-hatchling; Hiccup then lined the cracks with moss and mud. Inside there is constant dry shadow. Hiccup makes hearth-place for fire using more stone and Meatlug’s slow-flowing fire which hardens and sets, as a protective layer, and they make a hole in the moss-covered rock atop of that spot so that smoke can drift through there. Hiccup cannot breathe smoke as well as Toothless and dragons can.

It’s a pity he has no inner fire. Much would be easier if he did!

But Hiccup has a plan. For years he has been drawing, and he shows these drawings to Toothless, speaking excitedly. Dragon-scales for fake-fur, to protect frail human skin from fire and heat and to hide better on Toothless’ back.

Right now, Hiccup is sitting on a stone in the sunlight, watched by the gaggle of inquisitive small-fires-puffs and one hatchling flame-self-at-will, with his journal in his lap. He is writing runes. The scratch-scratch is softer and gentler on the ears than the tap-tap-tap! of the bird. Toothless rises, stretches his wings, back arching. He shakes himself and goes to join them.

[Rest well?] Hiccup asks.

[No! Annoying bird], Toothless says. He peers over Hiccup’s shoulder. Then he licks his cheek and asks: [Fly-together? Toothless and Hiccup can fly for fish and say-hello to flock.] Hookfang, Stormfly, and Barf-and-Belch have settled on a cliffside-nest by the beach of this island, higher up, more suitable for their needs. They visit every day to share food and fire.

[Yes! Go-visit and say-hello!] Clevertwist shouts eagerly.

“All right, let me just—hey!”

Toohtless picks the charcoal pen between soft gums, straight out of Hiccup’s hand, and dances away.

[Toothless!] 

Hiccup folds up his journal and places it in the pocked under his fur-vest. “Sometimes I wonder who is the hatchling and who is the grown one.”

[Unnecessary insult. Hiccup is hatchling, Toothless is grown.]

“Uh-huh? Really?” Toothless huffs but relents the grip of the pen. Hiccup chuckles and reaches up to scratch the dragon’s chin. “Oh, Toothless. I’m sorry. But you were being silly." His smile broadens. "But I don’t really mind.” [Silly-Toothless means happy-Toothless, and Hiccup wants Toothless happy.]

Every time Toothless moults or drops a stray scale, Hiccup collects them; it takes only a few months to gather enough for the project. But the design is well over two years in the making; Hiccup has drawn countless hours on parchment and paper, and in the dirt with a stick when those run out of space. He envisions it like this: a means of hiding better on Toothless’ back. Night Fury-scales. Fireproof so that they need not to worry about flying through brief bursts of flame, unlike that first flight when Hiccup nearly lost his eyebrows to a happy, careless plasma-blast. A helmet for that and to protect against the wind, so that they can fly even faster, even higher. It should protect against the cold much better than his current clothes. And Hiccup devices leather-wings to glide on, spending hours watching various dragons fly and move through the air gracefully; if he makes these things with leather fastenings to tug on, he could deploy those wings and fold them away when necessary so that they aren’t in the way. He has also ideas for a new tail-prosthesis for Toothless, so that he could glide better alone; there needs to be a locking-mechanism to the pedal, but with the right tools and parts he could fix that here at the nest.

But for the armour he needs a forge.

Toothless is less happy about that. Forge means village; village means Vikings. They do search for a while for abandoned settlements. And there is one with a broken smithy, half overgrown with brambles, but there is no ore and no tools, and the anvil is cracked. 

Hiccup chooses to go to Kyldinn; the village lies along a known trade route are not unfamiliar to visitors. They simply need to time it with the arrival of a longship or two. He will give a false name and borrow a forge. Well, that is the hard part. Hiccup expects he will need to ask for work or apprenticeship. He knows Gobber wouldn’t just let a stranger saunter up and use his forge for some secret project. No. This will be difficult and take time, but the reward will be worth it.

Besides, not all work needs to be done at a forge. He needs some pieces made there and metal wire prepared and so on, but with all the parts and the right tools he should be able to assemble it back at the nest. Safer that way.

For the undermost layer: linen cloth, to make it warm and comfortable to wear, he uses some of own clothes: not his oldest, most worn, smallest ones, with sleeves too short, but his newest (and second only) tunic. A necessary sacrifice. A pair of breeches sewn together from linen he acquired from Thorpe last year. These parts he carefully cuts up according to the pattern he has drawn, often checking his notes. He works back at their new nest, with a bigger cave-shelter, near enough to the opening to have sunlight.

Toothless watches him in amusement. [Clothes whole and now cut apart?]

Hiccup rolls his eyes. Knows exactly what he’s going to say. [Silly hatchling!]

[Yes! Silly!]

[Will make-sense once I’m done.]

The next layer is trickier. Leather is tougher to work with. He marks all the places to cut or make dents with hammer and nail with some charcoal. A lot of smaller pieces. The leather will cover some vital parts, for insulation from cold as well as protection against heat, and the many small pieces will allow for movement and future adjustment. Knowing he might still grow, only sixteen yet, Hiccup designs the armour so that it can be re-tailored and lengthened in the future, separate pieces allowing for movement. That is especially important when in the saddle. He must be able to move smoothly with Toothless: as one. He needs to be as mobile as possible: like a dragon.

This part takes many days for Hiccup to complete, a struggle of measurements, double-checking, hammering holes in the leather, and trying it together with thin leather strips. Once it is done, he treats the whole thing with wax and lets it rest.

The hardest part requires time, precision and a forge with tools and materials therein. Hiccup gathers all of the scales in a satchel, and all the other things he may need, and they fly to the village; away from the flock for some days, which makes both Hiccup and Toothless and the flock anxious.

[Will-be-back! Soon! Important work], Hiccup explains as best he can. Little Fierce wishes to go with them, but the Terror would quickly be bored and possibly in danger if spotted, so Hiccup and Toothless manage to convince him to stay. [Will-be-back, seven days or less.]

[Someone must guard cliffside-nest], Toothless says cleverly.

[Oh yes! Guard well!] Fierce puffs out his chest and puffs (fairly harmless) fire. Hiccup laughs and scratches his neck at that nice place that makes almost any dragon purr.

The blacksmith of the village is of a sourly demeanour but reluctantly allows Hiccup to prove himself; and the man agrees to let him use the forge late in the day, if he works as an apprentice and assistant in the mornings. Hiccup sighs but agrees. The blacksmith asks questions; Hiccup says he is an orphan, which is not too far from the truth. Isn’t it? His father would vehemently denounce him if he knew of his son’s life so woven with that of dragons. His mother is dead. He manages to feign enough distraught sorrow for the blacksmith to grow uncomfortable and cease questions. So, in the day Hiccup toils away, sharpening axes against a grindstone so familiarly and carrying things when asked; and in the evenings, after the blacksmith leaves for his evening meal at home, Hiccup completes his real work.

As Hiccup busies himself in the village forge, Toothless indignantly waits on a nearby low-rising seastack which is reachable for Hiccup on foot, with a bit of climbing and trekking through thorns, and already on the second day he is exhausted. At least during their evening flight to seek shelter is peaceful and familiar, and Hiccup reveals his progress to the dragon, who sniffs at each new piece and huffs and admits that, yes, there is some point to this endeavour.

Toothless sleeps away the days under the shadow of a tree. At night, before Hiccup rests, they hunt for fish under the stars.

The days pass and Hiccup carefully pierces the sharp tip of each teardrop-shaped dragon-scale so that he can thread it with iron nail or leather string. It is a process of trial and error; strike wrongly, and the dragon scale cracks. On the second evening he finds a pace by experimenting with heating then cooling the scales over the forge-fire, finding a temperature and timing when he can reshape the scale without it breaking or losing integrity. He loses count of all the scales to pierce in this manner. Well over a hundred, in any case. After three days, he has enough for his armour and some spares besides. He packs them carefully away in the satchel, rolled up in a fur-blanket.

On the fourth day, he shapes the details on the helmet, whose basic shape is wood but the details are metalwork. Hiccup’s design is fanciful as well as practical, a ridge of reshaped iron nails forming a ridge like the curving spikes on Toothless’ back. He paints the helmet black with char to seal it. Once it has dried, a coat of Night Fury saliva should make it fireproof.

His last evening in the forge, Hiccup checks his notes and counts how many nails he needs. He hasn’t asked the blacksmith, exactly, if he can take or borrow any materials; he claimed that he has all the materials and what he requires to use is the anvil and hearth. But he needs the iron nails. He selects the shortest ones he can find and gathers a few dozen in a leather pouch, stuffing them in his pack. He feels a bit guilty when he also steals a hammer. As recompense, he leaves two Monstrous Nightmare scales, a handful of Nadder scales, and three copper coins on the workbench. He does not wait around to see the blacksmith’s reaction next morning: a combination of anger at the lost items and astonishment at the payment.

Under the moonlight, Hiccup creeps out of the village for a final time. Toothless is glad and relieved to see him, and is well-rested, deciding they must fly back to good-safe-nest at the cliffs at once. Hiccup agrees. He can fly for a few hours at least before he must sleep.

The flock greets them with joy.

[Did Fierce guard-well?] Toothless asks.

[Guard well, yes! Much-well!] Fierce replies.

The other dragons are curious now about what Hiccup is doing. When he first began working on the armour, cutting cloth and hammering at leather, it had confused them. Meatlug had one day wandered into the half-open cave and wondered if the device had anything to do with food. Meatlug is very busy these days too, and she and her mate take turns brooding over their eggs which will not yet hatch for a month or more.

Now, though, it becomes much clearer. Scales, they understand. Scales are tough-skin, much stronger and better than frail-human-skin. Their human-hatchling is adapting when his body cannot on its own.

Hiccup lays out all of the pieces on the flat stone and opens his journal; he lays out the tools and the pouch of nails and the open satchel of prepared dragon-scales. Leather string. What else? Is that all he needs? Sitting cross-legged on the ground, Hiccup endeavours to read through his own runes one more time and to look at each sketch and detail, even if these have been etched permanently into his memory at this stage.

[Toothless will go-eat, go-drink, with flock], Toothless says, alerted by the flap of wings: Stormfly and Barf-and-Belch have returned bearing many fish. [Hiccup must-eat too.]

[In a moment!]

In a moment turns out to be nearly an hour later, when Toothless walks into the cave on all fours and without warning grasps Hiccup by the neck of his tunic by his gums, like a mother-cat carrying off their disobedient young. Hiccup tries in vain to free himself as he is carried out of the cave. Hookfang lifts his head to look at them, and snorts-warbles-clicks a laugh.

“Let me down! Hey!”

[Hiccup must-eat!]

“All right, all right!” [Point made, point taken.] Toothless sets him down gently, not letting go until he is sure Hiccup’s footing is secure.

They eat with the flock. In addition to the fish, Stormfly had flown over a wooded island and felled a wild hare with her claws. She keeps that kill for herself.

Hiccup eats a cod, distracted, and as soon as his belly is full (and Toothless assured of that), he returns to his work. He has his tools and with effort and some creative thinking, he starts working layer by layer. Cloth is sewn to leather using a bone-needle and thread, a patchwork that looks rather comical without scales covering it. Toothless licks a layer of saliva onto it, commenting that it tastes very funny. Hiccup gets started on threading iron nails or, in some places which need to be more bendable, leather string, through each needle-hole of each dragon-scale while the leathers dry in the sun. It is boring work that requires a lot of concentration and he swears quite a few times, his fingertips feeling numb and worn. Toothless asks to go flying, for a break, and Hiccup accepts gladly.

And so the days pass.

It takes nearly two weeks of intense labour to complete the armour, attaching each scale individually by hammering it down or fastening it. He has to then turn it inside out and hammer all nails sideways, flat, so they won’t gnaw at the armour’s wearer. The armour is comprised of several pieces, front and back, legs and arms separate to allow for future growth. Hiccup attaches the leather-wings in folding pockets at the sides. He also sews several inner pockets, realizing that he would like to be able to keep carrying things such as his journal handily close. He fastens thicker straps of leather around the legs and waist to be able to attach tools and pouches there. Finally, he remodels his old boots by sewing the last of the scales onto them to match the armour, knowing that if his feet keep growing, he will need new boots in the future. Once it is all done, he coats everything in two separate layers of Night Fury saliva to make it fireproof.

The first time Hiccup puts it on, he expects to feel ridiculous. But instead, he feels lifted up, and he slides on the helmet and through the eye-slits he looks at Toothless, who is staring wide-eyed. Hiccup spread his arms and smiles, though it cannot be seen. He tests the movement, crouching down and taking a couple of steps forward on all fours like a dragon. [What do-you-think?]

Toothless inspects him with his snout and sniffing at the helmet and reaching out with a careful claw to touch the scales at Hiccup’s chest and legs. He is especially fascinated by the folded-away leather-wings. [Smells like Toothless! Good.]

“If it didn’t, I’d be worried,” Hiccup remarks. 

[Scales like dragon, good. Safer. Hard-scale much better than frail-skin.]

Fierce the Terror inspects the armour by pouncing at it, landing on Hiccup’s bent back and, before he can be stopped, puffing fire at it. Toothless snarls but there is no harm done. There is no mark or dent of any kind. Hiccup cheers. He did it! It works. It works. They should test it against stronger fire to be sure, but it works!

[Hiccup-dragon!] Fierce says. [Must show all-flock!]

The little dragon flies off to gather the flock, and Hiccup lets himself be looked at and smelled by all the dragons of the flock. There is general approval all around; but Clevertwist, the young Monstrous Nightmare, remarks at the lack of a tail; almost all dragons have a tail, and the scales are from Toothless and unseen-blast-from-darkness has a tail. So where is Hiccup’s?

[Silly!] Toothless scolds. [Hiccup has no-tail. In-way of flight with Toothless if he had tail. No-tail is good.] The Night Fury directs his inner voice at Hiccup and there is swelling pride there: [Strong-safe-scales. Hiccup proper-dragon now!]

Chapter Text

iv.

Aðskilnaðinn

The Separation

For nearly three years, Toothless and Hiccup have been flying and surviving and hunting together. They are older, stronger now. Hiccup and Toothless have freed some dragons, met others in the wild; surrounded themselves with a new flock, strong-happy-safe-together. And on their unsteady journey south they have met more dragons, their flock growing. Their friends have followed to their newfound three-islands-nest, where it is safe in winter and no Vikings and plenty of food. The weather is milder and sweeter than at old cave-nest for longer of the year; the winters have snow, but not for as much or as long as up-far-north.

They have reached the edge of the Archipelago, but Hiccup and Toothless yearn to go further. The world is very, very large. Stretches beyond the maps in their possession. What if there are dragons far south, or far east, or far west?

What if in some hidden good-safe dragon-nest a thousand miles away, there is another Night Fury?

Toothless still cannot recall from anything before he was caught by the lure-song of the Red-Death-Queen. The before-time when he grew up from hatchling to adult; and Toothless cannot even say how old he, except he feels young still, very strong, much energy. Not gnarled claws and easily tiring wings like some of the dragons in their good-safe-flock. They have found more dragons: two stone-eaters, some small-fires-puffs, a small unruly pack of flame-selfs-tiny whom Hiccup and Toothless have managed to deter from setting the good-nest on fire. The flame-selfs-tiny spend most of their time on a rocky island where their fire cannot catch onto trees or living things.

There is also the elderly sharp-spikes, Silvertongue. Hiccup has given him the word-name Silvertongue because he speaks thoughtful and riddling, and it may be his many years; Silvertongue was never caught by the lure-song of the Red-Death of the evil-bad-nest. Instead, he had been raised in a cage, a captive after his newly hatched egg was stolen and parents slain by humans, to fight and entertain. A Viking-place on the map, but the name matters not. Hiccup and Toothless freed him, just like they freed Clevertwist, and like they, so many years ago, freed Stormfly and the others from Berk.

They are all free now.

Meatlug stays her mate Slowflow with other stone-eaters on the cliffside three-islands-nest. They are happy and have two young hatchlings to care for. They are very small and Hiccup adores them, and Meatlug trusts Hiccup and Toothless to watch over the hatchlings when she and Slowflow need to eat or rest themselves. The small-fires-puffs, more having joined the flock lately, are anxious and will not travel anymore; their new nest is good and food aplenty and humans few, far-away, and Hiccup does not fault them.

The exception is Fierce, who insist on coming. [Hiccup-Toothless flock! We go!] And that is that.

Clevertwist wants to go too. Curious about the world. Wants to see it all! Wants to search for more unseen-blasts-from-darkness. Hiccup hesitates. She is still so young! Not that small anymore; horns a half-fathom, her wingspan roughly five and a half fathoms, half that of Hookfang’s. Her fire has come to her and she has the habit of flaming herself whenever very happy. Hiccup’s hands were blistered for weeks after she first discovered how to light up her hard scales, coated with some kind of oil from within, and she had been near-inconsolable when she had realized she had hurt Hiccup. The blisters had healed, mostly; there are faint round scars, but they no longer hurt.

She can fly and hunt, she can use fire, defend herself and their flock. She is old enough to make decisions for herself.

[Clevertwist, journey will be hard-long-tough, might lack-water, lack-food for many days. Long-flights every day], Hiccup explains. He has a plan to reach down for Ísland first, then head south-east for the Færeyjar, Hjaltland, and then the Orkneyjar. The distances between those places are so much vaster than any within the Archipelago.

But the young Nightmare flicks her tail and flaps her wings, rising onto her hindlegs: [Clevertwist flock-with Hiccup-Toothless. Will go!]

“There’s no convincing you otherwise, huh?”

Stormfly and Barf-and-Belch and Hookfang join them. [We fly fast and fight strong], Hookfang says, [Hiccup-Toothless not good alone. Best together! Flock-first.]

Hiccup wonders about Berk the Viking-nest, a nostalgic ache settling in his chest and gut: how it must have changed, buildings levelled and built anew, fires started and put out. He has heard very little definite news in the human-places, the odd village or trade outpost he has visited over the years. Necessary visits to barter for supplies he cannot produce himself out of the wilderness. Berk is a small isle with a meagre population—no longer the thousands of warriors of the past, decimated by seven generations of dragon raids—a few hundred souls, and traders only go there a few times a year if the weather allows them.

What is there to tell? Berk fights dragons. It does not offer riches or any exotic tales—except dragons. Oh, everyone he listens to or asks about Berk speaks of fierce defences and longships riding out to sea in search of dragons to slay. The Chief is still alive, to Hiccup’s relief. Returned from a failed expedition to find bad-Queen-nest. Still Chief of Berk. Angry and disappointed, maybe, or relieved of Hiccup’s absence, the blight of shame gone from his tribe. But alive. Hiccup will count his blessings.

They have reached the end of the Archipelago; the seastacks and islands rarer and rarer. Land far, far away across the sea. Hiccup and Toothless aren’t done, until the whole world has been explored and every dragon found and their safety ensured and maybe, just maybe, they’ll find another Night Fury. The thought of Toothless being alone, the last of his kind, is too sad to bear.

Hiccup packs the last of the things, knowing well that the journey will take days many sea-miles to cross. If he and Toothless flew alone it might go faster, but their entourage cannot be left behind, so they must adapt. He consults the map, considers places to rest; there are not many islets, rocks or seastacks to choose from. They cannot fly down in a straight line but must follow coastlines when able, like trading longships would do. He fills the satchels and newly-bought saddlebags (originally made for donkeys or the like; heavily adapted to fit on Toothless’ back) to the brim with tools, food supplies (dried meats—sometimes he dreams of bread and cheese, struggling to recall the taste and texture, only the memory that it was good), his journal and maps. Everything he calls his own. It is summertime so he packs away the blanket, furs, and gloves at the bottom of the bags, opting to wear only his armour and helmet.

He has the armour and his knife, his maps and the compass that he bought from a merchant from Birka, but the compass was made in far-away Grikkland—the most expensive thing Hiccup has ever owned, weighed against dragon scales; the trader had thought the iridescent Deadly Nadder scales and fireproof Nightmare scales to be so valuable and exotic that he urged Hiccup to exchange them for silver. Hiccup has no need for money most of the time, but had done so, and with those coins he had acquired a new pair of boots, a new fur coat, parchment and inks, some medicinals: already-brown potions and salves in small flasks. He stores the things deep within a satchel, rolled in a spare tunic, so that they will not break or leak. 

It will be his final visit to a human village for some time.

Finally, they are ready.

The farewell of the new-good-nest warms Hiccup’s heart and fills his eyes with tears. He’s grown fond of all the dragons living there. The nest is safe, far from any human settlement and he knows that they will be here when they return. They will return, may it be in ten years after exploring every valley and lake and mountain-peak of the world. The Gronckles and Terrors live side-by-side with a Rumblehorn (who was lost and injured by arrows when Hiccup and Toothless found it, rescuing it from drowning), a Whispering Death which has a burrow in the interior of the island and a couple of Snafflefangs.

It is a small flock, but good-happy-safe, and that is what matters most.

[All right, Toothless, ready to-go?]

Toothless grunts in acknowledgement. Happy, but also anxious. It is a big undertaking. They will see if they can find any other free, wild dragons, living beyond the reach of the lure-song of the Red-Death-Queen.

One of the Terrors leaps up Hiccup and licks his face. “Don’t worry, Littlethief. We’ll be back,” he promises. In years and years, but one day they shall return. He cannot abandon his flock for ever and ever. "Now you stay here. You’re safe here." The dragons of this nest have learned how to spot Viking boats and to hide from them. The island’s shape is not very inviting to humans, lacking a flat sandy shore: there are steep cliffs beaten by the waves, no harbour for boats. Hiccup rarely prays to the old gods anymore, but now he does: to Njord to keep this place hidden from humans and to Óðinn that the dragons will remain here unharmed-unhurt-happy-strong.

[Go now? Must fly now], Toothless urges. Stormfly and Hookfang are waiting, and Fierce is curled up on Toothless’ back. Being so small they’ll only be able to keep up small legs of the journey and must be carried a lot of the way. [The winds are good for flying south]

Hiccup sets Littlethief down on the ground and puts on his helmet. He climbs into the saddle, places his foot in the pedal, deploys the tailfin. They’ll be using the good for long travels at medium speeds, but not tight turns; like the others Hiccup has left the leather dark and unpainted, to better match Toothless’ scales. The two other tailfins are folded up neatly and fastened to the outside of the saddlebags.

Everything is ready.

“Let’s go,” he says, [time-to-leave].

And they go.

The first leg of their journey is not their longest but, perhaps, their hardest. The trial by which they will learn whether they truly are ready for this journey. Truthfully, while Hiccup is enthusiastic and excited, he is also scared. He has never left the Archipelago. Toothless cannot recall if he ever has. The before-time of the unknown years as a captive of the Red-Death-Queen remains dim and unanswerable. Who knows how many sea-miles his wings had glided before he met Hiccup?

The only one who is not some degree of apprehensive are Stormfly and Clevetwist; the former because she relishes longer flights and the latter because she is still so young, and nothing is impossible to her, and Clevertwist is thirsty for all knowledge of the world. Everything achievable and every obstacle can be overcome. The flock must often remind Clevertwist not to fly too far ahead; their formation is loose and changing, but no one ever leaves sight of the others. 

If he reads the maps correctly, the journey from the nearest Archipelago island to the northernmost coastline of Ísland measures one hundred and thirty sea-miles but that would be in a straight line. Weather and wind affect them from the onset. It is the warmest time of year and the winds are good, but they drift westward especially once they lose sight of land behind them. Hiccup often checks his compass. 

If he and Toothless flew alone, they could’ve kept an astonishing pace, much faster than a longship. Though their flight-pace is faster now than when they were finding a new nest for the bigger flock, it will still take them many hours. But they can do it. Eight or nine hours of flight without rest-difficult, but not impossible.

If one dragon tires, another could let them rest on their back briefly. It is their only means of rest. No more seastacks, no more rocks, no more islands until they reach that large one Vikings have named Ísland. If the stories are true, there are large jökulls inland, expanses of ice. And there ought to be no people near those barren places; the settlements are placed along the coast, in bays and harbours carved by rain and wind and sea.

[All right?] Hiccup reaches out to ask all of the flock.

They’ve been flying for five hours.

[Good!] Toothless confirms.

Clevertwist is the one who curls and turns in her path most of all. Her eyes are wide. [Much-sea! Horizon never ends!] She wants to see everything!

Hiccup laughs. [Yes, much-sea.]

[Could fly long-time-more], Hookfang says.

Barf-and-Belch have no complaints either, and Stormfly glides on a hot thermal wind gracefully somewhat above the others. Her eyes are sharp and she can see far, though she has a blind spot at the center in front of her snout. No dangers ahead. They cannot see any longships. This route is used sometimes by traders from Hjaltland and the Færeyjar; the dragons have to stay alert. But, today, there are no sails on the horizon.

Hiccup adjusts the pedal slightly when a gust catches onto Toothless’ wings. He checks the compass which he has latched around his wrist with leather straps. [Little more toward sunset-way], Hiccup says, and when Toothless turns slightly the others follow.

Two hours later Hookfang spots a swirling mass of fish beneath the waves, and the dragons dive gleefully to fill their bellies. Both Nightmares dive briefly beneath the waves, driving some fish to jump into the air, and it is a playful hunt. Hiccup declines the offer of half a raw fish and sticks to his prepared rations of dried meats, roots and berries; without a place to land, he cannot start a fire and frying fish while airborne isn’t something he and Toothless have tested yet. But he enjoys watching his flock be happy and eat, and Toothless flies close to the water, cleaving it with the tip of his claws. 

But they quickly rise again. The waters are wild and waves large; not a storm, the sun shining, but not entirely still either.

Their hunger sated, they keep flying.

It takes them from sunrise to sundown and some more time to reach land. By that time, even the hardiest of the dragons are tired and wings quivering with effort; Clevertwist is young but her size means she has to flap her wings twice as many times as the rest, and she has collapsed on Hookfang’s back. Barf-and-Belch are usually quite chatty but now they are quiet, utterfly focused on moving forward. There is a collective sigh of relief whenever they find hot air to glide on.

Finally! Finally, they’ve made it.

The coast of ísland is tough and jagged and there are many rocky outcrops. In the dark of night, Hiccup’s human eyes strain to see. Once they near, they see, distantly, smoke from manmade fires, the shadows of huts. They veer off from that settlement well before they could be seen or heard.

[There!] Hiccup hears Stormfly shout. [Place ahead, looks good-rest-place.]

[Show-way!]

Stormfly leads the flock to that spot. It is a grassy knoll, and there are woods beyond and the hint of low mountains breaking up the skyline of stars. No settlements nearby nor roads or paths that they can see. As soon as their paws touch the ground, the dragons tumble and fall; Toothless lands with less grace than usual and heaves deep breaths. Clevertwist leaps off Hookfang’s back; Barf-and-Belch immediately fall asleep where they landed.

Hiccup stiffly slides off Toothless’ back to stretch his legs and pass water.

[Well done! Well done.]

They make camp without fire; Hiccup eats a little more and drinks water from one of his waterskins. Then he takes off Toothless’ saddle and gear, to make him more comfortable. Before he can do anything else, Toothless pulls him close with paw and wing and forces him to lie down. [Sleep now! Rest. Must rest], Toothless decides. Hiccup smiles fondly, decides not to put up a fight. A yawn breaks out of his throat before he can stop it. Conceding, he craws under the dragon’s wing without bothering with blankets, only removing his helmet to be a bit more comfortable, and one of Toothless’ front legs ends up as a warm pillow. The flock crawl near to rest nearly atop of them, a dragon-pile.

And they sleep.

After a few hours’ rest, Hiccup wakes to the colours of dawn, and for the first time truly sees the land on which they have landed. The ground beneath his feet is tough despite the tall grass, bent and whipped by constant winds from the sea. Behind them he sees rolling hills and jagged peaks, some of which bear snow. He does not know where there are lakes or streams here, but jökulls of ice should be easy to spot. Dragon-fire can melt the ice into fresh water to drink and he will refill his waterskin.

Clevertwist and Barf-and-Belch are still asleep, snoring noisily. Hookfang and Stormfly are awake and on guard. Toothless and Hiccup rise to join them, sharing conversation with inner voices familiarly, and Hiccup unrolls his map from a satchel. Studies it. He has a vague understand of where they are on Ísland; the land-tip reaching north and bending north-east like a tongue, and the village of Húsavík lies behind them to the west. That place sometimes trades with the Archipelago.

They will need to follow the coast south for some time before turning south-east for the Færeyjar. That shall be their true test. Over six hundred sea-miles. If they can keep the same pace as yesterday, that will be nearly fifteen hours’ flight.

Toothless senses his unspoken worries and pushes gently at Hiccup’s chest with his snout. [Flock strong. Flock help each-other.]

[I know], Hiccup says, [flock strong, but long-flight, longer than any before-tried.]

And then Toothless says, gravely, the tone something which he rarely uses: [Was long-flight from Red-Death bad-nest to human-places. And Toothless flew that many, many times.]

Hiccup reaches out to wrap his arms around his friend’s neck in embrace. His friend so rarely thinks about or talks about his past life as a thrall of the Red-Death, that place that was so painful and uncertain and unsafe. But Hiccup knows the dragon sometimes dreams of it, nightmares where he is alone and surrounded by bad-nest dragons whose eyes gleam and fires are aimed at him and jaws snapping. [Oh, Toothless. Hiccup so-sorry.]

Once the others are awake, the dragons break their fast together with newly catch fish from the sea. Then, in careful and tighter formation than before, they fly inland toward the jökull. They see no Vikings, nor smell or hear them, but the dragons are tense and quiet. The land is wild and there are no real paths trodden in grass or wood by human feet; Ísland is sparsely populated, though in the last decades more and more longships have come this way. They pass over an area where many trees recently have been cut down by axe and saw, for construction of houses and boats.

Eventually they reach the jökull and carefully land at the edge, and Hiccup considers it for a moment. The ice rises from the dark earth, very thick, several fathoms. From above it looked dangerous to land on, with cracks in what Hiccup had hoped would be pristine sheets; but that is not safe, so they stay below the edge. Hiccup dismounts from Toothless to approach on foot, and finds a spot where the ice looks clean and smooth. Clevertwist scrapes at it with a curious claw.

[Melt with fire?] she asks.

[Yes], Hiccup says, [but carefully, enough-to-drink for flock and not more]. He doesn’t want to leave traces of dragons, in case the local Vikings ever come here. [Work-quick.]

The easiest way, they find, is simply for Hookfang or Clevertwist to light themselves on fire and stand close to the ice, so that it starts to drip. Hiccup collects the droplets which flow quicker and quicker as the minutes pass, the waterskins nearly bursting at the seams, and the dragons drink their fill.

There are no dragons on Ísland.

The flock take to the skies during the second night and try to find the center of the landmass. And there they call out with their inner voices like dragons would in order to find lost nest-mates, and Stormfly dares to cry out loud as well, when no Viking settlements are in sight. Toothless, whose ears are the most sensitive of all the flock, listens and listens and listens. But there is no response. They fly in circles but must soon return to the coastline where they arrived, because to the west there are more village-lights from Viking-houses, smoke and at one point they pass so close that Toothless can hear the echo of human voices as dawn breaks and the village of Reykjarvík begins to wake. 

No dragons.

For four days, they rest; they drink water from various jökulls when they pass them and they find a small stream, cold and clear. Hiccup wonders at the spots where the ground is cracked and sudden boiling-hot water, steaming and spluttering, shoots out. He has never seen anything like that! The nearest thing is the water-breaking breathing of large whales in the sea, but this is the very earth moving. They near one such place on the second morning to study it but find no dragon-in-hiding there either. This fountain has been planted by the old gods, not by dragons. It is nevertheless quite beautiful.

The dragons dive into the sea for fish; they do not lack food. Hiccup is very careful whenever they light fires. Always they are on the lookout for humans. After that first night of exhaustion, at least one dragon is awake when the others rest, watching for dangers and keeping a hopeful mind open for the call of new wild free dragons. But no dragons. No dragons. Bit by bit they move south following the coast, finding new rest-places; mostly sleeping by day and flying by night, to avoid detection.

On the fourth and final day, there is a hint of fire and smoke. A human settlement or camp, it does not matter which. Hiccup decides they cannot take the risk to linger. 

No dragons. He is disappointed, but Toothless says: [World large, bigger-than-map. Many more places to search.], urging the flock to stay hopeful.

And thus they move on.

The leave in the middle of night, and it is a dim night with the stars obscured by low-hanging grey clouds. Stormfly revels at the chance of rain but the weather passes them by harmlessly, grey and cold and windy but without hail; the Nadder is disappointed.

[Maybe new-storms in future], Hiccup says, though he silently hopes not. He and Toothless tend to avoid those. But the colder weather has caused him to dig out one of his fur-cloaks from his pack and fasten it around his shoulders, over the armour, which he only removed once while on Ísland to wash himself in a hot spring they found. That had been amazing! All the dragons had enjoyed playing in the water, except Barf-and-Belch who are hesitant about dipping themselves in water. Hiccup really hopes they find more of those.

Ahead of them: a vast sea. So wide and endlessly it stretches, and they cannot glimpse their goal. They are dependent on the map, and the stars and sun by which to navigate; but the stars are obscured. Hiccup regularly checks the compass. The wind turns so that they have it at their backs, a great aid.

And so the hours pass until sunrise.

As he sits in the saddle, flying with Toothless without speaking much, and the flock also very silent, Hiccup’s mind wanders. He has had an idea for a few months now about making a flame of his own. He has his armour, and his gloves with metal-claw-tips, and his helmet. But he lacks a fire. He would need to carry it with him on the outside, a container or jar? But what shape should that fire have? An open flame without anything to point it or direct it is hard to use, practically. But a fire would be good: it would be a sign not just to the flock but to any other dragons that Hiccup is not Viking, that he is dragon-kin.

Proper dragon, as Toothless said after Hiccup completed his armour.

These thoughts keep him busy as time passes; at dawn, they swich formation and leave the higher airs to search for fish, but the waters are sparse, and it takes some time to find anything. Hiccup eats from his packed rations and drinks from one waterskin, and uncorks the second waterskin, the larger one, to pass to the dragons who are thirsty.

With the help of daylight, they can see farther. The horizon still appears flat and unbroken for many hours. When Clevertwist tires she rests on Hookfang’s back again. And when Stormfly requires a short break for her wings, Barf-and-Belch manage to balance her on their back long enough for her to take a nap. Fierce, as for the majority of the journey, stays nestled where Toothless’ back meets neck, safe and sound with Hiccup. And when Hookfang needs rest, a newly woken Stormfly is strong enough to give some support though she cannot completely bear the large dragon’s weight so he cannot fall asleep or stop moving his wings completely. But it is some respite.

The hours pass.

Hiccup is mentally drawing a sketch of a possible flame-container when Toothless rumbles a warning.

[What is it?]

[Hear noise! Drums! Viking-drums.]

The whole flock gather closer to each other and rise higher, seeking new streams of air. [Where?] Hiccup asks anxiously, peering toward the horizon.

Toothless’ ears twitch. He shares a thought, not words but a visualisation and a sensation, and Hiccup looks at his compass. Then at the sea.

There! Ahead, to the east. Three pinpricks hard to see. And the sea is noisy beneath them, but Toothless can hear the steady rhythm of the oar-drums of the kind Viking longships use. As they near, the dragons can see the unfurled canvases; the sails are full, tilted sideways to better catch the wind to carry the ships where they wish to go. They must be headed for Ísland, Hiccup realizes, to trade or settle.

Up, up they climb as far as they can. And they stay silent but for the flapping wings and deep breathing.

The longships pass underneath them without altering course. Toothless can hear no alarmed voices. Excruciatingly slowly, the longships move on and the dragons can finally descend to where the air is thicker and easier to fly.

Hiccup exhales slowly. That was close.

He reaches down and pats Toothless’ neck and gives a good scratch. [Well done.]

[Always listening], Toothless says.

The Færeyjar seem quite small and scattered after their visit to Ísland, but a welcome sight. They set down at the first available place, one of the smaller islands; there are many, more like within the Archipelago, and two have snow-tipped jökulls and the others are grass, or wood, or bare rock. Only the largest islands have Viking settlements and they avoid any signs of smoke or foot-paths. As they approach, there is a hint of a village with a natural harbour and several longboats anchored there; the dragons veer south.

The seastack is mostly bare rock and seaweed and offers little protection. They must rest. Toothless’ wings are shaking.

At least the waters are richer here; they find fish without even leaving the stone-shore where they set up camp. The dragons find a corner of the seastack which has a rocky outcrop that can serve as a protective wall at their backs, but they find no cave or the like. Hookfang, Clevertwist, Barf-and-Belch, Toothless, and Stormfly settle in a dragon-pile to sleep, with the youngest little one at the center where the heat is best. After removing the saddle and gear, Hiccup and Fierce curl up together under Toothless’ wing, the dragons careful not to crush them.

They sleep peacefully to the lull of the ocean crashing against the shore.

At midnight, when they wake, Hiccup is ravenously hungry. He eats some of the leftover fish, and the others eat also, and they share the last of the water from the waterskins. Then they almost immediately fall asleep again. Stormfly and Toothless take turns staying awake, guarding, watching.

But there is no sign of threat or Viking discovery, at least that day and night.

In the morning they search for water; there is a small lake a bit inland. And like on Ísland they search and call out with inner voices and try to scent-sense for other dragons, but there are no signs, no signs at all, and no replies.

[Too many Viking-humans], Stormfly says. [Too little land.]

[Yes], Hiccup agrees. He was afraid of that. It seems like they are bound to be disappointed. Hjaltland and the Orkeyjar might be the same, and he knows that Skotland has settlements and people, though he is unsure how densely packed those villages are or how far in-between. Could there be dragons in Skotland? How about the mainland? Sometimes, they heard stories of dragon-raids in Ísland or Skotland, rare, but they have happened, and those rumours would reach the Archipelago eventually. What if some dragons flew south and did not return north?

What if not all dragons come from the north at all?

There could be good-nests and plenty of them in the warm south lands which are only exotic names to Hiccup, Grikkland or Spanland or even further down beyond the edges of the map. Or what about far west or far east?

Whatever the answer is, they will find out.

With the longest, hardest leg of their journey completed, the mood among the flock is lighter despite the lack of wild free dragons to find. They rest for a few days, near the lake where the water is good, and while Clevertwist and Stormfly go hunting for fish, Toothless and Fierce follow Hiccup into the very sparse woods: thin birch, mostly, and bent willows, and much of the wood appears to have been cut down by axe and saw. There are a lot of sad stumps.

They do not stray far. Hiccup searches for edible roots, mushrooms, berries, herbs, anything useful. But it is in many places quite barren and the soil is not very deep, meaning it is difficult for things to grow. The island is more grass and wildflowers, but some of those flowers Hiccup recognize; brushes of heather which are pretty, but he has no practical use for them. He cannot find any edible mushrooms or roots that he knows by smell or sight to be safe to eat. Small birds chatter at a distance.

Some of the birds are of a kind Hiccup has never seen, with white bellies and black wings, their thick beaks red and black and white cheeks marked with a yellow spot. Fierce makes a sport of chasing some of them, failing to catch any, and the birds shriek and fly away out of fear.

When the sun is highest in the sky, they all converge at the beach where they landed, to eat and rest. Stormfly and the Nightmares found many fish and caught some of the birds, though Hiccup does not bother trying to eat that. Toothless declines also, not liking to eat things with feathers.

And so, three days pass. Hiccup studies his maps again, and he also sketches and writes in his journal, describing their journey and all that they have seen. He tries to draw an imprint of the landscape as he sees it.

He also sketches his idea for a flame-container, in case he forgets any of the details. He will need some materials but some he can probably gather himself, or with the help of his dragon flock, without needing to visit a human-place. Hopefully.

Toothless is curious about the idea. [Hiccup would be stronger-dragon with fire], he agrees. [Would be stronger-dragon if-with claw, too!]

Hiccup startles. A claw? Of course. Claw. Of course! He swiftly reopens the page; he’s been about to pack the journal away. The container of his design was round. That works. But if he could introduce a blade to it, a claw, the container could be the hilt. Flame would come from it; he’s been considering using the scale-oil from a Nightmare, he’s sure Clevertwist or Hookfang wouldn’t mind if he asked. The blade, the claw, would direct the fire … That would require a blacksmith’s forge, but if it could be done …

The flock watches his concentrated work with bemusement. They are quite used to Hiccup drawing frantically to retain things he comes up with or wants to remember, but Toothless is the only dragon who truly understands the act of sketching and has attempted it himself, doodling with a stick or tree-branch in sand or dirt. 

[Yes! Thank-you, Toothless! Perfect idea!]

Toothless flicks his ears and tail and warbles. He arches his back proudly, very smug. [Perfect-idea! Toothless give perfect-idea!]

Hjaltland is a series of scattered islands similar in nature to the Færeyjar, but the flight is not as long; several hours, but not so long that they collapse in exhaustion afterward. And it is lucky that they aren’t so tired, that they have energy to circle the coast from high-up to search for a rest-place, because Hjaltland is settled by Vikings and there are several villages. Much smoke from distant fires and the land criss-crossed with roads, and houses of stone and wood.

They search for some time to find a spot to set down and decide to fly back, westward, to a smaller island somewhat separated from the rest of Hjaltland. It is a rocky land that could’ve fit well within the Archipelago, the sea-waves gnawing away at gravel shores and rising cliffs, and there is a lot of grass flowing in the wind like water. It is a rough and cold place but there are fewer Viking-settlements here, thus easier to hide. There are birds, quite a lot of them, and they shriek and cry out at the smell and sight of the dragons. Hiccup tries to find a spot to land where the birds are fewer and less bothersome.

The flock sleeps in a pile, again, in the shadow of a rocky outcrop. The sun rises and sets, and they find water in a stream moving out from a lake toward the sea, falling over the edge of a cliff dramatically. Much of the rock is covered in moss and lichen, which the dragons breathe away when they heat the rock to sleep more comfortably on.

If Vikings were to come to this place in the days after, they would find a circle where moss and stone was burned by concentrated fire, and if these Vikings rarely or never see dragons they would greatly wonder what thing or phenomenon could cause that.

Hiccup consults his map and considers their next move. They must fly over or around the main islands of Hjaltland at some point, and from there turn south, toward the Orkneyjar. One smaller island lies between these two places, where they hopefully can rest. From there, they will round the upper corners of Skotland and then—then where?

Frisland or Frakkland or Spanland? All those places and further yet. They shall fly to these places one after the other and keep searching, and once they’ve seen all of the lands to the south they will fly east or west, or turn back north and further than Berk, until they’ve found another free-flock-nest or determined that the Archipelago is the last place where dragons yet live. And if that is so …

Hiccup feels very distraught and saddened then; because if that is so, that means there is no other Night Fury, that Toothless is alone and the last of his blood-kin.

No dragons.

They look, listen, search, call out loud and raise their inner voices.

No dragons.

[Maybe further south], Hiccup hopes.

And they keep flying.

The storm comes from the north, winds harsh and strong. Great grey clouds stretch across the whole horizon, and they cannot see a path above or under it. It fills the sky, moving fast toward them.

[Let us fly-through], Stormfly says, unafraid. She relishes in storms. She has flown through many; she seeks them out. Thunder does not faze her.

But Hiccup hesitates. He heard a story when he was a boy of a man who was struck by lightning, leaving strange burns across the skin, and his boots had melted and he had died on the spot. Hiccup doesn’t want to risk the flock. Risk Toothless. In the past, he and Toothless have avoided storms. If rain or hail or snow suddenly found them on a flight, they would land on the nearest available seastack and shelter there, huddling close together.

But the Orkneyjar are so far behind them that if they turned back now, they might tire long before reaching land. No seastacks. No islands. The large land of Alba is to the south-west, and they had planned to fly closer at first until they saw distant smoke from human settlements in scattered places, so they will instead follow the shape of that coast further out and only approach when seeking rest-shelter-place. Hiccup had planned to follow the coastline down to the continental mainland to a place called Frisland on the map. Then they would see: east or west or south.

The sea is wild and deep beneath them, the waves cresting high; higher, as the clouds approach.

[Fly forward, go on!] Hookfang agrees.

[Go over?] Barf-and-Belch suggest: [Fly-above-over, high-up over-clouds.]

Hiccup agrees to that. That’s their best choice. Over, not straight through. The top of clouds can sometimes be soft and white and clear while below they appear ominous and full of rain. They must try. The flock of dragons rise, Hiccup bent low over Toothless’ neck.

The storm is massive. The clouds so thick and tall, reaching from sea-surface to the very edge of the air which they can fly. They climb and find that the air is too thin to provide lift and to breathe, far too cold. Must descend.

A flash of thunder.

And then the rain.

The stormcloud overtakes them.

Toothless flaps his wings hard and fast to keep a high pace. If only they could outrun the rain and the clouds! Hiccup’s vision is swiftly obscured and through the eye-slits of his helmet the world is a dark blur, occasionally lit up entirely shine-white by a flash of lightning, and a burst of drumming rolling thunder. He flinches at the noise and closes his eyes and trusts Toothless, feeling the dragon move, sharing thoughts. Flying together. Safe together. He adjusts the tailfin endlessly because the winds are so harsh and changing, and his ankle aches with the effort.

Please let this be over soon.

The rain soaks his fur-cloak and surely the satchels too, but Hiccup doesn’t think about that. He thinks about the flock. He tries to twist his head and open his eyes, but the rain stings and he cannot see Stormfly or Hookfang. Anyone!

[Flock! Stormfly! Barf-and-Belch! Hookfang!] he shouts; “Hookfang! Fierce! Clevertwist! Where are you?!” but the roar of the storm drowns his voice entirely.

Toothless too cries out, a shriek and his inner voice as loud as he can. [Where? Flock! Where?!]

But there is no answer.

Suddenly, a gust of wind bears down on them like a falling rock. Hiccup is nearly tugged from the saddle. No! He wraps an arm around Toothless’ neck and the other hand grips the saddle-edge, white-knuckled. [Toothless!] Toothless struggles, the tailfin unbalanced. They are falling. They are falling! There is no horizon, nothing to steer by. Where is up? Where is down?

[Hookfang! Flock! Fierce! Stormfly!]

No answer.

Toothless shrieks and grunts with effort, trying to right himself. A terrible flash-boom-crack of thunder cleaves the sky, far too close, far too close, and Hiccup shuts his eyes tightly. He clings to the dragon’s back and can only fall with him.

[Toothless!] Hiccup screams.

Finally, finally, before they hit the water, they find balance. Stability, but it is uncertain and their joy short-lived. The heavy rain, the thunder, it has disorientated them completely and they realize with horror that they have no idea where they are or how fall the winds have carried them. How long they fell for. Where is their flock? Where are they?

[Hiccup! Hiccup safe-here-still?!]

[Still-here, still-here, still-here!]

But where are the others?

Toothless twists and turns, flying blindly this way and that, struggling against the wind and rain and the cresting waves. A tall wave threatens to swallow them whole, and they try to climb away from it. Water splashes coldly onto them both and the tailfin feels too heavy. Hiccup’s arms and his foot strains. Toothless is breathing heavily.

Their flight has been too long. They won’t be able to keep this up for much longer.

[Must find flock!]

Time becomes meaningless. Direction ceases to exist. Every which way, turning often, looking, listening uselessly. They search and search, shouting names. No answer. No! No! It cannot be so. Their flock! Where?! Toothless starts to froth at the mouth with exhaustion. And neither he nor Hiccup realize manage to see the approaching wave in time.

The water crashes into them, a wall of pain, and Hiccup only stays attached to the saddle and Toothless by the leather-wire-fastenings; otherwise, he would have been swept away. Together, they are torn down, out of air into sea. And the ice-cold water immediately strikes Hiccup like a hammer. He plummets into unconsciousness.

Toothless cries out and struggles to keep them afloat, using legs and aching tired wings to swim.

So tired. So tired!

No. No, must stay wake, must survive. Must! Hiccup! Flock! Survive! Toothless must swim!

[Hiccup!] Toothless shrieks. Hiccup does not answer.

No one answers. 

[Flock! Clevertwist! Stormfly! FLOCK!]

No one answers. 

The sea carries them away.

Chapter Text

x.

Keðjurnar

The Chains

Rìoghachd na h-Alba
962 C.E.

A cold storm rolls in from the sea during the night, carried by winds from the wild north. The coast here is ragged and tough, and the settlements sparse. The land is beautiful; the forests are scarce and far in-between but full of birdsong, and the hills of grass stretch from horizon to horizon. Small villages are scattered throughout the rural landscape and most have wooden churches reaching toward the sky; there are tilled fields, cattle and sheep grazing lazily, though many of the animals have sought shelter from the rain and are still hesitant to come out.

The storm rattles the earth briefly, heavy rain and thunder, obscuring the crescent moon. Villagers cluster in their homes, sheltering and sleeping uneasily, until the worst of the weather passes. By morning the storm has moved on. The sunrise struggles free out of the fleeing clouds and illuminates the grasslands like gold.

In the night, two shadows are washed up on the shore.

An old road cuts through the rugged landscape—once trodden by Roman Centurions in their conquest of the world at the time when Hadrian built his great wall. It goes from one village to another in a fairly straight line, but the path has been continued to be trenched in new directions by many feet over the years as the people of the land have built new homes.

And this particular morning, as chance will have it, a gathering of thirty-odd armed men are travelling this road. Their path is eastbound for Dùn Barra; they were called by their Rìgh and they will answer.

The times are harsh: the Lochlannaich are getting ever more daring in their attacks and raids, burning houses, taking gold and food and people as slaves, stealing from churches and even slaying good monks. Their people are unsafe; something must be done. According to their Rìgh, the Lochlannaich will attack them again and soon, and they must defend themselves. It is time to cast off their oppression and free themselves.

And this company of men—carrying pikes, shields, knives, and the occasional short iron sword—travel through and past the village and its church and down the winding road, past wind-whipped trees. At the head of the company are a lucky few with enough wealth and status to own horses. 

Down the path and through a small, wooded area, providing relief from the still strong sea-winds. Ahead of them, the road bends around a natural bay with a grass embankment and a gravel shore. The mood is, despite their journey, light and merry; the men try to lift their own spirits by singing walking-songs and sharing stories of valour. As they round the trees, they have a view of the sea and the coastline below, the glittering waves.

And the men at the head of the progression halt. For there! there lies a beast.

A terrible beast!

“Dràgon! Dràgon!” the warning cry travels through the company.

Panic breaks out. Most have never seen one; dragain are stories, almost myth. The people of this land have heard far-flung stories from travellers and traders of the barbaric Eileanan nan Lochlannaich borb, but these stories must be half-lies well-embellished. Must they not? The stories tell of dragain of many shapes and sizes, breathing fire and destruction on the Lochlannaich, on the world itself. But the dragain flee after these attacks to hidden places far to the north, where the ice rarely melts, places no one would surely dare to go. Dragain so very rarely come to Alba or further south, for whatever reason; perhaps their wings cannot carry them farther; perhaps they cannot leave the lands of ice.

To these men’s knowledge, no dràgonhas been sighted on their shores for nigh on fifty years or more.

But here is one. There is no doubt what the beast is.

Larger than a horse with its black wings, it is lying on its side in the gravel of the shore. Not moving. There is no fire. In fact, at this distance, there is no telling whether it is alive or dead.

“Dubhgall!” shouts one of the men. “What should we do?”

The leader of the company, broad-shouldered and tall, grips the reigns of his horse tightly. The choice ought to be very simple. They should kill the beast, if it is not already dead. Perhaps they could peel off its scales, cut off its claws? Not only as trophies, although many men surely would like those for their own keeping, but to trade and to offer to their Rìgh. And Dubhgall was not only chosen to lead these men to future battle because of his strong voice and physical strength; he knows a thing or two about war-strategy, and at the back of his mind, an idea, an opportunity, begins to flower.

Dubhgall orders his men to stand ready with shields raised and pikes pointed ahead, and thus they form a half-circle, climbing down to the shore and surrounding the beast from many sides. Many of the men have never been to battle and their fear cannot silence, but even with the clanging of metal and crunching footsteps in the gravel, the dràgon does not stir.

Closer now. To Dubhgall’s shock, there is a device of leather on the dràgon’s back. A saddle? But what kind of man would tame a beast such as this to ride like a horse?

“Halt. I will approach.”

Dubhgall breaks out of the slightly uneven formation, sword at the ready. If needs must, he will slay the creature. It is lying sideways, one wing splayed out and the other curled up, and its eyes are closed and the neck exposed. He ought to be able to kill it, if he is swift enough, even if it stirs and wakes right now. Step by step. Closer. He sees now that the saddle is fastened around the dragon’s belly and there is a strange device of metal-wire running along its length, past a smaller pair of wings, leading to the tip of its tail. One side of its tail-tip is black, the other brown like leather; suspiciously more like a construction sprung from human hands rather than nature.

And lying half-hidden beneath the dràgon’s wing is a human.

He is fairly small and thin; his head and face is hidden underneath a dark helmet of strange design. The short fur-cloak wrapped over his shoulders, fastened with leather string, is heavy with seawater but drying slowly in the cold sunlight. And beneath it seems as if he is wearing, to Dubhgall’s utter amazement, several layers of dràgon-scales.

Behind him, Dubhgall hears the men shuffle their feet in the gravel uncertainly. 

Dubhgall was going to kill the beast and bring its head to the Rìgh as a prize, but this possibility …

This might be a spy. A scout. It must be! One of the Lochlannaich sent to attack them, but downed for some reason and washed ashore. So close to a village, as well! Dubhgall’s heart thunders in wrath, considering what almost happened. The lad is young and does not look to be a strong, seasoned warrior. Perhaps he was chosen by the Lochlannaich for his small stature, easy for the dràgon to carry. And when one is seated in the saddle of such a beast, what need is there for physical strength? If any of the stories are even the bit true, dragain can level forests with a breath and crush men with their teeth. This one does not appear to have ferocious fangs, though its mouth is closed so perhaps they will be revealed later. Dubhgall does not dare to disturb it to find out. Not yet.

Is this the next plan of the Lochlannaich in their conquest of the world? Men astride dragain? That would be devastating!

The dràgon still has not stirred.

“Quick! Fetch rope!” Dubhgall orders. “Do we have any chains?”

Some of the men are too scared to move, but some hurry back to the road where they left a handful of men to guard their wagons. They return at a running pace with many coils of robe; Dubhgall orders two lads on horseback to ride to the village as quick as they can and bring nets and iron chains, and to pay with coppers if they must. They must hurry! Dubhgall hastily has the men cast the ropes over the dràgon to hold it, though he is sure that if it wakes and breathes fire, it will break free.

He grabs the stranger by the arms and hoists him away from the dràgon, dragging him across the ground to a tree stump, and they bind his hands and arms securely; not his legs, for Dubhgall means to bring this prisoner to Dùn Barra and needs him able to walk. Dubhgall removes the strange helmet, marvelling at its shape, for it seems to be ridged like the dràgon itself.

The stranger is more boy than man; a freckled unassuming face, auburn hair held back from the face with thin braids. There is a small scar on his chin but otherwise the face is unmarred, and he looks remarkably innocent. Something fey, indeed, Dubhgall muses; for this lad came to them on the back of a dràgon. And dragain come from the cold north, the many wild islands where Lochlannaich live. He must be Lochlannach.

The men stand back. This lad may be only one small Lochlannach but he is fey and possibly not fully human, and many upset whispers and murmurs spread among the men. Searching the lad, Dubhgall finds a short knife, simple and undecorated but good craftmanship. This he keeps with the helmet, for now.

Dubhgall marvels at what the lad is wearing. The design is so foreign, beyond anything Dubhgall has ever seen, and he is at first not even certain what to name it. An armour: an armour more like a dràgon’s hide from head to toe, and the boots are covered in scales as well. The shape is layered so that there are pauldrouns over the shoulders and some parts Dubhgall cannot name. It is of extraordinary make, a layer of leather covered in dràgon-scale, and each scale seems to have been fastened by punching a needle-eye hole at the scale-tip and threading it with thin leather string. There are many joints and moving parts, giving the wearer a lot of freedom in movement. Despite the hardness of the scales, it does not look too heavy or bulky. 

The lad begins to come to. Dubhgall has most of his men cluster around the dràgon—guarding it with pike, sword and knife—while the ropes are fastened with trembling, sweating hands. The men are highly uneasy, but trust their leader to be right, and if Dubhgall is right then their Rìgh would much rather have the dràgon and its rider alive than dead.

The boy blinks slowly, head nodding upward as consciousness returns. Tries to move his hands, and exhales sharply when he realizes he cannot. That he is bound. His eyes fall on Dubhgall and the armed men. Dubhgall frowns when the lad looks past them, searching. For the dragon? But he lad is sitting on the ground surrounded by many men and they block his view of the beast.

“Tannlaus!” the boy shouts. His voice is thin and hoarse. “Tannlaus!”

“Who are you?” Dubhgall demands. “Who are you to come to our lands on dràgon-back? Who is your master?”

The boy ignores the questions. Does he not understand? Dubhgall curses inwardly. He speaks the dialect of his own people, and only has a vague understanding of the tongue of the Lochlannaich.

“Hvar er Tannlaust?! Tannlaus!” the boy asks, breath hitching in worry or fear, though Dubhgall cannot tell it is for himself or the dràgon. Is the boy so attached to the creature? Was he then the one who tamed it, despite his youth? Or was it given to him by older, stronger Lochlannaich? Are there now hordes of Lochlannaich armed with these weapons, training and preparing to attack the world and Alba with dràgon-fire?

“Whence do you come? Who is your master?”

The boy, distraught, uselessly struggles against the ropes and looks at Dubhgall with wide eyes. “Ég skil ekki, skil ekki hvað þú ert að segja,” he says and then coughs, throat dry.

“Bring the lad some water,” Dubhgall decides, and one of the lads of the company goes to the wagons to fetch a waterskin. They cannot interrogate an enemy who cannot speak. Dubhgall only understood fragments of the sentence: I, no, what, speak. So, the boy does not understand Gaelic? Or does he pretend not to? After all, any good spy would not make himself easy to interrogate. A language barrier is difficult but not impossible to overcome.

This is not the time and place for a proper interrogation. They must bring the boy and the dràgon to Dùn Barra. They have more means there, more time inside of shelter, more men to guard the dràgon. It may wake at any moment.

“Tannlaus!” the boy shouts again, even as he struggles, obviously tired and in desperate need for water. Fear is giving way to concern and to anger, and he glares at Dubhgall, but in this state, Dubhgall would not consider it much to be scared of. The lad is fierce, though, lending at least some weight to the armour he wears. “Hvað hefurðu gert honum?! Tannlaus.” Frustrated, realizing that Dubhgall does not understand, he simplifies his speech to brief words, sharp like poison: “Tannlaus. Drekinn. Hvar?!”

“Does anyone here speak his tongue?” Dubhgall asks his men.

“I do, a little,” Iain, one of the elders, volunteers.

“Tell me what the lad is saying.”

“He is asking for the dràgon where it is, what we’ve done with it. It …” the man pauses, frowns. Disbelief. Did he mishear? “He calls the dragon Toothless.”

What a ridiculous name for a dràgon! Such a mighty beast—‘Toothless’! Surely it must be in jest.

The beast still has not stirred, so Dubhgall leaves the prisoner for a time, walking back to the beach, sea-waves lapping at it calmly and gently now that the storm has passed. The men have bound the dràgon with many ropes, a great effort: the beast may not be the size of a mountain (as some stories would have all dragain), but still very large and heavy. He slowly, slowly, slowly reaches out: his hand find the scales smooth and warm, almost disturbingly so, as if within there glows an everlasting fire. The beast is breathing, heavy and slow, and this close he can hear a broken whine on each exhale. Is it injured, then?

“Tannlaus!” he hears the boy cry out again. A plead: “Ekki meiða hann!”

Dubhgall commands Iain to translate: “Ask him these words, so as I tell them. Who is your master?”

“Meistari? Ég—nei— ég hef ekki höfðingi. Ég tilheyri engum ættbálki.”

“He says he has no master or—chief, I think.”

“Who sent you to attack our lands?”

It takes some time for that to be translated, and the rendition may be poor and garbled; Iain has not spoken the tongue of the Lochlannaich for some years, and some of the sounds are unfamiliar. But at least the boy does understand enough to answer. Angrily: “Enginn! Enginn sendi okkur til þessa lands! Nei!” The voice softens, a hint of confused despair: “Við meinum þér ekki mein. Við erum týnd—stormurinn—við vorum týnd.”

“He claims no one sent them, and that they mean no harm. A storm? They were lost in the storm.”

More lies! Of course, this spy being so young, bearing a face that is almost innocent and prettily freckled, he pleads in such a manner. Of course it is all lies! A dràgon is a terrible foe. A tamed dràgon a petrifying weapon.  Of course the boy lies!

Dubhgall and his people have been blessed by God that the dràgon and its rider came to them in this manner, weak and injured and unconscious on the shore. Yes, God must have seen their incoming plight and struck the beast down. The storm! Yes, it must be so. Another sign that they must tame both beast and rider and bring them to the Rìgh. They must question the boy properly, find out more about the plans of the Lochlannaich. Is there a fleet of longships on its way right now to burn down their monasteries and farms? Are there more dragain circling above those ships, waiting to strike?

If Dubhgall gifts the Rìgh with a dràgon tame enough to ride into battle, his fortune will be secured for the remainder of his life and his reputation will be heroic!

Then, there is ruckus behind them. Gravel shifts noisily and there is a whining sound, low and guttural. “Tannlaus!” the boy shouts, again fighting the bonds. “Leyfðu mér að fara til hans. Hann er meiddur! Vinsemlegast. Leyfðu mér að vera með honum!”

“It’s waking up!” a panicked shout: “An dràgon!” and some men stumble back, other try to keep a steady grip on the ropes. The men by the wagons rush to their aid. The ring of pikes tighten. A strike imminent. The beast lifts its wings slightly and bright eyes open a slit, and Dubhgall has to admit the creature is beautiful. A powerful weapon indeed, if it can fly and breathe fire and kill with one swipe of its claws. Some ropes have been bound around its head to keep it still and its snout to muzzle it, and the ropes strain and the men struggle. It will not hold for long.

“Boy! You! Do you command this dràgon?” Dubhgall points in the direction of the beast. When no answers is forthcoming, he yanks the boy to his feet forcefully and drags him, the boy stumbling, down the embankment, closer to the dragon. The translator keeps pace.

The dràgon huffs. Breaths deep, pained. There is no visible wound or blood, but some injuries can happen within a body with little trace on the outside. Dubhgall does not know how it is for dragain.

“You command this dràgon? You are its master?” The translator conveys Dubhgall’s words, and the boy vehemently shakes his head, despite all of the evidence to the contrary.

“He claims he is not its master,” Iain says.

“But you can control it? Listen closely, boy. If the dràgon breaks free of its bonds or tries to breathe fire, we will slay it. I will order every sword to swing and every pike to thrust. And then I will kill you myself. Do you understand?”

The boy deflates. He looks away from Dubhgall, toward the beast. Its head lifts and the boy and winged creature stare at each other. It is silent. Not a word spoken. The dràgon growls, a low snarl, and exhales with another hurting whine, sharp in Dubhgall’s ears. The boy sighs.

The dràgon glares at the men but ceases its struggle. The ropes slacken. The dragon does not move, warily eyeing the weapons pointed its way.

Without words or visible gestures, the boy has tamed the dràgon!

“You are our prisoner now, and we will bring you to our Rìgh. He shall decide your fate,” Dubhgall tells him. “If either you or the dràgon make a wrong move, we shall slay you. My men will now bind it and it will not resist. If you try to run, I shall slay it.”

“Ég skil,” the boy says quietly, not at all sounding like the fierce young man who before had glared at Dubhgall and his men so sharply; now, he seems utterly unbefitting the beautiful armour of dràgon-scales. That armour Dubhgall plans to remove later, when there is more time, and he will search through it and all of the satchels seemingly attached to the dràgon’s saddle. If the boy will not speak, his possessions will.

The boy’s green eyes glance back to the dràgon, and to Dubhgall’s surprise they shine with unshed tears.

The lads Dubhgall sent to the village return with two heavy iron chains, of which kind is better suited for anchoring large boats, and they had to pay many coppers for them. The villager who sold them doubted their story of a dràgon washed ashore. Dubhgall orders the men to throw one of the chains across the beast’s back, around its wings and under its belly, thus fastening them to its body so that it cannot fly away. The creature whines but remains docile enough. The Lochlannach—Dubhgall hadn’t bothered to ask for a name—worries uselessly against his bonds whenever the dràgon makes a sound, looking at it frettingly. And several times the dràgon meets his gaze as if it understands, somehow, what is asked of it. Some spell, it must be; a dark draoidheachd of the Lochlannaich. The second chain is wrapped around its snout in many directions and pulled back across its forehead to muzzle it.

And then they walk. The creature walks on all fours, almost slithering, but surprisingly slow and stiff. The Lochlannach boy is kept many paces in front of it, separated, both guarded by many men. The Lochlannach stumbles and after some time nearly falls, pale and tired. They have given him water but no food yet. 

Before, the men had spoken and sung merrily as they walked. Now they are deathly quiet.

When the boy does go down, dizzily, and refuses to get up again, the dràgon immediately reacts. It sways its body and lashes out with its tail, swiping three men off their feet. Dubhgall orders the procession to a halt. Pikes and knives are raised, drawn, pointed at the beast. A flurry of shouts and angry words and fear. The air is heady with it. Dubhgall turns his horse around from the point of the company and spurs it toward the dragon, but the horses are all nervous and reluctant to obey their riders. He digs his heels into its sides and the horse snorts and trots carefully forward, instinct telling it to flee from the dragon.

“Nei! Nei!” the Lochlannach cries out, still on the ground but he raises his bound hands as if trying to reach out to the dràgon. “Tannlaus! Tannlaus, ég er ekki sár, bara þreyttur.” Another moment of silence. The boy says, again, voice hoarse and weak, the word trailing off in a near-hiss as if part of the boy is a dragon himself: “Tannlausss.”

The dràgon tries to snarl, a growl building at the back of its throat but through the muzzle it cannot finish it. But it stills. It promptly lays down on its belly, feet curled underneath it, and its tail angrily twitching. But it makes no more threatening moves. The three men it had downed dazedly get to their feet and scramble away from the beast.

“We will rest for a while,” Dubhgall decides. “Give the prisoner some water and bread.”

“What … what about the dràgon?” someone asks.

“Leave it be, for now. Stand guard, but try not to provoke it.”

Dubhgall thinks he is beginning to understand. Somehow, the boy has tamed the dràgon and now it is loyal, and if its master is harmed it becomes unruly. Thus, to control the winged dragon, they must control the Lochlannach boy. The first step is to keep him alive.

The boy accepts both the water and the dry cakes of waybread, eating as if he has been starving for many days. Perhaps that is the case. They were washed ashore. Carried by winds? The storm? How long can a dràgon fly for, anyway, before it must set down to rest or eat? That latter thing is an issue which they must deal with sooner or later. Dubhgall is hesitant to feed or water it; that would require the muzzle to come off, and if they remove it, chances are it will use teeth or fire to kill or maim his men. But if the dràgon is anything like a living thing, it requires water and meat, surely. They do not have limitless supplies. How much do dragain eat? This one is fairly large.

Dubhgall calls two men to him: Muireach—who is a seasoned traveller—and Tiobaid—one of the younger ones, who is eager to learn and quick on his feet. “Muireach, you know the road to Dùn Barra well. Take two horses and ride ahead to the next village or farm. Prepare them for our coming, and tell them we will make camp outside of their boundaries.”

“We will do so,” Muireach says. “What do we say about the dràgon?”

“Tell them it is our prisoner and we have control of it, and we are bringing it as a gift to Rìgh Ildulb mac Causantín, of Clann Chinaeda meic Ailpín. Tell them that Dubhgall Macauselan sent you and we are thirty men, so that they do not startle.” Dubhgall considers his options. Hunting would cause a diversion from their path. A waste of time. He reaches for a pouch at his belt and hands Muireach three precious copper coins. “The beast will require meat to eat. Purchase whatever you may, sheep or chicken, that the farmers or villagers may part with.”

Tiobaid nods. Muireach promises to see it done. The two swiftly part from the company; it does not take long for the soft echo of hooves to fade and the riders to disappear beyond a grassy knoll.

The Lochlannach has now drunk and eaten and manages to get back on his feet. He casts many glances back at the dràgon as the men, having eaten and rested their feet as well, start preparing for departure again. Bridles and saddles are checked on the horses. Some of the men switch places so that new, unweary hands grip the ropes and chains binding the dràgon; five on each side of it, and four behind.

Dubhgall, with Iain translating, turns to their prisoner: “We will now walk the road for three or four hours. Remember what I said before, about trying to escape.”

The boy sighs, wryly, and says something in his tongue dripping with bitterness.

“He says he understands very well,” Iain says, paraphrasing. “But he says he might become tired, he is not used to walking.”

Of course. Most Lochlannaich travel by longship and this one sits atop of a dràgon. His legs must be thin and weak beneath that armour. “If you tire, we will place you on a horse or wagon, but not at first. I do not like the thought of your burdening my men or horses.”

A nod. “Ég mun ganga.”

After four hours, they reach a farmstead. Muireach and Tiobaid have done as asked, and the farmer greets them anxiously but also with curiosity; he wishes to see the dràgon with his own eyes. His family stay hidden in their roundhouse. The farmer directs the company to a grassy field south of his tilled land, where currently no sheep graze, and Dubhgall sees so that the dràgon is secure with the ropes and chains and laying on its belly again.

The Lochlannach stumbles toward the beast, close to collapsing again, body shaking after the effort. The boy is very pale and sweat is on his brow. But Dubhgall will not let him too close to the dràgon. He has two men guard the boy and orders him to sit. As soon as his knees fold and he touches the grass, the Lochlannach crumbles entierly and falls asleep. For now, Dubhgall allows it.

The farmer watches the company making camp, wide-eyed. Stares at the bound dràgon. “ It is real!”

“We said so,” young Tiobaid says.

The farmer is quiet for a moment. “A mighty gift for the Rìgh.” Then he goes with Tiobaid to fetch the meat for which they have paid.

The company eat again, and some lay down to rest wrapped in their cloaks. Dubhgall walks through the camp, speaking with his people to reassure them, to praise them for their work—they should be proud, for today they have done something extraordinary.

Today they have caught a dràgon!

Toothless’ blood boils with wrath. Hiccup is hurting! [Hiccup!] Hiccup has fallen asleep out of exhaustion so deep there are no dreams and he does not stir at the dragon’s call. And Toothless is scared for him. So far away! Should be under Toothless’ wing. Should be close! Would be safe there, protected, warm. Bad-people have not given Hiccup any soft-fur-hide or linen-blanket; the fur-piece fastened over Hiccup’s shoulders is still damp, cold, heavy-looking with seawater. Hiccup lays there in the grass with bound hands and surrounded on all sides by armed-bad-men with sharp-sticks in their hands.

At least the bad-people are afraid. Toothless can smell their sweat. 

To his frustration, they speak different-loud-tongue, not Viking-words, so Toothless cannot understand them. They have bound him with ropes, which he could break free of easily, and iron-chains-heavy which are harder; but if he tried, and ignored all pains in his aching limbs, Toothless could be free. Could be free!

But Hiccup had pleaded, said no, [will-hurt you if fight-back, too many! Please, Toothless!] and for now, they will play along. For now. Bad-men journey on foot and that is hard for Hiccup, not used to walking any longer distances. No island they have been to before has been this vast, and usually Toothless can fly for them, much quicker and easier; and when they must walk, Hiccup would usually sit on his back, resting there. But not now. Not now! Bad-people with sharp-sticks and steel-swords threaten to slay them both with metal weapons, and Hiccup is scared for Toothless’ safety. Even if the bad-men do not kill them, they could harm Toothlessly deeply, break or pierce wings, and Hiccup even more easily, human bodies so frail.

Toothless thinks he could manage to kill three or four of them swiftly enough with fire and teeth and claws, but they are many and he is tired, injured. Hurting deep-inside, rib-bones, though not so bad he cannot breathe. Not broken, Toothless hopes. Broken would be bad. Only-hurt-no-break heals faster than fully broken bones. But will heal. Takes time, but he will heal. 

[Hiccup!] he tries again, tail thumping and he wants to arch his back, but the bad-men with sharp-sticks point their feeble weapons at him whenever he moves. They want him to lie on his belly with feet underneath and not move. If not for the chain-muzzle, Toothless would have snarled and snapped at them.

A low growl settles in his throat. At least that noise he can make, and the scent of fear-scared-danger!-hostile flares sharply among the bad-people. Good. Should be scared. Should be scared of Toothless-and-Hiccup! Once he is stronger and Hiccup is stronger and they have opportunity, they will break free; and then the bad-people will know true fear. They have not even heard a proper dragon-roar yet! 

[Hiccup! Hiccup, wake-up!]

But he remains asleep. Toothless tries to join his dreams, but there is only a grey cloud floating on water and a new-sour-memory of lost-alone; no flock, no safety. They cannot communicate.

Time passes slowly. The bad-men eat and sit down and a campfire is lit, though the day is bright. Toothless is too angry and worried to look at the landscape, the rolling grass. There is hut-house-human-place and the wind carries with it the sound and smell of hiding-animals, fluffy sheep and chattering chickens, and their noises are scared. Can smell Toothless, but not know what the dragon is except dangerous predator. Toothless’ belly aches. Would like many, many fish. And Hiccup needs fish! Only got to eat some bread-flat-dry-untasty, and water. Water! Toothless needs water too. Could drink a whole lake!

Eventually the leader-of-bad-men, with broad shoulders and partially bald head, goes to Hiccup and shakes his shoulders to rouse him, barking at him. Toothless glares.

Leader-of-bad-men has a sword and a shield on his back and rides an animal which Toothless has never seen before, four-thin-legs with brown-coat, and there are a dozen of these with the bad-people. Some coats are grey, one is speckled, many brown; and they stomp and froth and whine, scared. Scared of Toothless. The bad-people handle them with rough hands and brindle and they bear saddles like Toothless, but when he reaches out with inner-voice there is no response. Maybe they cannot hear or are too scared. Cannot find out if riding-animals are like Hiccup-and-Toothless, riding-together with the men on their backs, or if they are unwilling thralls under bad-people command. If that is the case, perhaps new-animals will be happy and free once Toothless burns bad-people and bite their necks. Potential allyship, if the riding-animals weren’t so afraid.

Toothless commits the smell of leader-of-bad-men to memory. Is the one who points and tells orders to the others, the one who took away Hiccup, the one who makes the others put them in chains. Leader-of-bad-men shakes Hiccup’s shoulders again, harshly.

Hiccup blinks awake dazedly. [Hiccup!] Green eyes immediately look at Toothless. [Hiccup hurt?!]

[Tired], a slow thought, Hiccup still in that state between dreaming and wakefulness. He blinks several times. Leader-of-bad-men hauls him to his feet and speaks, and another bad-man with gray strands mixing with his dark hair speaks also. This time in Viking-words, though the speaking-manner is not as clear as Hiccup’s.

“If we take off the beast’s muzzle, can you control it? We will feed and water it, but only if none of my people are endangered by its fire."

Hiccup looks at him. Toothless’ eyes narrow. [Would-like to bring-harm to bad-evil-men! Claw, tooth, fire!]

[Toothless], Hiccup pleads. Scared for their safety, knowing that if they do not obey bad-people they will be harmed or killed. What if Hiccup is slain because Toothless would not listen? Cannot take that risk.

[Know, understand, know.] A sigh. [Bad-evil-men hurt Hiccup, take away Hiccup, take away flight! But must eat and drink. Toothless will not breathe-fire-flame.]

“Toothless won’t hurt anybody or use fire."

Bad-people then approach Toothless, full-of-fear; two of them carry meat in wood-buckets, and it is not fish. Toothless prefers fish but can, if needs must, sustain himself on other kinds. Two other bad-persons carry a larger wood-bucket-tub between them, and the water sloshes and spills over the edge. Leader-of-bad-people is the one to begin removing the chain-muzzle, which has grown tight and painful. Toothless holds himself still and eyes fixed on the man. Hate! Hate! Hate!

Murmurs and whispers among bad-people. Scared. “Duh-bhGghuh-ll,” one of them exclaims: “bidh-fahyjceallach!” The noises mean nothing to Toothless, but the first bit he has heard before, Duh-bhGghuh-ll, directed toward the leader-of-bad-men by the others. Is that its name, then?

Leader-of-bad-men and the one with grey-dark hair unwrap the muzzle and the chains fall to the ground heavily. The water-tub is placed before Toothless but he does not move. Many watchful eyes, many sharp-sticks are pointed at him. Hiccup is pushed forward, a shove in the shoulder. Closest since they were separated. His hands are still bound. Leader-of-bad-men grabs the wood-buckets of meat and places them on the ground.

He says something in the strange not-Viking language. Grey-dark hair says: “ Make it eat, quickly. We must move on soon.”

Hiccup takes one step forward. Another. When he is not immediately stopped, he walks up to Toothless and reaches out with his tied hands to lay on Toothless’ snout: comfort, safe, together-now, but still trouble, fearful, could-be-taken-away. [Toothless, you need to be strong-full-unthirsty, if we are going-to-be-able to escape-flee-fly.] He crouches down to tip out the contents of the wood-buckets onto the short grass.

Toothless lowers his snout and drinks. Water is all right but not as fresh-clear-cool as mountain-streams or melting-ice. He drinks deeply anyway, seemingly unable to stop himself. When was last time they had rest, water, food? The storm was long and then they fell. They fell and swam and struggled, and when the waves carried them to gravel-shore of new-land, they were both hurting and exhausted and unable to rise. Once he has drunk his full, Toothless sniffs at the offered food. Must check for poison! But smells no poison. Hiccup  has moved to the side to sit beside him; strokes his neck gentle, comforting, sharing thoughts without any of the bad-people hearing.

While muzzled Toothless had retracted his teeth, soft gums less painful with his snout forced together in such a manner. Whispers and gasps echo among the bad-people when he springs out his teeth to eat. The meat has been prepared by human-hands and human-knives, hide stripped away. The chicken, thin-bony-crunchy, disappears quickly. Toothless would normally eat with Hiccup, there would be a fire or Toothless would breathe a fire-stream for him to grill a fish, and eating alone does not feel good. Especially when surrounded by so many sharp-sticks and swords. But Toothless notices how they stare and squirm uncomfortably, and makes sure to slurp and lick his snout loudly and if the meat were bloodier he would have made sure to make it splatter every which way. Seems to scare bad-people. Reminder that Toothless is a dragon, wild-free, strong-proud, teeth sharp even if shorter than the fangs of a flame-self-at-will or sharp-spikes.

Hiccup almost, nearly smiles, a grim expression. [Toothless!] But it is not really chiding. [Are you bringing fear to the Skotar by being messy-loud-eater? On purpose? They're scared-of-teeth!]

[Yes.] Grim satisfation. [Skotar?]

[Yes, I think-so. People of Skotland.] Hiccup does not have his map, although Toothless still bears saddle and tailfin and all the satchels; the bad-people haven’t taken them yet or looted them. The saddle is uncomfortable and itches in some places; Toothless can feel the sea-salt left behind as the water has dried away in the morning sun, and some of the leather straps are beginning to dig into his sides where it aches deep-inside. Normally after a flight, whether long or short, Hiccup would always remove all the gear and scratch him, sometimes scrub him with a cloth. Toothless wishes they could do that, and that he could heat a rock to rest on with Hiccup under his wing. But bad-people (Skotar?) will not let them.

Likewise, Hiccup is still wearing dragon-scale-armour and underneath that, hidden in a chest-pocket of linen-cloth, is his journal. Toothless hopes it is intact, undamaged from the storm and frothing sea. Many runes and map-pieces there, and drawings; drawings of old-cave-nest and of all their flock. Every single dragon and egg: Hiccup has drawn and named them, an external memory outside of the mind. Would be very sad if lost.

Toothless whole body sags. Fear, sadness. Grief.

The storm. Separation. What happened to sharp-spikes Stormfly, and flame-self-at-will Hookfang? Hatchling still so young Clevertwist who considers Toothless-and-Hiccup her parents? To two-heads-one-body Barf-and-Belch, and little small-fires-puffs Fierce? Little one easily drowning in the sea. Good-loyal-friends, close-flock, now lost! Now lost!

A whine of mourning breaks free from his throat and lungs. Clevertwist! Stormfly! Hookfang! Barf-and-Belch! Fierce! Flock—now lost!

[Hope they-are-alive. Praying to old-golds], Hiccup whispers. Hiccup does not often pray these days, to old-Viking-gods, not really Viking anymore; but his faith has been part of him since tiny-hatchling-days, and in this case it brings him some degree of comfort. [Stormfly has flown through many wild-storms. Would lead them out safely! I hope. I hope.]

The leader-of-bad-men, Duh-bhGhuh-ll, says something; grey-dark-hair translates. “Is the dràgon ill?”

Hiccup shakes his head. “No.” Decides not to tell them about their flock, lost-in-storm. Could put them in danger by having the Skotar want to search for and capture them too, or kill them. No. Must not know of flock! “Not ill.”

“Does it require more food or water?”

[Good for-now. Belly aches, side aches, painful.] He shares, for a brief instant, the dull throbbing pain of bruised-or-broken ribs, and Hiccup bites back a gasp.

[Oh, Toothless!] Hiccup’s eyes shine. Smells of salty tears. [Wish I could remove saddle-gear, at least, more comfortable. Or use medicinals. Or do something!]  If Toothless were free he could have used his tongue and cooling-healing saliva on his side to soothe it. Hiccup could have boiled pain-fades-herbs in water to drink, or Toothless could have simply chewed them for some relief. But right now they can do none of these things.

Bound hands still at Toothless’ side, an anchor, Hiccup looks at Duh-bhGhuh-ll: “He’s not hungry anymore. Please—let me remove his saddle, at least for a moment, it’s uncomfortable for him. He’s in pain. Please.”

“Not now,” is the answer. "Stand up and step away from dràgon. We will muzzle it now. Remember, if it struggles, we will kill it."

Hiccup stands slowly, too slow for the bad-people who yank him away and Toothless frets, a warble: [Hiccup!]

[Toothless, it’s all-right! Heard what Skotar said. Please, Toothless. Please. Do-not-want Toothless hurt. Do-not-want Toothless dead.]

Reluctantly, Toothless obeys; retracts his teeth, closes his mouth. Duh-bhGuh-ll and two other Skotar lift the chain and replace it, as tight and uncomfortable as before, pulling it around and then back over Toothless’ head. His ears lay flat. The muzzle does not let him turn his head much in any direction. Trapped once more.

The Skotar force Hiccup further away. They are preparing to walk again.

Toothless’ blood boils; and he swears he will get them out of here, bear Hiccup to safety, and they shall be free. He will melt the iron and burn the ropes and Duh-bhGuh-ll shall very very very afraid. Maybe he shall live, maybe he shall not. It depends: if Hiccup-and-Toothless more hurt, if separation for too-long, then Toothless’ anger shall known no bounds. Hiccup is kind and merciful and gentle, but Toothless feels no need to be so. He will only cooperate as long as it means Hiccup is safe, relatively safe.

If Duh-bhGuh-ll ever lays hand on Hiccup, hurts Hiccup, Toothless will bite neck off!

Hate! hate! hate!

Hiccup loses track of the hours. He has to focus on simply putting one foot in front of the other, over and over and over. The path is at places mud and dirt, and at places old half-hidden cobblestone of old Roman make. He has heard of Romans, a vague memory of history lessons when he was younger (sitting in front of the hearth at his old house or the Mead Hall; Stoick impatient; Hiccup doodling runes and drawings of trolls and fairies and gnomes and dragons). The Skotar slowly loose, as time passes, some of their tension; fear is still there, a heady smell according to Toothless, but now there is pride. Pride, awe, a great sense of accomplishment.

The sun reaches its peak in the sky. Birds fly above.

The horses (at least, Hiccup thinks they are horses; he has never seen them before) trot along at a pace where the walking men can keep up. The animals are restless and nervous and a few have tried to bolt more than once. Scared of Toothless. His feet ache, his legs ache, and Toothless is in pain.

They do not stop until nightfall. They give Hiccup water while walking, but only once and his mouth is dry and his chest heavy. Oh, by the old gods, he cannot keep doing this! He can’t! His legs are about to fall off!

Finally, just as his limbs are about to give out, they stop. They let him sit down on a moss-covered rock at the side of the path. The leader of the Skotar, Dubhgall, Hiccup thinks (overhearing it whispered and spoken in a low-toned heated debate between the balding man and the greying one, the one who speaks the Viking tongue) orders a camp to be made. Some men gather firewood. They have reached an area of forest, small trees, grass behind them and the path is worn deep in a gulley. There is the faint trickle of a stream nearby; some men go that way to fetch water.

Hiccup feels tired and grimy and would like to wash his face, to drink, to strip out of his armour which is now sticking to his body with sweat. To wash it off too: mud and sea-salt have built up a layer atop of the scales.

Hunger claws at his insides: the bread only once offered wasn’t very filling and he and Toothless had already gone a day without eating. Despite their long, hard flight, Toothless always found fish and they would always eat well; the only time they struggled with hunger were the hardest months of winter. This time of year, they usually have no issue filling their bellies.

And he desperately needs to pass water. When the greying man passes him by, carrying a pack in one hand and pike in the other, Hiccup awkwardly blurts out: “I need to relieve myself. And could I have some water? Please?”

“I will ask Dubhgall,” the man says, confirming that, yes, that is the name of the leader of this company.

The company look to be outfitted for war: shields, pikes, swords. Hiccup has been too tired and worn and scared of the day’s events, too worried about Toothless, to really considers where they are or what these people may be doing. Or where they are going. They had mentioned … before … hadn’t they? Some place. A name. That they are going to … Rìgh? Is that a village or a person? Is there a war going on in this land? According to what Hiccup recalls, some of the people of this land or a nearby region were briefly ruled over by Eiríkr Haraldsson. Shortly before Toothless and Hiccup left Berk forever, news reached the village that Haraldsson had died in battle, and that his three sons are now bearing a strong grudge against the rebellious Skotar. The Skotar resist Viking rule and have proclaimed some king of their own, though Hiccup knows not the name. They have a different way of life and a different faith here; they do not believe in the old gods; and if there is conflict between Vikings and Skotar ongoing right now …

They are caught in the middle of it.

Hiccup had naively thought he and Toothless and their flock could fly over and past this land without trouble. That they could avoid villages and farms and crowded places, go unseen. Hide where there are woods and lakes, and keep journeying south in their search for any wild dragons, or trapped ones to free. Oh, how naive!

The greying man returns. “Follow me,” he says. He has a knife at his belt, Hiccup sees now, and he is not a strong warrior; he doesn’t think he could wrestle it from the man. Anyway, if he tried, he’d be killed by the other Skotar and then Toothless …

He casts a glance over his shoulder. Toothless’ gaze follows him apprehensively, reluctant to let him out of his sight. [Will-be-back!] Hiccup promises. [Must drink water. Will-be-back!]

Toothless huffs as well as he can through the muzzle. The Skotar have fastened the ropes and chains to several tree trunks in the vicinity to hold him down, but Hiccup knows that Toothless is strong enough to break free if only he could get the muzzle off. Then he could use fire, melt the chains with a fierce blast.

[Careful, hatchling-Hiccup.]

Hiccup is led down to the stream. The greying man still won’t unbind his hands, but does let him pass water in peace. Hiccup fumbles with the fastenings of the armour-leathers and linen beneath, fingers stiff and cold; his gloves and helmet have been taken, he thinks Dubhgall has them, and the ropes are cutting off his blood circulation. Digging into the skin. He is sure he will have marks around his wrists for days. Then he crouches by the stream to wash his hands, his face, and drink deeply. The water tastes fresh and clean, at least. Cold, but clean. Oh! He really would like to bathe. When was the last time properly washed? He does not have much of the hard soap-bar left which he acquired at Víkaby, now sitting somewhere at the bottom of a satchel.

Once done, the greying man leads him back to camp and orders him to sit down. “Please, let me take off Toothless’ saddle,” Hiccup says. “It’s uncomfortable and he’s in pain.”

The greying man (what is his name?) and Dubhgall confer about this for some moments. Hiccup waits patiently, staring at the ground. Thinking. They are in real trouble. What if they can’t find an opportunity to escape? He feels so week. His legs tremble after the day’s effort of walking, and he is so hungry, and Toothless will soon be hungry too.

Dubhgall approaches. Through the translator, he decides that Hiccup may remove the saddle and gear from the dragon’s back. The chain-muzzle remains but the ropes and other chains are temporarily lifted, and Toothless warbles in relief. Hiccup works swiftly while Dubhgall carefully watches: he places everything, including the tail-fin prosthesis, in a pile next to Toothless. He reaches for one of the satchels, but Dubhgall steps in.

“What are you doing?” the greying man asks.

“There is a cloth in that bag,” Hiccup says. “If I could have some water.”

“You mean to scrub it down like brushing a horse?”

“We flew a long way and Toothless is still covered in sea-salt.” Surely, the Skotar cannot be wholly unreasonable? Despite everything they have done. They are still alive, after all, which has to mean something. What, Hiccup does not yet guess. “He’ll be better and faster tomorrow,” he adds. He doesn’t mention Toothless’ injury; Dubhgall might already have noticed or guessed and not cared. Dragons heal swiftly if given the chance.

The Skotar relents. A bucket of water is brought from the stream and Hiccup dips the cloth, squeezing it. Dubhgall appears fascinated, observing every detail as he works. The other Skotar are much more apprehensive once the dragon has been partially freed. Toothless gratefully stretches his wings to their full length sideways and then upward, [much better!], nearly swiping some of the men off their feet. Hiccup ducks underneath gracefully and used to his friend’s movements. As swift as he can, yet savouring this brief moment of almost-normal-togetherness, Hiccup starts at the snout, working around the chains to clean Toothless’ scales. He takes care with the crevasses around his neck and behind the ears. Toothless purrs a little, but stops soon. Not a good-safe-place. So many Skotar with spears and knives. Hiccup works his way down the dragon’s body, removing the sea-salt and dirt as best he can. The clear water soon turns brown.

[Is that better?]

[Much, but painful-still inside. And wings very stiff.] Toothless flaps them a couple of times without lifting off, muscles sore from disuse; normally he would flap them many, many times every day. Leaves rustle and branches bend at the sudden force of the wind he creates, and this corner of the clearing isn’t large enough to accommodate the full wingspan. His left wingtip breaks off a few branches, startling the Skotar. He folds his wings again, annoyed.

Hiccup pats his neck. [Where is pain-most-worst?]

Toothless tries to twist himself and whines, the muzzle preventing him from tending to his injury by licking at it.

Dubhgall exclaims something sharply. “Keep the beast still,” the greying man says warningly.

Hiccup decides not to say He’s in pain, but rather: “He’s a dragon.” How can the Skotar expect him to—to control Toothless? Toothless listens to him now because he is clever and understands their peril. But he is a dragon, he is his own self, he is free. They fly together because if they did not Toothless would be stranded on the ground forever with a broken tailfin. Hiccup can speak with him and ask for things and Toothless decides whether to listen. The Skotar are lucky Toothless didn’t lash out at the beach with fire!

“Are you done?” Dubhgall asks impatiently via the translator.

Toothless grumbles. [Must be tied-up-again?] A furnace of hate! hate! hate! for the bad-evil-people who keep them separate and bound burns in his thoughts, echoing in Hiccup’s heart as well.

[I’m so sorry, Toothless, I’m sorry. This is all my fault. I’m sorry.]

[Not-fault! Storm took us, separation in-storm from flock not Hiccup’s fault!]

Hiccup cannot believe that, however sincere Toothless obviously is. He sighs and steps away as the Skotar again bind Toothless down with rope and chain.

“At the break of dawn we will leave again,” Dubhgall inform him, “and you will redress the dragon in the saddle. I suggest you sleep.” He says a foreign word, Lochlannach, which the greying man does not translate but says as-is. “We have no blankets to spare.”

“Then please let me take some from my pack.” Finally the short fur-cloak on his shoulders has dried, from wind and sun during the hours of walking, but it stinks of sea and needs a washing; he’d rather take it off and replace it. Thankfully, Dubhgall allows that, and Hiccup unrolls his spare (and only other) cloak from one of the satchels. It will make an all right blanket and tomorrow he can wear it; it may not be the deepest winter but the weather is still quite cold. He rolls up the other fur-cloak and stuffs it in the bag. He is relieved that none of his things have (yet) been looted or stolen.

He doubts the Skotar would have use for the saddle alone or the tailfin; the bags and satchels Hiccup is more worried about, but some of the things within could be replaced or made anew. Traded for or stolen, if they escape to find the rest of this land as hostile as this company. His most prized possession, his journal with all of the drawings of their flock (and Hiccup’s heart bleeds for them; he hopes they are alive!), sits safe against his chest in its hidden pocket. As long as he has his armour, he feels at least a little bit protected, though he lacks his gloves and helmet.

Dubhgall draws the line at sleeping under Toothless’ wing. Hiccup is forced to the other side of the camp, and some of the men go to sleep while others stay awake, guarding, watching. There is a tree to which Dubhgall fastens the rope around Hiccup’s wrists. He curls up on his side gripping the fur-cloak, knuckles white. One single campfire glows in the night. The sounds of this place are new and foreign and eeriely familiar to any island-forest: a bird (an owl?) hooting at a distance, rustling, whispering wind, the crackling fire, and he looks through it toward Toothless. The dragon’s head rests on his front paws and his tail is curled around him. Eyes thinly half-lidded, an expression of doubt and hostility and anger.

[Rest], Hiccup whispers.

[Maybe], Toothless answers, reluctant to sleep; what if something happens to Hiccup? What if something happens? Must stay awake and guard! Besides, Toothless can go for longer than a human without sleep and rests better in the daylight, unbothered by the sun. Night Furies live by night: they eat, they hunt, they fly, they explore.

[Will-need-strenght.] If they are to escape. If they are to escape at all, and find their lost flock.

[Yes. Will-need-strenght], Toothless confirms. [Hiccup-hatchling rest now. Toothless will wake-up Hiccup halfway-to-dawn. Then Toothless rest.] A compromise. This is not a safe place, and for one of them to remain awake and aware while the other rests is the safest option they have.

Surrounded by enemies on all sides, and separated from Toothless by what could as well have been an entire continent and an ocean, Hiccup uneasily falls asleep.

A familiar cliff rises in the horizon, with the sea a glimmering backdrop. For a moment as they crest a hill they can see it. The wooden structure atop of that cliff is surrounded by fortifications of mud and soil, the ground dug up and reshaped as a wall circling it. The fort consists of many buildings divided for different use. Stone has been used sparingly, mostly to the outer wall, some fathom high. Atop of the stone stands a second wall of wood, two fathoms tall, each rounded piece of timber ending in a sharply carved point. The biggest house sits atop of a knoll at the center of the cliff, and its straw roof shines like gold in the sun. The doors are closed. Flags flap in the wind. Scattered nearby is a collection of stone roundhouses, and smoke rises from several hearths.

It is still far away; the Dùn disappears from view when the company descends with the road down into another grassy valley where some trees grow, obscuring the view. But their hearts are uplifted.

For three days they have trekked with the Lochlannach prisoner and the dragon. In the middle of the second day, the prisoner collapsed yet again out of exhaustion. His legs must be weak: he must be so used to flying on dràgon-back that he can no longer walk. Dubhgall had then placed him, tightly bound, atop of one of their two horse-drawn carts with supplies. On the third day, the Lochlannach boy had been strong and rested enough to walk again. The dràgon has been no issue. They shot two wild hares with arrows to feed it on the second day, and sacrficed some of their own supplies on the third. Now the day is near its end.

Dubhgall again sends Muireach and Tiobaid ahead to give word of their coming. They must device a place and means to hold the beast. More chains, preferably.

He realizes that its cooperation depends entierly on its rider. Whenever the Lochlannach is down or appears injured or weak, the dràgon lashes out. When the Lochlannach is there to command it, it is shockingly docile. Well, perhaps docile is the wrong word. It growls and snarls and bares its teeth, which has the amazingly strange ability to retract completely into its gums. The dràgon is a paradoxical thing: tamed but wild, a threatening and imposing creature, a shadow waiting to pounce, but its round snout deceptively soft-looking when it is docile. Teeth that disappear and reappear at will! Dubhgall has not yet seen it breathe fire, nor does he wish to, not unless it is against enemies of the Albannaich.

A s long as they control the Lochlannach boy, the dràgon can be swayed.

Dubhgall is preparing himself to have a very long talk with the Rìgh, a prospect which makes him nervous. He has never met the Rìgh in person. Rìgh Ildulb mac Causantín may consider the whole idea foolish and propesterous, perhaps argue that a dead dràgon is better than a tamed one, and will demand its head for fear that the dràgon may burn down Dùn Barra and all within.

For that reason, Dubhgall orders another halt, letting the men rest briefly and drink water. The Lochlannach has learned by now to not go to the dràgon at once but to wait. The dràgon snarls low in its throat whenever Dubhgall gets too close to it or its rider.

“Lochlannach. Boy,” Dubhgall says. “We are nearly at Dùn Barra and there I will give you and the dràgon to Rìgh Ildulb mac Causantín. The fort is held by many men with more arms than my company, so surely it needs not be said that if the beast shows aggression it will be slain.”

“Við skiljum.”

Soon enough, Tiobaid returns at a galopp. “Dubhgall! Rìgh mac Caustantín sends greetings, but I am not sure how well he believed us. He asked us at lenght about our story and expects to speak with you, and the Lachlannach. They are preparing to recieve us at the Dùn now. I spoke as you asked, that they need chains to hold the dràgon.”

They quickly break camp and walk the last mile to Dùn Barra. Now, Dubhgall decides to place the prisoner atop of the dràgon’s back so that there is no doubt that the Lachlannach boy is its rider, and bound as it is there is no risk of it flying away. This does seem to make them both more at ease. Despite the bonds and the saddle and gear wearing it down, there is no doubt what the beast is. As they approach the fort, Dubhgall rides at the helm with the beast and prisoner right behind, head held high. 

There are guards at the door and atop of the wall. Theif faces are pale and eyes wide.

“Greetings! We are twenty-nine men armed for the defense of the Rìgh. I am Dubhgall Macauselan, and I bring a gift for the Rìgh: a tamed dràgon and its Lochlannach marcaiche dragain!”

“You are expected and have leave to enter,” one of the sentries answers, and the gates open.

The gates open, and Hiccup’s heart sinks like a stone thrown into a lake to the lakebed. It feels not unlike walking into the arena in Berk, into certain doom, but instead of a cheering crowd of Vikings expecting him to kill a dragon, there are countless enemies who could at any moment turn around and strike them down. The Skotar are many and all that he can see are armed in some way. The walls of stone and wood and mud rise and rise and rise around him and Toothless, the gates a giant maw about to swallow them whole.

A heavy lump is stuck in his throat. 

Toothless is also afraid.

Trapped by rope in the saddle Hiccup cannot properly place his foot in the stirrup-pedal, and Toothless’ wings are bound by chain. They can’t escape. Can’t fly. They hold onto each other in thought, [here-together, here-alive], and Hiccup’s heart races. What will happen now?

When Toothless hesitates to keep walking, the men tug at the ropes and chains.

The gates behind them with a heavy thud. Hiccup’s eyes blur and he has to blink rapidly, difficult to focus, to see properly. He feels dizzy.

What happens now?

Not even when sneaking into that village back in the Archipelago and freeing a newly-hatched Clevertwist from Viking clutches did Hiccup feel this afraid, so helpless, so utterly naked; many Skotar are openly staring. It is hard to breathe. He cannot speak, cannot make noise. Toothless has no choice but to follow where the Skotar lead him, and Hiccup stays on his back and wants to collapse. Forces himself to stay awake and his back rigid. He clutches the saddle-edge hard enough to leave marks from fingernails in the leather. He misses his gloves and helmet, but the leader of the Skotar took them three days ago; as trophies, maybe.

They stop. Hiccup cannot recall the road through the fortress-village, and his thoughts burrow deeper into those of Toothless’, for comfort, for safety, and the dragon holds onto him the only way he can. The stop lurches him out of those thoughts for a moment. They have reached the bottom of a knoll atop of which sits a grand house built from a wood frame with a curved roof, the walls filled-in with turf and clay as well as stone in some places. The roof straw roof is decorated with carved timber. Men with pikes guard its corners. The grand doors are open.

Hiccup barely feels the ropes around his legs loosening, not until he is wrenched from Toothless’ back.

A guttural growl. [Hiccup!]

[Toothless!]

He is forced to his knees, the sharp end of a spear threateningly at his back without piercing the armour. Hiccup has never tested it against pikes or swords; at such close range, a dragon can be killed and therefore his armour might be sundered. He had made it to easier blend against Toothless and to be fireproof; he did not think he would be this close to any human weapons.  His breaths are quick and sharp.

A stranger’s voice speaks, clear and loud, addressing all the Skotar who had followed behind the dragon and rider, the language incomprehensible to Hiccup and Toothless. Some words could be names: Dubhgall, the leader of the company, is mentioned or addressed once or twice.  Hiccup swallows hard and glances up. The man standing by the open doors is another Skotinn, with bright and wavy shoulder-lenght hair and a thin moustache. Dressed similarly to the other Skotar but perhaps his clothes are of finer make, not merely rough linen and wool but in places expensive and exotic silk, and his chainmail glimmers, newly polished. That, at least, Hiccup knows enough about to judge that it is of very good make, put together by a skilled blacksmith and armour-maker.

The stranger—the … Rìgh? this is the Skotar Chief?—looks at him and Toothless. There is much wonder and awe in his face.

Among the words, Hiccup hears the name Dubhgall again, and, after awhile, the word Lochlannach. From what he has managed to understand over the last three days, Lochlannach is him. Their word for a Viking. And, right now, their enemy and prisoner.

He wants to shout then: I am not Viking! We are dragons! We are dragons—we are lost and were caught in a storm, we are lost and we didn’t mean to come to this place!

But any sound is stuck in his throat.

The Rìgh steps down, closer, and every Skotar holds their breath.

“Viking-boy, rider of dragons,” the Rìgh says, and Hiccup startles. He knows the words. He understands! Either a spell has fallen over him, or the man is speaking his tongue! “You are the Lochlannach marcaiche dragain, are you not? Do you speak?”

Dubhball says something, an affirmative maybe, but the Rìgh holds up a hand. “Do you speak, Lochlannach marcaiche dragain?”

Hiccup swallows. Clears his throat weakly.

“Yes.” It is barely more than a whisper.

“And this dràgon is controlled by your commands? It is under your spell, I have been told.”

“No,” is easier to say, much easier. And boldness rises within him then, or perhaps it is Toothless lending him strength in thought and spirit: “He is a dragon. He is free and has his own will. We choose to fly together. There is no spell.”

The Rìgh nods. “I shall see if any of this is true with my own eyes, but later. You are now my guest. We have been told the dragon requires meat, so it shall be fed and watered.” The man turns to give some orders to the people at his side: some appear to be guards, others servants. He addresses Hiccup again. “You may stand.”

His limbs tremble, and he is slow to move. Dubhgall yanks him up by the elbow.

“Do you have a name, Lochlannach marcaiche dragain?”

It’s the first time since they arrived in Alba that anyone asked them that question. The Skotar only found out Toothless’ name after Hiccup cried out for him. “Hiccup.”

The Rìgh’s eyebrows raise, and there is a short guffaw of laughter somewhere nearby, possibly the old greying man who speaks the tongue and realizes the ridicilous meaning of the name, which quickly stills into tense silence.

“Hiccup—is that all?” the Rìgh asks. “Do you not have a father or Lochlannaich clan?”

Stoick the Vast and all of Berk do not miss Hiccup the Useless Runt, always annoying and in the way. He has never been so happy and free as with Toothless; his clan is the dragons, their flock; his family is Toothless.

The Rìgh waits expectantly for an answer.

“I have no father,” Hiccup decides to say. “And my only clan—” No; he will not mention the flock, any other dragons; cannot endanger them. Cannot risk it. Please be alive, please be safe, please. "—my family is Toothless the dragon.”

Chapter Text

xi.

Fangelsið

The Prison

The broken flock flies up and over the storm. The rain and noise confuses and disarrays, and Clevertwist tries to fly close to Hookfang, wingtips brushing the older dragon’s back or tail with each downstroke, and to Stormfly, who is trying to lead them. Her senses are good. She is strong-clever! Stormfly will show them a safe way out.

But they have lost sight and scent and sound of Hiccup-and-Toothless!

Waves and rain took them and now that the dragons are passing through the worst of the storm; but it is not fully over, and a sharp-loud clap of thunder and lightning causes Clevertwist to shriek and she nearly crashes into Hookfang. 

[Toothless-Hiccup!] Clevertwist shouts. She roars. Where? Where?!

Little Fierce, soaking wet with water dripping into his eyes and his wings drooping, clutches onto Barf-and-Belch tightly, tail wrapped around a neck so that he does not fall. Scared! Very scared! Biggest storm Fierce has ever flown in!

He joins in with Clevertwist’s cries: [Flock! Flock where?!]

Stormfly cannot hear or see them either, and Hookfang tries to blaze himself to give light, but he is too wet from rain and hail and his oiled scales refuse to ignite. He growls in frustration. And they are tired! They are all tired, have flown for long time and must find way out of storm to safe place to set down. But where?

Bit by bit, the rain lessens and the winds blow away the clouds, toward the coast of land to the west, which Hiccup-Toothless told them to be careful not to get too close; humans there, human-places, must avoid. And as the rain lessens and the dragons can more easily see, they look above and they look sideways and with great despair they look below, at the dark deep. The sea swells and froths and the waves are very high. Cold water! Not last long in there!

There is no glimpse of familiar scales.

The dragons roar and scream.

[Hiccup-Toothless! Flock!? Where?!]

To Hiccup’s surprise, he is invited to sit at the Rìgh’s table like a guest. The great house is somewhat like a Mead Hall, a center of assembly and business, and also a house where the Rìgh lives with his servants and guard. But even with his bonds removed, he is a prisoner. Hiccup is reluctant to part from Toothless, who is still chained so terribly. He asks to stay with him; to Hel with decorum and diplomacy, those things he learned to be aware of back in Berk; Hiccup must stay with Toothless! But the Rìgh insists, and there is an implicit threat of knives and sword and spears and arrows. If he won’t sit at the table, Toothless is in danger.

[Hiccup!]  Toothless is deeply unhappy even when the situation is clearly explained.

[Will-come-back!] Hiccup promises. Tries to promise.

“Please, don’t hurt him,” he asks the Skotar.

They say they will give Toothless food and water once Hiccup has shared a meal with the Rìgh and his family. [Will come-back with food], Hiccup says, [but Hiccup must-first eat with Skotar-Chief. Please be-careful, wait here.] 

Toothless acknowledges that with an angry huff. [Will-wait, but if Hiccup not-return Toothless will break-free and burn down human-place! All of it!]

The longhouse is dominated by a hearth and several tables placed around it; there is a great chair, reminding Hiccup of the one in the Mead Hall once again where the Chief would sit. So the Rìgh definitely is a Chief. The man has his own table. There is a woman at his side, his wife Hiccup guesses, with full round cheeks and long brown hair fastened in a thick braid, and there are two men perhaps ten to fifteen years older than Hiccup who both bear a strong resemblance to the Rìgh and the woman; their sons? If they speak or understand the Viking tongue, they do not show it.

The food, some kind of stew with chicken and roots, is served with strong ale. Hiccup barely eats and does not drink. He does not want to be here. He mostly sits there, silent, rigid-backed, and he realizes that he hasn’t even sat in a chair for over three years. Almost forgotten how it’s done. Eating food with dragons there is no need to be careful or to use any utensils; bare hands are fine, and Hiccup would usually wash his face and hands, an old habit from home. These people did not bring any water to wash in. Hiccup has no idea what day it is by the Viking calendar, and he does not know if the Skotar have a concept for Laugardar.

He misses Toothless. The flock. Freedom of flight.

He silently prays that Hookfang and Stormfly and the others are alive, that they found someplace safe to set down, a seastack or a hidden cove.

The conversation is mostly dominated by Rìgh Ildulb mac Causantín and his questions. Hiccup is flanked by two armed Skotar, Dubhgall being one of them and other unknown, someone from the Rìgh’s household he guesses. If he does not answer, he is reminded by the guards that he is a prisoner and this is only a falsely nice setting for an interrogation.

Hiccup has never been through one until now, apart from Dubhgall’s relentless questions. Berk has never held human prisoners, at least not as far as Hiccup is aware, and one does not interrogate captive dragons. But, he supposes, he is one now, a captive dragon who happens to be able to speak.

“Whence do you hail?” is the first question. “The Lochlannaich are spread out over so many places these days.”

And Hiccup sticks to his first answer even when the Rìgh asks the same thing twice more, in variation: “We’re from no Viking land. We’re free dragons and haven’t sworn loyalty to any Chief.”

“Your dràgon. I am very curious. How did you tame it?”

“He isn’t tamed,” Hiccup answers stiffly. But he offers: “I helped him when he was injured, and later he helped me.”

“So the key to taming a dràgon,” the Rìgh says, “is to care for it like a wounded animal?”

“No. Dragons can’t be tamed. They can be befriended. Toothless trusts me, has chosen to trust me, but he can change his mind. He is free to change his mind.”

“If it were to cast you out of its saddle like a bucking horse, you would simply let it fly away?”

Toothless cannot fly away without someone to control the tailfin. Guilt, so old and common these days, claws at Hiccup, and he tries not to let it show. It seems as if the Skotar have not fully comprehended yet what Toothless’ disability is and what it means. That might give them an edge. Somehow. If he could just figure out this puzzle and a means of escape!  The Skotar are many and armed. The chains must be broken. And Hiccup needs his helmet back. When he wears his armour and helmet and gloves, covered from head to toe in dragon-scale, he is fireproof; the saddle and satchels are after a coating of Toothless’ saliva. We could burn ourselves out? How?

And do we want to hurt all these people in the process?

So he simply says: “Yes.”

“It is a magnificent creature, but the Eileanan nan Lochlannaich borb is supposed to be full of wild dragons. Surely there are others like yourself, Hiccup de chinneadh nan Dragain, riding them to battle.” It is worded like a question but said like a statement. The Rìgh pauses to take a drink from his flagon. “I wish to know more about the dragons. We are reached by stories, but it has been many years a dragon was here last.”

And Hiccup has so much he could say. He could tell the Skotar about the wonders of the Archipelago, the hidden islands where there are no people but Terrors nest, and Gronckles eating stone for food and their fire slow and thick, and Nightmares who light themselves on fire. He could tell them about hand-raising a newborn hatchling with Toothless and teaching it to fly and he could tell them about flight itself, how it is to touch the clouds and see the shining aurora, to fly within it and have its colours dance on his face. To fly so high the air thins and their wings can no longer bear them, and as they plummet there is a hint of a world so vast, so large that it must continue beyond any known map.

He could tell them of the raids of villages like Berk and Thorpe and the Stoneflats, dragons driven by the lure-song of the Red-Death-Queen to steal and kill to feed Her neverending hunger. That so many dragons die needlessly to swords and axes because of one dragon hiding Herself in a dark-bad-nest within the fogs of Helheim’s Gate. That so many dragons are thralls to Her will and fly where She wishes, and if they could somehow free those dragon the world would be a different, freer, happier place for all. All dragons. All humans. Strife could end. Hiccup has to have hope that it could end! That there could be peace.

He could tell them all of these things.

But Hiccup doesn’t.

“Yes, there are dragons in the Archipelago,” he says. And adds: “Obviously.”

The Rìgh’s mouth twitches in amusement. Perhaps at Hiccup’s gall. All the others are very polite (Hiccup guesses, not understanding the words), and bow their heads or their backs and always addressing the Rìgh with reverence, as one would a highly-reputed Chief. But to Hiccup the man is a stranger and he doesn’t care about the politics of this land.

He just wants to be with Toothless and leave this miserable place.

One of the Rìgh’s sons speaks up then, having been listening. His accent is more gnarled than his father’s and the grammar a bit off. “Are we expected to believe that there are no more—no more Lachlannaich marcaichean dragain? That the next attack by Lachlannaich will not happen by the fire of dragain?!” He sounds very angry, nearly stands up, and he has tipped over a flagon. The ale spills over the table and drips onto the floor.

“Amlaíb, mo mhac,” the Rìgh says and lays a calming hand on the younger man’s arm. “Yes. A valid concern. Such an army would be powerful indeed.”

And Hiccup says: “No. There are no others.”

“Breug!” the son spits.

“Toothless trusts me.” Hiccup doesn’t mention the inner-voice, how dragons speak, that they think and feel and know so much more than these people could possibly understand. They will never understand, will they? Just like Vikings. Just like Berk. All humans are the same. “That kind of trust has to be earned, and I don’t know of anyone else who’s managed to earn that trust from a dragon.”

“Maybe,” the Rìgh says.

The son keeps glaring. The mother whispers something in his ear, quietly, and then the son stands up so quickly his chair nearly falls and he stomps away, outside. That must be incredibly rude and the Rìgh lets his son get away with it. Now, Hiccup knows that Stoick was considered a quite soft father; he did get away with a lot of things too, running away late at night to search for trolls in the woods, unfocused during his lessons, but doing that kind of thing with guests in the house would have earned him quite a yelling about responsibilities and diplomacy and decorum.

The meal is finished, finally. The Rìgh calls for one of the servants and speaks with him, then turns to Hiccup. “The dragon will now be fed.”

Like a spectacle, almost all of the people at Dùn Barra have come to watch the dragon eat. To think such a basic function could draw so many curious eyes!

Toothelss is impatient and angry. Very upset. His tail twitches and his claws dig into the soft ground, leaving deep marks in the mud. The procedure is the same as the three past days: surrounded by weapons and shields, Hiccup is allowed to approach Toothless and remove the muzzle. But this is the first time his hands aren’t tied. And instead of thirty armed men there are twice as many or more. Odd, the thought strikes him: only men. Hiccup can’t see any women or shieldmaidens. Berk has a lot of women warriors. Where are those of the Skotar? Aren’t their women allowed to even learn how to wield knife or axe? Women on Berk carry axes and hold the household keys. But does it even matter right now? Men or women; he and Toothless are surrounded by pikes.

This time the meat is not chicken or wild hares but actual fish. Toothless eats them much more willingly and happily than anything else previously offered, barely bothering to chew.

The Rìgh is watching. His eyes burn on Hiccup’s back.

[Not-worry. We will-find a way out, escape], he thinks and briefly presses his forehead to Toothless’ snout, between the closed eyes and he closes his too for a moment. To pretend. [We will escape.]

The moment does not last long. Skotar grab him by the shoulders and drag him away from Toothless, and Toothless snorts and growls and whines in displeasure and distress. The muzzle is put back on.

[I’m sorry.] Hiccup manages to cast one final glance, before the Skotar lead him away from the muddy courtyard where Toothless remains chained, past wooden huts with thatched roofs to one small, old building of stacked stone.

One of the Skotar speaks in the Viking tongue, slightly hesitant and the prononciation is garbled around the edges. "The Rìgh commands you rest in here," he tells Hiccup as he is shoved inside.

The door is closed with a creak and he hears a latch fall into place.

Trapped.

[Clevertwist], Hiccup thinks in despair, nearly falling to his knees on the dirt floor, [Hookfang, Stormfly ... Please be alive, please be alive, please be alive!]

They kept separate, the rest of that day and the next and the next, with the exception of one brief moment each morning when he is allowed to give Toothless food and water. Not nearly enough time for comfort. The only good news is that Toothless is slowly healing and the injury deep-inside hardly bothers him anymore. Hiccup’s cell is an old roundhouse of a kind he has heard of but rarely seen, the houses and huts built differently in the Archipelago. The packed dirt floor is cold and there is no window, only an unlit small hearth and a blanket. He paces and paces and paces to keep himself warm and occupied, trying to think of any angle, an idea, anything that could get them out of here. But he doesn’t want to bend to the demands of the Skotar and their Chief.

They want him and Toothless to obey them and fly for them and fight for them. But Hiccup and Toothless won’t. They are free dragons! They won’t swear loyalty to some Chief and his people and hurt others with claw and fire in the Rìgh’s wars. And they aren’t a Viking invasion force! Again and again, their captors demand to know: where are the Viking ships, the other dragons with riders, where and when will they strike? There are none! There are none, but the Rìgh refuses to believe Hiccup’s answers.

Dubhgall and two unintroduced Skotar ask Hiccup the same questions, over and over.

“When you ride the dràgon, how do you control where to go?”

Hiccup shakes his head. “I’ve already told you. I don’t control Toothless. We go where we want to go—where he wants to go.” If Toothless refuses, they will not fly. Simple as that. Why do the Skotar not understand?

This interrogation is more like the nightmares Hiccup has had during the three-day long walk. He sits on a chair. Not tied, but there are warriors everywhere and the man before him paces. The Rìgh must have other business for he has given the reigns, so to speak, to Dubhgall, who speaks to him through the greying man from before, whom Hiccup has now learned is named Iain. Iain relays the words back and forth quite dryly, without mimicing the anger or impatience on Dubhgall’s part or the calm, factual tone on Hiccup’s. At least he tries to be calm.

Calm.

[Toothless? Toothless?] He reaches out and theres is a vague, blurry answer. Awareness-Hiccup!-awake-lonely.

Toothless is mostly bored. Healing slowly. For three days they have been at this fort, Dùn Barra, and each day is the same. Once, in the morning, Hiccup takes off the muzzle and chains and Toothless gets to eat and for a moment stretch his wings; one of those times the Rìgh had watched as Hiccup brushed Toothless down with a cloth., the only time they had been allowed such a luxurious moment of comfort. The saddle and gear, including the tail, has been taken away, stored somewhere. Hiccup is very upset about that. Without the tailfin they cannot escape, and he hadn’t realized until then how attached he was to all of his things.

Worst of all, his armour has been taken from him. Sitting here in a thin linen tunic and breeches, he has never felt so cold and exposed and very much like a thin sixteen-year-old boy.

No tailfin, no armour.

No escape.

But they will find a way. They will find a way!

We have to.

Clevertwist, Fierce, Stormfly, and the others—we have to find them!

“The tail-device,” Dubhgall says. “It allows you to control it? To steer?”

“I help Toothless fly. We aid each other.”

And so the questions are repeated endlessly, and Hiccup gives the same answers which only angers the Skotinn more, and the days repeat.

He is given food and water and a wooden pallet to sleep on in the nights, hard and cold, but at least there are blankets. He wraps himself in them tightly and struggles to sleep. His mind reaches out for Toothless, and they share a half-lucid dream of flight through an aurora and up higher than the sky, to the firmament of stars where no man can breathe and no dragon can fly. But there is freedom in that shimmering place.

Freedom.

The Rìgh wants Hiccup and Toothless to fly and fight for him, to swear loyalty, to pledge themselves. He brings Hiccup before him in the longhouse, the hearth warm and glowing. Despite it, Hiccup shivers. Loneliness worse than anything.

“No father, no clan except a dràgon. I will offer you a safe place to shelter and clan-name.”

“No thank you.”

“I will give you gold.”

“Dragons have no use for gold,” Hiccup retorts.

“What do dragain have use for?” the Rìgh asks.

The answer is simple:

“Freedom.”

“Tell us about the Lochlannaich, those who sent you. How many longships? How many Lochlannaich? Where and when will they come ashore?”

“There is no one coming, we aren’t part of any invasion, no one sent us! No one sent us! Toothless and I were lost, there was a storm, we aren’t—”

The sudden blow to his face catches Hiccup off guard and the chair creaks as he moves with the swing. Pain blooms a second later, his face burning.

“Listen, Lochlannach boy, the Rìgh is impatient.”

Dubhgall is an unkind questioner and lately he has become more and more aggressive. The constant back-and-forth between this man’s wrathful demeanour and the calm confrontation of the Rìgh makes Hiccup dizzy. Some days it is either one. Some days it is both.

“If you will not ride the beast for the Rìgh and rain fire on our enemies, then one of us will, a true Albannach.”

That day, Hiccup does not feed Toothless. Is not allowed to. Not even to see him. He struggles then, bangs at the door and shouts and tries to run past the guard bringing him that minimal amount of food needed to sustain himself. But the Skotinn grabs his arm and harshly throws him back inside the stone hut, and Hiccup falls onto the floor and the door slams shut.

The Rìgh has decided that the dragon must be tamed by one of his own people, loyal and willing.

Hiccup doesn’t see it, trapped in a stone-room, arms wrapped around his knees. His cell is a stone round-house of ancient fashion, and the nights in here are cold. They only give a wax-candle for light but refuse to let him light the hearth, and without his gear or boots or Toothless, he is so cold, so cold. He has nightmares and cannot sleep through the nights; not without Toothless, without the warm shadow of his wing curled around him. He misses the flock terribly.

He prays everyday to Baldur and Þór, Óðinn and Freya, to please let them be alive someplace safe. To have found a way out of the storm or above it, and an island to shelter. And if the flock cannot find Toothless and Hiccup, how long will they search before they give up and reach the inevitable conclusion that they are lost? The flock would not want to give up, but eventually they would have to continue the journey, search for free dragons, or turn back to the Archipelago, to the safe-nest of three islands.

The safe-good nest feels like a faraway dream now. Hiccup thinks of it with a burning, aching heart, of Meatlug and Slowflow and their little hatchlings, of all the other dragons there. Safe, hopefully, and happy.

Oh, why did we ever leave?

This is the first morning they have been refused to see each other; what if they won’t give Toothless anything to eat? He can last longer than a human without food or water, but not forever. Hiccup paces the round cell and anxiously reaches out with his mind. [Toothless? Toothless? All-right? Hurt? Toothless?]

There are no words, only a haze of anger. [Hiccup!] a sensation-emotion-memory, flight-together they should be always-together, a great dismay that they are separate. Wrath that some stranger dares to climb onto his back and the Skotar unfamiliar-dangerous-hands reaching out to give fish. Not want fish from bad-people!

Then, at a distance, Hiccup hears the sudden blast-roar of Toothless’ fire and several screams. He runs to the guarded door, but it is locked and won’t move, and no matter how hard he kicks at it or yells no one answers. [Toothless!] “Toothless!” he shouts with all the voices that he possesses: “Toothless!” Fists banging uselessly at the door. [Toothless!]

[Hiccup!]

An angry shriek suddenly muffled.

[Toothless!]

Hiccup is dragged before the Rìgh and his sons and servants and soldiers; the Dùn is at an uproar. The fire had spread to two buildings before it was quenched. Toothless has been bound by many more chains. Hiccup kneels on the hard stone-floor of the Hall, and Rìgh is furious for the first time.

“The dràgon nearly burned down the Dùn.”

That was your own fault. Hiccup bites his own tongue to hold back the reply. He can sense Toothless, great discomfort and some pain; a slash from a sword or axe, sharp metal in one of his feet. Left hindleg, Hiccup thinks. They can share these things without sight. He feels the pain as if it were his own.

“Amlaíb tried to climb onto its back and was thrown off. We tried to feed it, and one of my men lost a hand.”

Toothless is a dragon. Do they not understand? A dragon who is angry, who is alone and separated from his flock, a dragon who is injured and trapped. And some stranger tried to climb onto his back? That person is lucky to be alive! They are lucky that only two houses burned partially and now the whole place! That a man lost only a hand!

“My patience is wearing thin. Swear fealty to me, to Alba, and you and the dràgon will fly again. You will be recognized then as Albannach.”

You separate us and hurt us! Hiccup wants to shout. And then he wants to weep, out of despair and hopelessness and anger, of pain of the heart as well as the body; their flock sundered, Toothless alone, so much pain, so much pain! Why did they ever leave the Archipelago? What did they ever hope to achieve?

“No,” he chokes. “No. We will not fight for you. For anyone!” And he does not want to fight against them either, though the echo of bloodlust that must be from Toothless burns in his lungs. Hiccup does not want to fight in any wars! No battle! No sides, no one but side of dragons and their freedom. He wants—he wants—he wants to go home; to find safe-family-dragons-flock, to find safe-good-nest-home—

Leaving the Archipelago was a mistake.

“Then you shall understand the cost of disobedience,” the Rìgh says. “I have seen the dràgon’s injured tail. Now you as its marcaiche dragain shall match; a fitting payment for the hand my servant lost.”

Hiccup ceases to breathe. He can’t mean—can’t mean to—

He thinks of Gobber the Belch, all of a sudden, two limbs lost in dragon raids of Berk. Hiccup had been very little, only six or seven, when it happened; and he had hid in the Mead Hall at the time with the other little ones, cowering and scared. Gobber was—remains—dear to him, and back then Gobber was more of a father than Stoick the Vast, kind and gentle and he’d tell stories and let Hiccup watch him work in the forge, telling him about the tools and making-process and how to smelt ore. His father was away at the time, so Hiccup had almost always been at Gobber’s side, whenever he wasn’t out in the woods. But that raid and the weeks after, Gobber was nowhere to be seen; and when little Hiccup had finally been allowed to see him at his bedside, Gothi was there and the room smelled of herb-potions and Gobber’s hand was a stump and so was one leg. Gobber was weak for days and weeks after and it took months or more to recover fully, or as full as he could.

Fitting payment?

No—        [Toothless!] he shouts, and feels the tightness of chains on his back and wings, feels the bleeding paw as they struggle against the bonds, [Toothless!]—

Skotar warriors grab Hiccup by the arms, hauling him up and away toward his doom, and the Rìgh watches the boy being dragged away grimly.

       [Hiccup!] a desperate cry, so much fear, so much fear; Toothless’ thoughts are Hiccup’s and Hiccup’s memories are Toothless’ and their fears are the same. [Hiccup!]

[HICCUP!]

Afterward, Hiccup cannot remember it happening.

Only vaguely: Toothless’ panic, [Hiccup! Hiccup!] their thoughts shared closely woven, a textile of fine thread inseparable; Toothless knowing-sensing-sharing what was about to occur, great-pain great-loss no! no! no! from a shared memory that is neither of theirs and at the same time both of theirs. Writhing and trying to get free but chain preventing them and Toothless throws himself against the wood-wall behind him, tearing apart ropes (fearful Skotar shouting and throwing more ropes and chains around the dragon). A struggle of hands and Hiccup does not know where he is; and then a great boom-crack-break of bones shattering—

He wakes up out of a fever-dream. 

He is lying in a bed of straw covered in linen and the blanket is undyed linen too, rough and irritating against his skin where it is bared, and he only wearing a nightshirt and no boots. Hiccup does not know where he is. The scents of candle-wax melting and herb-potions; and he is also lying on mud and trapped by chains and he does not where he is. Toothless is Hiccup and they are trapped, they are imprisoned by walls of stone and wood and chains of iron. His body is cold and sweat is on his brow. His scales are dirty and claws tipped with dried blood and ash, and their hindleg aches something fierce.

Unknown hands wipe at his face with a cool wet cloth and Hiccup-and-Toothless want to scream and flee.

A soft scraping hum, the voice of an elderly woman: “Gabh air do shocair, leanabh.”

The voice fades and returns. Intervals. Time is meaningless. He wakes and sleeps, body burning and mind dark, and he is trapped in the courtyard as a storm falls onto them from the sea. Harsh cold rain on their scales. Toothless-Hiccup is cold and lonely and hungry. They are burning, a fire from inside out, a fire, a fire.

Snow. Is it snow? It is so cold, it is so cold, blood and bones. 

The voice comes and goes. Speaking nonsense. “Tha thu sàbhailte.”

Humming. Singing? A song. A song, but they have never heard it, and the words are foreign. Each day (or night, is it night?) the song returns and the gnarled hands, and each day Hiccup-Toothless is a little more aware, a little more awake.

“Tha mi nam neach-slànachaidh. Tha thu sàbhailte. Caidil gu math.”

In a dream, Hiccup-and-Toothless are one dragon flying to the moon. Its smiling face greets them and the stars are not stars but the open fires of other dragons.

They are free! Free! Free! They fly together, without fear or pain, and their wings are great and strong and the world below insignificant. Their flock is there, all of them, happy: small-fires-puffs and flame-self-at-will Clevertwist who they raised as a hatchling newly broken out from her shell, and stone-eaters with little ones happily, and all the others. All of flock!

And many more dragons besides, some which they have not met but only remember from deep-old-memory of a before-time when Toothless was not caught by the lure-song of Red-Death. All the dragons of Red-Death bad-evil-nest are there, but there is no Red-Death nor a bad-nest. There is no such thing.  All free now, all free!

And they fly as one,

and the moon is smiling.

Chapter Text

xii.

Drekarnir Eru Að Koma

The Dragons Are Coming

Sunlight falls across the boy’s face. For the first time since he was brought to her care, it is relaxed and peaceful. 

The fevers after the amputation were grave and Deònaidh was unsure whether he would make it. His blood burned. The boy is thin but strong, a small thing but she envisions that he will end up quite tall once he finishes growing. She knows not his name or origin or age, but can guess. She is not ignorant. When Rìgh Ildulb mac Causantín came to her with the boy, his left ankle utterly shattered, and she saw the freckled face, she put all the pieces together. Every soul in or near Dùn Barra have heard of the dràgon and the Lochlannach. Deònaidh treated the man who lost a hand to its fire; the burns terrible; fevers had swept through that man too, and his heart failed. He has been buried and she prays that his soul will reach Heaven safely.

Hopefully, it is not too late for this boy.

Once the fevers pass, his strength returns surprisingly quickly. He stirs, confused and dazed. Before he even opens his eyes, he exhales sharply, an effort: “Tahhh ... nnllhssss ...” She cannot discern the word, if it is one.

It has been some time since she spoke the Lochlannaich language. “Hush, child," Deòndaidh says in that tongue: “You are safe.”

He tries to struggle free from the linens.

“Open your eyes, child. Do not panic. You are safe,” the old woman repeats.

The green eyes she only saw before when opening his eyelids to check on him; aware now, they blink at the sunlight and look at her in fear. Cannot form words at first. She is not surprised. She has tended to wounded men after battles with attacking Lochlannach and sometimes neighbouring tribes stirring up trouble. And some of those men would physically recover, to some degree, but have a wild madness in their gaze and babble as if grasped by the shoulders by angels; others would weep uncontrollably; other would sit rigid like this, stare and stare unspeaking, seeing ghosts. 

“It is all right. You are safe. I am Deòndaidh, and I have tended to your wounds.”

The boy shakes, a deer staring down the arrow-shaft of the hunter and unable to run.

“I am a healer. You are safe. What is your name, child?”

Trembling and swaying, the lad looks at her and at the room, the low-burning candles and the table filled with ingredients for potion-making, herbs against pain, folded pieces of cloth. To some her craft is doubtful; what would a woman know of these things? Witchcraft, even, to some men.

“Ttttoothless. Toothless!” The cry suddenly rises in pitch. He hugs himself and looks away.

What an odd name for a boy. But the Lochlannaich are strange; Deòndaidh once heard the rumour that they name their children hideous things to scare off gnomes and trolls. The boy does have a full set of teeth in remarkably good condition; another thing of the Lochlannaich, perhaps. Apparently they bathe on set days and she has seen many of them and must admit they comb their hair much better than many other men, with beards often braided. This child’s hair is unkempt since before he was brought to her, and she considers whether to bathe his face and hair and comb it for him; if it would make him feel more at ease. He seems confused and may not understand where he is, especially since she is speaking his tongue.

“Child. Toothless,” she says and the lad looks at her so sharply his neck must ache from the action. “You have suffered injury and fever. Stay in this bed and rest. Here, drink this water.”

He is distrustful at first, hesitating to take the flagon; he sniffs at it, curiously, grasping it with trembling hands. Then he sips. When realizing it is merely water, he drinks greedily.

“This,” Deòndaidh holds out a wooden cup, steaming at the surface, “is a tea for pain. It will help you greatly and give you good sleep.”

The boy hesitates again, sniffing and grimacing a little; then recognition of some sort, or understanding, comes to his eyes, and he drinks the concoction, and lets her take the cup away. She places them on the table, then sits down on the chair next to the bed. She waits for him to realize, but it seems he is lost in thought. He stares at the wall; he sinks back onto the mattress again, and his eyes are glazed and far-away. Slowly the lids slide shut.

Deòndaidh sighs. “Sleep well, child.”

Next time he wakes, the boy is ravenously hungry. She gives him bread softened in hot water and more herbal tea. He is awake for a little longer time and more coherent.

“Where ...?”

“You are in my house in the village outside of Dùn Barra,” Deòndaidh explains, repeating her name. “I am the healer here.”

“Dùn,” he echoes. A shadow falls over his face. And he shudders and grasps at the blankets and finally, realization: he stills. He looks down at himself, his legs hidden by the blanket, but he has understood.

“Yes. I’m sorry, child, but I could not save the foot,” Deòndaidh says softly. “You will have to learn anew how to walk.”

“Toothless,” the boy whispers, and “flight?” and “no. no!” turning into a sob, brokenly. The tears begin and he cannot stop them. Letting them flow. Deòndaidh lets him, sitting next to him, listening to the wails as they change into sounds that are more animalistic than human, low-throated moans and hissing inhales.

Today she will let him grieve and heal. And tomorrow she will see whether he has accepted his new reality and show him how to change his bandages and the poultice beneath, and to clean with water, and in time how to walk with the support of a stick. In time, once the stump has healed more, it might be possible to outfit him with a peg of some kind.

But not today.

She lets him weep, and once there are no more tears, she lets him sleep.

Deòndaidh sings an old song as she cleans the wound and places a new poultice of herbs there and wraps the bandages. The Lochlannach boy is very silent and still and his gaze far-away. But he looks stronger; his skin has cleared, and his eyes gleam with awareness. He is awake, but at the moment he wanders through some dreamscape out of reach.

He eats what is offered and drinks the herb-broths. He sleeps for long pieces of time. The boy speaks very rarely, one-odd words which make little sense.

If sudden inflammation or fever doesn’t strike, he will be strong enough to leave this bed within a few days, for short moments. Deòndaidh has spoken with a carpenter of the village here at the Dùn and taken measurements with string; in a few days, the peg and the staff will be ready.

“No flight,” the boy mourns when Deòndaidh urges him to sit and then stand, leaning on his good leg and the walking-stick.

Deòndaidh has not seen the dràgon but wonders now if it would impossible for the Lochlannach boy to sit in the rumoured saddle without his left foot. The rider of a horse would need both limbs to direct it, though with this injury, the leg severed below the knee, adaptions could be made. But how it is for dragain?

She wonders. But she does not ask. It is not her place. Her focus is on her patient, Lochlannach or no.

“Walk a few paces. I will catch you if you fall.”

Determination comes to the boy then, and he hop-steps forward. Uncertainty and fear replaced but grim relentlessness, a refusal to give up. He grimaces in pain but makes little sound other than sharp silent breaths and a soft grunt the first time he bears weight on the staff. The knee of his injured leg bends as if trying to move and set down a foot, but there is only air.

The boy moves, slow and certain. He doesn’t fall.

Rìgh Ildulb calls the healer to his Hall. “Is the Lochlannach recovering?” he asks.

“Yes, Rìgh, slowly,” Deòndaidh answers. “His injury was great and his fever long. He may yet weaken suddenly or die. But he has begun to walk again."

“Return to me every day at this hour and tell me how he fares.”

“Yes, Rìgh.”

The next day, the carpenter has comes to her with the peg. She checks it will fit and be of the correct length; it is. The boy sits unmoving and stiff but lets Deòndaidh put it on for him, using fine rope and a leather strap to secure it. The stump is scarred but there is no red swelling or leaking blood or pus. Deòndaidh thanks God it has healed so well.

Each day, the boy walks across the smooth dirt floor of the small hut, regaining balance and strength and gait. He quickly learns how to place and remove the peg himself, and his fingers are nimble and hands certain.

He still rarely speaks.

Deòndaidh reports to the Rìgh that the boy is recovering and he tells her to prepare the boy to meet him tomorrow, to be brought to the Hall. She returns to her hut that night to find the boy sitting on the bed, his gaze fixed on a candle she had left burning, watching the flames dance unblinkingly. She brings water and cloth for him to wash with and a comb for his hair. He moves silently and quite gracefully, and only his leg is stiff. He cleans his face and body as well as he can; he does not speak.

“Tomorrow morning, Rìgh Ildulb will call for you and you will be taken to his house,” Deòndaidh explains, watching the boy drag a hand over his newly-washed face. The cheeks are mostly smooth, only the barest hint of facial hair beneath the freckles. So young, still. The hand traces his cheekbones and his nose and over his eyes, as if he has forgotten the shape of his face.  Then he reaches for his hair. He wets it and combs it without asking for a mirror-glass or polished silver-plate; not that Deòndaidh has such an expensive thing to offer. The boy styles his hair out of his eyes with braids, and looks around for any clasps or ties. She hands him some string.

The Lochlannach looks at her then, addressing her for the first time.

“Thank you,” softly.

Then he rolls himself up in the blanket, and sleeps.

The flock is lost.

They search and search and search. The vast sea is cold and deep and dark, and they must set down; so they fly toward that land which Hiccup-Toothless had named Skotland, Viking-runes on parchment-map. They rest on a cliff and eat morosely, and Fierce wants to lie down there forever. Flock broken. Flock broken! Hiccup-and-Toothless dead, gone, no trace! Could be dead forever without burial-place in good-ground. Clevertwist mourns also and refuses to eat. But they cannot abandon Fierce to die in deep-sorrow, so Stormfly carries him in her claws carefully as they fly on. Searching. Searching. Looking. 

For countless days, they search. The nights pass and the land is unfamiliar below them. 

They cry out together, a call of inner-voice and of loud roar to all ears:

[Hiccup! Toothless! Where?!]

Hookfang despairs. [Flock lost!] He has failed his duty to protect-flock, stay-with-flock-forever. The rain and winds took Hiccup-and-Toothless. Has the waters swallowed them? Are they gone in the far-deep, without a bury-place in good-ground? No way to search all of sea. It is too large and changing.

Clevertwist flies in desperate circles, though not out of sight of the others. [Hiccup-Toothless!] she shouts. Hunger gnaws at her but she ignores it.

Barf-and-Belch look in two different directions at once. [Flock where?! Flock!] one voice, and the other: [Toothless! Hiccup!]

They follow the jagged coastline, rock and grass. There is a human-place below them, and the humans scream at the sight of the dragons, but the dragons fly over them, past. They are not here to burn or steal; the humans are of no consequence.

Searching. Calling out. Try to find any trace, any scent-trail, anything! Anything!

[Hiccup-and-Toothess!] Stormfly shouts.

The flock find nothing for many days, and they grieve, and they consider flying north again. Long-flight. Long-flight will be lonely and hard without Toothless-and-Hiccup, who had promised to return to cliffside-nest at three-islands once they had found more dragons or at least found out if there are any more at all in the great wide world. World large below-south, Hiccup had said, and Toothless had explained the maps and stories Hiccup carries with him. What-if more dragons? What-if more unseen-blasts-from-darkness? Others have blood-kin but Toothless is alone. What if hidden nests where there are many dragons to greet? Would be wonderful news to bring back to flock.

If they turn back now, they can only bring sorrow to the rest of their flock. Hiccup-Toothless lost!

So they continue. They search. They fly. They pass by human-places but there is no sign of Hiccup or Toothless. For many days they fly, often turning, changing direction when their search yields no result. East, south, north, west, all ways. Along the coast guessing that if Hiccup-Toothless made it to land, washed ashore, they must stay near water-edge to be found.

The dragons keep flying.

Humans run screaming before them.

Hiccup-and-Toothless struggle to tell each other apart. But do they even need to?

The following days are a blur: they are chained, they are in a bed. They are in a courtyard of mud surrounded by armed Skotar, they are in a stone-walled room with a constant cold draft. There is an old woman gnarled-hands and she speaks Viking-words, but this is unsafe-enemy-place, the Skotar who have hurt them so badly. Skotar with shields-spears-swords-knives-hammers. Confusion. Great confusion. Hiccup-and-Toothless bear the pain together of a stump where a foot should be, and Deòndaidh-old-woman tends to them with gentle patience, and she calls them Toothless, and Hiccup-and-Toothless cannot correct her. Does it even need correction?

Fly-together. Together-always. Dragon-as-one. Toothless-and-Hiccup-dragon.

(two-hearts-that-fly-as-one)

But the leg! the leg! needs foot for pedal-tailfin-control to fly, and the saddle and tail are gone, they know not where. It has been taken. It has been taken! Stolen.

And as they slowly regain strength, they regain memory, and they regain resolve to take back what is theirs: wings, flight, freedom.

And wrath burns in their heart and their lungs and in their inner fire.

They will escape.

Together-as-one.

The dràgon is miserable.

The creature had been so angry and violent when the boy was dragged off, that Rìgh Ildulb was surprised; it was out of sight, and yet the men say the beast tried to break free and threw itself against the walls of the courtyard where is is chained at the same moments that the boy’s punishment was dealt. The dràgon had snapped ropes clean off and if not for the sturdier chains, it would have freed itself with wrath alone. It had nearly crushed a man and taken down another with its tail, so that the man fell and broke his wrist and bruised his face badly.

And now it is still. It refuses to eat or drink even when these things are laid before it. Dubhgall bravely offers to remove the muzzle, but yet the creature did not eat.

For five days, it does not eat or move, Dragons must be made of very stern stuff, for while weakened it remains awake and alive while many animals without water for so long would have fainted or died. Sleeping rarely, mostly in the day. At night, it is awake. Its pale eyes like moonlight; Ildulb watches it from the porch of his longhouse situated above the courtyard.

He watches it, and waits.

On the sixth day, the same morning at the same hour as the boy wakes up, the dràgon stirs. It begins to make sounds: groans and wails, muffled and weak, but yet terrible and haunting.

It does accept food and water this time. No man loses limbs, no fire is breathed and no jaws snapping, but the men are uneasy and afraid.

In this weakened state, Ildulb decides to try again; and his eldest son Cuilén awkwardly climbs onto the dràgon’s chained back. Cuilén might be able to learn to ride it, in time. The dràgon tries to buck but is weakened from its days of grief—if it was grief making it refuse to eat—to put up a real fight, and the chains prevent it from moving too much. But Cuilén is highly nervous of it and does not gloat and dismounts swiftly.

Ildulb commands his son to do this once every day until the dragon is tame under his hand.

Ildulb orders all of the things and gear taken from the dràgon and rider to be brought to him as he sits in the longhouse before the hearth. The saddle is of excellent make, each detail so fine and the leathers well-treated with wax, but there are some scuffs and marks indicating years of use. There are not one but three slightly different tail-pieces, devices complex mechanisms of wire and leather. The satchels contain day-to-day things which are useful: wax, dried meat now gone bad, a soap-block that has been carved into and worn down to only a small piece, a bone-toothed comb, coils of thread of both wool-yarn and of leather. 

The armour is a work of art. The scales the same as the dragon’s; plucked from it, perfectly blending against it all the way down to the cobbled boots which are covered in dragon-scale too albeit the soles are heavily worn. Is that, Ildulb wonders, how all Lochlannaich marcaichean dragain are outfitted? Armours made of the same dragain which they ride? 

Again, made by someone with skilled hands and a skilled mind; the boy himself? Before, he would have doubted such a statement, but every answer the boy has given has been the same: that he and the dragon are alone. No father, no clan. No master, no Chieftain. The boy is so young! He cannot be much older than seventeen; almost a man. The armour and helmet have been made to the youth’s slight fit but in many pieces, so that it could be extended if he grows. Quite ingenious. Ildulb finds himself burning with envy and shall have something similar made, if he can. It would almost be a pity to take this one apart to make a new armour fit for a Rìgh.

There is a collection of what appears to be charcoal pens, three different ones, and there is the journal-book which was taken with the armour, hidden in a pocket in the boy’s clothes. The Rìgh is astounded at its discovery; this means the Lochlannach boy is educated, able to read and write. Skilled of hand if he truly made the saddle and all gear on his own; even just adapting a horse’s saddle would be difficult work requiring expert hands. So the Lochlannach is trained in many things, a bright young mind. It is a grave pity that he was born Lochlannach. Ildulb would not have minded such a son, with a mind curious and eager for knowledge. Alas, it is not so. And the Lochlannach refuses to cooperate. The journal is accompanied by loose parchments, an expensive ware, carefully rolled up in one of the satchels: maps, drawings. Ildulb leafs through the pages, fascinated. He handles the spoken language but the runes are difficult to read, especially when the hand sometimes is slow and careful, other places quick scribbles. The first drawings are messy. A partial map of an island, heavily smudged. But with time, they grow finer, more detailed.

And then Ildulb cannot hold back a gasp of wonder. Drawings—of dragons. More dragons!

The boy had lied about that; to hide them, no doubt.

All kinds of shapes and sizes. He reads the runes accompanying some of the drawings: Stormfluga, a dragon with a round head, thick legs, folded wings, a long tail with many spikes. Eldheitur, smaller with a row of spikes all the way down its head to the tip of its tail, and in the drawing it is flying and seen from above. Krókatanga, and if he interprets the sketch correctly the dragon itself is surrounded by flames, on fire by the scales. Is that even possible? Are there dragons whose hide can carry fire themselves without perishing?

None of the dragons in the drawings bear saddle nor bridle, no Lochlannaich on their backs.

Eventually, Ildulb finds a depiction of the very dràgon in their holding. The beginning of the journal holds several different ones; this one shows it sleeping on a rock, tail curled up. The name: Tannlaus, hastily scribbled. And the briefest of descriptions below the drawing:

Næturreiði. Gæti mögulega verið sú síðasta sinnar tegundar.

Næturreiði? Night-wrath. Anger of the night. Fury of the night? Fearg na h-oidhche. Is that then the name for its kind, its sort? The name Toothless seems too personal and affectionate for that; an individual name; but the dràgon-sort is called a Night-fury, then. And it may be the last of its kind.

These runes imply that there are so many different kinds of dragons the Lochlannaich have seen and named many of them; that dragons of different shape and scale have other names. Night-fury and Storm-fly and Crooked-tooth.

What else lurks out there in the far cold north?

And then they pick up the scent-trail; many, many days old and very faded, but together they sense it. The dragons dive down into a clearing in the trees near a stream with water, which they drink out of to keep up their strength; while Clevertwist drinks she refuses to eat. Too much sorrow. They do not linger on the ground for long, only to rest their wings briefly and quench their thirst.

And there, it is Clevertwist who first finds black scales in the grass-mud-path. Scattered few. Toothless’ scent. The mud has other old tracks too, small feet not-dragon, and smells of many humans, strangers; the scents are angry and scared.

[Toothless-Hiccup!] she shouts. [Hiccup-Toothless!]

But there is no answer. Not yet.

Not yet.

The dragons pick up the pace; there is trace, this is Toothless’ scale or could be from Hiccup’s scale-armour. They have direction, they have path to follow. The dragons leap into the air, uncaring of any humans who may see or hear them, and they do not care that there is man on horseback frantically riding the winding road beneath them.

Now there is hope!

Toothless-and-Hiccup wake from another storming dream to voices. Familiar. Kind-good, safe-flock, gentle-friends, safety. The cries are at first faint, a memory of a memory, but steadily they grow closer.

The dragon, chained in the courtyard, raises its head. The boy, in his bed, suddenly sits up.

And they know those voices. They know!

Together, they cry out: [Toothless-Hiccup here!], a beacon to lead the flock to them. Now is chance! Now is chance of escape! Together!

A lone rider arrives that night at Dùn Barra, and he is pale and the horse exhausted from its gallop for he has ridden for hours without pause. He demands to see the Rìgh at once, bearing horrible news from the western coast. The guards at the wall eye him with suspicion, but eventually let him in when he tells them the dire news. He is led to the great house of the Rìgh at a running pace and the doors open.

The Rìgh is sitting before the hearth on his great chair with a book in his lap.

“Rìgh! Rìgh! Dire news! There are dragain, there are dragain flying from village to village!”

The Rìgh closes the book. “Dragain? How many? Whence from and where are they headed?”

“I know not where they came from, the sea, maybe,” the messenger says fearfully and voice trembling. “There are many, half a dozen or more, and one is made of flame itself! They are flying along the coast. They are coming!”

Panic breaks out at Dùn Barra. Dragain are coming! A hundred men rush to fortify the walls with pike and shield, and the villagers are ordered to abandon their huts and to seek shelter within the Dùn. A scramble of activity sweeps through them all. Mothers clutch their children to their breast and there is panic, fear, confusion. Many did not believe dragons were real, a thing of a distant past before people built houses in this land, at least until a chained one was brought to the Dùn. There is little time to prepare. The dragons fly very fast, according to the messenger, faster than a horse; he only overtook them because the dragon’s path veered, briefly, out of sight. They have flown in many directions, past several settlements, but now they are headed for Dùn Barra.

In the center courtyard of the Dùn, the chained Night Fury stirs. It lifts its head toward the sky and tries to roar, but the chains around its muzzle will not allow it. The Lochlannach prisoner moves from his bed to stand by the small square window of the healer’s stone-hut, staring out at the setting sun but not truly seeing; seeing with the dragon’s eyes.

And the people do not hear them cry out with their combined inner-voice, signalling, calling for help.

Deònaidh frets as she collects her precious herbs and medicinals and packs them hurriedly. Outside of her hut people are shouting, screaming, running. The Rìgh has commanded them to shelter inside of the walls of the Dùn.

Her patient, on the other hand, is calm. He stands quietly by the window, arms relaxed at his sides, and his gaze is faraway again. He could be caught in the throes of unpleasant memory which chills the blood and forces the body to be still, except there is no tension in his shoulders. The threat of dragain does not seem to frighten him.

She urges him to stand, to walk. Makes sure he has his peg and that a blanket over his thin shoulders; he lacks substantial clothing and his boots have been taken away; she thinks she saw them with all the strange gear at the Rìgh’s house. Among that gear, she thought she had the glimpse of a leather saddle. So the rumour is true? The chained beast and this Lochlannach boy did come here together?

“Child, it is time to go. We must hurry to shelter. Dragons are coming!”

And then he looks at her, losing that faraway dream for a moment, clarity and peace in his gaze. And he says, calmly, softly, as if this fact is good:

“Yes. Dragons are coming.”

Chapter Text

xiii.

Næturreiði

Night Fury

Hiccup-and-Toothless do not need to tell each other apart; they fly-as-one, two-hearts-together beating steadily. They hear the faint call-cry of their flock and rejoice. Flock! Alive! Safe! Flock is coming! Rescue! Together they reach out with one strong inner voice:

[TOOTHLESS-HICCUP HERE.]

And the flock is coming closer, closer, closer. Almost hear-all! Almost see-all!

Hiccup-and-Toothless cry out, joyful, but worried. Dangerous! Dangerous bad-place (DÙN) full of bad-people-hurtful; and they give warning in thought before the dragons can come within arrow-shot of the walled fort: [Many many evil-Vikings, many spears, careful! Watch out!] and they shout that they are injured and separate in body, that they are lost, that Hiccup needs help to fly Toothless.

Fly.

Tailfin. Saddle. Must find! Must reclaim!

[HICCUP-TOOTHLESS HERE.]

The people of the Dùn know the dragons are coming. They are very scared. Toothless-and-Hiccup smell their sweat and panic, and there is much noise and footsteps and voices. Shelter-seeking but this nest is bad-place, this human-nest is weak. Walls of wood. Easy to burn!

Only-kind-soul here at this place: gnarled-woman who healed them and gave food and helped them walk again, Deòndaidh. She is fearful too and she walks with Hiccup out of stone-hut where he has been forced to shelter for so many days, drinking hot-broth dulling-pain and giving deep-sleep. The ground of mud is slippery but she does not let him fall, a hand on his shoulder and elbow. Quickly they are overtaken and lost in a throng of scared people with blankets slung over their shoulders and crying little ones in their arms and many, many armed-men with speak-pike and short-sword and flat-shield.

Hiccup looks up and sees the gold-gleaming thatched roof of the Hall; the house of evil-Rìgh who separated them and hurt them. Kind-gentle (not-enemy, only not-enemy at evil DÙN) Deòndaidh urges them onward through open wood-gates and there! so close! can almost see with eyes! almost! almost! 

[Toothless!]—[Hiccup!] so close, and Hiccup needs to be with Toothless, Toothless needs to be with Hiccup. Together-always.

[HERE!]

The cry is heard and responded to: [Flock coming-near! Soon! Soon! Rescue! Near!] and it might be one dragon or it might be all of their flock shouting at once.

Hiccup breaks free from the gnarled-woman’s gentle guiding hold, and he runs. He runs. His stump-leg hurts fiercely every time he puts pressure on it, but he cannot care that the scars break or bleed. [Toothless!]

Toothless lends him strength and fury.

He ignores Deòndaidh’s cry in the strange-tongue and he ducks below an angry-armed-man’s outstretched hands. He slips and his hands are muddy and he draws himself back up; runs, runs, runs, faster what should be possible for someone with his still-recent injury.

Toothless takes some of the pain away.

Hiccup reaches the trapped dragon’s side and he tugs at the chain-muzzle; uselessly at first, they are heavy and fastened tight. The ropes have many knots. His hands slip. No! no! must free! must escape!

Angry-armed-men approach from all sides, with pike and spear, yelling Skotar-words unintelligible. And Hiccup stands in front of Toothless with a determination that will not fail; and the men see a boy with a feral face with the growl of a dragon coming from his throat. He doesn’t speak; he snarls at them. They will not touch Toothless! They will not touch Toothless without first having to go through Hiccup!

Fly-together.

Live-together.

Die-together.

A horn is blown, its tone long and wailing. Rìgh Ildulb walks out of his grand house and stands on its porch of stone, staring at the sky in the direction of the sunset; the clouds hang ominously low and the sky will soon be painted in red and gold, but the Rìgh knows this will not be a peaceful night. He has armed men stand on the wall and below and all around, and curses now that he lacks archers; only a dozen or fewer, so few, too few.

Out of the clouds: shadows. At first glance, they could have been an assortment of large birds.

But they are no birds.

The horn blows again. The cast iron bell of the Dùn’s wooden chapel rings wildly.

“Dragain! They are come!” the Rìgh shouts. “Be ready! Defend yourselves and the Dùn!”

And for the first time since the dràgain and Lochlannach was brought to him as prisoners—this mighty gift he had planned to tame and ride into war to defend his people and defeat his enemies—for the first time, Rìgh Ildulb is afraid.

[Flock! There! I see!] Clevertwist folds her wings in preparation of diving, exhaling a flame and letting her scales catch it.

The human-place of wood and stone and mud is set on the hill on the edge of a cliff, and there is the path-road leading to it, which they have followed. Below, in the grass-fields, there are stone huts but there are no smokes of hearths coming from them. Inside of the wood-walls there are over a hundred humans, angry and scared, and some have sharp-sticks, some have shields, some carry bows-shoots-arrows and those they most watch out for.

They smell pain-hurt and there! there is a flat-space in the outside between the human-houses, no roof but walled-in. And Toothless is there weighted down by many iron-ropes, and Hiccup without-armour no-scale stands before him, trying to protect, but many humans with spears are nearing them to strike. No! Flock will not let that happen!

Stormfly roars. Barf-and-Belch prepare to breathe more gas than they ever have. Fierce cries out: [Flock here-now! Flock here!]

Hookfang ignites himself also, and together they dive.

The Rìgh is nearly thrown off his feet by the force of the explosion. A wooden hut shatters and part of the wall, and the flame immediately causes chaos. One of the dragain, the biggest one with long claws and horns, is on fire. On fire! Like the drawing of the Krókatanga! And a smaller one, too! The big one dives and breaks apart one of the wooden watchtowers by the gates, shattering it like splinters. It has horns on its head, long and twisting, and it shakes its head and roars mightily.

“Archers!”

Arrows fly, but most miss their target entirely. The dragain move so fast! The blue-scaled one twists in the air and whips with its tail, shooting spikes. These hit several men in the chest or arms or legs and they fall, most too shocked to make a sound. Their mails pierced. The men guarding the dràgan in the courtyard!

The Rìgh rushes to see. Below, the Lochlannach is standing in front of the chained dràgon; without armour, only a white and muddied nightshirt, and the peg leg a stark reminder of his ordeal. He is pale but fierce and feral, and over his people’s screaming and the roaring of the dragain, he cannot hear if the boy is speaking or snarling. The men are driven back; the blue dràgon shoots more spikes; the smaller one of fire also breathes fire: a roaring wall of flame around the boy and captive dràgon. Then, together, it and the boy drag away the chains, which smoke under the flaming dràgon’s claws. The chains crack and fall away.

“Water! Water!” someone shouts. “Douse the fire!”

A man trapped on the remaining watchtower panics as the flames climb toward him and flings himself to the ground.

“Archers!” More arrows fly. One catches onto the tail-edge of the large dràgon on fire, and it roars in anger and pain and rears back. But it does not fall. Climbs the air with snarls and shrieks, and it breaks off the arrow with a swiping claw. The remaining shaft disintegrates under immense heat.

One dràgon has two heads with jaws filled with teeth the lenght of a man’s arms, a strange and terrifying sight. It sweeps in so close that the Rìgh can see narrow dark pupils in a green iris and its scales are green too, but the colour is distorted in the glow of fire from all around. One jaw is open and a green cloud trails after it, encompassing, and the Rìgh backs away from fear. He stumbles dazedly into his Hall, retreating with a handful of men and just in time. There is a crackle and a flash and a great boom: the cloud explodes. Men are thrown back and some fall and some run around with bleeding, burning hands or faces. The wooden doors to the longhouse are shut heavily and hastily barricaded from within by anything they could find; it shuts out the sight of the fire but not the smell of burning thatch or the noise, the terrible noise.

The screaming never seems to end.

His people! The Dùn! The Rìgh despairs. He has doomed them. He has doomed them!

The chains fall away. Fierce drops down, nearly unseen in this chaos, and cleaves the ropes with tooth and talon, and Toothless shakes himself free. His tail whips angrily and he arches his back and spreads his wings.

Then he roars, a deafening noise. Hiccup crawls onto his back, but without the tailfin, without the saddle, they cannot fly.

Must find! Must reclaim!

[Stormfly!] Hiccup-Toothless reach for her. [Big-house gold-roof. Saddle in there! Tailfin in there! Must get! Must not burn!] And Toothless is ready to let all these cruel Skotar die, but Hiccup says: [Let-flee all humans who not-fight.]

But if they choose to fight, they choose to die.

The fire is swiftly spreading. Some Skotar desperately throw water, but they lack it in proper amounts. Unprepared. Stormfly, Barf-and-Belch, and Hookfang circle around, purposely leaving the gates open, broken as they are, and like herding sheep they attack from behind. Many Skotar drop shield and sharp-stick and run, run, run. Once outside on the path and the grass they keep running. Half or more of the Skotar escape that way, and they will remember this day and know to fear dragons forever.

Toothless snarls. Forced to remain on the ground, on all fours, he uses is wings to leap forward, cleaving through the crowd. He listens and scent-senses for two particular bad-evil-humans, but it is so chaotic is is hard to pinpoint them. But he can also guess. Big-Hall with gold-roof; that is were they must be, and that is where their tailfin is. Hiccup clings to him tightly, leaning over his back so not to be a target, and Fierce and Clevertwist protect him. Frail, no scales. Must find scales-armour!

One human, stinking of fear, tries to cut with a sword. Fierce flies off Toothless’ back and lands in the man’s face and bites very hard. The man screams and scratches at his face, dropping the sword, and Fierce flies away snarling and spitting fire. He lights many small ones on straw-roofs and wood-walls, cursing at it all: [Bad! bad! bad!]

Toothless shoots a blast-bolt to clear a path. Scared-angry-humans fall away like bending grass. Up the hill. Hiccup is in great pain and very tired and there is pity-sadness for people-caught; but Toothless feels no pity, not today.

Only wrath.

There!

Familiar-bad-scent. Man who causes pain. Man who first put ropes and chains on them, who took Hiccup away from Toothless. There! The man is running, waving a sword, and shouting things. Pointing toward Stormfly, who fells many armed men with her spikes, littering their shields and iron-mail-tunics; about to strike her.

Toothless roars and leaps upon the man.

Only wrath.

Duh-bhGhuh-ll, pinned beneath the dragon’s claws, stares up at Toothless-and-Hiccup with wide terrified eyes and he plead-says words which are meaningless to them. Not Viking-tongue, and even if he understood, Toothless so angry, so angry, so angry. Duh-bhGhuh-ll was leader-of-bad-men who beat Hiccup and broke bones and took his foot. Toothless promised that Duh-bhGhuh-ll would know fear and then he would die; that if Duh-bhGhuh-ll ever laid a hand on Hiccup, Toothless would bite off his head.

The man struggles, fearful, very fearful, and tries to stab Toothless with sword-blade.

He never gets the chance. Toothless extends his teeth. The man screams.

The scream is cut short, a gurgle, silence. Toothless shakes the body once and then releases it; it does not twitch; the separated head rolls onto the mud with still-open eyes.

Only wrath.

On his back, Hiccup is crying, shocked, scared, in pain so much pain, wants-home-nest, wants-flock-nest. But to fly they need tailfin, saddle. Toothless leaps away from the corpse and the devastated bad-people surrounding them, using bursts of fire and roars to clear a path. And they run toward the golden-thatched house, Fierce and Clevertwist following closely behind. Above and around, Stormfly and Barf-and-Belch and Hookfang fly and give cover, destroying stone-huts and wood-houses. But, true to their word to Hiccup, they let all those who run keep running without being followed or killed.

The Dùn burns.

They are trapped in the Hall. No amount of fortification will make the door hold. His men are faint. The Rìgh prays to God to spare their souls. Please spare them!

The doors explode inward with great force and noise, and there is the captive dràgon, captive no more; the Lochlannach boy at his back. The dràgon snarls and roars and is accompanied by two smaller ones, one not bigger than a cat, the other no longer on fire. The boy sits up straighter and the dozen men guarding the Rìgh quiver. One casts his spear and the black dràgon moves so fast it manages to break the spear’s path with its tail, and the wood clatters harmlessly onto the stone floor; with its next step, the dràgon’s front paw splits the spear in two.

The boy demands to know: “Hnakkur?”

“Spare us,” the Rìgh pleads, fallen to his knees. “Spare us!”

“Hnakkur, hvar?!”

The Rìgh points to a corner, where it all lies, saddle and satchels and prosthetic tailfin. The boy slides off the drágon’s back and the drake is quickly clad by expert hands, a routine which must be many years old. The two smaller dragain stand in front of the Rìgh and his men, guarding, and the Rìgh does not move, not even if he might be able to kick away the smaller one.

But one of the men foolishly does move. With a battle-cry he thrusts his sword, aiming for the littlest one. The larger of the two dragain, the Krókatanga, spits flame right at the man’s face before its comrade comes to harm. A blood-curling scream rises and fades into a gurgle as the man’s tongue swells and his face chars and bleeds. He falls with a thud, dead. The sword clatters onto the stone-floor.

“Snjallsnúinn! Nei!” the Lochlannach boy shouts, and there is horror there and even pity.

The dràgon snarls, unforgiving.

The boy hurries, gathering every satchel and fastening them to the saddle. He then considers it. His leg is a peg now, and the rigid wood has no foot-like shape that can fit in a stirrup. But he hoists himself up anyway, the armour in his lap. He puts on the helmet, which should be a comical sight in combination with the muddied nightshirt and bare foot and the peg; but he sits so confidently on the dràgon’s back, and a fey air is all about him, and the Rìgh wonders if he did speak truth all along. That this boy is not Lochlannach and has no loyalty to any man—only the dragain.

He no longer looks like a Lochlannach boy; rather a creature of poetic story and old myth.

He is a dràgon.

“Tannlausss,” he says, trailing off into a draconic hiss. He reaches down so that he is leaning to the left and able to manipulate the stirrup by hand instead of foot, and there is a click, and the tailfin moves. The dràgon rears back, wings spread wide, over seven fathoms and they curl at the tips, unable to fit fully within the walls of the longhouse. It lets out a shriek, a noise they never before have heard, so cold and unholy it must be the voice of the very Devil.

Its open jaws glow.  The Rìgh prays for a swift death.

But it does not come.

The Lochlannach and his dragain spare him. And it is not a kindness; it is an incredible cruelty. Rìgh Ildulb will live to watch his Dùn burn down.

The boy looks at the Rìgh and his cowering subjects through the eye-slits of his helmet, declaring with a growl and hiss:

“Við dreki! Við næturreiði! Við frjáls!”

The blast of fire from the black dràgon, this Wrath of the Night, is near-white and hot and loud, and the men cast themselves onto the floor wailing. A hole has been  torn in the roof, burning away thatch in a flash and bending the once sturdy wooden beams. And the Lochlannach boy and the three dragain leap and fly upward and out without casting further glance or fire at the Rìgh or his people. 

Smoke rises from Dùn Barra.

Deòndaidh the old healer is running with the others, out of breath, the grass beneath her feet cold with dew. She looks back when a sharp, unholy shriek pierces the air.

A blast of white fire destroys the roof of the great longhouse from within, and three dragain fly out of it like shooting arrows. One is one fire. One is so small it can barely be seen. The third is black like onyx blotting out the emerging stars, and on its back she can see a small pale speck, but they move so fast it is impossible to see clearly. The other dragain—one of two heads, one blue-scaled, the other huge and made of flame entirely—fly to meet them in perfect synchronisation. They sweep over the Dùn, low but the arrows have all been spent and any thrown spear misses. And then the dragain are climbing, away, away from the screams of the men still at the Dùn trying in vain to do battle or quench the flickering flames.

They rise into the starlit sky. The night takes them; never to be seen by the people of Alba again.

Deòndaidh cannot stop hearing the screams. So much suffering! So much death! And for what?

“Yes. Dragons are coming.”

The boy has sounded so calm when he spoke, even as the warning bells rang and the horn sang and the Rìgh commanded all to seek shelter. He knew. He knew! They were coming for him. The dragain were—

Deòndaidh gasps. The boy! Toothless. The dragain were coming for him; to rescue him; and they had harmed him; they took his foot. The dràgon’s wrath was for the Rìgh personally. The old woman collapses in the grass, shock of the ordeal now catching up with her, a heavy wave crashing and breaking. She finds herself trembling. The boy she had tended to had healed faster than she expected and when he ran from her toward the dràgon in the courtyard, Deòndaidh had not believed her eyes. But is he perhaps not truly Lochlannach or even human? Is there dràgon-blood in his veins and draoidheachd in his heart?

“Dragons are coming.”

And so they came, and now the Dùn is burning.

Chapter Text

xiv.

Drekinn Sem Talaði

The Dragon Who Spoke

Víkaby
964 C.E.

Víkaby is a small village nestled in an inconsequential corner of the Barbaric Archipelago; one of many such places. They fish for a living and trade with passing-by ships when given the chance, the village situated in a snug little cove of the island.

According to one eight-year-old girl whose family have lived here for five generations, nothing ever interesting happens in Víkaby. Except for dragon raids, which are scary and very noisy, and at those times she hides with covered ears with the other young children in the Mead Hall. At the height of each summer it is so: a house or hut burned, food stolen, and sometimes there are dark stains on the ground and dropped dragon-scales, but by the time the children emerge from the Hall the fires have been put out.

But otherwise, nothing ever happens. To her disappointment, she has not yet seen a dragon; glimpses only in the night when ushered to hide in the Hall. The adults always clean up the village before allowing the children out of the Mead Hall, including any slain dragons. And one of this girl’s wishes is to one day face a dragon of her own.

Today, this particular girl is hunting. Not for wild hares or tasty mushrooms; the adults do that kind of hunting. No—she is hunting for gnomes.

The stories say there are plenty of them in the woods, and trolls too, hideous trolls with bitter voices and moss-covered faces of stone, and fairies. The fairies are dangerous! her mother has warned. To seek them out means trouble, as much trouble as dragons! Mother doesn’t like when she goes into the forest, but she doesn’t want to play with the other children in the village. She had finished her chores quickly and fastened her boots and run off before Mother could stop her.

Mother is being horribly unreasonable and unfair, Fríða decides. Mother doesn’t really believe in trolls or fairies. Hasn’t she ever looked, ever listened? The water of the stream cutting through the island’s center valley tinkles and sings sweetly, and Fríða has visited many times, despite Mother’s warnings: Don’t go to the stream, or the Nykr will drown you! The sound of the water is very pretty, but Fríða has never heard a deadly song by voice or flute, nor felt the urge to drown herself. She listens to the stream and plays in the shallow waters lapping at the smooth rocks and is somewhat disappointed when the Nykr fails to appear. Maybe he’s hiding because everyone is afraid? Maybe he just needs someone to appreciate his song and music.

Beyond the stream and woods there are towering cliffs and Fríða is a good climber. She finds good spots to sit (sometimes sneaking an apple in her pocket) and watch the sea. Boats sometimes come, sometimes go, and the clouds gather around the island but further out the sky is almost always clear, unless there is a storm with heavy rain. Those times the waves are very high and loud, but Fríða still isn’t afraid. She wonders what’s beyond the horizon.

Most of the time, though, she climbs not rocks but trees, and she finds bird-nests and squirrels which scurry away, and she keeps looking and searching. Sometimes there are shadows in the trees, trolls and gnomes for sure! But each time they are hidden before she can reach them. Must be cloaks of seiðr to make the gnomes unseen and unheard, Fríða decides. Maybe they’re scared, like the Nykr. So she has to be really careful and quiet.

Unfortunately, it is not easy to be careful and quiet for an eight-year-old adventurous girl.

Fríða often returns home with twigs in her hair (Mother combs and swears to the old gods and braids her red locks, all in vain) and muddy boots and trailing fireflies. This evening is no different. "Fríða! Where have you been? You missed supper! And look at all this mud!”

The eight-year-old girl shrugs. A little mud hardly ever hurt anyone! Mother is being very unfair.

“Wash your boots.”

“Mother!”

“And your face, behind your ears as well. I will not have my daughter looking like a brute at my table. Go on!”

Sometimes, Fríða goes hunting for dragons. She is still little and her father doesn’t think it’s proper for womenfolk to fight, except shieldmaidens and he doesn’t want Fríða to swear any such oaths. Fríða hasn’t thought much about it, beyond the dream and desire of freedom and adventure. She would rather sail away on a longship to bigger lands with more forests. There must surely be gnomes and trolls and fairies where the trees are more plentiful than the isle of Víkaby!

She has no knife or shield, but she often grabs a stick from the ground and mimics what she has seen warriors and older children do, slashing it in front of her. Her father has killed a dragon, her uncle and aunt, her older brother who can fight in the raids now. He doesn’t need to hide with the children anymore. Fríða is jealous. She has only heard dragons crying and shrieking and flaming, and glimpsed them from afar, and seen the ashes afterward. She wants to see one up close! But her father will not let her. Maybe if she's quick and careful and quiet, she can find a dragon sleeping in the sun like she did that large bird two days ago, or that family of hares.

Today is such a day. She left the house late today; there were many chores, and lessons of rune-writing and singing and spinning wool thread. Evening is already near by the time she takes off, colouring the sky in many hues of red and warm yellow.

Fríða climbs the trees and the rocks and crosses the stream, delving deeper into the wilderness behind the village, untamed land which is too gnarly to toll and sow. She brings a small offering to the Nykr (a carefully woven ring of flowers), if he’d want to sing or play, and gathers round smooth stones easy to carry for the trolls. That is what trolls eat. Joyful and steps light, she hums an old fairy-song Grandmother taught her; for even when promising herself to be quiet to not disturb the scared gnomes, such silence is hard work. And singing comes to her easily even when she is without drum or lute. It is a silly rhyme that Mother disapproves of. But right now Mother isn’t here to scold her.

Maybe today Fríða will find a fairy-ring beneath a tree?

“in the woods lived so foul a troll

    his gnarled face cold and he ate stones whole

    of mountain come, the troll—”

Fríða loses her place in the nursery rhyme when she spots something in the green, soft moss which does not belong. It sparkles very prettily and she picks it. Oh! a dragon scale! It fits her palm and is black like onyx, smooth and unscarred. Very pretty! Fríða pockets the scale and keeps walking the wild narrow path, trodden by small beasts more than humans, and her small feet leave few marks. Onward she treks, eyes peeled for trolls and dragons.

“— of mountain come, the troll was ’lone

   could not see where his troll-wife had gone

in the woods lived so foul a troll

   he built his house on a hill-knoll

   with hide of moss, the troll was ’lone

   all his thought lost troll-wife dwelled on

in the woods lived so foul a troll

   his feet were stone, and—”

Fríða only looks ahead and not down, and so doesn’t see the wet rock. Her foot slips and she tries to catch herself against a tree, crying out as she comes tumbling and rolling down the steep path. She comes to a halt on the moss, blueberries crushed beneath her aching hands and smearing her clothes. The scrapes there sting terribly and her knee too, and Fríða suddenly is afraid.

Mother will be so angry! Her dress is ruined and her braids all messy, oh, Mother will be so angry, and—

A huffing exhale from somewhere in front of her.

She looks up.

There, right there, two fathoms away, is a dragon.

A dragon!

Fríða should be afraid. Deeply afraid. Dragons are scary, burning and biting, and Old Man Olaf has lost a hand to a dragon and last summer a Monstrous Nightmare (at least so it was called by her older brother) set fire to their largest storehouse, ruining much of the food and taking the rest. But Fríða is more intrigued than scared. She does not fear gnomes or trolls or the Nykr’s water-singing, and is at present very occupied with the thought of her Mother's wrath.

It is small for a dragon. The scales! Oh! The same as the one she found that sparkled beautifully. Black as night; and it is dark and damp here in the woods and the sun has set beyond the hills, and the dragon is pressed into shadows trying to hide, crouched atop of a fallen tree. Its scales are good for hiding in darkness. Fríða wonders if the dragon choose its scales that way.

Fríða doesn’t move. She doesn’t speak or sing.

The dragon doesn’t move either, staring at her though thin eyes, and in the sudden silence she hears heavy hiss-like breathing. Its head is almost man-shaped except there are ridges running from forehead over the top of its skull. Crouched on all fours, its hind legs longer than its arms, and its wings must be folded because Fríða cannot see them. The dragon tilts its head slowly and sways from side to side, sniffing at the air. It looks down at the girl, and she looks back at it.

Her knees and palms hurt something fierce! Could she run? She needs to stand up to do so, but her heart is loud like a drum and it is difficult to move. If she moves, she’ll scare the dragon away.

The dragon moves first. On four paws and its back arched, it slithers down the old log, finds its footing securely without looking, slowly closer, slowly closer. Even if she screams now, would anyone hear?

The dragon stops one fathom in front of her, and now Fríða notices that its eyes are green and rather small, like a man not a dragon, and though it has scales all-over and the front-paws have short grey claws, they also have four fingers and a thumb like a Viking.  Is it a dragonman, then?

She has never heard of dragon-men, but maybe they are rare and unseen, like trolls and gnomes and fairies. One foot is made of iron, similar to how their village Chief has a wooden peg-leg after it got eaten by a dragon; and she didn’t know that dragons could have limbs of metal. The dragonman slithers like a wyvern without tail or wings, but the scales! It must be a dragon more than man, Fríða decides with the logic of a child who trusts her own senses more than any adults' words. It is a dragon. It is a dragon, and she found it all on her own!

The dragon crouches in front of her and withdraws its claws.

“Pain?”

It speaks! The dragon speaks! Fríða shakes her head, suddenly not afraid at all. “No. Yes. See, I slipped on a rock or root, I think, because I was distracted and singing."

“Pain, where?”

The girl holds up her palms and points at her knee, which scraped and bloodied, and the dragon sniffs the air again and huffs and clicks its tongue sharply. “Danger in deep-woods,” the dragon admonishes.

“I was looking for dragons and fairies. I’ve never met a dragon before! I didn’t know dragons could speak.”

The dragon tilts its head, body swaying as if in deep thought. Fríða pulls herself to her feet slowly. Her hands still burn, but the rest of her body is not too bad. Her dress is ruined, there is a big tear in one of the sleeves where a sharp branch caught it. Mother will be furious.

“Go-back,” the dragon says. "Danger in deep-woods.”

“Do you breathe fire? I’ve never seen that either. Mother still thinks I’m little so I have to hide in the Mead Hall, you see, every time.”

The dragon makes a noise that is like a short laugh, snort-exhale-click, and it dances away toward a jutted rock next to the moss-covered fallen tree, beyond reach above her. The dragon is quick and agile and strong to climb so easily. To Fríða’s amazement, the dragon surrounds itself with a cloud of green smoke, and with a puff! there is brief fire which harmlessly falls away.

“A real dragon!” she exclaims, mostly to herself: “With scales and fire and all! What kind of dragon are you? I remember some names, mostly from my brother, he knows more about dragons, you see. But he says all dragons are evil and bad! But you’re not so scary. I’m Fríða. That’s my name. Do you have a name?"

That is a whole barrage of questions with the potential of scaring away the dragon.

“Hatchling, go home,” the dragon says, to Fríða’s disappointment evading giving answers. She so would like to know! “Danger in woods-after-dark.”

Suddenly, a dry twig snatches somewhere behind her, startling her, and Fríða looks around for its source. Another dragon? A gnome? But evening is fallen and she cannot see any movement in the trees. Not even a stone-troll.

When she turns back toward the dragon, it’s gone. There is a faint flapping of wings rapidly fading into the night.

Fríða searches the log, over and under, the moss and the stone and looks up the trees, but there is no sign except soft imprints in the soil and the faint scent of smoke, and the scale hidden in her pocket.

“Fríða! I swear to Óðinn. You are in big trouble! I said be home at sundown. Sundown, but it is well passed!”

Mother then sees her bloodied knee and bruised temple and scraped-up hands, and withholds any planned punishment. Instead she drags her to sit at the end of the table; Mother fetches a washcloth and a bucket of heated water.

“You have me so worried,” Mother frets, more concerned than angry, as she cleans up Fríða’s hands and tends her knee. “Do you understand, girl? One day you’ll enter those woods and not return.”

How silly of Mother. Of course she’ll come back! The village is uncomfortably noisy and few of the children let Fríða play with them; but this is home, with their house and her straw-bed and soft blanket and her doll, and Mother, Father, Grandmother, Brother. Of course she’ll always come back!

“Promise me to be more careful," Mother says. “Now, where did you go, you silly child? The stream again? Those accursed rocks? I have told you, they’re too dangerous to climb! You could fall and hurt yourself much more than this.”

And Fríða smiles proudly. “I found a dragon in the woods!”

Mother drops the washcloth.

“What?!”

“It’s all right, Mother,” Fríða says wisely, “it was friendly.” When no answer is forthcoming, Fríða uses the opportunity of Mother’s shocked silence to explain more: “I was looking and I was singing, but slipped on a wet rock, and there it was! It had beautiful scales. And fire! Look.” And she holds up the dragon-scale she had picked from the ground. “The dragon spoke. It was polite but sounded funny, and I asked what kind it was, but I never found out. It flew away,” she finishes her story, severely disappointed with its ending. “I never found out its name. I think it must have one, if it can speak!”

And Fríða has told Mother many stories through the years, embellished meetings of the shadows of fairies in the grass and troll-steps in the moss. Before, Mother always shake her head in disbelief and despair at her child’s wild heart, even when Fríða swears by Huginn and Munnin that she speaks the truth.

Not this time.

Mother does not pick up the washcloth, discarded on the floor. She takes the black scale from Fríða with a trembling hand. And she has seen dragon-scales before, gathered from the ground after raids on the village; she has never seen one exactly like this before, this shape and colour. The catches the light of the fire in the hearth. It is undoubtedly real, light as a feather in her palm, and has the feel of a dragon-scale, smooth on one side and slighty coarse on the other. Shaped like a tear-drop with a tip and a round edge. The oddest thing is the hole at the sharp tip, which is like the eye of a needle, somehow punched into the scale without cracking or breaking it.

It is real.

Her daughter maybe found it in the dirt, picked it up, and fancied herself the rest of the story. Maybe. Or did she see it? Did she truly meet a wild dragon in the woods—and walk away with nothing worse than a scraped knee?

How could that be possible?

She sits down heavily and looks her daughter sternly in the eye. “My child, tell me everything again. The whole story one more time. And leave out nothing.”

Chapter Text

xv.

Draugur Eyjaklasans

The Ghost of the Archipelago

Shadows are moving across the world.

They sweep over the wavering waters of the sea, moving from rock to rock, island to island, seastack to seastack, cove to cove. Mostly they remain unseen by human eyes and unheard by human ears. Travelling longships report spotting a faraway flock of birds which, according to some who listen to the stories, might not be birds at all. Some say they are one or two or five; other claim to see twenty or fifty, a cloud blotting out sunlight and starlight.

They are moving north along the coast.

The people of Nidaross are not reached by these rumours beforehand; this shadow is fast, faster than longships, and they are visited in the middle of night when the stars are bright and the snows falling thick. Nidaross is a small settlement but important, nested in a harbour where ships travelling the northern route from the continent or Birka can rest while on the way to the Archipelago by turning west at the Long Row. And the Vikings of this land consider the Chief of Nidaross the highest of status and they all listen if he calls for a grand Þing of all nearby people.

And one night in early winter, when traders are fewer and many ships lifted from the harbour onto land, this shadow comes to them.

Silently.

Something blotting out the stars. And against the light of a near-full moon, the people of Nidaross who are still awake look up to see the imprint of dragonwings—distant—against the moon’s smiling face. And terror grips them, and a warning call is cried for all to wake, for people to seek shelter, for warriors to grab arms. Dragons! Dragons are come! The Chief of Nidaross rushes out of his longhouse with sword in hand.

But the shadows move past.

There is no fire.

The dragons—if it is dragons, so silent, without fire, so completely the opposite of how aggressive and loud dragons usually are—fly onward, to the scattered rocks of Noregshaf north of the Viking settlement. Disappearing out of sight.

The next village they visit do not see the shadows of dragons at all.

Instead, a ghost enters one of the villages of the Western Row in the darkness of night; and in the morning they find imprints in the soft ground of the dirty snow that has settled between the village houses. An odd set: one of the two prints is the shape and size of a man’s boot, and one is much smaller but the indentation deeper, rectangular, sharp. From a peg or oddly shaped staff, perhaps?

One of their storehouses has been broken into. The latch was lifted, and they find supplies missing. Some foodstuffs like dried and salted meat, but mostly things: a roll of treated leather which the tanner hadn’t yet had time to shape into anything particular, wool-thread which they had prepared to sell but now several coils are gone. The village forge has also been broken into, a distraught blacksmith discovers: one hammer for metalwork has been stolen, and some iron or steel of various shapes which had been destined to become shields or nails.

The ghost who robbed them has long since gone.

When longships come to the village on the Western Row the following spring, the villagers tell their story and listen for news. And they hear then that the people of Nidaross saw a shadow on the moon, and a strange cloud was spotted flying past the Long Row. Could it be dragons?

There is a shadow moving through the Barbaric Archipelago.

Sometimes, only a whisper of wings flapping, wind whining, a distant growl or roar. Sometimes unseen but things are stolen from storehouses or longships docked in harbours, and the Vikings are filled with confusion and fear. 

Over weeks and months, winter turning to spring and summer to another winter, this ghost sometimes reappears after long stretches of silence.

The ghost of the Archipelago is seen at brief uneven intervals for the following few years.

Broken-into storehouses. Most villagers decide to equip their storehouses with lock or guard. This is twice true for the villages further north where dragon attacks are more common. And yet, a lock is not always enough. One morning, the villagers of North Meathead Island awake to find one storehouse wide open and the door covered in scorch-marks. The lock and latch are amazingly cloven in two as if by a sword or blade able to cut metal or wood like butter, and these pieces also are marked by fire. As if the blade was covered in flame!

And what was stolen was not food or equipment but dragoneggs. The Meatheads have warriors who ride out on longships to find and destroy smaller dragon nests, and recently they found such a place on an uninhabited rocky island east of Berkeyja. There the warriors severely wounded a Deadly Nadded which tried to defend its nest, and two eggs were stolen. Eggs are valuable to trade, especially to Berk who have an arena to train youths in dragon-fighting, a rite of passage similar to that of the Meatheads. The two Nadder eggs would have fetched them silver and gold, but they have been stolen without recompense. Chief Mogadon is furious and perplexed.

The broken locks imply a dragon’s claw and a dragon’s fire. And this stealth, implies that the thief is intelligent and sneaky.

Is this then a new kind of dragon entirely? One never before seen?

And Chief Mogadon is afraid then, and sends out longships to search the Archipelago for hidden dragons with a frenzy. He sends his boats to all nearby settlements, including Berk, to spread word and to ask for aid, and two longships join them from Berkeyja in the search for this new, elusive dragon. Its only name: the Ghost of the Archipelago.

One day, a frantic mother in the village of Víkaby asks to see her Chief and many villagers listen as she tells of a dragon seen by her daughter in the woods. But it could not have been a dragon, could it? For it spoke, though it also breathed fire and had scales just like a dragon ought to. And most astonishingly her young child was not harmed. Not harmed! Impossible, but this woman has never lied and the Chief considers her words, alongside stories and whispers and rumours and news that have slowly reached them.

Whether it was actually a dragon or some unknown fey creature, a spawn of Loki, remains to be seen. But there is no doubt to the Chief’s mind—there is a ghost in the Archipelago, and it spoke to one of his people.

The Chief speaks with the child, the young Friða eager but a little nervous to talk in front of the assembled crowd so curious, and he asks what she saw. And it remains what she told her mother. A dragon, with black scales, and a ridged head. It had a long flame and ignited green gas (could it have been a Zippelback? But Zippelbacks are not so dark of scale or have one head only). It moved gracefully and spoke. Spoke! The girl emphasises that: that it wasn’t dangerous or aggressive (toward her, at least), that it was worried that she fell and scraped her knees, urging her to go back home. “I asked for a name,” the girl explains, her logic clear to herself but confusing to the adults: “but never got an answer.”

The Ghost of the Archipelago is a dragon of black scale. A shadow, elusive. Unseen, only leaving strange marks on the ground after it has gone. The thought comes to the Vikings slowly: what if this is the Night Fury, confirmed by Chief Stoick of Berk to possess such scales, and it has changed somehow? It was many years since its roar and shrieking dive was heard. In Berk, during a raid six years ago; in the Stoneflats over a year later, and then—nothing.

Has it changed its tactics to a stealthier approach, stealing things from the Vikings in this manner instead of joining raids, open attacks?

For three years, the Ghost haunts the Archipelago, and none of the Vikings come closer to an answer to the riddle.

The ghost is not seen for two or three months. Where it is hidden is anyone’s guess.

Perhaps, if it is indeed a new kind of dragon—maybe even a whole flock of them if the news of clouds blotting out star and moon is true—it may have flown north to Helheim’s Gate. The terrible Nest of Dragons is hidden somewhere there; the Nest which none have found. Few actively search for it these days but Berk, its Chief the most adamant and stubborn of Vikings, sending many warriors on fruitless expeditions. By now, it is known to most Chiefs in the Archipelago that Chief Stoick the Vast has sworn to destroy the Nest, hiding in the Trecherous Waters, to avenge his son who was only a young lad when killed by dragons. A particular dragon.

The Chief of Víkaby decides to send word with the next trade-ship headed north. “Give these news to Chief Stoick the Vast of Berk,” he says, “that a dragon of black scales was seen in Víkaby. Chief Stoick is looking for a dragon of that description. Let him know it was three months past, as I tell you this, and that it might be related to the tales of the Draugur Eyjaklasans that is haunting us.”

The traders hail from Birka. He nods and promises to let Chief Stoick know, if he can, if they voyage north goes well. The winds may turn, forcing them to halt or turn back south. Berk is a long way from Birka and the traders have already been gone from home for a long time.

In turn, the trader has news. There was battle of Vikings against Skotar three years ago and the loss was great on both sides; the Skotar won that fight but lost their King, and that man’s eldest son is now proclaimed Rìgh. But there were also dragons spotted there, which haven’t been seen for fifty years, scaring the Skotar mightily. “And I think there was a dragon with dark scales, too,” the trader says to the Chief of Víkaby; “that is what I heard. Or more than one dragon! A wrath of the night that burned down a village and fortress. I don’t know how much truth there is, but dragons in Skotland is strange news, strange indeed.”

And the trader from Birka silently prays to the old gods that his people may be spared from such an attack. If dragons have been in Skotland and set fire to rick and cot there, where else may the beasts appear? Could his home be in danger?

Berkeyja
Early spring, 965 C.E.

The news reach the Berk as a rumour years after the fact, nestled in many other words of the world: battles won and battles lost, Saxons pushing the boundaries ever eastward, a new Emperor of the faraway Byzantines faring war to reclaim Krit, there is political and religious conundrum in many realms as old ways are pushed away and replaced by the Christian faith. There was battle in Skotland between its inhabitants and Vikings from the east, and the Vikings lost. Those Vikings were not Berkians, strangers to Stoick the Vast and his people; searching for conquest of other lands instead of merely surviving, surviving against dragons in the harsh Archipelago.

The news nearly do not reach them at all, far away and perhaps inconsequential in the long run; but this trader and traveller from Hjaltland has come a long way, bearing words of dragons.

Dragons in Skotland.

Dragons! And whether the Skotar are enemies to most Vikings or no, Stoick the Vast is ashamed that his people failed to hold the dragons back, that they managed to fly so far south. Last time any dragons were sighted there was two generations ago. According to some, a hundred men perished to flame, tooth, and claw. According to others, the dragons only killed a few but stole all the food and all of the gold to hoard; though Stoick doubts that, since few dragons are interested in hoarding shining metal. Every word is uncertain and unclear after three years and many sea-miles, and the King of Alba who reportedly was at that attacked village-fort was slain in battle three years ago.

The oddest rumour of all, Stoick fails to believe: there was a dragonman with scales instead of skin and with seiðr commanding the dragons, and there is fear that this shadow-like figure is now on the warpath. That simply cannot be true! The Skotar must have confused at the sight of one of the dragons; it must have been small, a stunted Nadder maybe, or a young Raincutter; a small dragon. Because the alternative simply is impossible.

“A whole village burned down?”

“Some say a fortress was destroyed, others that many villages along the coast were razed. The Skotar are still very afraid the beasts might return,“ the trader says with a shake of head. "I don’t know, Chief Stoick. I can only tell you what I’ve heard.”

“And I thank you for that,” Stoick says. “But, I wonder. Is there any description of the dragons? Their size? Their colour?”

The trader thinks for a moment. “Aye, there is some. One was made of flame.” Stoker Class, Stoick thinks to himself; Monstrous Nightmare or the like. “And one was black as night and shrieked—the Skotar believe in the Christian God and the evil Devil—they said it spoke with the voice of the Devil. As I said, the accounts are spotty and no doubt embellished.”

Stoick holds his breath.

Black as night.

A shriek of the Devil.

“Night Fury,” he whispers, and the trader looks at him in surprise.

“Strange. I’m not too familiar with dragons, but the Skotar whispered a name for it, the wrath of the night. Then you know of this dragon, Chief Stoick?”

“Aye. Oh, I know. I have sworn to find it and kill it. That beast took my son from me.”

And resolve burns stronger than ever in Stoick’s heart to find the Night Fury and to finally end it forever.

The Mead Hall erupts into cacophony when Stoick the Vast announces that he will be sailing through the Treacherous Waters of Helheim’s Gate. One more time. One time too many. Most Chiefs of Berk have gone that way once in their life, but Stoick has already travelled the treacherous waters half a dozen times and each time they have lost more men, more ships, more life. A needless voyage driven by wrath and bloodthirst and an oath of revenge.

“It’s time to strike! We cannot let the beasts’ reign continue!” is (as it has always been) Stoick’s main argument.

The counterarguments are many and upset:

“We should remain here, fortify Berk for the next attack.”

“A hopeless venture!”

“What’s the point? We’ve lost so much already.”

“Let’s strengthen our defenses here instead!”

“We have already lost three warriors this year!”

“I understand your anger, Stoick,” Gobber interrupts, softly compared to most of the others. “I understand your need for vengeance, but we haven’t been closer to finding that damned Nest in generations! As soon as our ships enter the fogs of Helheim, we are lost and drifting. Haven’t you said it yourself we’re never even close?”

“Aye,” some agree, nodding. 

“At least here in Berk we know what we’re doing!” another disagrees.

The debate has been going on for days. Weeks. Months. Years. All of his life, if Stoick is honest. Always some for, some against, so much doubt and fear, but stubbornness and oath-swearing always wins in the end. They will go. And if he must go alone on a longship by himself, only his shield and sword for company, so be it. Stoick will not be denied that. The older warriors especially are tired. Some have gone on this voyage once or twice or thrice before. Lost limbs and comrades and wives and husbands and children. But the younger ones, newly-initated to the circle, such as Astrid and Snotlout, stand by the Chief’s side, proud and ready to fight. The young ones wish to make their mark and they haven’t yet joined a voyage such as this.

“What if we found some new way to navigate?" Astrid suggests.

Gobber sighs and rubs at his face.

Stoick turns to her. “What way would that be?”

“Dragons, Chief. Dragons would find the nest, wouldn’t they? I’m not sure how exactly we would do it, but we have the Timberjack we caught last year for training.” She pauses, but she doesn’t sound afraid to speak up in front of the assembly of seasoned men and women, despite being a shieldmaiden of only twenty summers. But Astrid has proven herself; she killed her first dragon not in Dragon Training but during a raid and has been invaluable during the raids ever since. Her parents were so proud. She severed the skull of the beast from its shoulders. Stoick has trained her alongside Snotlout in diplomacy and tact, speech and writing, the rites and rituals of Chiefdom; the lass has good instincts, and she is not afraid to speak her mind. Certainty seeps into her voice, settling with every word. Confidence. She has given this serious thought. “What if we could use it to point the way when we can’t navigate by the stars or sun?"

“Like following a bird south in winter,” Gobber says, raising an eyebrow. “Hmm. Well. Not a completely bad idea, actually.”

(Would little Hiccup have come up with such an idea if he had lived to have the chance?  Stoick wonders. Clever little Hiccup. Surely he would have, time permitting.)

Murmurs rise and fall as discussion re-ignites with this point in mind. Could that be the answer?

“Aye,” Stoick says softly, considering it. “Could it work?”

“Well,” Gobber says, “we’d need to bring the beastie somehow. Subdue it, strap it onto a longship. Can’t just let it go, we’d never be able to keep up! It’s risky.”

“A waste of time!” someone mutters loudly.

“I agree with the Chief,” another argues: “The time to strike is now! Let’s use the dragons against themselves.” 

“We agree!” shout the twins in unison, Ruffnut and Tuffnut; they have grown physically over the last few years but remain unruly, and Stoick pities their parents. They do not act like proper young adults should, living in the spirit of Loki, joking and pranking even when matters are serious. “We’ll come on the expedition,” Ruffnut declares, standing up proudly. 

“Let’s strike those dragons were it hurts!“ Tuffnut says.

“The Nest must be eradicated,“ Spitelout agrees, his son Snotlout nodding along eagerly, more than ready to fight. The boy is a brawler; his first dragon kill was a Gronckle, bashing its skull with a hammer, and he has eagerly partaken in defending the village against raids ever since. His eyes shine, dreamlike, at the opportunity to join his Chief in finding and destroying the Nest.

Young Fishlegs nervously raises a hand. He is the only one of the youths who only has one meager dragon kill, a Terror, nothing to boast about. He’s holding onto the Book of Dragons like the scholar he would rather aspire to be, having been leafing through the pages while the debate raged around him. “If we used iron or steel to hold the Timberjack’s wings and snout it can’t destroy the longships,” he says.

Timberjacks have a knack for slicing through wood like butter, but catching and killing them is fairly easy since the beasts lack legs and cannot run. The one they keep in the arena has been chained with iron and they pierced a wing with an arrow taking it down, but in the year since it was caught that injury has scarred and healed and it is able to take to the skies again. Transporting it from its pen to the harbour and onto a longship might be the least of their issues.

Could it work? Could this be the answer? Stoick looks at Gobber (hesitant) and Astrid (hopeful) and Spitelout (grinning with bloodthirst). 

Hiccup, he thinks, Valka, and sighs, will this avenge you?

Stoick stands up from his grand chair to get everyone’s attention. “All right. Let’s have a vote on this matter. I propose we sail through the Trecherous Waters of Helheim’s Gate using the Timberjack as a compass-needle. All those agains, say nay.”

“Nay!”—scattered mutters and the occasional loud cry. Some Vikings glare at one another, privately considering those who say no to be cowardly, but not saying so out loud. Many do not say anything at all. Awkwardly shuffling feet, a cough, a cleared throat. When it comes to it, Vikings are stubborn and Berkians doubly so, and their fight with dragons has been going on for at least seven generations. Ever since they first settled here. Other people may have given up by now and sought new homes, further away from the Nest. But not Berk.

“And all for, say yea.”

“Yea!”—a loud choir.

So it is decided.

Eleven longships leave Berk in the early hours of Laugardag, dawn breaking as the sails unfurl. A drum beats steadily to keep the rowers of the oars in motion. The largest of the ships holds a contraption of iron and wood holding down the Timberjack; it cannot fly or open its mouth, wings pinned, but the head is free to move this way and that. Over a hundred well-armed Vikings are waved off by the rest of the village; people cheer and bless them with prayers that Óðinn, Týr and Þór will keep them safe. But the mood is tense. Goodbyes have been said and their return is uncertain.

Stoick stands at the helm of the largest boat, refusing to feel fear even with the Timberjack breathing down his neck through its muzzle.

Joining them are many good fighters and hardy souls. Gobber refuses to be left behind; his new apprentice, Bjorn, will take care of the smithy, the lad able to do simple jobs, sharpen weapons, mend wagon-wheels. Spitelout and his son, and the twins (but Stoick put them on another boat), Astrid with her axe. Gunnar is a seasoned warrior; Old Knut is covered in scars and has killed dozens of dragons in his time. This mixture of old and new might give them the edge they need.

Behind them, Berk slowly disappears. It will be a long, hard journey. Reaching the edge of the malicious fogs is only the first step, and that takes days. Once they enter that forsaken land, the true trial begins.

They will find the Nest. And there they will find all of the hidden dragons of the world, including the thrice damned Night Fury, and it will end.

Stoick swears it on his honour.

Chapter Text

xvi.

Frelsi Allra Dreka

Freedom For All Dragons

They are stronger now. Strong and feared and dangerous, Viking-humans fleeing at the whisper of their shadow. Together-as-one. And the thought which entered Hiccup when he was young and never truly left him rises to the surface: the Red-Death-Queen, keeper of a thousand thrall-dragons bound by Her luring song. The Nest-of-dangerous-Queen, the Red-Death, is very reason why the attack-raids on human villages keep happening, only adding fuel to fire. And in turn so many dragons die at human hands needlessly, and eggs are stolen and nests ravaged, dragons driven away from the few places they’ve managed to reclaim from further-settling Vikings.

World should be full of free dragons!

A thousand dragons are kept as thralls in the fire-mountain (dangerous! dangerous!), a bad-evil-nest where eggs aren’t safe, hatchlings in danger from before they’re born, and many dragons perish in Her hungry, hungry jaws.

Before, they were weak.

Now, they are strong.

Toothless-and-Hiccup have fought and lived and nearly died, and they overcame, and strength has returned to Hiccup. Injuries healed and scarred over. By going at night into human-places to steal, they gathered human-tools and materials and he fashioned himself a metal-foot which fits in the pedal-stirrup so they can fly easily again. And he has used a stolen hammer on metal from Slowflow the stone-eater’s thick fire-stone to make inferno-blade, his own long claw with which to defend his flock against any humans who might wish to do them harm. Toothless-and-Hiccup fly together every day, guarding the good-nest, their flock with its hatchlings; one strong dragon. One strong dragon.

Now, they could defeat Her and free the dragons forever.

They cannot ask the whole flock to come with them on such a dangerous venture. Chances are it will cost them their life. But if all dragons are freed, it will be well worth it. 

[Toothless-Hiccup leave already?]

[Sorry, little-one, but we must-go.]

They’ve been away for too long. Neglected what should have been their first priority. Together again after so much pain and hardship, slow times of healing and hiding, they must return. They must find the Nest-of-Red-Death and free the one thousand dragons there in Her thrall. Freedom for them all! Then both dragons and humans (dangerous, so much fear and agony, no-human-good, never-trust-again) will suffer less; without the Queen to feed, the dragons need not attack human villages and town. No raids. There is enough food in the woods and seas for them all, and without Her voice suffocating them, they shall know freedom. Go where they wish. Not be harmed.

Hiccup-and-Toothless are strong enough now.

Stormfly, Barf-and-Belch, little Fierce so inseparable, and Hookfang and young-but-strong Clevertwist join them. Together they will fly and together they will fight.

Their stay at old-safe-nest of three-islands has been too brief, the moon-cycles turning but for dragons who can live a hundred sun-years that is too short a time, too short. This nest is home and good; stone-eaters and small-fires-puffs live there and many others. Meatlug and Snowflow’s hatchlings have grown and eat rocks from Hiccup’s hands, the gloves of leather covered with black scales and with a newly-added clever mechanism he can extend short claws-of-metal from the fingertips. He has improved the armour and grown into it. The sail-fake-wings offer brief moments of wonderous flight, though Toothless needs him to fly properly and well, and can only glide a short distance without Hiccup. Useful when sneaking into human-places and making quick escape by leaping off cliff-side.

And now he has inferno-blade, his fire with which to defend himself, his metal-tooth to show to all that he is dragon.

Littlethief the small-fires-puffs dances around Toothless’ paws and urges them to stay. Very sad to see them go. Wants them to stay. [Safe here! Good here! Much fish, much food. Please stay!]

[Sorry, Littlethief, but must-go. Will free many dragons. Then come back.]

[Promise Hiccup-Toothless come back!]

Hiccup smiles. [Promise!] he assures the little dragon.

Hiccup-and-Toothless feel the change in the air, in their very bones, as they climb the world. The chill even in summer; further north than they have been for some time.

Wearing the armour-helmet, Hiccup almost misses the sensation of wind whipping in his hair; but this is not a flight of leisure when he can dare to take if off, even briefly. Toothless glides smoothly, finding hot thermals to ride on. Onward. Onward. Every now and again the formation changes; Hookfang, Clevertwist, Barf-and-Belch Toothless and Stormfly alternating between taking point. At brief intervals Fierce flies on his own but struggles to keep up, so he spends a great deal of time napping on Toothless’ back, or sometimes Hookfang’s. They can fly for many hours like this without a break, but eventually there is no choice; they must set down. Hiccup is stiff and needs to eat something and pass water, and the dragons need to rest their wings and find a meal.

While in flight, passing over and through clouds and Hiccup reaches out a gloved hand to touch the soft water-heavy air wondrously. Hiccup consults his by now memorized map, no need to look at any actual parchment. There should be a seastack close by. Adjusting the pedal, he urges Toothless to break free from the cloud coverage. Below them the frothing sea stretches on endlessly, but here and there it is broken by rocks which at this distance looks like pebbles. There!

[Rest-time soon? Land there.]

Hiccup strokes Toothless between the ears. [Yes. Rest-time soon.]

Once they land on the barren rock, Hiccup looks over the saddle and tailfin and gives Toothless scratches and scrubs him down, while Hookfang and Stormfly hunt for fish. Once unclad, Toothless engages in gentle play with Fierce and an unlit Clevertwist, and seeing the three rolling around like happy cats chasing sunspots raises Hiccup’s spirits greatly. He is also engaged in play but very gently, being only small-dragon with much more fragile bones even if armour is good and gives protection.

It’s still early in their journey and the enormity of what they are about to do hasn’t really sunk in yet.

Hiccup hasn’t seen the Red-Death-Queen with his own eyes but Toothless’ memories are enough. Besting her will be a matter of speed and skill of movement, not firepower. He has half a plan, a possible way to win, but would like to think up a few more just to be sure. Hiccup ponders these things while he works, checking the tailfin for wear and tear and using some of the sparse wax to treat the leathers of the saddle, leaving it to dry overnight. By the time that is done Hookfang and Stormfly have returned with food, and Hiccup gathers sticks for a fire to grill a cod over. Then they rest. The dragons take turn sleeping, while Hiccup is curled under Toothless’ wing, safe and snug and sound, and he dreams of flight through stars and northern lights with the moon smiling at them.

The next day is similar, and the next. He checks his map but trusts the dragons’ senses and memories. Recognizes some islands and rocks, landmarks in the desert of the ocean. Whenever they pass over an inhabited area they fly as high as they can, where the air is still thick enough to carry them and to breathe, but it is cold up here and Toothless worries about Hiccup if they linger for too long.

Ten days pass. The weather turns: rain, hail, a storm. Hiccup is tense; thunder is drawn to metal, they have learned the hard way, and the tailfin and his armour is a risk. They have no choice but to make landfall on a towering cliff. The island is large enough to hold trees and wildlife and they find a clearing to rest in, huddling together in a dragon-pile to shelter from the rain. Hiccup is very glad that Hookfang and Stormfly came with them; not only do they provide food, they are an emotional support, calming his dreams and his nerves, and a physical one too, shields from rain and thunder.

On the fifteenth day they land on an islet inhabited by a small pack of fast-run-poison-stings beautiful with their dark scales, and its pack-leader is deeply suspicious; they emerge in the night from their cave-burrows, sensing the scent of foreign dragons on their claimed territory. The fast-run-poison-stings attempt to drive the flock off with webbed talons and angry hissing, threatening to use their toxin on the invaders. There is a bit of a brawl but luckily no serious injury, and Hiccup douses himself in Zippleback gas, igniting it briefly, to convince them that he is dragon, they are all dragon, they are kin, they mean no harm.

The fast-run-poison-stings doubt, at first, thinking it’s a trick when Hiccup reaches out with his inner voice soothingly: [No-danger, Hiccup-Toothless dragon!, fly-together, no-danger! We are friendly, come in peace, visiting. Tired from long flight, must rest. Not invade! Please, simply must rest!]

An offering of food (Toothless is less happy about that, being the one who caught that fish) settles the issue, and the pack-leader of fast-run-poison-stings agrees to let them stay for a while but not forever. They will defend their territory fiercely. Their burrow, their shore! Their nest was recently ravaged by humans, a hollow memory of eggs cracked or taken, and Hiccup feels their anger and grief burning and he shares their resentment for Vikings and outsiders. Even outsider-dragons. Fast-run-poison-stings have grown to fear other dragons, those under Red-Death’s thrall, who sometimes come and steal from them to feed Her.

[Much-sorrow, hope for many good-eggs strong-hatchlings in future!]

Pack-leader of fast-run-poison-stings only says: [If free-flock defeats Red-Death-Queen, this flock will allow return-visit-peaceful.]

[We will try], Toothless-and-Hiccup promise.

They eat, rest, move on.

Almost there now. 

Almost there.

On the twentieth day, they see it beneath them, glimpses of islets and seastacks surrounded by heavy fog, immovable by wind or rain, an old spell perhaps of ancient dragon-make of which the flock has no knowledge. Old-Viking-name is Helheim-Gate and Water-of-Treachery. And Vikings believe many untrue things: that this maybe is the way to the world of the dead, the accursed, unfree souls. Vikings fear this place, land-of-beasts. Many names, none of them good.

Within that place there is a fire-mountain on gravel shores. Most of flock have been there, once upon a time, an evil memory that now shall guide them. Beneath him Toothless’ unease grows and Hiccup can tell that all the dragons are struggling. This proximity to the evil-bad-dangerous-nest, after years away from it, is jarring. The Queen sings a deadly song luring dragons in. Hiccup focuses, shares his thoughts like a blanket, a choir into which they all one by one join:

[We are safe-together, flock-together, free-together. Strong together! We-are-flock! Not-Red-Death-Queen. Red-Death-Queen enemy. We are strong-together!]

Toothless grunts and snorts and roars (fear. determination. concern. strong-will-to-fight), and they all roar together, Hiccup too; Hiccup is dragon. [We will win!] he says confidently. They have to be confident. There is no other choice. Hiccup places a palm flat against the top Toothless’ head, breathes deeply. Two-hearts-fly-together. He feels every beat of their wings as if they sat upon his own shoulders, every deep breath of Toothless’ lungs as if they were his own.

(Peace. There shall be peace, and freedom for all. Once this is done, no more dragons shall die needlessly at dangerous-human hands.)

[Free all dragons!]

Chapter Text

xvii.

Stríð

Battle

There is a strange noise in the air. It trembles and echoes and chills their bones. Every time they’ve ventured into Helheim’s Gate, Stoick has heard it. Some mean it is the death-throes of Vikings lost here generations ago from the First Dragon Battle. Others say it is the land itself singing evilly, a warning to stay back or lose life or limb. The Vikings use their own voices to be aware of each other as the fogs overtake them, making it difficult to see. Sharp rocks appear out of nowhere, jutting out at unnatural angles as if the earth has been shaped by the violence of the dragons. Many ships have run aground here. Behind him, Stoick hears men calling out positions.

The Timberjack is trembling.

It jerks its head this way and that. Straining against its bonds.

“Out of the way,” Stoick orders, grabbing hold of the large wooden handle of the rudder at the back of the longboat. His gut tells him that this is it. The Timberjack will lead them to their target, willing or no. The blade turns beneath him and ship with it. Wood creaks. Almost all else is silent. No one aboard dares to speak, barely breathe, except for those calling out positions relative to other boats so that they do not crash into each other or lose one another.

Port. A little more.

Ahead.

Forward.

Around a cliff. The Timberjack strains and makes pathetic noises, smoke puffing out of its nostrils but it cannot ignite it or get free. The beast is panicking!

Stoick had thought it would rejoice at being back at its point of origin.

Some of the warriors mumble uneasily when the beast gets more and more agitated, starting to make noises of distress.

“Steady,” Stoick says. “Prepare yourselves.”

No need to say it. Ever since they entered the fog, people have been clinging to their axes, shields and swords brandished, ready for anything regardless if the rest of the journey to the Nest takes an hour, a day, a hundred days. On previous expeditions they had sometimes lingered in this evil place for weeks at a time, sleeping and fighting in shifts. Dragons can leap out of nowhere. Occasionally, they hear far-off shrieks, cries and groans of beasts, flapping wings, burning fire. But they cannot see it. Stoick frowns. This time ... is different. Usually the beasts attack fairly soon. Not now. Why?

They are close.

The fog is lifting.

And then the longboat reaches land. Gravel is pushed aside as the ship finds a natural harbour, a darkened shore; the stone is black and at places charred, and nothing grows here, nothing alive. Stoick is the first to leap onto the shore.

The noise stops altogether.

They’re here.

For Hiccup and Valka.

Ahead of them towers a mountain of a like Stoick has never seen. Dark as onyx rising ominously, and from here it looks empty and dormant. Utterly, utterly silent. No movement. There is barely any wind at all, the sails of their ships hanging heavy and unsupported. The shifting gravel as people begin to come ashore is, for a moment, so loud that Stoick is convinced it will cause the mountain itself to wake up as if roused by thunderstorms.

Nothing moves.

The mountain remains silent.

Gobber reaches his side, struggling slightly with the terrain, limping with the peg. “What now?”

“We will crack the mountain open,” Stoick says, “and slay every dragon within.”

“Ah. Easy, then. Good plan.”

But he turns around to relay orders at Stoick’s command and doesn’t ask more questions or make remarks at the futility of their mission. The three catapults, on three different boats now also nearing the shore, are loaded with heavy rocks. It is silent. So silent. He signals the men to launch and the first rock sails through the air. So silent. The impact jars that silence; the mountain will wake. Whatever is in there will come out.

Rock after rock cracks against the mountainside relentlessly—Stoick will do this for hours, days, whatever it takes—until it sunders with great noise and upheaval.

“Light,” he orders.

The large torch flies through the opening, into the mountain, briefly illuminating a churning, moving, horrible mass. Snarls and growls and shrieks and other inhuman noise echo coldly. Dragons. Hundreds and hundreds of dragons, of so many kinds; a like that Stoick has never before seen. So many in one place. The air trembles. The beasts writhe as one large being, a thousand eyes blinking in the darkness, and some begin to huff fire.

This is it.

“Charge!”

But the beasts fly. Out and up and away. All hundreds of them! Fleeing! At merely the sight and sound of a hundred Viking warriors.

That ... cannot be right. No. Stoick does not doubt the valour, stoutness or skill of his people, but ... That was too easy. Far too easy. Not a single kill on either side. Within moments the dragons have fled, cries fading; they scatter in all directions.

Stoick remains unconvinced. It cannot be this simple. His people cheer, but it is far too early for celebration. 

No. No.

The ground itself opens up.

And the most terrible beast he has ever witnessed, could have dreamed of, breaks out of the mountain itself. The size of a hundred dragons, a head with six pairs of eyes, covered in red-tipped spikes. Its teeth are the size of full-grown men and its claws heavy enough to crush rock. The roar is a wind that nearly blasts them off their feet.

No! No!

"Run! Run!” Stoick shouts, and his people scream and scatter just like the dragons had; but on foot there is no chance, no chance of escape. No escape! They ships cannot be unanchored swiftly enough and then the enormous beast breathes a flame larger than Stoick has ever seen. The longships are set aflame, and people fling themselves into the water to escape.

Stoick the Vast and his warriors have been doomed to death by fire and tooth of this horrible giant.

And then, when he certain he has doomed his people forever: his brave warriors to be burned and crushed, his village soon-to-be attacked by the mountain-dragon; then, when nearly all hope is gone; then, Stoick hears the noise which haunts both his nightmares and his wildest dreams of victory:

the unholy shriek of a Night Fury.

This is not how it was supposed to be.

They hear the shrieks of hundreds of dragons in flight. They are going away from the Nest. Fleeing! Why? What could drive them all out at once? They had planned on sneaking in through dark crevasses, to enter the belly of the mountain to find the Queen there in Her hungry slumber.

The answer is all too clear. Bad-nest-island is swarming with Vikings. Longships are on fire by the shore. And Red-Death-Queen is not inside the mountain but has broken out of it, splitting the rock to break free after centuries of being safely tucked away, hidden and impossible to find, impossible to threaten. Red-Death-Queen roars and spews fire after the Vikings, who have little chance of escape. 

Hiccup is not sure if he could ever trust Vikings; not to be spoken to anymore or looked at directly, he fears them most days, and hates them on others whenever they find broken eggshells and stolen or slayed hatchlings and stripped-bare dragon-bones. That hatred for humans in general has been a steadily burning ember ever since the Hopeless Time of imprisonment and separation and the attempts to force them to do war for strangers, humans without friendship. His memories of old-Viking-nest has been fading for years, grown less and less important because those Viking-people are but foreign now, unkind shadows haunting his nightmares. Dragons are good-safe-kind, humans are selfish-evil-dangerous.

He does not remember names or details of old-Viking-nest. Irrelevant. Vikings-places are to be avoided and he only sneaks into such places on dragon-back when needing supplies which he and the dragons are unable to find in nature or produce themselves. Unseen, the safety of good-nest most important, no open attacks. And Hiccup-and-Toothless are divided in the matter of Viking-deaths because Hiccup is forgiving and pitying even to enemies, even to dangerous-Vikings, when Toothless feels only wrath.

The Vikings are about to perish in flame, eaten by Red-Death-Queen's giant maw, crushed by paws large as boulders. And once they are dead, Red-Death-Queen will hunt for the subjects which has abandoned Her. Humans and dragons alike are in danger. All dragons are in danger!

They must stop Her.

[Now attack? Now attack!] Toothless is scared but impatient.

Hiccup instructs the others to wait for a moment; Toothless-and-Hiccup will strike first, [surprise-plan from-above, then all-together from-many-sides].

[Understand. Plan-good-surprise.] Hookfang acknowledges. 

[Ready!] Clevertwist says.

They can hear and smell a dragon in distress; but not Red-Death-Queen; something small. Trapped. A fells-wood-with-wings! They have to help it. 

[Stormfly! Help trapped fells-wood-with-wings from Viking-ship, free them! Find them hide-place! Hurry, hurry!] The dragon will withstand the fire, at least for a time, but if the boat sinks it will surely drown. Stormfly doesn’t hesitate, swooping down to find the caged dragon. The others wait; Toothless-and-Hiccup will shoot first fire the Red-Death. Gain Her attention and wrath. Then they shall climb higher and faster than ever. And they will defeat Her.

[Free all dragons!]

Toothless-and-Hiccup dive toward the Red-Death.

People raise their shields, cast themselves onto the ground. Some freeze in fear. They wail and cry, they scream in terror. They are caught: caught between the mountain-dragon and the Night Fury. There is no escape!

“Night Fury!”

“Get down!”

“Óðinn help us!”

One moment there is nothing. In the next, a black shape, at this distance no larger than an arrowhead, is falling almost vertically out of the sky. Fog and cloud part to reveal something none of them has ever seen in daylight. The air whines as it cleaved by the creature and then a blast, which Stoick has only glimpsed in nightly raids before, noisily impacts the great beast. The explosion causes it to stumble and falter. Its focus on the Vikings forgotten.

The Night Fury sweeps past them, so swiftly it is hard to tell its exact shape. Stoick makes out a dark body, wings pressed close to it, a long black tail which if his eyes aren’t deceiving him is also sharply red. He had no idea Night Furies were that colour. The dragon moves sleekly, twisting suddenly, wings extending. A flap. The turn is nimble and graceful, the most skillful of dancers. And for a moment, suspended in the air, Stoick knows his eyes must be tricked by the light because he could have sworn that something (a hint of leather and metal and glimmering dragon-scales) is sitting on the beast’s back, pressed close to its as if trying to become one with it. No. A trick. It must be. The tail flicks, one side black, the other red. And then the Night Fury charges. Past the Vikings, uncaring for them.

Its target: the mountain-sized horror of a dragon.

Why is it attacking that thing? The other dragons fled and should this not be their ally, their chief, the leader of its Nest? 

It makes no sense!

Stoick forces himself to move. This is their chance. He will face it, but he cannot ask his people to die needlessly. “Gobber! Spitelout!” he shouts. “Lead our people to the far side of the island! Seek cover!”

“What about you?” Gobber responds, clutching his shield with his good hand, a hammer attached to the other. Willing and ready to go down fighting.

(At least they shall all reunite in Valhalla after this.)

Another series of explosions rocks the island before Stoick manages to give an answer. The mountain-sized dragon throws its head this way and that. Stoick is astonished when a pale blue Deadly Nadder, a green-scaled Zippleback, and not one but two ferocious Nightmares appear from four directions, having come from the fogs or behind the mountain. A four-pronged attack against the mountain-sized dragon, with the Night Fury diving from above again. The roaring shakes his bones and he can only stare. Both of the Monstrous Nightmares are on fire and attempt to near the enormous head from two directions, avoiding snapping jaws. Claws and fangs attack the beast’s many eyes, scratching and burning. The smaller Nightmare is nearly bitten but saved by the Zippleback coming in fast. A cloud of green gas surrounds the giant head and ignites in a loud flash, disorientating the mountain-dragon. The Nightmare circles around, unharmed.

The dragons are cooperating! Attacking together! Impossible. Impossible. Stoick has never seen this kind of behaviour. Raiding dragons come in large numbers but each dragon works alone, steals what it may, makes its kills. Does not help others. During raids, dragons have been injured by arrows, axes and swords and none of the other dragons have ever tried to help them, nor attempted attacks on one target from multiple vectors in this way. But these dragons ...

Stoick’s plan to face off the giant beast falls flat, because it completely ignores the Vikings and their axes and burning ships. The harbour is aflame and they cannot flee, cannot escape. Would all die, if not for—

No.

Stoick refuses to believe that these rouge dragons, that a Night Fury, would come to any Vikings’ aid. No! Impossible!

The Night Fury dives for a third time, aiming a blast at the giant’s wings. Roars of pain and wrath. Damage not enough to kill. A ploy. The Night Fury is taunting it!

Wings larger than any manmade sail unfold. This enormous thing has been cowering in the mountain for hundreds of years. They look old, battered, rarely used. Yet strong enough to bear its weight. Stoick nearly falls to his knees as the dragon flaps its wings creating gusts of wind, dust and gravel swirling, Miðgarð itself moving. One, two times it flaps and it leaps up and is airborne.

It follows the Night Fury. Up, up, up. Rising into the darkening cloud coverage.

No. The giant beast is darkening the sky with its mere shadow, its wingspan the size of islands, its body an eldfjall, its roar an eruption.

Thunder. Lightning.

No, Stoick realizes with horror. This is not Þór’s hammer being wielded; the Night Fury. Its blasts. How many does it have before it runs out of gas? No one knows that for sure. No Night Fury has ever been observed long enough or caught for study. And Stoick knows that the beast is the one that killed his son. The Night Fury dares to taunt them so! Mocking the Vikings—

—by saving them from the mountain-dragon, the chief of the Nest?

Impossible, his heart whispers. Impossible!

A hundred Viking warriors stand witness as the clouds burst into flame. The large dragon spews a storm of it, chasing the Night Fury wildly.

And then they are moving down, down, down, straight toward the ground. It will hit it. Oh, gods, oh, Óðinn, oh, Þór!

“Get back! Get away!” Stoick shouts. People begin to run. But Stoick glances back over his shoulder. He must see how it ends.

The Night Fury turns itself mid-air just as the mountain of a beast opens its jaw to breathe fire once more. One seemingly small burst of white-purple flame. It explodes in the great dragon’s mouth and it spreads its wings to slow down too late, wings ripping apart.

The crash shakes the foundations of Miðgarð itself and Stoick loses his balance. A wave of hot air and smoke disturbs his vision but he forces his eyes to remain open. He must see. He must see! He must locate the Night Fury to kill it, to end it, to make sure it is ended if the explosion doesn’t take it.

My son, I swore to avenge you. I will avenge you!

The Night Fury leaves a trail of fire and smoke. It tries to climb but for some reason it does not seem to be able to gain enough lift. Too slow. Up, a dark blurry spot moving in-between the red spikes of the mountain-dragon’s broken back. The giant dragon’s heavy tail, last to hit the ground, smashes into the smaller dragon, a forceful impact, and something, something fey and man-sized separates from it.

Falling.

The Night Fury shrieks in panic but the Vikings cannot hear anything over the roaring fire. The dragon turns and dives after its quarry; and the flames engulf it completely.

Red-Death’s flames are the largest they have ever faced. Difficult to dodge. The sky burns and Hiccup-and-Toothless know they have only one chance, only one chance. So far up, they cannot see or smell or hear sharp-spikes or flame-self-at-will or two-heads-one-body far below, unable to keep up—they hope they are safe. Must be safe. Will be safe! They must succeed so the dragons will be forever free. Must succeed!

The tail is caught by the fire. Weaker-swiftly; far too soon they won’t be able to fly at all. Hiccup steers them down with the pedal. Red-Death-Queen follows, so utterly focused on this kill, revenge, traitors-who-dare-disturb-slumber!—they dive together, hunter and prey.

They’re out of time.

[wait wait hold wait ...]

Hiccup’s grip of the saddle is tight and through the slits of the helmet, the wind and smoke, it is hard to see anything at all. He relies on Toothless’ senses, their wings held tight for the fall and muscles tense and through Toothless’ eyes Hiccup sees the fog part, ground beneath. Ground too close. Too close! Red-Queen-Death assembles gas in its maw for one final, fatal burst.

[NOW-TURN-NOW-FIRE!]

The explosion shatters the air and the Red-Death-Queen flames from within and without. Cannot even roar in despair and refusal.

The tail is completely destroyed. They cannot maneuver. Cannot get out of the way, rise, fly even as Toothless desperately unfolds their wings to catch heat and rise. Narrowly they avoid Red-Death’s back full of long sharp spikes, red as blood, but the Queen falls and falls and its massive tail impacts with Toothless’ side. Pain shoots through them—broken—Hiccup feels himself being ripped from the saddle—No! no! no! 

[Toothless!]

[Hiccup! HICCUP!]

Toothless dives after Hiccup.

Despite terrible terrible terrible agony, wings struggling, broken.

Tries to reach.

Tries to—

fear pain hurt fire fire fire hurt pain

[Toothless! TOOTHLESS!]

falling. no! no! the tail is broken, they are broken, they are apart, they’re falling!

the Red Death crashes into the rock splitting it in two as it is consumed with flame from within and without. cannot escape nowhere to go fast enough, where is Toothless? no! no! they’re falling. falling. no! [Toothless!] pain pain pain so much pain, in his lungs and his bones, (will he break it all? the fall too far, too harsh) cannot breathe cannot breathe

the last thing Hiccup knows is Toothless

        diving for him, wings struggling to reach—

a long, slow silence.

[We must find! protect! search!] Hookfang cries out to friend-flock. His fire is spent. Where is Stormfly and Barf-and-Belch? Where is little Fierce? Small-fires-puffs vulnerable-easy-target. Where is Stormfly-good-friend? Separated in the chaos when Red-Death rose to the skies, its wings tornadoes. Where is Toothless-and-Hiccup, two-hearts-who-fly-as-one? [Unseen-blast-from-darkness! Hatchling! Where?!]

The call is heard.

Answered.

[Sharp-claws-fangs-angry, we see!] Stormfly approaches rapidly. She has run out of spikes and her wings are tired from the ferocious fight. The air is silent. So silent! No song, no lure-trap-death! Red-Death body broken and unmoving, a mountain upon the mountainside. 

The wild and newly freed fells-wood-with-wings anxiously follows Stormfly. Unsure. [Who, which-flock? Not recognize Strangers who destroyed lure-song of Red-Death! Unsafe, dangers, Vikings-with-evil-nets! Should flee!]

[Fells-wood-with-wings is free-now, understand, free-now? Free!] Hookfang says. [We are good-flock with unseen-blast-from-darkness, Toothless is his word-name, and Hiccup-dragonkin, we fly-together. We are flock. Fells-wood-with-wings is free to go, or join flock. Help search?]

[Where is Toothless-Hiccup? Where?!] Clevertwist flies in wide circles, searching desperately. What will they do if they cannot find them? They cannot return to rest of flock without Hiccup-and-Toothless! Wrong! Must find them.

[Toothless-friend hurt?!] Fierce cries, freeing himself from the safe spot where he had clung to Stormfly’s back, flying off and peering in all directions. [Where?!]

[There! We see!] Barf-and-Belch shout, directing them to a dark patch of land, scorched by fire and grey with ash.

Two small figures down below. But danger! Toothless-and-Hiccup are not moving. One of the Vikings, with red hair and much wrath and a metal axe, is running toward the fallen. No! No! The flock will not have it so! The flock has already been threatened and broken apart by storms and human-wars and prison-cages; not again, not again!

Will not accept death-of-flock!

[Must protect!]

The dragons dive.

Chapter Text

xviii.

Stóískur Eiðbrjótur

Stoick the Oathbreaker

The fire to fades into thick, heavy dust. Hard to breathe. The Vikings stumble and fumble to find each other, regroup, wondering what happens now. What happens now? The mountain-sized beast is vanquished and its subjects long since gone, but for some indiscernible reason their foe was defeated by the enemy: other dragons. Other dragons. Stoick grips his axe to step closer. The Night Fury is so close, so close he can almost smell it. He must do this. He swore an oath. He swore an oath!

“Stoick!” Gobber shouts after him.

“The Night Fury,” he manages to choke. “I’ll have its head.”

The ground has been laid to waste, charred beyond recognition. It is as if the sky has fallen down and night-clouds settled on the land permanently. Ash like snow. Stoick coughs and his eyes sting, but he will not relent. He will find that dragon, may it be whole or as blackened bones. He will find it!

Stoick knows not for how long—brief moments or endless hours—he keeps walking, making circles. Searching. Searching. Where is the Night Fury? Where is the beast? He has lost sight of his people. All that matters is finding the dragon and he shall have vengeance: for Hiccup, for Valka, for generations of suffering put upon his people through raids. It ends now. It ends now!

But then the air clears, a gust of wind from Týr, and he sees it.

The Night Fury is lying on the ground. Defenseless. Over twenty feet long but after encountering the mountain-sized dragon it looks … small. Helpless. Its eyes are closed, head tilted a little to the side. Harsh breaths. A weak groan. It does not sound terrifying: a wounded animal. Stoick tightens the grip of his axe. One step closer. Another. The Night Fury does not move. Its wings are curled in on themselves as if holding something. Its tail appears to be uneven, a strange mechanism of metal wires reaching toward it. Made by human hands, but that is impossible. Impossible! And on its back is a saddle outfitted with straps and satchels at the sides, the leather surprisingly intact.

A saddle? What is this fey, evil trick?

The Night Fury makes a sound of pain. And its eyes open to slits and Stoick sees that they are bright and green; his son’s eyes were so bright and green, too. The dragon looks at him. Stoick is nearly there. Within reach. He raises his axe, poised to strike, and charges. The dragon does not try to move away, as if resigned to its fate. Not panicking like the Timerjack had been on the longship.

Suddenly, the other dragons appear from the fog and land in front of him; Stoick cries a battle-cry and aims for the nearest beast’s wings and neck. But the Nightmare evades the strike and grabs the head of the axe in its jaws, shaking it free from Stoick’s hands. Stoick stumbles back, disarmed. Yet, the beast does not end him. It stares at him and huffs an evil breath, but does not go for the kill. Startled and unsure of what to do next, Stoick stills. The Nightmare is unlit upon landing but now it tries to light itself again. It must be tired because it fails. He sees that one of its horns is crooked and broken; a new or old injury he cannot tell. 

One of the Zippleback heads sways back and forth igniting sparks but it too is out of gas. No fire. The smaller Nightmare’s claws dig into the soft ground, a defensive posture. The Deadly Nadder (growling very angrily and shrieking a warning) is closely followed by the Timberjack. Stoick had not even noticed the Nadder going for the longships, attacking the wood and iron and with brute force managing to free its comrade. The Timberjack froths at the mouth and lands heavily once released, wings weakened from being strapped down for so many days. It hadn’t attacked the mountain-dragon but here it is, free from its bonds, but doesn’t fly away to freedom. Is it too weak? Or unwilling, in league with these other dragons now?

They are defending the Night Fury.

They are defending the Night Fury.

But they do not strike Stoick down. Illogical and unexpected. Blocking his way, but through the tangle of angry wings and scales he can still see the Night Fury. It moves slow and stiff, like a gnarled old man, lowering its head in-between its wings the way an animal might to check on its young hidden there. Puffing with its snout at whatever it is (fey! wrong! inhuman!) that lies there. The dragon makes a noise that is nearly human, because Stoick has made similar ones: grief and sorrow and worry.

The dragon … is saddened? grieving? worried?

(Impossible. Impossible.)

The saddle. The saddle on its back. A saddle. That means … (impossible!) … that means …

A saddle … a rider?

Black wings open enough to reveal it: a human shape, tall perhaps but wiry and slight compared to the average Viking, covered from what Stoick can see in a strange armour of leather and dragon-scales. Same as the Night Fury. It cannot possibly be human. It this some trick, a creature borne from Loki or the fairies? It is wearing a helmet of similar design as the armour, the cresting ridge of it reminiscent of the dragon’s own back. A dragonman. Inhuman. Fey. Unnatural. Wrong.

To Stoick’s surprise, the Night Fury has no teeth. How could such a feared beast be toothless?

With soft gums it gently tugs the face-covering helmet away, and it warbles worriedly and licks at the face revealed to the sunlight.

And Stoick forgets how to breathe.

the cove, trees torn down by the roots and blackened stone and black dragon-scales dropped in the moss.

the empty funeral-boat aflame;

the mast crumbles. and the shield and the sword and the axe sink to the seafloor.

years gone by, years of regret (did I ever say goodbye properly? did I ever tell the lad I was proud of him? did I ever speak with love?)

years of fear and crushed hope—next time, next time we will find the nest! next time we will find the nest and the Night Fury!

and Stoick swore an oath to his dead wife and his dead son and to the old gods, to Baldur and Þór, to Heimdall and Óðinn, that he would avenge them;

he would slay the Night Fury with his own hands, his own blade,

he swore that he would slay—

he would slay—

he would—

Stoick forgets how to breathe.

The lad looks to be the right age, twenty meagre summers and his pale, freckled face is relaxed as if in sweet dreams. So familiar, so frighteningly familiar despite the years gone by. Smoothly shaven, and when they parted he hadn’t yet grown any facial hair but now he would be old enough. Protected from burns and ash by the helmet. The auburn hair is a little messy and longer than Stoick recalls yet shorter than the average Viking’s, thin braids holding it back from his forehead, no glimpse of it while the helmet was on. A small pale scar on his chin. Filled-out, no longer the soft baby fat of a child on his cheeks. Familiar. Familiar. (Unfamiliar: a new scar, dark still, trailing down the side of his throat and disappearing beneath the armour, near the collarbone.) A ghost.

No. No! No! It cannot be, it cannot be, it cannot be. Impossible. This lad, this child, this boy, no, no, it cannot be. It cannot be. It cannot be. 

The world swims before Stoick, tilting sideways.

This must be a fever-dream.

How? How?!

I knew that you were dead! I mourned! The funeral-boat! The broken shield!

“H…Hiccup.”—the name forced from his lungs—and the Night Fury startles, tense, to look right at him. As if the name is recognizable. Means something. Then the Night Fury lowers its head to lick the boy’s face not unlike a dog trying to rouse its master from sleep. Worried noises, an exhale-sharp grunt-warble-click. It repeats the same exact sounds four or five times. Exhale-sharp grunt-warble-click.

The lad does not move.

… Hiccup?

Hiccup—

Hiccup!

Stoick stumbles forward but is stopped by the smaller Nightmare setting down a clawed foot with a heavy thud. A warning. It regards him with distrust, nostrils smoking. Yet does not go for the kill. No bite or fire. Why? Stoick has been an open target all this time! He has no axe, he could be killed thrice over by the dragons. Should be! It makes no sense. It makes no sense. It makes no sense!

Impossible.

“Son,” Stoick chokes. “My son. My son.”

Hiccup!

The largest Nightmare lowers its head a little. All of the dragons appear to be in thought or even (the mere notion ridiculous!) in some sort of communication with each other; growls and warbles and grunts; and a quiet but unmistakable roar from the Nadder. The Night Fury snorts and huffs but does not move, and Stoick cannot tell whether it is because it is weakened or because it refuses to release its hold on the unconscious young man.

His son.

And then the dragons reach an accord. Distrust makes the air heavy and they stay close, but the Nightmares and the Nadder who are in directly in the way step back. The dragons part: a path.

Stoick runs. “Son. Hiccup! Hiccup,” he gasps, falling to his knees in front of the Night Fury, reaching out with empty hands. Axe forgotten. Óðinn will not forgive him for not fulfilling his promise of killing the Night Fury right away, but his son is alive, and the Night Fury—

The Night Fury—

The drake meets his gaze. The dragon unfurls its wings fully and lets Stoick take hold of his son, holding him to his chest. The lad’s breaths are weak and he feels cold. He is weak, but his heart beats. He is alive. His son is alive. He is alive!

At first Stoick is so focused on the lad’s face that he does not see the oddness of one of the legs, ending not in a boot but a foot of metal and wood, some clever and complicated design more than a mere peg. When did he lose the leg? So many years have passed and Stoick has mourned, wept; the funeral, for Óðinn’s sake, the funeral! The longship burned and sank with axe and shield and sword, and Stoick is almost all right these days, the struggle lessened.

And like a ghost, here Hiccup is, rising from the ashes.

The Night Fury moves. Slowly. To its feet. It doesn’t attack, no fire, no claws. Its toothless mouth opens slightly as it breathes heavily, struggling as if its bones within are broken, and its broad head lowers over Stoick and Hiccup. It licks Hiccup’s face and puffs at his chest and whines.

By Vidar. By Thor. By Óðinn.

“You …” Stoick clings to his son harder. Cannot let go. “My son …” He cannot properly form words. Why will his tongue not cooperate? Stoick’s spirit aches so sharply that he fears he may suddenly fall down to die. “Alive.”

There is a soft chirrup, but not from the Night Fury. A tiny Terror, scales covered in ash and dust, leaps from the Nadder’s back, skittering across the broken stone and lands on his son’s chest. The glare it sends Stoick is angry and concerned and full of blame.

What …?

Stoick is vaguely aware of cries of alarm behind him as his fellow Vikings search for him and are confronted by the wary dragons and their Chief kneeling in the dirt cradling a bruised body and the Night Fury, the Night Fury simply sitting there weakly without fire. Voices raise in alarm. Weapons clashing with shields as the Vikings prepare to charge. The warriors begin to sprint toward the scene, unable to see it as anything but an attack on their Chief.

Hiccup inhales sharply. A soft, wet cough. His face contracts in pain and his eyes blink open. Roused by the passage of time or the noise or by being handled by his father. His son! His son! Stoick does not want to ever let go.

Stoick isn’t sure how he expects his son to react, but fear is not what he had dreamed of. The lad cries out and trashes in his arms, and Stoick is so startled he drops him. Hiccup rolls away from him, staggers to his feet and nearly at once looses his balance. One of the dragons, the Nadder, quickly lowers its head and neck to catch him. Pushes him back up. Hiccup’s gaze is wild and face full of fear.

My son! is alive! alive! he is—

“Hiccup,” Stoick says, “it’s me, it’s—”

Hiccup dizzily grabs for the Night Fury, who is at his side on all fours in an instant despite its pain. As if together they can ignore even the worst hurts and prevail. Leaning on the dragon, Hiccup’s hand fumbles at his side, his right leg, grasping a strange tube of wood and metal and drawing it as if it were a sword. Stoick gapes as with a click-whoosh-roar a metal blade suddenly springs from it, unfolding from two joints, blazing with fire.

Like a dragon.

His son …

Like a dragon.

“Hiccup,” he tries again. And his body aches not from any physical wound and his spirit quakes. His son fears him. Fears him more than any beast of history or myth. No son should have to be afraid of their father. “Hiccup.”

Hiccup stands before him too weak to fly, wings broken, a flame-sword like a dragon’s tooth and the Night Fury as his only shield. The dark, blood-speckled scale-armour catches a ray of sun breaking through the fog and clouds. A fey air, of seiðr, all around him. And it is as if the lad has become a living thing sprung right out of a great and fanciful saga to briefly inhabit this earth. 

How could the gods bless him with his son’s return, alive, alive, alive, but at the same time curse him: his son returned but like this, like this, like this?

The axe has been torn from his hands. But Stoick does not attempt to pick it back up, or to grab the knife at his belt, to attack any of the dragons. Not even the Night Fury. Not even the Night Fury.

Stoick the Oathbreaker sits collapsed on his knees in front of his living son—returned from the dead; returned on the wings of dragons.

And he weeps.

Chapter Text

xix.

Fjandmaðurin

The Enemy

Hiccup feels cold metal and unknown furs and large Viking-hands on his chest, on his face, blunt fingertips and he does not know them and fear burns in his heart.

Toothless? Where are his scales? Where is his scales-helmet-cover? No. No no no no! Toothless. Toothless is in danger! The Vikings will kill him, they’ll kill them, danger! Viking-danger-bad! Must protect! Must find Toothless!

Hiccup moves in a daze, breaking free from the stranger’s hold. Lands awkwardly, no wings. Stands. Dizzy, his lungs burn from inhaling the smoke and his head aches and his leg burns like fire itself, the scarred stump feeling the pressure of each movement like it’s being stomped on by a horde of Vikings. Vikings! no! no! no! [Toothless!] He reaches out for his friend with one hand and grasps for inferno-blade with the other, his only defense-fire since he cannot produce his own from his belly; their only protection now. Toothless is tired and injured and has no more fire. Cannot fly. Cannot fly! No, no, no! Wrong-unsafe-danger!

The large Viking in front of him is so tall and broad and the fake-furs smell of ash and the face is worn (all wrong no scales all wrong) by sun and wind and years. The Viking’s eyes are wet. Tracks on its cheeks. Tears? Why? Why? Not fear. Anger? Vikings are always angry, they charge and destroy nests and crush eggs!

Hiccup cannot tell anymore where his thoughts end and Toothless’ begin. They are one, they fly together, dragon-once-lonely and hatchling-once-human one-dragon, [unsafe must leave now!] and their wings ache and one feels broken and the tailfin is gone. gone! gone! They cannot escape. They cannot run. They cannot fly. Hiccup grips inferno-blade tightly and Toothless tries to shield them both. Afraid. Wrong. Wrong! [Afraid!]

The Viking had run toward them meaning to strike them down, Toothless remembers for them, but for some reason it ceased. Stormfly took its axe-weapon from it and the Viking hasn’t tried to reclaim it. The metal is dull with old blood and the Viking leaves it be. Why? Why?

The Viking is on its knees. Scared-position-weak (wrong! wrong! Vikings don’t do that! Vikings don’t!), pleading. Regret? Regret, why? Hookfang and Stormfly stand at its side ready to intervene but they recognize this Viking, they know this Viking, they know his scent. Toothless croons uncertainly and Hiccup’s breaths are shallow. Their back hurts, their wings! their wings!, and it is difficult to remain awake aware standing knowing breathing—

[This Viking chief-of-Viking-nest-old-prison], Stormfly says.

Hiccup is so tired he cannot make out the words better than that.

[Viking-chief-of-Viking-nest tried to do harm! But recognizes. Viking-chief-of-Viking-nest human-hatchling’s sire.]

No. No? Hiccup is not a Viking. Anymore. Has not been for years. No. No no no. He shares a wild desperate thought with Toothless, [cannot be true!] but Toothless hesitates and says [remembers scent] and [familiar old-fear but also old-comfort, deep longing has-missed-long-time].

Chief-of-Viking-nest-prison-bad-place (good-place one time long-ago it was good place it was good place home safety comfort) (once upon a time it was a bad-place unsafe much-hurt not-good and that is where he lived until Toothless).

Chief-of-Viking-nest-unsafe-place-prison-cage (Hall-of-Mead hot fire in hearth, comfort once upon a time. no! no, cannot be!)

(Berk?) … Berk.

Chief-of-Berk.

Stoick. Stoick-Vast-Chief-of-Berk (warrior-leader, sire?, no!, impatient-old-memory)

“with this axe you carry all of us.”

Stoick the Vast-of-Berk-Viking-nest (unsafe place! unsafe!), his … his father,

“you act like us! talk like us! think like us!”

his father,

(sire-Chief-father is crying? but Stoick never weeps, never shows weakness of any kind!)

his father?

… but Hiccup-dragon has no father!

The Vikings charge to defend their Chief. They see dragons and a strange fey man-like creature wielding a sword of fire. In league with dragons.

The dragons roar.

Stoick roars too.

“STOP! NO! NO!”

Some halt, stumbling. Some heed the command too late. An arrow flies, Stoick cannot tell from where.

Hiccup shrieks like a dragon and cleaves the arrow with a swipe of the flaming blade before it can hit the Night Fury. Such accuracy and speed is inhuman. A thing of dragons. His eyes are no longer clouded with fear and panic only; bright (oh, green and bright like Valka’s, Valka’s eyes) and undoubtly intelligent and now aware of his surroundings, and he stands straighter. Lending strength from the dragon at his side. The Night Fury snarls and suddenly it has teeth where moments are there were none, and its wings flare behind it. One side appears to be broken, tilted at an unnatural angle. Hiccup rests one hand on the dragon’s neck.

The Nightmare growls, tail swiping back and forth. The Nadder turns slightly, preparing to shoot its spikes. The Zippleback twists its head this way and that, a little green smoke sifting through its jaws. The small Terrible Terror—which on its own is no real threat to a seasoned Viking—stands defensively by Hiccup’s feet, back curled like an angry cat’s and it puffs fire once. One step closer, the unspoken warning: we will not hesitate to harm you. These dragons are prepared to defend the human boy (a little boy no longer) until the bitter end.

Gobber, Astrid, and Spitelout are the first to reach Stoick’s side. He holds his hands out to stop them from continuing forward, knowing that if he does not physically hold them back they will attack. No. Not his son! He cannot let them strike him down in anger and confusion, not even when Hiccup is consorting with dragons.

“Son,” Stoick says and Gobber chokes audibly and Astrid gasps.

Hiccup doesn’t speak at first. Has he forgotten how to? His gaze is hard and cold. He leans heavily on his metal leg, obviously in agony. The wood of the leg is charred around the edges and the metal slightly askew as if by great pressure. It is a wonder he remains standing.

“Son .. Let me help you. You’re in pain. Let me help you.”

His son and the Night Fury killed the mountainous beast that reigned his island.

They—

“Son,” he pleads.

Hiccup inhales. Exhales.

Speaks.

His voice is soft and raspy and the words odd around the edges as if some of the pronunciation has been lost over the months and years; Stoick cannot tell whether it is from the way he has aged in the wild or the smoke in his lungs or from years of disuse. How long has Hiccup been living with the dragons? How long since he last visited a human village, slept in a bed, ate hot food at the hearth? Listened to sagas and sang songs and drank mead in a Hall? How long has he been feral and wild and more dragon than human?

Six years. Six years since his son was taken. Carried off. Stoick is forced to look at the saddle and armour and the closeness of the dragons to the boy; was he willing? Did he leave Berk, his people, his place of birth … for this … by his own choice?

Six years. Dead. The funeral-boat aflame. Named a warrior for his final, failing effort; the broken shield, the violence of the cove where they found scattered Night Fury dragon-scales. And Stoick knew his son was dead because dragons bring only death! He has mourned and grieved and began to move on, taking care of Berk, encouraging Spitelout’s son and Astrid the Shieldmaiden to learn to lead. Stoick’s red hair has started to grey and he’s not sure how much longer he can live this kind of life; and he doesn’t want to die as an old bent man trapped in his bed. He envisioned a warrior’s death as he struck down the Night Fury who killed his son. And now Stoick is an Oathbreaker, his son is alive, the Night Fury—

Dead.

Returned.

Oh, my son. Are you a dragon now? Have you forgotten everything you’ve ever been taught?

The lad, who is more dragon than man, speaks:

“Promise us … promise us you-Vikings will not do harm.”

Oh Hiccup, little Hiccup, clever little Hiccup, so kind and gentle (he would come home as a wee bairn carrying birds with broken wings and nurse them back to health) and always so forgiving. Hiccup shouldn’t be. Viking feuds lead to oaths-swearing, hand-to-hand combat, to death, and this is a feud like any other. He fears his father and the Vikings but he fears even more for the safety of his dragons. His dragons—or does he belong to them?

“Not do harm? Against the dragons?” The question is unnecessary. What clarification could he expect? Of course the dragons!

Beasts, Stoick’s instincts yell at him. Wild and dangerous! Kill them or run! Hide! Flee!

The Night Fury is breathing so noisily now that they can all hear it, and Hiccup moves slightly. The metal leg creaks. Painful. The lad needs a healer and Stoick regrets leaving Gothi behind in the village, even though the old woman is needed there, safe there. What unseen harm has come to the boy beneath that armour?

“Promise us.”

Stoick swallows hard. He is not only an Oathbreaker, failing to kill the Night Fury, but now he is about to fail his ancestors too. Accepting dragons? Letting them … just … be?

“Son, I cannot simply—”

“Dragon-raids-Vikings stopped, no-more raids, Red-Death gone.” His son speaks strangely, to the Vikings’ bewilderment. There is force and ferocity in his singular demand: “Promise us.”

As if understanding the spoken words, the dragons snort and grunt and growl in assent, reinforcing Hiccup’s voice. That makes the Vikings very nervous and many swords, axes, knives rattle in clenched hands. If Stoick does not agree to those simple terms, violence is imminent. And Stoick cannot tell who would win. Perhaps all the dragons could be slain, tired as they are from their recent battle, but then his son … his son—

“Stoick,” Gobber says. The blacksmith regards Hiccup and the dragons with wonder and awe and even fond recognition. He had a soft spot for his old apprentice and had grieved as deeply as Stoick. One of the few Berkians to do so. Most do not miss the runt, the blight on their village. “Maybe we should listen to the lad.”

“Stoick, you cannot be serious,” Spitelout hisses on his breath. “Listening to … this!” An upset hand gestures toward Hiccup.

“You doubt that I recognize my son? My own flesh and blood?” Stoick asks.

“No, no, I—no, but—but the dragons!” Spitelout tries to argue.

“Son … Hiccup,” Stoick addresses the lad (and the dragons, he guesses). “I don’t want you hurt you. And if that means letting these dragons be … so be it." The Vikings nearby gasp in horror. What has happened to their Chief? Their Chief who swore an oath to kill the Night Fury himself, to cut off its head and place it in his Hall as a trophy for his son’s death? “You’re tired and injured. We have lost our longships. I suggest a truce. Do you understand? Hiccup?"

Oh, Óðinn. They’ve lost the longships—most of them have burned down to husks irreparably. How will they leave this forsaken land?

Hiccup considers the proposal. His head bows slightly this way and that, not unlike a dragon’s slithering movements, and the dragons hum and groan and claws dig into the dirt. They’re communicating. Somehow. Not with words; Hiccup’s mouth does not move except the odd hiss-click-growl (like a dragon. like a dragon). After a few moments, a decision has been made. Hiccup lifts the flaming sword high so all can see and with a click extinguishes the flame, leaving a dark gleaming blade which smokes slightly. He holds it so Stoick, the Vikings, the dragons, all can see the disarmament. The Vikings stare, not comprehending how such a device could function except by a dark and potent seiðr. Then the blade is folded back somehow into itself, steel grinding onto steel and settling into the wood-and-metal tube with a click. This device (a sheath and handle in one piece?) is attached to some straps around the lad’s right leg by nimble, gloved fingers, movements trained and old.

A sign: armistice.

“Lower your weapons,” Stoick orders his people. He dropped his own axe a long time ago, but reaches for his belt where he keeps a long knife. To show Hiccup that he understands, he mirrors the lad by unsheathing it and dropping it on the ground.

Hiccup’s eyes fix on the knife and then Stoick’s face.

A wordless nod.

“Chief?” Spitelout sounds very confused.

“Do as I command. Everyone step away from the dragons, and no one is to raise any weapons of any kind!”

Disgruntled murmurs. Clattering of metal. People hesitate. Disarm before these dragons which could eat them whole, strike them down with fire? The very fact that they are still alive and untouched seems to pass them by entirely, old habits and fears deeply ingrained. 

“Gobber, Spitelout,” he says, “divide our people into groups. Search our ships, see if there’s anything salvageable and if any, Óðinn willing, could be repaired. We need to search the island for someplace to set up camp for the night. I doubt there’s anything edible here but water is a more urgent issue. No one is to engage any dragons! We have an armistice. Make it clear to everyone.”

“Aye, Chief.” Gobber holds his gaze for a moment. He might understand even if no one else does. His oldest, most loyal friend. Spitelout also nods in assent though much more reluctantly.

The blacksmith then looks at Hiccup, eyes watering because he missed his apprentice, always held him dear. “It’s good to see you, Hiccup. I’m glad you’re alive." Then he turns to gather the Vikings to follow through Stoick’s orders.

Stoick lingers.

He looks at his son, who chooses to ignore (or at least turn his back on) the Viking, his father, all of that. Arms wrap around the Night Fury (an embrace?) and he makes near-inaudible noises: grunt-click-hiss-warble (like a dragon. like a dragon. like a dragon), worrying over the beast’s broken wing. Hiccup struggles to walk properly but is caught by the Night Fury and supported upright again.

What happens now?

Hiccup wants to collapse. His leg stump hurts, his ribs ache, everything is painful. Toothless’ wing is in agony. They can no longer separate their thoughts and pains and bodies fully, woven like a singular fabric from many threads. [Toothless-wing-pain], he gasps, settling back to the comfort of using his inner voice only. Speaking with throat and mouth to form Viking-words after so long disuse was strange and uncomfortable.

The Vikings are backing off. Walking, running. He hears their voices murmuring, a great debate. Fear-hatred-confusion. But at least they’re obeying Stoick-Chief-(father)’s orders, dispersing in groups. Some go for the longships, half of which are still on fire and the others blackened to coal. Others search the island, but Hiccup know they will not find anything. The mountain is empty now and nothing grows here, no greens, and there is a stream of water to the north but it is dirty. Toothless has warned them not to touch that water. Hookfang, Barf-and-Belch, and Stormfly watch the Vikings distrustfully, standing guard so loyally. Hiccup thanks them. For protecting.

[Will-always protect human-hatchling], Hookfang says, falling back to the fond nickname. Hiccup is too old to be called a hatchling, really.

Hiccup feels small and scared with so many angry-dangerous-Vikings nearby, naked without his helmet. It lies on the ground but if he bends down to pick it up he’s sure he’ll fall, so he lets it be for now. He trusts the dragons will watch over them when Hiccup and Toothless have to turn their backs to the enemy (armistice, yes, but enemies still, wary) to care for their injures.

[Oh, Toothless]. Hiccup lays his arms around his friend in an embrace. So much pain! The wing is broken. They’ll need … they’ll need wood and strips of fabric or leather, to set it. Hiccup slowly walks around him to get a better look but the ground feels unstable beneath him and his stomp aches fiercely. Toothless protests as the human wobbles and knees give way. Catching him with his snout. [Hiccup! Careful. Leg hurts, must rest. Silly hatchling.]

Barf-and-Belch bend their necks to sniff at Toothless’ wing and Hiccup’s leg. [Help how? Let us help], one head says.

[Wood and fabric], Hiccup explains, visualising a sling or support of some kind for Toothless’ wing. The longships have wood although damaged, and has any of the sails survived the fire? That might work. Must check satchel-bags for medicinal herbs-to-boil to lessen pain. Toothless struggles to bend his neck to lick his wing where it hurts the most.

They understand. [Viking-fly-on-water-boat! Wood-shape and fabric-wings. We will fetch!] They take to the skies. 

[Be careful!] Hiccup calls after them. The longships are half-unseen within fog and settling smoke and ash, and two-heads-one-body rise and circle, searching for their quarry. Hiccup looks away from them, toward the Vikings. Stoick-Chief-father is the only one who has not moved (too close for comfort), and his grave face is lined with age and worry and grief. Toothless smells regret and tears. Hiccup cannot form any more words right now to communicate with any of the Viking. Too tired, too hurt.

Stoick-Chief-father might hold to the promise of not raising any weapons toward Hiccup and the dragons, but he is not sure of the others. Memory a little vague and twisted from years, shadowed in doubt; now that he is calming a little he recalls more of the faces and the names. There was … Gobber? Gobber-blacksmith-metal, a rare kindness (the memory fond and, deep down, safe). Hiccup struggles with the other names. Not now. Not the time. He will think later, after rest and food and water.

Water! His throat is parched. He sits down heavily on the stone-ground next to Toothless, to relieve some pressure from his stump. It’s been damaged, must be repaired. Now not. Later.

[Water? We must-find clean, cool water somewhere.]

[Will search], Fierce offers. The little dragon can slip by most dangers unseen and climb into crevasses in the large mountain in search for a spring or natural well, and he can fly around the nearby seastacks. Quick and small. Hiccup’s guts clench in concern, unwilling. What if Fierce is hurt? But he assents. Water is a necessity they cannot live without.

[Careful!]

That leaves Hookfang, Clevertwist and Stormfly, refusing to leave their side. Just in case. Just in case the Vikings are false, breaking the promise of no-danger no-hurt. Hiccup is sure they cannot fight them all and succeed (if worst comes to worst), but the two dragons could carry Toothless-and-Hiccup in their claws out of here, to a place to hide. He hopes it does not come to that.

Stoick-Chief-father is still there. Watching. Behind him and most of the Vikings (foe? temporary-ally?), the half-destroyed corpse of Red-Death-Queen dominates the landscape. Hiccup-and-Toothless have mourned dead dragons and hatchlings unborn in broken eggs, buried in dirt and stone and the ground flamed at in signs of grief, this-is-death-rest-place; but Red-Death does not deserve grief or mourning or death-rest-place the proper way. Does She? For all harm She has done.

Hiccup wonders where the dragons went. They fled. They had meant to follow them, to assure them of their freedom, to offer comfort and new-flock-good-flock if any of the dragons wanted that. But gone now, wings carrying them far away from bad-nest-island. And Hiccup cannot ask any of their flock to go in search for them: not fair to separate flock further, not safe with so many Vikings nearby.

Stoick-Chief-father watches them, without intruding, but still uncomfortable. Hiccup ducks behind Toothless.

[Not-like this, bad feeling.]

Toothless grunts in pain. Hiccup realizes that his face is wet, tears coming from his eyes now. Shock in the silence after battle. He cannot stop the tears once they begin, and his body starts shaking. [Toothless!] he weeps. [So-much-pain.] His body is wrecked, each bone, each nerve, each heartbeat warming his blood. Hiccup is cold now, on the inside. Presses close to Toothless, gently, not wanting more hurt. There is a big bruise, scalding under his fingertips as he touches it, at Toothless’ side. Toothless is too sore to bend and reach himself, so Hiccup gathers some of the dragon’s saliva on his hands and smears it over the worst places of his side and wing.

[Hiccup must rest], Toothless demands. Upset at the tears. [Toothless will-keep Hiccup warm.]

No. No. He can’t go to sleep. Can’t rest. [Wing first.]

Stoick-Chief-father keeps watching, as Barf-and-Belch return, bearing several broken planks in their clawed feet and torn-off sail-canvas in their jaws. They set down behind Toothless and Hiccup so that Viking-man cannot properly see, and Hiccup gets to work. Struggles. Hands shake. He wipes at his face to remove the wet tear tracks and clear his eyes, leaving dust and grime behind. Though he is cold, his body sweats with exhaustion and in the end he must explain to flock what to do, so they can help. Stormfly cleaves the planks into smaller pieces. Hiccup places the splints, knowing in his heart the location and function of each bone, muscle, and joint of Toothless’ wing as if it were his own body. Sail-canvas ripped thin and long are wrapped to keep the splints in place. The pain remains but is steadier now, and now the wing should heal faster, correct, unbent. Toothless sighs in relief and nearly falls asleep. Much-tired. [Sleep. Rest. Grow stronger], Hookfang urges.

Then Hiccup sits down again, shielded from Stoick-Chief-father’s gaze by the dragons, and tends to himself. He unbinds and removes the prosthetic leg from his stump with some difficulty and unclasps the leather ties on the inside of his thighs, partially removing the armour. Hiccup winces; cannot see properly how bad it is without reflecting-water-mirror, but by feel and bending his knees a little he finds the scars very sore, red and flaming, and the edges of the old wounds are cracked and bleeding. Toothless is roused from his near-sleep at the sharp scent of Hiccup’s blood and whines in distress.

[All-right, will be fine, Toothless], Hiccup tries to soothe him. With one hand he reaches for one of the satchels attached to the saddle, knowing which one holds the medicinals that can be chewed or boiled in water to lessen pain. He has no water, so he puts a small dry patch of white willow bark in his mouth, its taste sharp and bitter. But it is not the first time he has used them. He tries to breathe slow and calm and deep.

At that moment Fierce returns, carrying happier news. [Found water! Fly in direction-of-sunrise, there is island with trees and spring-well-water-flow.] Then the little dragon sees Hiccup and smells his blood and leaps up to him, sniffs the stump. [Not-good-hurt! Hiccup hurt?]

[Well done! Good finding water.] Relief. Great relief. [Need water for drinking and for cleaning-injury.] Hiccup struggles to reach the waterskins; he keeps three of them

[Will fetch!] Fierce says.

The Timberjack, who has been watching and waiting uncertainly from the sidelines until now, flaps its wings to near them. Fells-woods-with-wings are very vulnerable on the ground; they survive best in the air and in trees, nesting high-up on thick branches like birds if they can, or on narrow rock-sides. [Water?]

Hiccup realizes he hasn’t even tried to introduce himself-and-Toothless yet. [Yes, go with small-fires-puffs for water if-want], he says gently and the dragon rears back in shock.

[Speech-thought-inner-voice?! But not dragon!]

[Yes, dragon!] Clevertwist argues at once and snarls at the insult.

[Hiccup-Toothless fly-together], Hookfang says firmly. [Hiccup-dragon-kin-friend. You will be-kind! No-threat!]

[Toothless-Hiccup fly-together-as-one], Stormfly agrees.

Hiccup’s heart warms at his flock-friends’ quick defense. He is not angry or upset with the fells-wood-with-wings; how could he possibly be? It was brought here by Vikings as a prisoner and there is painful memory there, and Hiccup knows not for how long—months or years—it has been caged and hurt by humans. Hiccup has inferno-blade and gas from two-heads-one-body to light to show that he is dragon-kin, thinking like a dragon, speaking like a dragon, acting like a dragon. He has the scales of Toothless and his helmet is ridged like a dragon’s back. And yet his face and his hands are human-like, suspicious. He cannot fault the dragon for being unsure, disbelieving, even afraid.

[Free to go], he says. [You are free, own-self-only. Our flock open for new-friend-dragons always, your-choice. Yours!]

The dragon sways. [Will think of these things. Water?]

[Follow Fierce, small-fires-puffs. Fierce? Show way?]

The little dragon has clasped one of the waterskins in its mouth. Barf-and-Belch carry the others in their claws. [Will go, fill water-things for Hiccup-and-Toothless, drink our fill, will return quickly.]

[Will stay here. Guard!] Clevertwist says and glares in Viking-Chief’s direction.

Even knowing the mysterious dragon-rider’s identity, seeing now that Hiccup (his son! his son! alive!) has some kind of sway over the dragons, understanding them, Stoick is baffled by the dragons’ behaviour. No word is spoken out loud. Grunts, snorts, growls, warbles, clicks, hisses. Animal noises. They terrify him to his core, yet Stoick refuses to move. His son is there! Alive! So close, so damningly close.

Afraid. Hiccup is afraid of him.

The dragons are clustered around Hiccup and the Night Fury. Highly suspicious of the Vikings. But they keep true to the armistice, and Stoick will not let his people break the promise either. The smaller Nightmare keeps a watchful eye on Stoick, an ire burning there with intent and focus which Stoick has never encoutnered before. It is not the wild and vioelnt gaze of raiding dragons who swoop in, steal what they may, set houses on fire. The Nightmare’s focus is on him, Stoick, alone.

They’re all afraid.

The dragons separate after some time. The Terrible Terror flies off. The Monstrous Nightmares, Deadly Nadder, and Timberjack remain near Hiccup and the Night Fury, but the Zippelback flies in the direction of the longships. This startles his people: cries of fear, anger. Stoick glances over his shoulder but neither humans or dragons attack. Instead, the Zippelback sweeps over the abandoned ships. Seemingly picking a target at random, it descends and begins to tug, rip at, break apart the ship with claws, teeth, and by headbutting the side of the boat. Taking it apart? Breaking off planks. Biting off what remains of the sails. The flames have been doused; Gobber and Spitelout had people use buckets and helmets to quench the fire and salvage what they can.

What are the dragons up to?

It becomes clear when Stoick watches his son and the dragons make a complex splint for the Night Fury’s broken wing, setting it and wrapping it in canvas.

Clever little Hiccup.

It’s so silent. Far-off he hears his people working, setting up camp well out of range of dragon-fire. The dragons are quieting. And in that silence, he hears harsh breathing and soft sniffles and Stoick wants to move then. Crying?

His son is crying?

His son is crying.

(When Hiccup was seven years old and loved to run through the woods behind Berk in search for trolls and gnomes, he once slipped on a wet rock and sprained his ankle. Vikings are supposed to be tough and the boy had struggled, not wanting to draw attention to himself. Stumbled back home and tried to sneak inside without his father’s noticing; Stoick had found him curled in bed next morning refusing to get up, face red and eyes wet. He’d carried the lad to Gothi, who had found the injury to be mild and he only needed to rest, keep off the foot for a few days, and it would be fine. The lad had always tried to be strong and hide all hurts and weaknesses. Like a Viking. Isn’t that what Stoick has always pushed for?)

The dragons comfort the young man, a lowered head, a snout against his cheek, a soft warble from the Night Fury. 

The tears slowly cease. From where he sits, Stoick cannot see everything properly; his son sits down in the shadow of the Night Fury, the Nightmare and Nadder hovering over them protectively. Clinking, the soft sound of leather and cloth scraping against one another. The Night Fury suddenly startles from its rest, eyes wide and open and it makes a distressed sound. What’s happening?

The Terror returns. Leaves again, followed by the Zippleback and Timberjack. He can’t predict their movements, but at least they show no aggression toward the Vikings. Avoiding them, rather. No exchanges across the two sides of the line.

Gravel moves behind him. A familiar hand on his shoulder. “Uh, Stoick?” Gobber says. “We’ve established a camp, that-a-way.” The old blacksmith gestures behind him, away from the dragons and the massive corpse, beyond the charred longships at a piece of shore there, barely visible in the fog. “You need to eat something.”

“No. I’m not leaving.”

“All right. I’ll have one of the lads or lasses bring you something.”

“The longships?” Stoick asks, not taking his eyes off the Night Fury.

“A right mess,” Gobber sighs. “We’re still having a look, but the fire has destroyed half of them outright. One is sinking. One has already sunk. Then one was torn apart by that Zippleback, for whatever reason. Three remain that could possibly be repaired to seaworthiness if we could find timber—we have some tools and plenty of skilled hands. The sails are another matter.”

So they’re stuck.

“So, there you have it, Chief.”

Gobber pauses. He follows Stoick’s gaze. The Night Fury is resting now, eyes heavily lidded, breaths deep and slow. The Nightmare’s wings are folded at its sides but sharp, keen eyes sense the two men’s attention and meets it head-on. The Nadder has settled itself a little to the side of the Night Fury, ready to intervene if anyone tries walking too close to dragons or boy. No sign of Hiccup, hidden behind the Night Fury since tending to its wing.

“How’s the lad doing?” A quiet question.

“I don’t know,” Stoick says hoarsely. His son is injured and has wept and he can’t even walk up to comfort him! Can’t even see him! It is a harsh injustice. “I … He was crying, Gobber. Weeping. He’s in pain, and I can’t do anything!” What kind of father is he?

Gobber’s hand squeezes his shoulder.

“He’ll be all right. He’s a tough little lad. Well, not so little anymore.”

“Tough?”

“Aye. And I’m not talking about how he defeated that mountain of a beast. He was my apprentice for near-on five years and I watched that lad grow up.” Gobber was there, after all, before he was even born and his support was crucial after Valka’s death. A second father, almost. “Hiccup is clever, a kind little soul, but he’s also very strong. Perhaps not in body, but in soul. And now he has these dragons to protect him.”

“You sound … awfully confident about the dragons,” Stoick ventures.

“I don’t trust them in general. These ones, I don’t know, I’m starting to warm up to them. If only for having brought Hiccup back to us alive.”

But not whole. His leg—what happened? When did it happen? Was it other dragons? Or, worse somehow, was it people, a village known to them or a land faraway, distant and foreign? How far away from or, worse, how close to Berk has his son been all of this time? What other scars does he bear on his flesh and in his soul? Injures that Stoick and Gobber and no one else was there for?

No one but dragons. These dragons. Hiccup had, before, used the word us, not I—promise us. He thinks himself a dragon, part of the beasts.

“What are you saying? To not look this gifted dragon in the mouth?” Stoick asks.

Gobber chuckles humourlessly. “Do not look gifted dragons in the mouth. Oh, there’s a saying! Well. All I’m saying is we need to thread carefully but I’m fair confident that these dragons won’t harm us, as long as we don’t harm them. An armistice is an armistice. Besides, as I said, he’s a clever lad. He recognizes you.”

“Does he?” Stoick whispers hoarsely. “He’s afraid. He’s afraid of me, his father! Those beasts are more of a comfort than I could ever be.”

“At least he’s safe now. We’ve found him, he’s alive, and more urgently we have to find a way off this awful place. Repair the ships and such, first thing in the morning.”

“How are our people?”

“Uneasy. Wee bit afraid being neighbours with dragons. But all right. No injuries save for some bruises,” Gobber reports.

“Good. Good.”

Gobber pats his shoulder. “I’ll send along one of the lads with some food for you.”

Stoick refuses to move. He will not leave this spot unless he must or is bodily dragged away. His son is right there! Right there! Oh, Hiccup my son! Stoick vows to keep watch through the night, for as long as it takes until he can speak to his son again. And so he stays, eyes fixed on the Night Fury and the other dragons and he wishes that he had clear sight of his son, as well. 

And so passes the first day and first night on the accursed island of the Red Death’s abandoned nest.

Chapter Text

xx.

Drekamaðurinn

The Dragonman

On the first day on the mountain-island, the Vikings make camp on the shoreline as far away as possible from the evil mountain and the ashen corpse of the enemy; and they do not want to be too close to the odd collection of dragons and their rider. Campfires litter the gravel uneasily. Around one of these small fires, five youths are in heated debate.

“How? I mean, are you sure?”

Astrid isn’t or, rather, doesn’t want to be. How can she be sure? But the Chief’s reaction, Gobber’s reaction—and then she truly looked at the young man with her own eyes, and—

“Yes, Fishlegs, I’m sure.”

The campfire casts a solemn golden glow, one of several scattered across the beach. They’ve salvaged what they could and used the broken lost ships as fuel for their warmth. During the day, during the battle—brief and strange as it was—it was surprisingly warm. It is as if this island, this mountain, produces a heat of its own spewing from the belly of the earth, an eldfjall albeit silent and inactive. The Viking warriors of Berk are about to find out how cold it gets at night here. The land is hideous and a shiver crawls up Astrid’s back.

The thing, that monster of a dragon, larger than any in any of her nightmares—it had been defeated by those other dragons. Led by the Night Fury. The Night Fury and—

How? A valid question. The runt was killed. Six years ago when there was a raid in the middle of the night (before she slew her first dragon), Astrid saw it, the only one in Berk who can claim to have been so close to a Night Fury until now. A shadow in the night sweeping in; it blasted fire at the ground at the edge of the village. Hiccup ran toward it, foolishly. And there was a Nadder, she is sure there was a Nadder there, and Hiccup the Runt was taken—by claw and tooth—did she imagine that? has her memory failed her? She had found the trail in the forest, the cove burned and ravaged and trees felled, the charred, broken shield. She found that! She saw that!

Astrid has long since accepted that Hiccup the Useless Runt died. The Chief inconsolable. Wrathful. Vengeful. The funeral boat: the Chief swearing onto the old gods that he would find the Night Fury and have its head for killing his son.

It’s right there, now. Only a few hundred fathoms away. Right there!

The Chief has ordered armistice. Tells them to stand down. No harm to the dragons. No harm to—to—

“But, are you really, really—”

“Yes!” Astrid shouts and stands up suddenly. Fishlegs flinches and silences.

“But I thought he was eaten by a dragon,” Tuffnut says.

“Yeah. Eaten and roasted alive,” says his twin sister, Ruffnut.

So did Astrid. Whether it had happened at the cove or someplace else, the Night Fury dragging the runt off and swallowing him whole. She and Snotlout and the others hadn’t … hadn’t mourned, exactly. Hiccup the Useless Runt was irritating, annoying, in the way. Proving himself oddly good at distracting dragons in the arena (which now in hindsight makes a scary amount of sense), ruining Astrid’s chances more than once at striking down a dragon (wasn’t there a Nadder? There was a Nadder, and the runt had reached out a hand for it). They hadn’t mourned because Hiccup wasn’t a friend as much as he was a boy their own age, forced to socialize with them, to train together, to eat together in the Mead Hall. They had taunted him and pushed him into the dirt and laughed at him (pathetic little runt!) suspicious when he was doing too well (liar! trickery!). But Astrid saw Gobber’s grief, the Chief’s grief, and had tried to feel grief too because it was the right thing, wasn’t it, to feel sorrow for a fellow Viking? They all thought Hiccup tried to be a Viking in the end, fighting, losing a battle against a dragon and dying with a weapon in hand and thus earning himself the right to step into Valhalla proudly.

Hiccup isn’t in Valhalla.

Because Hiccup isn’t—he’s—he’s some kind of dragonman now. Riding on dragon-back! A Night Fury! How? How? And why, why would he even attempt such a thing? Did he tame it like a wild wolf turned into a loyal lapdog?

And he looks so different. Taller, a little bit broader on the shoulders, the peg leg. He’s not a boy anymore, he’s a man. But not a Viking warrior, not—

What is he?

“But what about—”

“I don’t know!” Astrid paces. Back and forth. Her shadow twists and turns. “I don’t understand it, and I can’t explain it. All right?”

“But we didn’t get to see anything,” Snotlout complains. “Chief Stoick won’t let anyone get close! I mean, there’s two Nightmares there, two of them! And a Nadder and the Timberjack? Did—” Even Snotlout struggles to say the name, because naming things makes them real. “Did he tame it too? That fast? In the middle of the fight?”

“Don’t forget the Zippleback!” Ruffnut says.

“Yeah,” Tuffnut agrees with his sister. “Don’t forget that.”

(Thunder and lightning, roars and fires in the sky, and the mountain-dragon fell down and was destroyed.)

“Do you think,” Fishlegs says very nervously, constantly glancing over the camp in the direction of the dragons: hidden, and between the night and the fog and the heavy clouds, they are very difficult to make out. There is a glow there as if from a fire, a trail of smoke, but that is all. It’s silent. No spoken words. The dragons sleeping—are they sleeping? How can they be sure the dragons will not attack the Viking camp, burn them all? Armistice, the Chief had said, but Astrid cannot trust dragons. Not ever. Not ever! “Do you think that he’s wielding some sort of … seiðr?”

Maybe he is. Maybe he is! Astrid has never encountered any true seiðr-practicioner because Berk have none and she has rarely left Berk. This expedition, this voyage, was her first real step into the wider world and she was eager to make her mark, make her parents proud, the Chief proud—and she didn’t even get to slay a single dragon! No, she doesn’t know if true seidr of the sort Fishlegs talks about is real, has ever been or could ever be real; some would say that Gothi, the village healer, practices seiðr with some of her skills and knowledge and whispered prayer-spells for recovery and healing. Some would say that he is wielding seiðr, yes, dragon-tamer, dragon-rider, carrying a sword of fire (a sword of fire!)—

But Astrid thinks about Hiccup the Runt as he was when they were children. Awkward, fumbling, eager with his ideas and thoughts, weak, so bloody weak, not a warrior. Not a warrior! 

The dragonman is a warrior. His green eyes so wild and cold and determined, the shriek haunting as the fire-sword cut through the arrow in flight before it could hit the Night Fury. Quick defensive reflexes, honed by years of—of what? battle? flying? surviving in the wilderness?

What have those eyes seen?

For the first time in her life, Astrid is afraid of him.  Afraid! Of Hiccup!

Hiccup the Runt, a runt no more.

“I’m going to sleep,” she declares. She can’t listen to any more questions and speculations, the others looking to her because she often has answers to things. Snotlout looks disappointed and Tuff pokes at the fire with a stick, but Ruff stands and says: “Mind if I join you? Us girls have got to stick together.”

Astrid doesn’t mind. Well, a little. She doesn’t say that. She grabs her blanket (the little managed to be saved from the burning boats; she was lucky, carrying her pack when they came ashore, not leaving it behind) and her axe and shield, finding a spot not too far from the fire. Some Vikings have settled down to rest, but sleep eludes them. How can they sleep easy on this evil island, with dragons so close by? Astrid rolls herself in the blanket, using her mostly-empty pack as a pillow, Ruff next to her in a similar position. Shivers again. The sky is dark and the cloud coverage so thick she can see no stars or familiar aurora.

The night passes uneasily.

Astrid cannot sleep.

In the morning of the second day, Astrid follows Gobber to the Chief’s side. Stoick hasn’t moved: he sits three or four fathoms from the dragons, closer than anyone else. Astrid is apprehensive to approach weaponless but Gobber seems … so calm and accepting … already? The Chief might have slept, might have been awake, it’s hard to tell.

The Night Fury is awake. It looks at them with large pale eyes. Astrid sees now that one of its wings is partially wrapped in or supported by suspiciously sail-like cloth, completely unnatural for any dragon. Made by human hands. By the dragonman’s hands.

With the Night Fury injured and down on the ground like that, Astrid’s gut reaction is to want to seize the opportunity to kill it. One well-aimed blow to the throat. But they have an armistice. And the Night Fury is not alone: the Nightmares, Nadder, Timberjack, Zippelback (so she didn’t dream that) and a tiny Terror, which she hadn’t seen the day before in the chaos. The Terror is curled up at the Night Fury’s back. The other dragons surround the Night Fury on all sides, an uneven ring, some seemingly asleep, others awake, watching, guarding, aware. She can’t see the dragonman anywhere.

Its untouched wing is curled around its side, hiding its legs. The tail is coiled and looks uneven, somehow. The saddle and manmade gear has been removed from it, lying in a neat pile inbetween the Night Fury and the Zippleback. One head is resting on the ground (asleep?) but the second head is awake, eyes following the humans’ every move.

“We have to repair the boats,” Gobber says. “Our supplies are low and we haven’t found any clean water. Soon, we’ll be in real trouble.”

As if trouble hasn’t touched us already, Astrid thinks bitterly.

The Night Fury stirs. Astrid goes rigid; her hands itch for her axe or at least a shield. To be here, so close to dragons, unarmed, it’s all wrong. Against all she has known and been taught. Stoick doesn’t move. Gobber takes one small step back more of a precaution than out of fear. The dark dragon blinks and, rustling, its wing lifts away. The dragonman moves from lying to half-crouching, half-standing in a swift, agile motion. Full armour, helmet covering his face—Astrid is relieved, in a way, about that. No need to look at the face of a ghost.

He … slept under the dragon’s wing?

“Son—Hiccup,” Stoick says, almost a question. “Good morning.”

The dragonman doesn’t speak. He grabs a loose stone from the ground, about the size of his fist, and approaches slowly. Not walking properly, more like slithering, with a curved back and bent knees and the occasional touch of palm against ground. Watching him move makes Astrid uncomfortable: fey, inhuman, wrong. People don’t move that way!

Astrid holds her breath.

When he is a little over a fathom away, not within arms’ reach but closer than ever before, the dragonman crouches down favouring his right side, the right leg which still has a real foot. The little Terror has woken and it leaps after him, running a circle around the dragonman’s feet then, claws withdrawn in a manner Astrid didn’t know was possible for dragons, it climbs up his leg and torso and settles at his shoulder, tail swishing. Head lowered in concentration, the dragonman uses the sharp edge of the flat stone to draw marks in the gravel, which parts and piles up to form—

A map?

There’s the island they’re on with its jagged mountain, and nearby seastacks and rocks hardly seen in the fog but the dragonman seems to know where these are, how many. The dragonman pauses his work to look at them. Stoick’s face is enraptured and Gobber can’t help but smile a little. Astrid doesn’t smile. The dragonman’s gaze fixes on her briefly, but he doesn’t speak. He returns to the drawing. The shoreline camp and the longships’ harbour are marked with runes (V … for Viking?), thus giving them direction. He draws a curving line away from their current location, outward, toward an island. The simple map offer little in the way of distance or true size or scale, but the island doesn’t seem too far away.

Hiss-click. “Water,” he says softly. “Quick-flight.” The voice, like yesterday, is not the same and yet the same. Slightly hoarse from disuse.

“Thank you, son,” Stoick says. Out of all of them, Stoick maybe is the only person actually understands the dragonman. Then frowns. “But we can’t get there, our ships—”

“Quick-flight,” the dragonman repeats. “Dragon-flight swift, bring—” (hiss-click) “—water. Bring water, carry Viking-bowl.”

Why does he talk so strangely? Has he forgotten? He’s been that long with dragons, without humans?

“You’d do that?” Stoick asks. “You’d do that for us?”

A sharp nod.

“Thank you, Hiccup.” Stoick turns to Gobber and Astrid: "Go back to camp and bring every waterskin we have. Do we have any cooking pots?”

Gobber nods. “Aye, a few.” They had boiled thin broth last night and distributed it with small pieces of bread, rationing it carefully. Who knows how long they will be stuck on this desolate island?

“Then bring those too. Carry them here right away.”

“Come on, lass,” Gobber says.

Astrid is reluctant to go. She glances at the dragonman, who is watching them all silent and careful. His eyes are barely to be seen inside of the helmet, but the glimpse of them reveals a shrewd awake mind. Wild like a dragon, but clever still. Hiccup the Runt had, for all his faults, been pretty clever, inventing things, solving problems (trying to, at least). What Astrid struggles to understand is his new speech. Hiccup was good with words. Not a great poet, perhaps, no writer of sagas, but—why is he speaking like that?

The dragons bring them water, carrying the pots and waterskins, filled to the brim, in shockingly careful claws and jaws. But the Night Fury is grounded and the dragonman refuses to leave its side, so one of the dragons, the smaller Nightmare (which honestly is not that small), stays with them. A guard?

“You were so close! Tell us everything,” Snotlout demands. “Has he sprouted horns? Or dragon-scales?”

Astrid does tell, as much as she can word-for-word, including the dragonman’s speech pattern and the hiss-click which he’d used before the word ‘water’. Or meaning the word ‘water’? Also, Snotlout is wrong. The scales are some kind of armour, knitted-together scales and leather; beneath that, there is a human body. Right? Right? Snotlout has to be wrong.

Fishlegs ponders her report. “He really talks like that?”

“It’s strange,” Astrid says, "it’s as if he’s almost forgotten our language. I mean, there are words, but the order is … off, and he mashes the words together weirdly.” The important words remain, accented oddly, repeating somethings. Quick-flight not two words but one unit; the way he added Viking to denote things of theirs …

“Maybe dragons communicate like that,” Fishlegs says. The others stare at him. Ruff and Tuff burst into laughter at the absurd statement. “No! Not like that!” Fishlegs says hurriedly. “Not as in speaking. As in, I don’t know, the noises they make? Maybe there’s some kind of logic in it? I mean, think about. That attack before, it was from several directions at once, it was coordinated. Wouldn’t that mean they’re communicating?”

“Pfft! Dragons can’t talk!” Snotlout exclaims and he makes a show of marching over to Fishlegs to loudly sniff his breath. “Did you bring mead without sharing with us?”

Fishlegs blushes, embarrassed.

His words echo in Astrid’s heart. Maybe dragons communicate like that. Maybe dragons communicate like that.

They have fresh water. Despite rationing, they are almost out of food: today Astrid has had two slices of dried meat and a corner piece of bread, and she doesn’t expect much more.  The biggest issue are the boats. Without longships there is no way they can leave this place, all one hundred warriors. But the situation looks bleak. Many of the men have dragged the worst-damaged ships (at least those which haven’t sunk already) ashore to take them apart. Most of the outer wood is charred like charcoal, but the inner parts, some of the deck, might be workable. Some nails can be salvaged as well. Gobber and Spitelout direct people into groups to work. They deem three of the ships repairable. 

They have some tools: a few hammers, two saws, a few other pieces. Arne is a woodworker and carpenter by trade, and Orvar has built many ships in his life, so the two end up leading the work, guiding the others. Astrid finds herself sorting through nails with Tuffnut and Fishlegs, removing them from broken planks and putting them in piles: worthy to use, or to be discarded. It’s repetitive, boring work which gives them ample opportunity to talk.

“I think there is a spell,” Fishlegs says, stuck on his terrifying idea of the dragonman using seiðr, or the dragons using seiðr, or some kind of combination of the two.

“Wouldn’t we all have been struck down by that spell by now if that were the case?” Astrid shakes her head.

“Yeah! Yeah, Astrid has a point,” Tuffnut says. “You’ve got a point.”

“Thanks,” she says dryly. “Fishlegs, I don’t know everything but I wouldn’t worry about that.”

The dragons and the dragonman remain at the far side of the island. Waiting? Why don’t they leave?

The Night Fury’s wing is damaged somehow. Maybe that’s why. They’re waiting for it to heal.

Astrid doesn’t think the dragonman considers the Vikings, Berk, any of it worthy of great thought; certainly there is no love. He won’t come with them. Surely? No. Nor do they attack: the armistice holds. The Vikings repair their boats, the dragons wait. Watch. They keep bringing water when necessary.

Stoick hasn’t said much. He stays close to the dragons and the dragonman when he can, resting there, eating there. Gobber and Spitelout don’t try to convince the Chief to do otherwise.

And so the second day on the mountain island passes.

On the third day since their arrival here, the dragons bring them water and—unexpectedly—wood. Not from this island because nothing grows here. The Timberjack, Nadder, and Zippelback fly off in the early light of dawn; they return a few hours later, the latter two dragons carrying freshly-cut trees (autumn-red foliage and all) in their claws and jaws. The Vikings stop their work in surprise as the shadows of the dragons fall over them and then the dragons circle down and set down their load in an empty space between the Viking and the dragon camps. Even Stoick wasn’t expecting that, because he turns to the dragonman and asks:

“You’re doing this for us? You’re helping us?”

“Build-Viking-ships with wood-new,” the dragonman says and gestures at the sea. "Go-back bring-word no-bad-nest anymore, no-red-death-anymore. Then peace. Viking-dragons-peace.”

“I think … I understand,” Stoick says. "We’ll spread the word that this Dragon Nest has been cleared out. And there won’t be any more raids? No more attacks on Berk or anywhere else?”

“Dragons free now, fly free for no-Vikings-places, good-nest-places.”

“And you’re going with them,” Stoick says, not a question because the Chief already knows the answer.

“Toothless-Hiccup belong with dragon-flock-free,” the dragonman confirms, nodding twice. “Must return to flock-nest, made promise.”

He remembers his name. He knows his name. Refers to himself in third person, however oddly. At least Hiccup hasn’t forgotten the name he was given by his father and mother.

“Toothess-Hiccup?” Stoick has to ask. For now ignoring the implication of more dragons, this so-called flock: more than the Night Fury and Terrible Terror, and the Nightmares and Nadder, the Zippleback and could possibly the Timberjack now be counted to that number? (How many dragons? Where are they hiding? Are they hidden in plain sight within the Archipelago, only a few sea-miles from the nearest Viking settlement? Or countless sea-miles away in some unknown, unmapped place which has not been charted or named by Vikings?) 

The dragonman lays a gloved, dragon-scaled hand gently on the Night Fury’s back; the Night Fury is stronger today, moving on all fours a little stiffly but alert, awake, not resting away all day. He and the dragonman have walked around the island a bit, far from the Vikings, stretching their legs, though Hiccup spent a lot of that time slithering with the help of hands as well as feet rather than only walking upright. His movements are often drake-like, even as he stands before Stoick and speaks.

“Toothless-dragon,” he says.

A name? A name! The dragon has a name; the most unexpected of names for such a beast.

Then Hiccup lays the other hand on his own armoured chest: “Hiccup-dragon.”

And then he points at the dragon’s tail. During the battle it had been half-red, half-black. Then it had burst into flame and half of it burned away. Now, with a closer look, Stoick sees that the tail in uneven. Hiccup directs his gaze to the saddle and gear laid aside in the gravel, the Night Fury’s back currently bare. And it not until then that Stoick realizes that the tailfin is partly a prosthesis of leather and metal wire. Two such replacements of the red one lay there, one brown untreated leather and one painted black with char. Constructed and built by human hands to serve the dragon’s flight, human and dragon bound together by device (and could that be seiðr?).

“Toothless-Hiccup, dragon-together.”

The explanation so stark and simple:

“Toothless-Hiccup fly-together.”

The fourth day is similar to the third. The dragons bring water and wood. They also bring fish in the afternoon, though the Vikings are at first hesitant to touch any food brought to them by the dragons, until Stoick himself eats the first offering. The Timberjack even help with shaping the wood into rough planks by swiping at it sideways with its wings. Of all the dragons, Astrid is almost most surprised by the Timberjack’s decision to stay around. Freed, once captive by the Vikings, now helping them. That kind of action implies decision and thought and, dare she say it, forgiveness.

But dragons are supposed to be mindless beasts. Going for the kill. Filling their bellies with whatever meat they can grab. Splitting the earth with fire. Evil, brutal, dangerous monsters. Beasts of the night.

The Night Fury seems stronger for each passing hour. Its wing is still in a sling, but it and the dragonman walk around the island: to the mountain-edge, to the shoreline, around the edges. They are sometimes out of sight for hours and hours. This means that Stoick at last returns focus to his people. He oversees the boat repairs, speaks at length with Gobber and Spitelout, with Ove and Arne. But he is quieter than usual. The unexpected return of his son has not raised his spirits as it would have if Hiccup had turned out to be a normal warrior Viking, not this dragonman who speaks so strangely.

They toil away. One of the longships might soon be able to bear them, hold together long enough to reach Berk, but they need at least three ships to carry everyone. It will be an uncomfortable journey, nearly thirty people per boat, little room to sit and no way to rest comfortably, but they’ll take what they can get. Sails are a bigger issue. They lack canvas fabric and thread.

Whispers through camp at night: “We’ll be stuck here. Þór! We’re doomed to die here. We’ll starve.” and “The ships will sink, we’ll be lost in storm, we’ll drown.” Fears and concerns that have nothing to do with dragons.

Stoick does his best to soothe them. He sleeps little, walking between the campfires. “We will return to Berk. I will lead you back. I swear it. You will see your families again.”

And so the fourth day and the fourth night passes.

On the fifth day, the Night Fury and the dragonman enter the mountain together with both the Monstrous Nightmares. Stoick worries; even Astrid can see that. She takes a break from sorting nails and hammering planks to approach him.

“Chief,” she says. Ever since Hiccup’s disappearance, she and Snotlout have spent more and more time with Stoick. Learning things. Training. The question hasn’t been asked, to Astrid’s relief—she is a shieldmaiden, after all—but she fears that it is approaching: that Snotlout has been groomed for Chiefdom is obvious, and the Chief somehow wants the two of them to do the work together, her being admittedly cleverer and more diplomatic. Mostly. But Astrid doesn’t want to marry him. Oh, gods, she doesn’t want to marry Snotlout. “Could I ask you something?”

“What is it, lass?”

“When he leaves, what will happen? I mean—he—Hiccup,” she forces herself to say the name, “doesn’t want to come with us to Berk. He’s helping us now, but, he isn’t coming with us, is he?”

Stoick sighs and looks up at the mountain, its great shadow like a dragon itself, jagged and sharp. 

“I hope that he’ll stay,” Stoick says at last. A fool’s hope. The dragonman has made it clear he means to stay with the dragons. In the wilderness.

From within the mountain, there is a sudden cry: inhuman: a whine echoing lonely and cold. All Vikings hear it and drop their tools and try to grab their weapons, before remembering their Chief’s still-standing orders. Armistice. No weapons. The dragons move: the Deadly Nadder leaps off the ground and flies into the mountain, followed by the Terror and the Timberjack.

Stoick freezes. Horror in his face.

“Hiccup. Hiccup!”

He runs toward the mountain. Astrid follows. Whatever happens, she’ll stand by her Chief.

The mountain is difficult to navigate by foot. They walk the path opened, made, by the great beast that once lived here, the Red Death Queen (as Stoick understands its name) as it broke out to face the Vikings attacking its island. Once home to a thousand dragons, now abandoned.

It’s dark, so dark; they have no choice but to go back and fetch a torch. Thus armed, Stoick and Astrid reenter the dormant eldfjall. The uneven walls of stone have been shaped by the earth itself over time, but also by dragons, burrowing and digging. At places the rock is loose. Astrid nearly slips but catches herself against the wall, hissing in pain when a sharp rock cuts open her palm. She presses the injured hand against her side, ignoring Stoick’s brief, concerned glance. It’s only a scratch.

The path dwindles. Down, down. Then up a little. They see various crevasses and outcrops within the hollowed-out mountain, perches where dragons once nested. An icy drip-drip-drip of water. So empty and silent. Far-off they hear the wing-flaps of the dragons, bouncing around and making the noise impossible to follow exactly. 

Another whine. Another. Growl-click-warble. 

Click-click.        a low-churning growl.          a flap of wings, echoing.

Drip-drip-drip: water down a stalagmite falling.

They reach the belly of the dormant eldfjall. A cavern, huge, monstrous. This is where the Red Death slept. Astrid shivers. They’ve ended up on a precipice, and a dark gap is in front of them: down, down, down it goes into the darkness. They hold their torches high. All around there are jutting outcrops and holes carved into stone; at this distance they appear small like unharmful birds’ nests, but in reality these spots most be very large. Able to hold dragons of all kinds: Gronckles and Nightmares, Screaming Deaths and Nadders, Thunderclaws and Night Terrors.

There it is again!

Whine-growl-click-warble. Click-click! A low back-throated noise, a broken exhale. A voice: Hiccup. No words. He sounds like a dragon in great distress or pain. The dragons are … somewhere above them?

“Son! Hiccup! Hiccup!”

“Over there,” Astrid whispers (why is she whispering?), pointing. Twenty fathoms or more away across the chasm, on a cliff. There is light like fire, a warm glow.

Out of the darkness, wings: the Deadly Nadder leaps out and dives toward them. Before the two humans can react, it grabs them with each of its claws. Gently, securely enough not to harm them, not killing, not piercing—Astrid screams anyway. Trashes. Panics. Oh, great Oðinn’s ghost! Oh, this is it! She can’t help but look down into the endless dark below them, hundreds of fathoms or more, certain death. Oh, gods! They were wrong. There were all wrong! About Hiccup and the dragons. About everything! They’ll be eaten! They’re going to die! Oh, gods!

The Nadder snorts and deposits them on the cliffside, then steps aside.

“You beasts!” Astrid shouts. She wants to charge at it, but has no weapon, and her whole body is shaking violently. “How dare you! I’ll—”

Stoick’s hand on her shoulder stops her.

“Son? Hiccup?”

Both Nightmares are on fire, one standing on all fours behind the dragonman and the other hanging sideways by its claws from the uneven face of the rocky wall behind the Night Fury. Providing light. Hiccup is kneeling on the ground and he looks at them through the thin eye-slits of his helmet—“Shhh!” One of the dragons stomps a heavy hind paw against the cold ground. Hiccup shakes his head. “Ssstoh-(click). Shhh! Ah-sssrRhh-dD. Shhh!”

He’s hushing them!

Astrid isn’t sure if she’s supposed to be offended. She has no idea what the garbled noises mean, they don’t sound merely like known words mispronounced or placed in the wrong order. No, almost like names. Almost like names! A poor rendering of ‘Stoick’ and ‘Astrid’. Has he forgotten how to speak their names? Has he nearly forgotten their names altogether?

“Son, are you hurt? We heard—”

The Night Fury whines loudly and puffs with its snout at something lying at the dragonman’s feet.

“—that,” Stoick finishes weakly. Takes a step closer. The Nightmares’ flames provide enough light to see by, their moving shadows flickering all around them like tormented spirits who are in the care of Hel in depths of the underworld. Astrid threads carefully, keeping an eye on the cliff’s edge. The drop would surely be fatal.

One of the dragons, the Timberjack, keeps itself afloat by flapping its wings, the only one which hasn’t landed. It hovers there over the great darkness, unafraid of falling.

There on the ground in front of the dragonman and the Night Fury are—eggs?

It is eggs. Large, cold dragoneggs, abandoned on the scorched stone, partially surrounded by small smooth rocks. Pale at the top and speckled with a glimmer like gold. Two are intact, a third is broken open not from within but from without as if it’s been trampled on, and in the dried-up yolk there is a small, strange shape. Like … like the tiniest of dragons, underdeveloped and unmoving. Astrid can’t tell what kind of dragon it is. Does it matter? A dragon is a dragon. With sadness and reverence, Hiccup reaches for it, strokes its little back. A guttural hum at the back of his throat, an angry noise which Astrid never has heard him make before. The Nightmare sways its head angrily and the Deadly Nadder snarls. The Terror chirps unhappily and puffs fire at one of the whole eggs. The Night Fury licks at the dead little one, as if to clean it or to wake it up.

Click-click-warble-whine. 

The dragons … are upset? angry? sad? about these lost eggs?

Do dragons have a concept of death?

Do they understand death?

Astrid’s heartbeats are still fast from the unwilling flight, but she forces herself to breathe calm. Breathe calm. She and the Chief are completely at the dragons’ mercy now.

“Good-fire-gone. Fire-died,” Hiccup says then, almost a whisper as not to disturb the silence; “nest abandoned-left, no-care. No-fire, no-heat.” In imitation of the dragons he clicks his tongue, hisses on an exhale, and moans low: that is almost like a human sound of grief. He looks at Astrid and Stoick. “Unwilling-dragons to leave unhatched-eggs, must-be-dead.”

Astrid struggles to comprehend, but evidently Stoick understands. “Its parents left the eggs? The parents died? But the eggs needed fire to survive. I see, son. I understand.”

Dragons. Fire for their eggs. That makes actual sense, unlike so many things in the past few days. Astrid wraps her arms around herself, shivering. She’d thought the dragon-mountain would be hot like fire, but it’s very cold, and she left her fur coat by the campfire this morning.

“We searched signs-of-dragons, found dead-eggs,” Hiccup says. “Wrong! Wrong!”

The dragons might be communicating somehow after all, in the silence following, because it is as if a decision has been made. The Night Fury opens its mouth, and it has no teeth. What? Astrid is sure it had teeth! To her horror, it picks up the dead dragon in its gums. Oh, gods! Is that what dragons do, eat its dead, its young? Bile rises in her gut. But the Night Fury doesn’t swallow or chew. It holds the body almost … gently? Like a cat would pick up its kittens by the neck, except without teeth. The smaller Nightmare climbs down from its perch and, equally gently, curves its talons around the remaining eggs, one in each front paw.

“Son?” Stoick asks.

Hiccup stands up. He struggles to form words to explain. “Must find good-ground.”

The Nadder flaps its wings. Oh no! Astrid tries to duck but it’s too late to run away and there isn’t anywhere to go. Just as it grabbed them before, the Nadder lifts her and Stoick away from the rock and carries them back whence they came. One of the torches has faded but the other still provides light, and Astrid grabs it as soon as they’re let down. The Nadder turns back around; when it comes back, Hiccup is sitting on her back, and the Night Fury (its wing still stiff and bound) is carried in the larger Nightmare’s talons, flight slow and careful with its cargo. They are closely followed by the second Nightmare, the Timberjack, and Terrible Terror. Hiccup doesn’t seem afraid or ill at ease upon the dragon’s back.

Astrid and Stoick hurriedly get out of the way but the dragons fly past them uncaring, unstopping, out of the mountain and up and away.

What was that?

Outside, there is a bit of an uproar. Plenty of confusion. Stoick and Astrid run out of the mountain’s maw to be greeted by Gobber and several nervous Vikings, murmuring and muttering at the change in the dragons’ behaviour and their sudden flight.

“What’s going on?” Gobber asks.

“I’m not sure,” Stoick says. What just happened? The flight at a dragon’s talons left him shaken and a little bit amazed. Seeing the Nest from within, the empty darkness; the glimpse five days earlier revealed a world full of dragons, but all of them fled. And the eggs, his son’s words, the dragons’ grief. Grief!

The dragons circle around a couple of times. Evidently they do not find a suitable place to land, because they fly off and away from the mountain and the island—out of sight.

Are they leaving?

Gobber must be thinking something similar. “Oh. Are they coming back?”

“I—I don’t know.”

Astrid is panting heavily, the lass even more shocked by this turn of events. “Oh gods, oh Þór.” She stumbles into the sunlight and leans over to dry heave.

“What was that noise that had the dragons so upset?” Gobber asks.

“I’m not sure. It might have been the Night Fury.” Crying? Wailing? “We found Hiccup and the dragons with some eggs. The eggs were broken or dead,” Stoick says, thinking of it. Thinking of the sad whining and the care with which the Night Fury had scooped up the dead little one, the Nightmare with the eggs. The image so strange, so different from he has always seen dragons: dangerous ferocious hungry angry deadly. This had been so careful and, in a way, sorrowful. “They carried them off.”

“Hm. Well, we had a right scare when the two of you decided to run into the mountain, I can tell you that! What should we do, Chief? Wait for the dragons to return?”

If they’ll return.

“Keep working,” Stoick orders. “We need those longships.”

Whether or not his son and his dragons reappear.

On the sixth day in the ruinous Nest-Island, there are no dragons. Most Vikings are quietly relieved to be rid of them and sleep better through the night, although it means no more fresh water, newly caught fish, and no more wood; so again the water and food is carefully rationed and distributed under Spitelout’s watchful eye. One of the longships has been repaired as well as it may be. Work starts on the second and the third alongside one another.

Stoick is silent for most of the day.

Toward the evening, Gobber goes to him. The Chief is sitting at the same spot as the earlier days, where he’d first found Hiccup and his dragon, the very place where Stoick found his son returned from the dead.

“Here,” Gobber says, handing him half a grilled fish on a skewer. They have run out of bread. “Eat.”

“He’s gone. He’s gone, Gobber. I … He was so close! I’d almost had my son back! And now he’s gone again.”

“Maybe he’ll return,” Gobber says, tries to be cheerful. “The lad was always so full of surprises. He didn’t say anything? About whatever they were leaving for? I saw him on the back of the Nadder and the Night Fury wasn’t fit to fly.” It had been supported by the talons of the larger Nightmare, one wing still bound.

“The eggs, those they found in the mountain,” Stoick says with a frown. “And something about needing to find good ground?” It makes no sense. Why would finding those broken eggs cause his son to take off in such a manner, with the dragons, without word?

Gobber kneels at his side. “Don’t lose hope, Stoick. Not when it’s just been rekindled.”

On the seventh day, the dragons are back.

They return as silent shadows in the middle of the night. No watchers of the Viking camp see them coming, cleaving the sky so silently. No battle-cries, no snarls, no growls. They simply fly back to the eldfjall-island and resettle at the same spot they had occupied earlier, and Stoick lies there resting uneasily under a blanket, waiting hopelessly for his son’s return. If he returns. And the Night Fury curls up to sleep with its rider underneath its healthy wing, the other dragons more or less lying atop of them. The Vikings are confronted by a quite literal dragon-pile as dawn breaks.

Stoick is for once asleep, and is shocked to find them there when he wakes. They’d landed only a few fathoms from him and he hadn’t even noticed!

“Son? Hiccup, where were you?”

Hiccup crawls out from under the Night Fury’s wing. Looks at him, then the dragons, and then at him again. As if considering if Stoick is worthy of an answer.

Then he comes closer than he’s ever been since the first day. He doesn’t walk as much as slither, half-crouched, using his hands almost as much as his feet. Stoick can only recall seeing him walk upright very briefly, when moving around the Night Fury to remove the gear or tend to its wing, or when they had gone around the edges of the island out of sight for hours (always surrounded by dragons, but that is another matter). Glimpses. Seeing his son so drakelike is still painful to Stoick’s heart, a sinking feeling, this constant reminder that though alive his son is almost a stranger and not wholly human.

Something must have happened to trigger this draconic movement, for the lad to withdraw into those recesses of his mind. When did that begin? Hiccup thinks that dragons are safe and good (flock?), and Vikings, humans, people, they’re the strangers, unsafe.

Is he in pain? Physical? Or is it an ache of the heart?

Stoick wants to reach out. He doesn’t move. His son still has fear in his eyes, and if he pushes too hard he’ll push the lad away entirely. He barely dares to breathe as the lad, closely followed by his Night Fury (Toothless? Wasn’t that the name?), walks up to where Stoick is sitting on a rock, and he lowers himself to the ground. Crouching (like dragons do), one palm loosely on the ground between his knees, an odd position but the most relaxed in Stoick’s presence that he has ever been. He looks tired. At least his leg doesn’t seem to bother him; he doesn’t seem to favour either foot, real or prosthetic, more than the other. In fact, Stoick is impressed that his son is able to move and sit this way with the prosthetic without slipping or tipping over. Excellent balance. Stronger than he looks.

How long did the dragons fly? How far?

But they came back. They came back!

“Good-ground,” Hiccup says. Good ground? Aye, that’s what the lad spoke of yesterday in such a hurry. “Found island north-of-sun-way. No good-ground here, evil-place. No good-ground.”

And he removes his helmet. He has never removed his helmet since putting it back on during the first night. He looks pale and worn and tired (did he get any sleep?), and lines of worry and sadness (grimy unwiped teartracks, so heartbreakingly) mar his young face. Oh, he’s still only a boy in Stoick’s heart. Oh, by Baldur, Stoick wants to embrace him as if the lad were only a child; he wants to hold him close, offer comfort what way he can, sing him to sleep as if he could fit in his cradle again. But Stoick doesn’t move. Doesn’t want to frighten him away. Oh, son!

“Dug-deep-soil for bury-place. We had much-sorrow.”

Dragons mourn and bury their dead.

Dragons mourn and bury their dead!

“Oh, son. I’m sorry.”

Hiccup looks at him, whole body swaying slightly from side to side. His leg doesn’t seem to bother him, thankfully, like it had the first few days. The Night Fury warbles and bumps his side with its snout, and he places a hand on its chin, stroking. The Night Fury purrs, unexpectedly, and then licks at Hiccup’s face.

“I was afraid that you’d left,” Stoick confesses. “That I wouldn’t be able to say goodbye.”

“Not-yet,” Hiccup says. "Flock must-wait more-time, long-flight. Toothless-wing hurt-less but not no-pain yet. Vikings need-help going-back Viking-nest-safe-home.”

“Aye, it’s a long way, and we only have one boat ready to carry my people. We’re working on the two others, thanks to the wood the dragons found for us. Thank you for that. It’s a pity we don’t have wings, or we might have been home already.”

Hiccup smiles then and taps his own chest proudly, as if Stoick has just made a blatant error. “Hiccup-dragon, dragon-wings!” To Stoick’s bewilderment, the lad grasp with his hands at some leather straps around mid-shin, where one tall boot ends and one prosthetic leg begins. He wraps the straps around his wrists securely and tugs: revealing an unfolding mechanism stretching all the way from the legs to his arms, appearing from a slit in the armour running down his sides. Unfurling: sewn-together patches of smooth, brown leather, like sails. No! Not like sails. Like wings. Of course! Clever little Hiccup! An armour of dragon-scales and a ridged, short-spiked helmet, a flaming sword in lieu of breathing fire. And, of course, what else should he make for himself but actual wings? Stoick wonders if they truly work or are merely for show.

Hiccup flaps his leather wings a few times to demonstrate, although catching no wind, still crouched low. The Night Fury warbles and trills and curls its back like a cat, excitedly mirroring the lad as well as it can with one wing still in a splint. The Night Fury, teeth withdrawn, looks very happy indeed, and actually leaps around the boy and the man a couple of times. Relaxed and no longer so afraid of Stoick. The display is not unlike children proudly showing off their latest creation.

(Hiccup would bring him drawings of whatever he saw or thought up when he was little, look what I made!, trying to make his father proud.)

Stoick can’t remember the last time he laughed. When? A year ago, three, six? After Hiccup’s disappearance he swore to avenge him, to kill the Night Fury, and to not be merry until that day. The Night Fury is very much alive. So is his son, dragon-child that he has become. It bubbles out of his chest and lungs and startles the lad, who falls onto his backside and then sits there, tilting his head confusedly; the Night Fury snaps sharply with its tail in warning and snorts, but does not extend its teeth or snarl. It puffs at Hiccup with its snout to help him back up.

Does the boy recall hearing his father’s laugh? He rarely laughed even when Hiccup was a little boy, safe back in Berk. His father was always so gloomy! Wasn’t he? Bothered with too many troubles, with Chiefdom, with Valka’s death—

Valka.

The laughter ceases.

And Stoick has never thought of any alternative except that Valka is dead, eaten by the beast that broke into their house. Which gave Hiccup the scar on his chin. Valka … Valka was carried off but he never truly saw her die; she screamed, screamed his name and Hiccup’s, full of fear as the dragon bore her through the smoke and away from Berk; but—

No. That was two decades ago. If Valka had somehow survived, ought she not have shown herself by now? Ought she not?

Hiccup is frowning now, the laughter dying and Stoick abruptly morose. The lad pushes back off the ground and moves closer, concerned. The leather wings hanging loosely at his sides, still attached by the straps around his wrists. “Sorrow? Not-happy? Bad-things-happen at island-mountain. Pain-where?” He looks at Stoick from head to toe, a query.

“It’s all right, lad. I was just thinking of your mother Valka, and the memory is painful sometimes.”

Hiccup attempts to mimic the name: A low-throated hum, exhale-click-huff. “Mother?” a question. He tries again: vuuhh-exhale-click-huff. “Vahh-lll-(click)-uh.”

Of course, the lad was so small. Wouldn’t remember. And Stoick had told him, of course, that his mother died and how (taken, eaten by a dragon) and spoke her name fondly, but she was never a true figure in Hiccup’s life. Nursemaids and Gobber had mostly filled the role of a parent when Stoick wasn’t available, leading his people, sailing away on trade voyages or in search of the Nest.

The Night Fury warbles softly. Hiccup leans his head against the dragon’s and some kind of conversation passes silently between them. The dragon makes a noise, a long slow growl-exhale-click-huff, similar to what Hiccup had done. Repetition. As if … as if (absurdly!) it is trying to repeat the same name. Stoick startles as this realization comes to him. Could the dragon truly be …? How much does the beast comprehend of this conversation?

The lad does not seem to think it strange, leaning against the dragon for comfort, and they say it together one more time, dragon and boy: vuuhh-lll-click-uh.

“No memory,” Hiccup confesses sadly. “Would have more words-about-mother?”

“Your mother’s name was Valka. Daughter of a neighbouring Chief. She was strong and fierce of heart, and very beautiful.” Stoick’s heart aches dully, still, at her memory. Perhaps that’s why Hiccup’s disappearance had been such a hard blow. His son was his last memory of her, and it had been violently taken away; and that is still a story he hasn’t asked about but knows that he will need to hear. One day, if not today. For how did his son become this dragonman, how did he find the Night Fury (or it him?), why do they fly together? Another time.

“She was so much like you, son. Very clever. Your eyes, you know. Losing her was painful.”

“Lost mother Vall-(click)-uh? Much-sorrow.” Hiccup says softly, almost almost almost as if he remembers her himself. “Much-sorrow. Good-ground for mother, where?”

“I’m afraid her burialmound on Berk is empty,” Stoick says thickly, and hesitates. Should he tell the truth? He doesn’t want to lie to the boy, not anymore, but … what Stoick has to say will surely upset him. "Nearly twenty years ago, dragons took her during a raid on the village.”

Hiccup stares. Then shakes his head sharply. “Not-take people even-thrall-dragons when Red-Death sang. Not-eat Viking, bad! Not-right. False!” A brief shrill shriek, causing Stoick to wince.

“It’s what I saw,” Stoick says heavily. He cannot lie to the boy. Not anymore. “She was dragged off in the claws of a Stormcutter with four wings. But more than I cannot say. We found no trace of her, heard no news, and I never managed to find the Stormcutter either. I assumed … I thought she died.”

But his son has come back alive on the back of a Night Fury, speaking like a dragon, moving like a dragon.

Could—?

Could Valka—?

“Son. Hiccup, I know you’re not planning on coming with us to Berk.” Even as Stoick speaks the lad shakes his head: no, they won’t come. They might lead the way there, out of the fogs of Helheim’s Gate, see that the Vikings return home safely. But they won’t stay in Berk. He cannot expect it. Can he? Hiccup chooses the dragons, the skies, some nest of theirs on who knows what island or land. “When you’re out there, could you look for a Stormcutter? Its scales were orange, I think. Hear if there is any word of Valka? Could you find out what truly happened, when I failed?”

Hiccup considers this with rapt wide eyes. “Will-try. Will-try! Find mother-Vall-(click)-huh, find clever-four-wings.”

Clever-four-wings? Is that the lad’s name for a Stormcutter? Do dragons have names for each other, their kindreds? Hiccup named the Night Fury Toothless: chosen by the dragon itself or its kin or by Hiccup?

“Thank you, lad. It’s the only thing I’ll ask, even if you won’t stay in Berk. You know, your mother, she didn’t agree with the way we dealt with the dragon raids. After what you and your dragons have done, I’m starting to wonder if she wasn’t right.”

“Dragons-free!” Hiccup interrupts, losing his composure slightly. Voice quickening, raising. The Night Fury’s ears lay suddenly flat against its head and it snarls, with teeth. “No-one-master, self-free, all-dragons! Not-mine. Not-yours. Free!”

Stoick clears his throat. “But isn’t it your flock?”

Agitation: “Flock-free, join or leave at-will. No-master, no ask-things-want-things-painful. No-Red-Death hungry-angry-master! Flock, yes. Master-Chief-bad, no.”

Oh. So that’s what’s getting the lad so upset. The Red Death, the monstrous dragon which his son and his Night Fury slayed, ruled a thousand unwilling subjects, an antithesis to the true, good way dragons ought to live, to be. Apparently. The flock is a village without a Chief, a herd without a leader; or, if Hiccup and his Night Fury are some kind of leaders, they don’t want to be associated with the Red Death and its tyranny.

“I’m sorry, son. I didn’t mean to upset or offend. I didn’t know.”

The Night Fury snorts. “Much Vikings not-know,” Hiccup agrees wryly.

Stoick wants to reach out a hand. Place it on the lad’s cheek. All this time they have seen each other, heard each other, spoken. But apart from having Hiccup unconscious in his arms so briefly on the battlefield, the lad panicking when he woke, Stoick hasn’t had any physical contact and his heart aches and part of him fears this is a fever-dream, a hazy illusion, a mirage that will disappear. His son is right there. Right there! Clad in scales, but surely his cheek would be warm by human blood? So close, he sees his freckles and scars; his chin, his throat, and—Stoick hadn’t seen this one before—three parallell cuts on his forehead, right above his left brow. They are rather faint, like on his chin.

He lifts his hand slowly.

The boy moves back.

“I’m sorry,” Stoick says. “I … I don’t know about your scars.” He gestures at his own brow. “I don’t remember that one.” Hiccup didn’t get it at Berk, did he?

Hiccup touches his own forehead, gloved fingertips grazing the mark. “Hatchling scared,” he says. "Stone-eater hatchling-new, very small, did-not know Hiccup. Scratch-scared. Not-fault! Hatchling only young.”

“I’m sorry you were hurt, son.”

“No-pain,” the lad assures him and grins and butts his head with the Night Fury fondly. “Toothless help-quick! Other-pain worse.”

“Other pains?”

Stoick regrets the question as soon as he asks it. Of course his son bears other scars. Six years in the wilderness, surrounded by dragons. Even if these ones are … friendly, he must have gotten hurt by them at some point. Claws and fangs and spikes and fire. Is that why has the armour? Did Hiccup make it not only to blend in with the dragons by wearing Night Fury scales, but to protect his frail human body?

Hiccup removes his right-hand glove and holds the palm up. There are old strange spots there not unlike long-since healed burns. “Flame-self-at-will. Hiccup-Toothless cared for Clevertwist-hatchling, raised-free. Not-know Hiccup-no-scales, flamed-self first-time very happy. Scared when burn-hurt Hiccup, but not-fault!”

Stoick winces. If he got that right, a Stoker-class dragon such as a Nightmare or Fireworm had lit itself on fire while Hiccup was holding it. That must have been incredibly painful. It was a small one? And it was … it was raised by his son and the Night Fury?

His son has hand-raised dragonlings like lambs rejected by their mothers?

The Night Fury leans down to lick the offended palm. 

“No-hurt now,” Hiccup assures him. “Dragons no hurt-purpose. Humans hurt-purpose.” His voice lowers at that, a guttural snarl at the back of his throat, an evil old memory rising. Stoick recognizes the look in his eyes not from having seen it in Hiccup before but from having encountered it in many Vikings—people who have lost loved ones or limbs, lingering trauma.

No. No? No. Let it not be so.

Stoick closes his eyes. He’d vague suspected, ever since finding his son, that there is more to it than simply (simply!) living with dragons in the wild for over six years. The way his son has regressed into himself, speaking in this way as if he hasn’t talked with humans for years and years. The way his son moves with the dragons but shies away from the Vikings, his father, all of them. He’d suspected that his son must have encountered humans (who?) who hurt him. When and where, Stoick cannot guess, but their quarrel must have been with the Night Fury. Perhaps they saw a boy on a dragon’s back and tried to separate them, with disastrous consequences. Perhaps there are other reasons entirely causing them to harm the boy.

He recalls the whispers, the rumours, then, of the Ghost of the Archipelago. The news of some unknown shadow or dragon-kind unnamed, haunting villages unseen and breaking into storehouses and stealing back dragoneggs from the Meatheads. Unseen, unheard, leaving only an odd trail in the mud or snow, an imprint of a foot and what must have been, Stoick realizes, the peg. A metal peg that is somewhat bent so that it fits into the stirrup of the dragon’s saddle. And Stoick remembers the news of dragons in Skotland for the first time in fifty years; a village or fort burned there, the details unclear, but … was that it?

Was that his son and these dragons? Was it there he lost his leg, in a land where Stoick has never been; or was it one of the villages that Stoick has always called neighbours, a Chief he calls friend?

Warm fingertips comes in contact with the back of his broad hand. Stoick opens his eyes, startled.

His son’s hand atop of his. A ghost of a touch, but oh so real. His son is here and real and breathing, a living thing, a living person. Alive! Real! Here! How can he doubt? Stoick’s voice is rough in his throat, a lump there which he uselessly tries to swallow away.

“Was it Vikings? Was it … was it another village in the Archipelago?”

“Land down-south beyond island-gathering, large land, much-grass and wood-huts and stone-huts. Human-place with people-everywhere!, no dragons. No dragons. Flock searched but found-not. No dragons, only fear. Humans look-same, smell-same, do-same all-world. Bad-people! Evil-place, hurtful-man, strange-tongue. Bad-place. Prison-cage-lonely. Loss, pain.” Hiccup silences.

Oh, by Frigga. His son has suffered again ang again without his father almost never finding out. Their meeting of chance on this eldfjall might be a stroke of fate decided by the old gods taking pity; Stoick does not know how long or whence from his son and the dragons flew to reach this place and do battle, but the Viking expedition was planned and sent out many days ago. If not for the Timberjack, if not for dragons, they would not have seen each other again. Stoick’s first duty should have been to Hiccup, to his son. And he failed!

Stoick doesn’t want to hear. But he must. He must. His son has carried all this pain and horrible memories for months and years. If people hurt him, no wonder he had trashed in his arms, tried to flee! No wonder he thinks of Vikings, of humans, as evil and distrustful! No wonder he had demanded an oath of armistice and still remained hesitant, doubting. No wonder. Stoick’s eyes burn, but he does not weep. Just almost.

Hiccup grunts-growls-clicks, a dragon sort of noise. “Much-pain, Hiccup-Toothless alone, forced not-together. War-chief wanted battle-fight-fire-weapon, burn-fire on people-nests not-friends. Hiccup-Toothless not-wanted master. Bad! Evil! Much-pain. Hiccup-Toothless escaped with flock, but much-pain.”

Oh, son. I’m sorry.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, Stoick turns his hand so that his palm faces Hiccup’s palm, bringing them together. The lad’s hand so small, still, as if he is still only a boy. And is he not? Twenty summers and not more, and he should keep growing. Stronger, taller, broader, wiser. For how long was he a captive, without his father even knowing, no ransom held? And he has no real details, but Stoick can guess. The way Hiccup describes it …

Hiccup pats Stoick’s hand like he would a dragon’s side. Comforting?

“No-pain now. Pain-gone. Hiccup-Toothless safe-flock-together. Healed-together. Strong-together. Whole-together. No-pain.”

“That’s why you must be with them, isn’t it, son? Because the dragons won’t hurt you.” Not the way people have.

And shame burns in him, thinking of how he himself sometimes was rough with the boy. He did not strike him, but he did raise his voice, trying to urge him to become more of a proper Viking. Future warrior. Future Chief. When his son came home hiding bruises from being shoved and pushed by the other children of the village (Hiccup the Runt, Useless Runt! a common taunt from his agemates), Stoick hadn’t been concerned or tried to make it stop. He’d thought his son simply needed to grow up and he’d learn to defend himself.

And it seems that now he has.

“I’m so sorry, my son.”

On the eight day, remarkably quickly, the Night Fury is stronger and its wing free of pain. Hiccup removes the splint and sail-canvas, returning the materials to Stoick and the Vikings; the canvas is not enough to make a single worthy sail again, though. Instead, Stoick has his people make many new oars. It will be a struggle to row the whole way back to Berk without any aid from the wind. There is still work to do.

And so it goes: they work, they rest, they eat. The dragons bring water and fish and more wood, and then they stay out of each other’s way. But there is a new air of ease among the dragons, as if the conversation yesterday between Stoick and Hiccup (and Toothless, by association) has created a new sense of understanding.

They do not sit down to speak today.

The Night Fury and Hiccup climb (with sharp claws, Hiccup on its back) atop one of the jagged cliffs of the mountain, the Night Fury’s wings stretching and flexing and moving. Not flying yet, but almost. They spend most of the day atop of the cliff, reachable only by the dragons, and Stoick watches them from afar.

Soon, the Night Fury will be healed enough to fly away.

And then, he fears, he’ll lose his son forever.

And I deserve it, don’t I? How could I possibly expect him to follow us back to Berk and stay there, to be happy there?

On the ninth day, the Vikings have repaired the three longships, and just in the nick of time because they are out of their food rations, entirely dependent on the dragons now for fresh water and fish. Everyone is exhausted and relieved that soon, soon they’ll be on their way back to Berk.

The oddest thing is that the dragons’ presence has almost become normal. Not too close most of the time, but the Timberjack has sliced wood for them, the Terror has carried cooking pots full of water, the Nadder has brought them fish to eat. If not for the dragons, they would have been dead by now, and that fact is not lost on most of the Vikings. The shadows of dragons passing overhead is no longer a cause for alarm or concern.

Stoick orders them to break up camp.

The Night Fury and his son have climbed up atop of the cliff again, watching the proceedings with keen eyes. Stoick makes sure every Viking is accounted for and all things and tools gathered and packed. It’s a tight fit, the longships overflowing. They leave the broken-apart catapults on the shore, alongside the enormous corpse. Some Vikings have taken trophies; wrenched free a large scale, attempted (and failed) to hack away a claw or tooth.

It has begun to smell something horrible.

Stoick is the last to board. He looks back at the mountain and seeks out his son. The dragons are perched high above. His son is atop of the Night Fury, leaned over close to its neck, black armour on black scales. Even in the sunlight it is hard to see him.

As one, they spread their wings and take flight. 

And Stoick wants to weep. His son! Almost he had him back, and now—gone!

The dragons sweep low and then the Night Fury reaches the shore. It has no issue with its wings now, flapping them mightily, gliding on a wind. They reach the boats and abruptly hover over and some way in front of them, waters below.

“Will-show-way!” his son’s voice shouts.

“Oars ready,” Stoick orders.

And so the ninth and for the Vikings final day on the accursed island ends. They push off from the shore and Stoick beats on the drum steadily so that the oars move all at once, and they are led out to sea, following the dragons.

[Many-Vikings on the small-ship flies-over-sea, weak and slow], Toothless notes. They could so easily fly past them and away, leaving the Vikings to find their way out of the fogs on their own, potentially lost forever.

The ships are heavily loaded. If they encounter bad weather or a storm, they will be in trouble. Luckily, they have dragons watching over them now, even if some dragons are more reluctant than others. If not for Hiccup’s Chief-Stoick-father being on one of those ships, Stormfly and Hookfang wouldn’t mind leaving them behind. 

The only reason why Stoick-Chief and the Vikings are even alive, that there was no bloody battle between them and the dragons, is because Stoick-Chief is Hiccup’s father, scent of blood similar. But Hiccup-and-Toothless are not sure if the Vikings are aware of that detail.

Toothless is very happy, very relieved; pain is gone and wing is good and they can fly. They can fly! Not-broken! Toothless-and-Hiccup are back in sky, where it is good.

They must fly slowly for the Vikings to be able to keep up. The slow pace means even Fierce can fly on his own, at least in the beginning. Small wings get tired faster than big wings. Toothless is also happy that fells-woods-with-wings is joining them this flight. But will not join flock; there is an island north of Berk-Viking-nest where there are more fells-woods-with-wings, safe-happy flock, and she will go there after Vikings are back at their Viking-nest. She was taken from there by the Vikings, but free now, and they shall all remain free forever and defend their territory.

All dragons, free forever. Once Vikings reach Berkeyja, Hiccup-and-Toothless and the other dragons will return to their flock and three-island nest where it is good and safe, and let all dragons know that it is safe now. No more song-of-death-trap-lure!

Red-Death is gone.

All dragons are free!

[We will-follow Vikings out, show them safe-way. Watch for rocks so not-sink], Hiccup says. [Show-way back to Viking-nest-Berk.] That is the way they will fly, through the fogs and rocks, out of Helheim’s Gate. To Berk, the Viking-nest.

And then Hiccup will say goodbye to his father.

Chapter Text

xxi.

Fyrstu Fæðingu

First Birth

Sjávarþorp
921 C.E.

A dark summer’s night in the village of Sjávarþorp, at the heart of the Barbaric Archipelago, Gyða, wife of the village Chief, gives birth to a daughter. The sky is clear without a cloud to scar it, each star bright. The healer and the midwife take it as a good sign that the old gods are happy.

Valka Gyðasdottír is born with a strange destiny in her heart waiting to blossom, but she does not know it yet.

Ever since she is little, Valka dreams of dragons. They walk through her mind whenever she closes her eyes, but she is not scared because they are not dark dreams. Strange, but not a cause for fear. Sometimes she even has wings! She soars over the clouds freely and she can see her island home from above, the jagged seastacks, the rolling hills, the smoke rising from many hearths. But when she wakes the dreams are only faint memories leaving her calm and content.

Her father is Chief, so has certain expectations heavy on her shoulders; she learns to wield a sword and shield and spear, like a proper shieldmaiden. She learns to write and read poetry, to speak before an assembled crowd. At day she learns all of these things, and at night she dreams of dragons.

Dragons raid them. That is the only time she is fearful of drakes and dragons and wyverns; hiding in the Mead Hall as a child; later, older, helping to put out fires, to get the wounded to the village’s healer, to fetch water from the well. And at sixteen, Valka is gifted an axe by her father and mother, one which once belonged to her grandmother Hreiðunn, and she is taught to defend against dragons. To fight them. To protect their home. To kill, if necessary. The dragons strike during summer and spring mostly, but sometimes there is a desperate attack of starving beasts when snow falls thick, and the wind is like ice on her skin. Valka hesitates; she does not hate dragons, not like the others, and she questions the ways of her people. Quietly, for she dares not speak up at first.

This is their way of life. Has been for seven generations. Who is she, this young girl, to question that?

She manages avoid having to slay a dragon for many, many years. She rather helps the injured to cover and douses flames with water, or watches over the children sheltering in the Mead Hall.

And she prays that she will never have to make that first kill.

Valka’s sister and two brothers, all of them her elders, do not dream of dragons. When they are young and Valka tells them about her dreams, the brothers scoff; her sister Valdís is the only one who listens seriously. She considers Valka’s descriptions thoughtfully as the candles burn low and the night-wind whines and howls.

“An omen from Oðinn,” Valdís suggests. That is the god of Wisdom, after all, who exchanged an eye for omniscient knowledge. With his two ravens he sees all, hears all, knows all within the Nine Realms of the world. And dreams are a sign of things that could be and might come in the future, a powerful seiðr if one knows how to interpret them.

And nine-year-old Valka ponders this. An omen? That could be very good, or very bad.

“You should speak with Ragnhild!” Valdís says.

But Valka hesitates at the suggestion. Ragnhild is their healer and wisely learned but also deeply rooted in the old ways of thinking. She wouldn’t agree with Valka’s own readings of her dreams, would she? And to young Valka that is a most crushing thought. Deep down, she is certain that these are not warnings about dragon-raids; if they are, they are not very helpful.

Besides, in her dreams there are flying dragons of countless kinds and a thousand wings flapping; there is a vast endless sea below and the landscape blurring at the high speed with which they fly; there are huge shards of blue ice like towering mountains coming from the earth itself like frozen geysers. Bur there is no harmful fire, no burning cottages, no screams of fear or pain or fury. The snarls and roars are not aimed at any Vikings, and do not upset her.

“Maybe,” Valka answers, without intending to go to Ragnhild. The healer may think her silly; or she will ask too many questions that Valka is comfortable answering, and that will lead to Father and Mother finding out and becoming upset or worried.

She will find her own way of reading these omens.

Kjöthauseyjar
942 C.E.

Valka grows and grows, older and stronger and wiser, learning what she needs to be a Chief’s daughter. But she will not rule this village herself, not unless great tragedy befalls them and takes away her father, mother, all three siblings; and she prays such a thing will never occur.

She does not dream of Chiefdom, anyway.

She dreams of dragons.

When Valka is twenty-one years old, she meets an equally young and bright-eyed and hopeful Stoick, son of the Chief of Berk, at a gathering of many peoples of the Archipelago. A spring festival to sing in summer and say goodbye to winter, which is also a grand þing where political matters are settled; trade agreements between nearby islands, discussions of dragon movements and how to best defend against the beasts. The Chief of the Meatheads has invited all his neighbors and serves them in his Mead Hall.

Some of the sons attempt to impress Valka and her sister, including the Chief’s eldest, Mogadon, but Valka finds him rather boring and evades him.

Stoick is already known as the Vast for his skill in battle as well as his broad stature. He was only twelve when he bravely killed his first dragon during an attack on his village, and he is strong and entirely unafraid of anything. Yet, he becomes shy and soft-spoken near Valka; by chance their eyes meet, and they end up seated at the same table to eat. And he speaks surprisingly well and makes her laugh, and they talk for a long time unaware of the rest of the world. Despite his rough hands, Stoick can recite poetry, each stanza alive and ringing. Despite his sheer size, he does not feel threatening but a safe comfort into which she can lean. They are quite different some ways but similar in others: the children of Chiefs, responsibilities unavoidable. Eager to learn about the world, to explore, to sail far and wide. Delighting in discovery. Fierce. There is a fire in Stoick which matches Valka’s own.

He is almost like a dragon.

They dance to the beating drum and the rising singing voices and clapping hands.

And Valka does not expect to fall in love but feels no regret.

She keeps dreaming.

Berkeyja
944 C.E.

The people of Berk sing goodbye to the darkest days of winter and pray for the return of bright spring with a grand Yule-celebration. Everyone is gathered in the Mead Hall and meat is roasted over the fire and every flagon is filled to the brim. Stories and poetry mix with the clamor of good conversation, good food, good drink; any excuse for leisure in the darkest and coldest time of year.

Valka Gyðasdottír sits in the grand chair next to her husband, Chief Stoick the Vast, their hands clasped and eyes hardly straying from one another. Stoick is so utterly full of devotion and awe so keen that his heart might burst. For they chose to marry out of love, not for the sake of a political alliance, although relations between their two villagers is much closer now. True, Valka is the daughter of a Chief, and Stoick is the son of one, his late father slain on a voyage last year; a dark and troubling time. Without Valka’s support, Stoick the Vast would have struggled much more with wearing his father’s cloak as the new Chief of Berk.

But there were no demands, no talk of necessity or force. They found each other and danced merrily, and the people of Berk were astonished to the otherwise brisk and sometimes sourly Stoick the Vast so happy.

And now, soon, they will have their first child. The village had rejoiced at the announcement and they all await its arrival with anticipation. The first of many, is the hope; Stoick wishes for a big family, having lacked siblings of his own. Valka is at present content with having only this one. It is close, she can feel it. Her body has been under great strain for months and Gothi, healer of Berk, carefully watches over her. The village collectively prays to Frigga to keep Valka and the little one safe.

Tonight, the unborn one is restless and kicking as if desiring to join in with the festivities. The feasting goes on for a day and a night. Near the end of that very long evening, after the recital of another skáld, Valka decides to retire. And she prays that dreamless rest will be granted her tonight.

Her dreams have not ceased. They have increased intensity and sharpness ever since the child was conceived. At first, Valka thought it was only because she and Stoick have been arguing about the matter of dragons, awakening old memories of smoke and fire. Valka has dared to voice some of her doubts about the raids and their defenses; doubt about the expeditions sent out sometimes by Berk and other villages to find the rumored Nest where all dragons hide, to slay them all in one swift stroke. Doubts.

Because dragons may be wild beasts, but it was Vikings who settled this far into the north when dragons already lived here, not the other way around. Perhaps, they are in the wrong. But this is a dangerous and unpopular opinion, and Valka is careful to speak of it, not wanting to make enemies in the village. The one time she spoke thusly with Stoick, it sparked their thus far only fight: harsh words, Stoick storming off huffing, Valka lying in bed alone that night.

Gothi has assured Valka that sometimes pregnancy can cause sleeplessness and gives her tonics to drink. These help, a little, but the dreams persist nonetheless. Smoke, fire, roars, snarls, a heavy wind. The fire is new. The ice is often gone altogether, replaced by scorching flame. And, sometimes, in the depths of these dreams, she hears a mighty rumble so deep and guttural mayhap Miðgarð itself is moving. There is a name, syllables of human language, within that rumble:

Valka! Valka!

Calling out for her.

Is this an omen? And is it changing?

And Valka hopes that once the child is born, the fiery dreams will end and her old ones, cool and kind like freshly fallen snow, will return.

Before the child is born, but near, they spend most of their time withdrawn in their house, Valka resting.

One evening before falling asleep, Stoick caresses her stomach and her hair, and says softly: “We need a name.”

Valka hums and relaxes into the furs and blankets of their bed. A crackling fire burns low in the hearth. In here they are safe and comfortable. Outside, snow and wind is whining, and a threat of heavy hail hangs in the air. She plans on staying indoors for some time yet, and prepare the last things for the birth. They have been gifted many things by the villages: Arne the carpenter has fashioned them a beautiful cradle, decorated with spell-runes to keep the little one healthy and out of harm. Birgit the seamstress has given them a a knitted blanket for the babe to sleep under when the nights are cold. Gobber has lovingly crafted a set of toys, carved out of pine-wood and fashioned with metal details: figurines in the shape of one Viking warrior with a shield, a yak, a sheep, and an extraordinary little longship with a sail of wood. The child will surely appreciate these when they are born and grown old enough to grasp things and play with them. Already, Valka can picture it: a blanket on the floor before the hearth, a toddler sitting there, the wood toys clattering, a sweet soft giggle.

“How about Hiccup, for a boy?”

She laughs at her husband’s suggestion. Berk is one of the more superstitious villages in the Archipelago, by their own admission, and names of such a kind are not uncommon. “To scare off gnomes and trolls?”

“Aye! And that was my grandfather’s name, and his grandfather’s before him,” Stoick says.

“I was thinking Hreiðunn, for a girl,” Valka says. That was her grandmother’s name, and she was a wise and strong woman; Valka still misses her dearly even if she was only a little girl when Hreiðunn died in a winter fever. She decides to humour her husband; Hiccup is not as silly or ridiculous as some other other names in Berk, and she wouldn’t mind too much. Not really.

“Hiccup or Hreiðunn.” Stoick holds her close and kisses her forehead. “Both are very good names.”

Valka!

Vaalllka!

Vaaaalllka!

the low slow snarl, beginnings as a whisper, grows and grows and GROWS

louder,

longer,

a guttural growl, piercing and echoing as if within a huge cavern: 

VAAAALLLLKA!

a great mountain of ice and rock intertwined, there on a perch sits a dragon of four wings and golden scales and gleaming eyes. It looks toward her.

VALKA!

Berkeyja
945 C.E.

The boy is born in the early hours of dawn. The weather is cold and frost is in the grass, and snow falls irregularly.

Valka groans and cries in pain and effort. She is tired, so tired. The labour has gone on for an eternity. Gothi and Embla the midwife are both there, supporting and encouraging, giving her water and hot tea against pain. They urge her to follow her own body’s rhythm and desires, and Valka is at first confused what her body wants. She eventually finds a squatting position that works best, bearing down, and Gothi’s hands are comforting on her back but not as strong or broad or warm as Stoick’s. Oh, Stoick! She wants him here! But this is no place or time for a man to be present. Embla had pushed a concerned Stoick out of the room and closed the door firmly.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths. Slow, steady.

“Well done, well done,” Embla praises.

A newborn’s cry. Her child! Her child! Valka tries to reach for them, but Embla takes them first to wash them, and Gothi helps Valka get into a more comfortable lying position on the bed and cleans her with warm water. The babe is swaddled and placed in tired but waiting arms, and Valka’s heart soars and her spirit is overjoyed, and she is crying tears of joy, pain forgotten. Her child! Her child is here!

“A boy,” Embla says. “Congratulations and well done, Valka, well done.”

“Hiccup,” Valka whispers, staring down at the child adoringly and strokes the tiny forehead, brushing back thin strands of auburn hair. It is almost red in the firelight, like his father’s. The small face is scrunched up, as if displeased, but then he yawns and reaches out with a small hand, slipped loose from the swaddle, and Valka grasps it. The babe has stopped crying. A tiny finger curls around her own. Oh! Oh! “My little Hiccup.”

“Congratulations, Chief Stoick! Your wife is well, and now you have a son.”

At the midwife’s announcement, Stoick feels so weak at the knees that he nearly collapses into his chair. Gobber, who waited beside him in the Mead Hall, thumps his back and roars with laughter. “Hear, hear! A son! That’s wonderful! Go on, Stoick, go to them. And give Valka my best wishes!"

Finally, he is allowed to see them. Stoick finds his wife awake but very tired, covered by linen and blankets, and the fire gives the room a warm glow. The child is swaddled in a blanket and furs, and so small, so small! as he looks at them, his beloved Valka and their son. Their son! The child is comfortable against his mother’s breast, a small fist clutching Valka’s forefinger, and his eyes open. Bright and green.

Stoick kneels beside the bed in awe. “Hello, son,” he whispers, voice suddenly hoarse. Their son!

Valka smiles, her forehead damp with sweat hastily dabbed away with a cloth. Gothi and Embla give them some room, for the moment. “Hiccup,” she says softly and kisses the babe’s face.

“Really?” Stoick says, surprised, “I though you’d object.”

“The name has grown on me,” Valka says. She looks at Stoick and then back at the babe. “Our Hiccup. Our perfect little Hiccup.”

The babe is fairly small. Gothi tells them not to worry. He may grow swift and sudden within a few months or years; all children are different. But Valka worries that their son is a runt. If he truly is, then he will have a hard time growing up. There are so many expectations merely being a Viking boy, and the son of a Chief will bear twice that burden.

Stoick wants their son so be a leader and warrior. To be learned in all the ways necessary to lead their people into a bright future. Trade, diplomacy, language. And most importantly: axe, sword, shield.

Valka, for now, is content if their child is healthy and happy.

in her dream, the dragons are singing:

and Valka does not recall the details in the morning, but the dragons are singing her name

and the name of her child

and there is a dragon so vast, so kind, so gentle, white of scale and its breath ice instead of fire,

and its thoughts pierce her own:

dragonkin, an endless voice murmurs, dragonblood.

But Valka wakes up without remembering.

The celebration of Góublót uplifts their hearts. Winter was long and hard but is nearing its end now, and they make offerings to the old gods, and gather in the Mead Hall to make merry. Little Hiccup is merely a month old and spends most of the time either eating or sleeping. Spring is only early, and some days the wind howls and other days birds chatter in the sunlight. 

Tonight, the Mead Hall is crammed full and the tables laden with food from their stores, and drums and lutes and flutes are playing. Song rises and falls, hands clapping in time with the tunes. Valka has regained her strength after her labour but tires easily, on account for Hiccup’s sleeping schedule which does not let her or Stoick sleep through a single night undisturbed. Gothi and Embla have helped immensely, and Gobber the Belch and Spitelout have been assisting Stoick in many daily duties so that the Chief can get a chance to rest.

At one point, Stoick takes her hand and Valka leaves Hiccup under the watchful eyes of Gothi, and they dance. An old song, one which Stoick sang with her years ago when they first fell in love. The harp twinkles and the drum sets a quick pace, and others join in the singing and dancing, and those who do not know the words hum or whistle along.

“I’ll swim and sail on savage seas

    with ne’er a fear of drowning

    and gladly ride the waves of life

    if you will marry me!

No scorching sun, nor freezing cold

    will stop me on my journey,

   if you will promise me your heart,

   and love me for eternity!”

And they are happy.

Hiccup is only two months old when he experiences his first dragon raid. Valka grabs him hastily and clutches him to her chest, taking shelter in the deepest part of the Mead Hall with other mothers and young children who are unable to defend themselves or their village. Through the sealed tall doors, they can hear the fires roaring and dragons snarling and metal clashing, arrows whining, screams of warriors in combat. Some of the children whimper. The mothers are silent, except those who pray to Týr and Oðinn to keep them safe, alive, to allow them to see the next morning.

Through that night, Hiccup is very calm. He sleeps and suckles milk but does not weep, even if he could hear the noise of battle and sense the distress of all those around him.

The only time he stirs from his slumber is when a shrill shriek echoes over the village: Night Fury! The boy opens his eyes then and grabs at the air with his little hands, and Valka holds him closer and hums a lullaby on her breath. 

She will keep him safe.

Always.

That summer, Berk is attacked by dragons over a dozen times, and even for raids that is a lot. They barely have time to recover or fortify their defenses in-between the raids. It also has the unfortunate side-effect of frightening off many potential traders and visitors, so Berk is dependent what they can get on their own; Stoick orders many fishing boats to be sent out to replenish their food stores.

Hiccup grows, day by day, week by week. He is a quiet child but very intrigued and curious about the world, always looking and listening and touching. It is a chore to keep him occupied.

But he remains small. A runt, then. Stoick cannot help but feel disappointment.

Perhaps their next child will be stronger.

Valka, the dragon of dreams sings, and it is massive and golden and four-winged,

and they fly across a sky full of stars and the smiling moon.

Valka and Stoick argue behind closed doors. Hiccup is far too little to understand even if he becomes aware of his parents’ anger, distress, irritation. There is disagreement about the dragons and how the raids are handled. Valka wonders if they could deal with them some other way; but Stoick insists that finding the Nest is the only way. His father perished during such an expedition, and his grandfather lost a hand to dragons.

They only lose and lose and lose: food, homes, limbs, life.

"Stoick! There must be some other way!"

Valka even proposes they leave Berk. Settle on another island further south. But Stoick will not have it, even if he loves her dearly.

This is the way of life on Berk, and it cannot be changed!

Hiccup grows but has not yet begun to crawl, and dislikes rolling over, crying and whining whenever Valka tries settling him on a blanket on the floor. He may be small but he is lively, kicking and grasping things and he recognizes Stoick and Valka and Gobber as safe people making him giggle and laugh. Summer is fading and, hopefully, the raiding season is over. They are all praying for some peace and quiet.

But it is not so.

The attack is swift and sudden.

Monstrous Nightmares setting fire to houses; Gronckles spitting thick-flowing flame on the ground, charring it; people rush out of homes, hastily grabbing axe and shield. Stoick roars with sword in hand, defending his people and his village.

Hiccup is sleeping in his crib.

Valka runs toward him when, to her great horror, fire from a pack of Terrors spreads between thatched roofs and reaches theirs. Hiccup! Her son! She must protect him! She bursts into the house, finding a shadow having caved a wall in entirely. The dragon is large and its scales shimmering golden in this light, and it is leaning over the crib, its head so close, so close, too close to Hiccup. Four wings on its back and long curving horns. A type of dragon rarely seen, although spotted enough times that it has been given a name in the Book of Dragons the Berkians keep.

It bends over the crib, eyes fixed on the child within.

But the little boy is not afraid. To her shock, he giggles and he reaches out toward the dragon with both hands, finding free from the swaddle. His eyes are full of curiosity and joy; the dragon tilts its head, as if considering the child. And she can hear something, not in the air but in her heart; a song, humming and sweet and curious. A song. The dragon raises a paw, large enough to far too easily crush the babe, slowly, slowly toward his tiny face—

Valka cries out, fearful. Her little child! “Hiccup! No!”

She ran here without even grabbing shield or spear or sword, and now she is unarmed and cannot stop the dragon. Yet she does not hesitate to face it to protect her child. The Stormcutter looks at her, startled at her outcry. Its claw slips, the tip of it cutting a wound into Hiccup’s chin; not very large, but still deep for so small a child, and tears spring into his eyes. He begins to wail.

And the guttural echo from her dreams pierces her mind:

[Vaaallllk-a] first deep and slow, and then clear like a ringing bell: [Valka!]

The dragon turns toward her. Valka cannot move.

It—it speaks? It speaks. Her name? But how is that possible? How can it speak? How can it know her name?

And her heart is torn; she wants to rush to Hiccup’s side, to hold him close and take away all pain. Her path is blocked by the dragon and even if she is angry that her son is in pain, she finds no desire to kill the dragon. She rushes toward it, to grab the babe from the cradle.

Behind her, she hears the thunder of feet.

“Valka! Valka!” Stoick is shouting. He has seen their house on fire and now he is confronted by the dragon, its four wings splayed and the tips bend against the walls of the house. The wood creaks and the fire spreading. The dragon leaps toward Valka. She screams, but cannot get away. And she does not fear for herself when the claws do not bury in her or cause pain; she sees the fire the cradle. Her son! Her son!

[benotafraid. benotafraid.] 

But she is afraid and she struggles for the first time, and reaches out uselessly toward the ground, toward her husband, toward her son.

“Hiccup!”

“Valka! No!” Stoick roars.

“Hiccup! Stoick!”

The Stormcutter carries her up through the broken roof and out, up, up, up, toward the stars. The ground falls away beneath her. She glimpses Stoick, axe in hand, face full of wrath and horror; she hears her son crying; there is fire and smoke. Stoick tries in vain to throw a knife at the dragon, but misses, and then they are too far away to see.

And she weeps as they fly away from Berk forever.

Valka Gyðasdottír perishes in the dark of night unseeen, taken by claw and tooth and fire of a four-winged dragon; and Stoick the Vast builds a burialmound with his own hands, next to that of his parents and grandparents, empty without even charred bones to bury.

Berkeyja
948 C.E.

Stoick walks with a small entourage to the old burialmounds on the south part of Berkeyja, where his parents and grandparents rest with honour, with sword and shield buried at their feet. A new mound was raised there five years ago, but it is empty.

Little Hiccup sleeps most of the way, in his father’s arms or in Gobber’s when Stoick tires. He does not quite understand what they are doing out here, so far from the village, from the house with its hearth and food and his bed and his toys. The child refused to leave his most precious toy, a soft doll sewn from linen cloth in the likeness of a wolf, a gift from Gothi; he holds onto it tightly and, when not sleeping, peers over Stoick’s shoulders with curious eyes. He stares in fascination at the sky and the sea, glimpsed in-between the woods, at every rock and tree. He points and asks what all these things are called, and Gobber hands the lad some leaves from a tree they pass by for study, albeit he has to take them away when the boy attempts to eat them.

They spend a day there, a little adventure for the boy; they make camp around an open fire and there they mourn and share stories, good old memories.

Hiccup does not remember his mother. She is only a made-up person of words from the adults; he calls Stoick father and Gobber sometimes father too, and there is nothing strange about that in his young mind. Stoick is safe and provides shelter and food; Gobber sings and plays and tells good stories; Bodil the nursemaid is kind and comforting and a good playmate. But Valka, Mother, is only words unseen, and his father cries sometimes when he thinks Hiccup is asleep and cannot hear, and he whispers Valka’s name in sorrow.

While the adults sit around the fire as darkness falls, little Hiccup is not yet tired enough to sleep so he gathers twigs and stones and flowers from the ground. He is allowed to toddle around as long as he does not stray too far. He digs his fingers into the dirt and searches for mushrooms, that good and tasty kind that is sometimes served at the table back home, but finds none. He tries to climb the nearest burialmound like it were a mountain, nearly slipping and falling but Stoick sees what the child is up to and reaches him in time to catch him.

“Careful, son,” his father admonishes, but smiles. Stubborn and adventurous; runt or no, his son is a proper Viking in that regard.

Next morning, they break camp, and Stoick kneels before Valka’s grave and prays. They leave offerings for the old gods to appease them.

Little Hiccup waddles up to the mound with his small fists full of flowers, although not picked very neatly, many still bearing dirt and roots; and he crouches down and lays the flowers there, in imitation of the adults. He has been told that this burialmound is the resting place of Mother Valka, who is not with them anymore; she has gone; she is dead. But Hiccup does not really understand death yet, only knows that death is a door that people sometimes step through and once they do, they do not return. And then other people are very sad. 

“Say goodbye to your mother, son,” Stoick encourages. “We’ll return next spring.”

Hiccup pats the grass of the burialmound, soft beneath his palms. “Bye-bye, Mama.”

Berkeyja
950 C.E.

Hiccup wants Gobber. Wants Gobber! Where is Gobber? Usually he is always here in the morning after a raid, after the fires have been put out, when the little ones are finally let out of the safety of the Mead Hall. Gobber is always there, telling a dramatic tale of the night’s attack, heroic deeds fit for sagas in Hiccup’s young mind. The tall, wide doors open, sunlight streams into the Hall and the mothers and children are glad that it is over. Father is there with ash in his hair and much weariness in his face; but where is Gobber?

It is lonely, hiding in the Mead Hall with the other young ones without Gobber or Stoick; Bodil his nursemaid is annoyed with him when Hiccup refuses to sit still, and the other children jab at him with hard words and sometimes kicks. Snotlout and Tuffnut and Ruffnut are his age but so much taller already, even Astrid, and they don’t want to play with Hiccup the Runt. And he doesn’t want to play with them. He wants to get away from them. He rushes to meet his father but peers anxiously past his vast shape, toward the village bathing in the sunlight. No sign of Gobber.

“Uncle Gobber?” he demands.

His father is very tired but goes to embrace his son, and says: “No, Hiccup. Come, let’s get you home, and we’ll eat together. It’s been a long night.”

Hiccup couldn’t find any sleep in the Mead Hall. The raid was long and very loud, blazing fire and roars and the distant blasts of the shadow-dragon the Book calls a Night Fury (Hiccup thinks, he’s still learning his runes), which sounds scary. As they emerge from the Hall, Hiccup sees that some houses are destroyed partially or wholly, and the market-square is scorched and there are some dragon-bodies piled up there, scales black with blood. That is quite frightening to look at, especially the severed Nadder head with its eyes still open and tongue hanging slack through protuting fangs. Hiccup shudders and buries his face against his father’s shoulder.

The little boy is tired and a tantrum is near at hand. “Want Gobber!”

“No, son,” Stoick says sternly.

“Why?! Want to see Gobber!”

“Gobber needs to rest. You can’t see him yet. Don’t worry, son, he’s alive, he just needs to rest. And so do I,” his father says, walking them home. Their house is still intact, and Hiccup is relieved; his bed is still there and his toys and his favourite blanket, whole and sound. Father sets him down. He only carries him like that rarely these days, because Hiccup is supposed to be a big boy, but if he doesn’t then there is a risk of Hiccup running off and Stoick doesn’t want his child to see too much of the village in this state.

Despite everything, despite wishing for a strong and tough son, a Viking warrior, a worthy future Chief—he wishes to protect Hiccup’s innocence for as long as possible.

It is what Valka would have wanted.

Hiccup is very upset. He does not get to see Gobber for nearly two weeks. In that time, he is nearly convinced by his own bad dreams and vivid imagination that Uncle Gobber has been eaten, just like they say Mother Valka was eaten, carried off, and the adults are lying to him. Is father lying? When Hiccup starts to think this, he crawls into his bed and tries to cry very quietly so that no one hears or sees, because tears are a sign of weakness, big children do not cry, and he is supposed to be big and strong and the Chief’s son. 

But, finally, he and father walk to Gothi’s house on top of the hill. The single room smells of bitter herbs and candle-smoke, and a fire crackles in the hearth. Gothi is tending to something at her work-table, crushing and chopping and stirring. And there, sitting on a bed, is Gobber!

He is pale and there are white cloths wrapped around one his arms, which ends not in a hand but a stump, and one of his legs, slightly visible under a rough wool blanket. Hiccup doesn’t care. Gobber is alive! Not eaten! He bounds over to the bed full of joy, but his father lays a hand on his shoulder and tells him to take it easy. Gobber is weary and in pain, but smiles nonetheless. “Hello, little Hiccup.”

“Gobber! Where were you?! What happened? I missed you! You weren’t there for meals or anything!”

“Aye, well. I had a bit of a run-in with a dragon that last raid,” Gobber says and reaches out to ruffle Hiccup’s hair with his good hand. Gothi taps the bedframe with her staff, an impatient warning, and Gobber shakes his head. “Oi! I am taking it very easy. Can’t I say hello to the boy?”

Gothi gives him a sharp look, one which Hiccup is familiar with having been on the receiving end, but Gobber is grown up and not so easily rattled. But he concedes. “Sorry, Hiccup, we can only talk a short while. I need a lot of rest. I missed you too, you little rascal. Tell me what you’ve been up to.”

And Stoick settles in a chair next to the bed while Hiccup eagerly launches into an elaborate tale of searching the woods for trolls. He will find them, one day! And Gobber doesn’t mind; he is the only adult who listens to all of Hiccup’s stories without huffing or shaking his head or claiming that he is making things up. He nods along and asks questions: "Oh, so then what happened? Was the stone a troll?", but the rock in question had turned out to simply be a moss-covered stone. Hiccup thinks it might be a troll in disguise, like a Changewing, asleep during the day. He would like to go on an adventure at night but Stoick will absolutely not have such a thing; Hiccup is not allowed outside after dark.

“Will you be allright? Will you be back and eat with us tonight? Can you visit and maybe we could play Vikings-sailing-away?” Hiccup pleads.

He has two beautiful toy longboats carved masterfully, and Gobber is a much better playmate than any of the chidlren of the village. In fact, the only time Hiccup tried to play Vikings-sailing-away with Astrid and Snotlout, the girl broke off an oar from one of the longships, causing Hiccup to cry, and then they both mocked Hiccup’s tears. Once he had three boats but Snotlout stole one of the toys. Hiccup did not tell father or even Gobber about that, because Stoick is always disappointed when his son isn’t Viking enough. He should have fought back, defended himself, challenged Snotlout to win back his toy longship. Instead, he pretended that he had lost it in the forest, making up a fanciful story of dropping it into the water of the stream that runs from north to south of the island, watching it sail away on its own and sinking.

“Sorry, little Hiccup. I’ll be stuck here for awhile yet. But maybe you could visit tomorrow?” This question is directed at Gothi rather than Hiccup or Stoick, and she nods. She will allow it but only for a short while each day.

“Tomorrow," Hiccup promises, and he doesn’t like breaking promises.

Stoick takes his hand and urges Hiccup toward the door. “Time to go, son. Rest well, Gobber.”

“Bye-bye, Gobber! I’ll be back tomorrow! With the boats!”

Berkeyja
953 C.E.

“Son, where have you been?”

Hiccup tries to evade the question. “I’m not actually late. You said sundown, and—” Stoick gives him a sharp, silencing look.

Hiccup sighs and looks down at his muddy boots, and does not answer. He may only be seven years old but he is remarkably well-spoken, and that does not go over too well with his age-mates; the other children of the village are all larger than him, taller and stronger, and they play rough. They roll in the dirt and shove each other and chase one another. Hiccup doesn’t like playing with them. They’re mean, especially Snotlout.

“The forest again? Hiccup, you must start taking things seriously,” Stoick says. “You were supposed to be with Gothi. She says you missed your lesson.”

“But dad!” The lessons are boring. Gothi talks through signing and moving her staff, runes in the sand; she talks about herbs and mushrooms and also about the old gods and how to best make them happy. But Hiccup isn’t interested in that. He’d rather be looking for gnomes and trolls in the forest. Snotlout says trolls aren’t real, but Gobber says they are, and Hiccup trusts Gobber a lot more than Snotlout. Trolls steal your socks! Gobber had said wisely: But only the left ones. And Hiccup’s left sock did go missing last week, so going out to look for trolls is the logical thing to do. Besides, he remembers what Gothi said yesterday about white willow bark lessening pain and how expensive, rare ginger is good to get rid of coughs. He already knows these things, so why must he keep going back to the healer to have them repeated?

“Go clean yourself up, son, then to bed.”

Already? But Hiccup isn’t tired! 

His father only looks at him through bushy red eyebrows and there is no point in trying to argue. What his father commands will be done. He is Chief, after all. And Hiccup is only little.

But not forever! Hiccup thinks to himself. One day, I’ll be big and strong! Just like Gobber! And then, when he is, Snotlout and Astrid and the other mean children will no longer be mean to him.

“Hiccup the Runt! Hiccup the Runt!” the taunts of his age-mates echo after him even as he runs: “Hiccup the Useless!”

Being the son of Chief Stoick the Vast does not protect Hiccup, especially when his father is away; he has gone in search of the Dragon Nest along with five warrior-filled longships. His return is uncertain: days or weeks from now, maybe never. While he is gone, Spitelout is in charge of the village and he holds no great love for Stoick’s child.

Hiccup is too clever and smart-mouthed for his own good. His arms are weak but his legs are fast, and he runs to get away from Snotlout and Tuffnut and the other children, who have made chasing him into a game of their liking. But they cannot keep up. Hiccup knows all the paths of the forest by heart, and he knows where there’s a tall old tree good for climbing. And there he takes cover and he doesn’t return to the village for hours; once Snotlout and the others have given up trying to find him, he walks further and further away.

There is a cove some good way from the village where there is a small waterfall and the water is cool and clear, and Hiccup sometimes goes there in the summer, sneaking apples and bread from the kitchen; Gobber doesn’t like it when Hiccup ignores his apprenticeship, but allows it. Gobber knows that Hiccup often is unhappy and that Berk isn’t the best place for him, but there is no alternative. What else can Hiccup do but endure and try to fit in, try to grow stronger?

It is a warm day, so he swims in the water and then sits in the sun, on a mossy rock, to dry. He brought his journal and today he draws; there is a birds’ nest in one of the trees of the cove, eggs newly hatched and the two bird-parents busily fly to and fro with worms and other food for their young. It seems to Hiccup, then, that the birds care more for their children than Stoick does. Than anyone in Berk does, except maybe Gobber, who always at least checks on him in the evenings to make sure that Hiccup has eaten, even on those sour days when Hiccup cannot bring himself to the forge to work. The forge is in the middle of the village, and the other children knows that Hiccup works there, and they sometimes chase after him with words and fists, causing Hiccup to find creative getaways. Sometimes he stays in the back-room of the forge, which Gobber allows. He’s even placed a pallet with blankets in the room, alongside the workbench that is now Hiccup’s alone, so that Hiccup can sleep there if he wishes.

Stoick is becoming ever-more distant. His father is away so many days of the year, trading with other villagers, or searching for the Nest; and when he is in Berk, Stoick is busy with Chiefly duties. And Hiccup sees only disappointment. Disappointment that his son is so weak, still, so small, that Hiccup the Run does not amount to a proper Viking warrior or Chief. What use is it that he can create clever things with his hands and mind, when no one appreciates or understands his inventions? They thing them strange and his drawings are ridiculed for their outlandishness. When Hiccup came up with a better shape for the forge to direct heat more efficiently, Gobber had to claim it was his own idea to make anyone go along with it.

His father is scared for him, also, and does not let him train to wield sword or axe, won’t even let him start learning to fight, doesn’t let him to anything! 

He’ll forever remain Hiccup the Useless Runt.

Maybe it’d be better if I left Berk, Hiccup thinks then, curled up on the rock, and wanting suddenly to cry. He only cries when he’s alone. If anyone saw him, it would only be one more thing to add to the list of un-Vikingness, another reason for the other children to be cruel and the adults to shake their heads muttering. 

It would be better if I left!

But where would he go? Where in Miðgarð would he go? He is trapped here on Berkeyja, surrounded by a frothing sea so cold and all the other islands are also full of Vikings like Berk, who would surely be just as cold toward him. Is there any land in the known world that would welcome him gladly? And Hiccup doesn’t know how to steer a longship and one small boy couldn’t possibly manage to row one out of the harbour, anyway. Only wings could possibly carry him away.

And he doesn’t have wings. The only things with wings are birds and dragons, and Hiccup only seen dragons from afar, dark shadows of the night, screams and snarls and flame. 

I wish I had wings, Hiccup thinks and hugs himself until the tears run dry. Then he would be able to leave. Then he’d be able to be free.

Kjöthauseyjar
955 C.E.

“So, this is the runt-child of Chief Stoick the Vast?”

Hiccup has never left the village before. The ride on the longship was exciting and scary in equal measure; he has heard so many stories of long voyages and sailing trips, but this is the first time his father lets him come along. He has trained in reading and writing runes, reciting poetry; he is bright, his father says, which will make him a good diplomat. This is an opportunity to learn more about being a Chief. As they come ashore, Hiccup very much feels like a thin and little ten-year-old who will never amount to anything, despite his father saying that one day, one day he’ll be Chief. The Vikings of this place are new and strange but at the same time so much like those back home: loud, large, judging.

Chief Mogadon of the Meathead Islands is an imposing figure, much like Stoick; tall, very broad, but his beard is dark brown not a fiery red. His beard is braided out of his face and one of legs is a peg, like Uncle Gobber. But unlike Uncle Gobber he is not kindly or smiling. He looks down at Hiccup with a slight frown, and Stoick has a hand on Hiccup’s shoulder, a meagre comfort.

He wants to go home.

“This is my son, Hiccup,” Stoick says. “And, aye, right now he is small. I didn’t recall your rudeness last time we met, old friend.”

Chief Mogadon laughs then, as if all is to be forgiven. “Forgive me, Chief Stoick. I was merely curious. When you said you would bring your son, I imagined something … more.”

Hiccup swallows hard. He does not want to be here. Why did his father make him come? He’d rather be back in the village, with Gobber, at the forge. Two years ago he convinced his father to let him try, at least, to become an apprentice at a craft. He can do things! He can! Small and weak but clever, and Gobber thankfully took his side. Every afternoon of the workdays he spends with Gobber; in the mornings he has lessons with his father or Gothi or other Elders from the village, writing runes, reciting important poetry, looking at precious maps of known, charted lands. But some mornings there are no lessons, and those he spends exploring the woods around the village. No longer simply hunting for trolls or fairies, but for dragons.

Hiccup is still considered too young to start training to fight dragons. He does not know if he ever will be allowed to. If he does get the chance to fight and kill a dragon, then his people will accept him; yes, then and only then. But not yet. Maybe never, if Stoick has his way. Hiccup has been taught to hold a knife and skin a hare, but nothing more than that, whereas both Snotlout and the twins and Astrid are starting to learn to wield a shield and a spear, and soon they will know how to handle an axe. Even Fishlegs! But not Hiccup. Not little Hiccup the Useless Runt.

At least Gobber doesn’t call him that. Gobber is always kind, if somewhat impatient when his apprentice comes to the forge late and with twigs in his hair, and he takes his apprentice seriously, wowing to teach him everything he needs to run a forge, to repair swords, to make shields. He even has arranged a desk for his apprentice where Hiccup can sit and draw, and Hiccup has already come up with several inventions. These yet remain ideas in mind and on parchment only, but perhaps one day, one day, he will craft them with his own hands.

“Come, come,” Chief Mogadon says, “let me show you around. We’ve done some remodeling since last you visited, Stoick. That last raid destroyed several houses. But you recall the Mead Hall? It still stands, thankfully, and you’ll be comfortable staying there tonight.”

Like Berk, this village is often attacked by dragons. Hiccup has only glimpsed them. heard their roars. He still is forced to hide in the Mead Hall during raids with the other children, cowering like coward. And the dragons scare him, of course they scare him! And they fascinate him greatly. He read through the Book of Dragons, back home, as soon as he learned his runes; he looked at the drawings in wonder and tried to make sketches of his own. Daydreaming of making his own mark. Not because he wants to kill dragons, to kill anything or anyone; the mere thought is frightening and he almost feels a twinge of pity for the dragons who keep coming to Berk to die or be captured, to fight in the Ring against future dragon-killing Vikings. Is it their fault the beasts only follow their instincts, like a wolf hunting a hare or a whale occasionally coming up from the dark deep sea to blast a fountain of water?

But if he slays a dragon, will people in Berk and other places respect him. Then he will be a Viking, a proper one, real and true; a Viking, a warrior, maybe even future Chief, and he’d prove them all wrong. He’d prove them all wrong!

If he slays a dragon, will he stop being Hiccup the Useless Runt?

Berkeyja
958 C.E.

“Son. I’ve decided it’s time for you to start to train, to learn to fight and kill dragons. To become a proper warrior.”

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

Hiccup’s heart still trembles from his close encounter with the Night Fury; the dragon which he shot down; the dragon which looked him in the eyes and let him live. The dragon that he failed to kill, because Hiccup realized then that he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to kill that or any other dragons!

The Night Fury lives. And Hiccup wants it to continue to do so, despite all the harm it has done to Berk, destroying huts and watch-towers and storehouses with its sharp, loud fire-blasts. I looked a Night Fury in the eye and didn’t die!

For such a thing to happen, that would mean that the Book of Dragons is wrong, that all he’s ever been taught about dragons—is wrong.

And right this very day, as the sun is setting after he finally made his way home with weak knees, his father looks at him sternly and commands the exact opposite. And he is Chief, he is Hiccup’s father, and he will not be disobeyed.

Stoick proudly hands Hiccup a shield, newly forged for him—something which his father now expects him to carry into battle—and proclaims:

“With this shield, you carry all of us with you. You think like us, you act like us, you talk like us.”

And that year, Hiccup the Runt dies in flame and wrath at the claw and tooth and fire of the unholy Night Fury; and Stoick the Vast sends an empty, burning funeral-boat out to sea.

Chapter Text

xxii.

Seinni Fæðing

Second Birth

Berkeyja
965 C.E.

The village of Berk is greeted by their Chief returning—with dragons.

Eleven longships had been sent out over two weeks earlier. Three return, barely seaworthy, most of the wood scorched although some of the wood of the decking appears to be new. Their shadows are spotted at a distance and the village gathers by the harbour to greet them, for ill or good. They expect to see many scars, lost limbs, dead bodies; but it is not so. Not a single death. Some mild injures. But the sails are gone utterly—the ships move forward, cleaving the waves at the strokes of oars. A steady echoing drum.

At the head of the procession: dragons.

Panic breaks out. People rush to arm themselves and to man arrow-launchers and catapults. They must defend the village! 

Old Gothi stands on the outcrop of rock overlooking the harbour and her eyesight is not the best these days, but her hearing is good and there is a voice riding the waves. Calling out. And the voice is that of Chief Stoick the Vast.

“We return! In armistice!”

The villagers hear not or pay it no mind. They see the dragons and so they see danger, the threat of fire and death. The dragons come closer steadily, the longships below them. What is this trickery? For it must be a trick! There is no way that Stoick the Vast could agree to be helped by dragons, or to somehow tame them, without first severing their heads from their scaly shoulders.

Gothi hurries the best she can, descending into the village. She shakes her wooden staff and parts the crowds with it whenever someone is in her way. Dagmar shouts after the old healer, urging her to shelter: “Gothi, no! Stay back!”

One of the dragons is a blue and white Deadly Nadder with pale old scars slashed across its exposed belly. The second is a Zippelback, green and hideous, but no gas flies from its first mouth and no sparks emit from the second. The third dragon is a Monstrous Nightmare, not on fire at present, with long curled horns on its head. All these three are familiar to Gothi, who apart from being a healer is a village Elder and has with Stoick presided over many young warriors’ coming-of-age rituals of slaying a dragon in the arena. She has seen these before! They were in the arena six years ago, suddenly disappeared in a raid, the raid which cost them Stoick’s only child. Now closer, the villagers of Berk can see a fourth dragon, a brown Timberjack—the very one which led the way of the voyage into Helheim's Gate. A fifth: very small, a Terrible Terror, barely-visible in the shadow of the Nightmare.

No. A sixth dragon. Black as onyx. It glides above them, at first indiscernible against thick clouds. Then the clouds part to reveal its body. It flies slowly above the procession, keeping pace. It is silent. Then, as the ship near harbour, the dragon dips down, diving briefly but very elegantly and the people of Berk cry out, preparing to fire their weapons—nearly in range now!

On the dragon’s back there is a rider, difficult to see because although the saddle is brown leather the rider is clad in darkness and bent over the dragon's neck. The dragon dives, opens its wings to flap, rise again, twisting in the air. Then they stop, hovering, the wings flapping steadily to keep them just out the range of arrows.

“Fire! Attack! Now!“ Haldor the carpenter shouts. Arrows fly. Most arrows fall uselessly into the sea, but one burrows into the mast of one of the longships, causing angry swearing from the Vikings on the boat, some frantic ducking and grabbing for shields. The dragons collectively withdraw, rising almost a hundred feet where the black dragon can hide with the hot glare of the sun at its back, no one able to look directly at dragon or rider. For there is a rider.

No! Fools! Gothi smacks at Haldor’s ankles with her staff. 

Stoick the Vast stands at the helm of one of the ships. He cups his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice.

“Ceasefire! We have an armistice! The next one to fire looses their hands!”

The warriors on the shore freeze. Confused. What kind of command is that? From their own Chief? Is a spell upon him? The dragons hang or circle in the air, waiting. Waiting for what? Is this some strange new mode of attack? most villagers wonder.

“We come in peace!” Stoick shouts, leaping ashore. “Everything will be explained! Lower your weapons.” Stoick walks steadily up the pier as his people unload themselves off the ships (in a hurry for the boats will not hold much longer). The lad Alfred, who’s barely old enough to hold an axe at all nevertheless properly, stands quaking and Stoick takes the axe from his hands. “All of you! Lower your weapons!”

Confused murmurs. Disbelief.

Gobber and Spitelout are not far behind the Chief. There is Astrid the Shieldmaiden, Snotlout, the twins Ruffnut and Tuffnut, even Fishlegs whole and unharmed. Not a single scar among them. As she scans all the people coming ashore, Gothi realizes she cannot recall any voyage being this successful in its return in terms of lack of injures. The lack of ships is another matter. The three boats look like fire has touched them at least briefly and eaten the sails.

“Everyone! Listen!” Stoick shouts. He has climbed up to stand atop of a large rock to be seen and heard by all the village. He gestures toward the sky. “I know this is hard to understand. I have struggled myself to comprehend what my senses have told me. Look! Look! Tell me, are the dragons attacking?”

More confused murmurs.

“No,” Stoick says loudly, “no, they are not attacking. The Nest is emptied!”

Cheers and scattered applauds of relief, which fade quickly because why then are there dragons in Berk?

“There was a great beast, a queen of Dragons, the size of a mountain. It was vanquished—there will be no more raids on Berk or any other human place!” Gobber pointedly clears his throat, and Stoick says: “The dragons you see before you are not to be harmed.”

Protests are inevitable: “What?”—“Chief, what’s going on?!”—“By Óðinn, you cannot be serious!”—“Dragons are right there!”—“We must defend ourselves!”

Stoick roars. “Silence!” And once the people do, he goes on: “The beast was not killed by us. It was killed by these dragons. Yes, these!" Again he points at the sky. “I have spoken with them through—through the Rider of Dragons.” He winces as if these words pain him. “No one is to harm them!”

“But …”—“Why?”—“Rider?”—“Dragons!”—“Rider of dragons?!”

“They are under my protection as Chief. We have an armistice! These dragons fought against and vanquished the beast of the Nest, because the Nest was controlled by the Queen there. Now it is gone and no dragons will ever harm Berk again. The Rider of Dragons is my guest and under my protection and no harm is to come to him or the dragons in his care! Understand?”

Stoick squares his shoulder and lifts his gaze to address not his people but the dragons in the sky, who are above them now, observing. Their shadows fall on the village and the Berkians struggle with the instinct to cower in fear, to fight, to grab their weapons. But their Chief now forbids that. Their Chief is ordering them to stand down. Their Chief is saying that the raids are no more, the Nest is gone, dragons are not a danger anymore. How? How? How?

“Will you come down?”

The black dragon separates from the others, making a circle and then it dives. And there is a brief, brief echo of a noise of nightmares.

“Night Fury!”—“Oðinn!”—“Take cover!”

“No! Be calm!” Stoick shouts. “They will not harm us. They will not harm you!”

It lands on the top of a roof but lights no fire, does not roar. At its back is a human shape covered in dragon-scales. Their head is covered by a helmet is black-painted wood and metal, and one of their legs is metal and wood too. They sit comfortably in the saddle which has stirrups for his feet but there are no reins, nothing to indicate how they steer or command the dragon with their hands, if they can even do so. They press close to the dragon's back as unseen eyes scans the crowd apprehensively. Tall, but slight in build. Gloved hands with shining hints of metal at the tups tightly grip the edge of saddle and slowly, slowly they sit up straightly.

The dragon huffs and growls warningly when it considers some villagers to be too close. Gothi sees now that Night Fury’s tail is partially brown like treated leather hide, some mechanism of iron wire and leather string connected to it.

“Please, would you not consider staying for a while?” Stoick says, so uncharacteristically. That grabs people’s attention. Their Chief is not one to plead, especially to dragons!

The dragonman shakes their head. And there is something strange and familiar, all at once, to that voice. Gothi barely dares to breathe, astonishment causing her to lean heavily on her staff. Could it be …?

“Vikings home-safe. Dragons leave-now, long flight.”

“I know you must travel on, but you can stay here, all of you. At least … for a while. I swear that you will be safe here.” Why is Stoick saying these things? Why is he offering these things to a stranger upon dragon-back? And extending the offer to the dragons, the beasts themselves? What truly happened within the fogs of Helheim’s Gate? “You could rest in the Hall for the night, under my protection.”

… could it be?

(The lad was weak of body but strong of mind, and he had an air of destiny about him ever since childhood. Gone so swiftly and suddenly and violently. She remembers the raid when it happened. The dragons which had escaped—been freed. Doors and lever which only human hands could conceivably open. The possibility had come to her in a dream years ago and Gothi spoke to no one about it, for no one in this village would believe her. Dragons are feared and hated, hunted and killed. The boy had been given the funeral of a warrior befitting the son of a Chief, remembered more fondly in death than in life. They never did find a body or bones.)

Could it be?

The dragonman holds fast: “Must go. Dragons leave-now.”

This conversation is turning into something intimate and private, not meant to be shouted for the whole village to hear. The dragonman and the Chief could as well be speaking in a great hall all alone, the village eavesdropping ears. The crowd murmurs and mutters. A trick! Sorcery! Gothi tries to find a better vantage point, moving people aside with a soft whack of her staff at ankles and legs. She would like to have a better look at the Night Fury (Night Fury!) and the person on its back.

“Then at least let me equip you with food and what else you may need for your journey,” Stoick says.

The dragonman is silent for a moment. They look past all of the people of Berk; at Stoick, then toward the Mead Hall without it having been pointed out and perhaps that is only chance or perhaps there is cause. Then they glance toward the open sea, at the dragons waiting there impatiently but without attacking, so utterly unheard of. Finally, a decision: “We are grateful-for-kindness.”

“Chief Stoick!” a brave soul among the villagers shouts. “Who is this man, this dragon-rider? Why do you offer him food from our stores? He’s sitting on a dragon!”

“Aye.” Stoick hesitates, speaking around the question. “He is on a dragon. But he is my guest, with my honour sworn upon that he and the dragons pose no harm, and they showed us safely the way back to Berk. He is—” He silences. Looks at the dragonman, who sharply shakes his head and the Night Fury grunts. “He is no threat to Berk. Him or the dragons. I swear it on my honour. So, now you all see. Here is what will happen: we'll clear the market square for the dragons to land there. No one is to approach with intent to do harm! Anyone who wants to leave, please do so now.”

Gobber clears his throat again. “If we could have some room, please,” the old blacksmith says; quite the understatement for what is about to occur.

Distrust.

Fear.

Doubt.

Hiccup-and-Toothless smell all these things from the villagers of Berk. They are very scared and very upset and would attack if not for father-Stoick-Chief, who speaks and shouts and explains with many words that they are safe. No harm. Will not burn.

Father-Stoick-Chief offers a rest-brief-nest in the Mead-Hall-hot-hearth, and an old vague memory rises in Hiccup: of tall wooden pillars and a burning hearth, of a book of many pages (dragons being described as threat-danger, all wrong, most things unright). Tables to sit around and many voices and safe-comfort-food. But also, he recalls, there was pain, being outcast and laughed at, ridiculed and pushed away. Yellow-hair-girl (doubtful memory, fragments of a name), and twin-siblings-mean-loud, and round-face-boy (kind, soft), and snarling-face-dark-hair-boy. They were there often, unkind, in the Mead-Hall and in Berk-village-nest, and Hiccup can only partially recall names. Unimportant. They had seen them among the many Vikings on the mountain-island.

They will not stay, not rest here. Unsafe. But father-Stoick offers food and supplies, and this is acceptable. Could maybe even use forge-metal-tools and fashion things for Toothless, fix bent wires, replace old parts? Gobber-blacksmith was kind in his memories and did not threaten them on the mountain-island.

Some of the Vikings run away to hide; parents grab their youngsters and seek shelter. Many stay nearby, like the metal-ring around the edge of a shield, to watch with wide, curious eyes. No weapons, but they want to. Hiccup-and-Toothless can smell the lingering bloodlust-wrath.

Father-Stoick points at the empty center of the village (place-of-market? yes, place-of-market) where they can land. Not all of them do. Stormfly, Barf-and-Belch, and Hookfang are reluctant to leave their flock but even more reluctant at present to touch ground in the middle of human-nest. Not safe! Not good! They will rather fly toward the forest and find a place there; and Hiccup-and-Toothless agree. Clevertwist refuses to leave their side, however, and Fierce is curious and unafraid.

Fells-wood-with-wings is very distrustful and will fly on now for old nest, old flock, safety. She has dragons waiting for her, and she bids farewell.

[Take care! Have good-flight and strong-flight!] Hiccup-and-Toothless say. [Hope-well for future.]

[Much-grateful for freedom. Will let all dragons know no-more lure-song.] And then she is gone.

Hiccup-and-Toothless descend, with Fierce close behind. Clevertwist makes the Vikings very nervous, which pleases her; she has not flamed herself yet but can quickly and easily if she wants to, fully recovered since the fight with the Red Death. Will not leave Toothless-Hiccup alone with all these Vikings. She holds her head proud and high as the Vikings back away and clear a wide path for the dragons, albeit many Vikings linger to peer out of windows, open doors, or around corners. Baffled and curious. Clevertwist finds a good spot where the sun is warm and nice in the market-square, where she can keep an eye on the Vikings and breathe fire to her flock’s rescue if need be.

“Tell me what you need and I will bring it,” Stoick-father-Chief says to Hiccup. “Food and water? Do you require any tools or other goods?”

“Leather-metal-work, must repair. Leather-wax. No food, much food in-sea and on-land.” Nature will provide.

“Gobber!” The peg-legged old blacksmith walks up to them, unafraid. Does not smell at all of fear now. Old-happy-memory. And this makes Hiccup’s chest warm with happiness. Out of all the Vikings, he has this feeling of not wanting unhappiness or fear from metal-working-Viking. “The lad needs to use the forge, I think, to make some repairs.”

“I’ll see to it,” Gobber-metal-kindness says, and looks at Hiccup on Toothless’ back. “You made the saddle and all of this yourself, didn’t you? Very neat.” Hiccup nods. “All right. Forge’s that-a-way, if you remember. Do you … do you remember?” The man’s voice softens as they begin to walk, very slowly, in the direction; the man cannot move well, aged and stiff and his leg not-good (Hiccup could make better!), and he remains in the saddle, Toothless reluctantly walking on all fours. Villager-Vikings stare and whisper and point with fingers.

“Some things gone, some things memory-stays.” It’s been so many years and he’s forgotten how to say it out loud. “Remember little, this-place work-by-fire with metal. Good place, Guh-buhRrr, kind memory.”

“I’m glad,” the man says. “I grieved when I thought you were dead. I am sorry, lad, that you can’t feel safe enough to stay.”

“Not-now. Not this-time,” Hiccup confirms.

They reach the forge. Same as old memory? Difficult to say. Berk has burned since and been partially rebuilt, old raids, other dragons attacking. Not strange that people are afraid. Gobber leads them around the side to a wide door there, two handles, but too low for flight, and Hiccup pats Toothless’ neck comfortingly [Will not leave! together-always.] as he gracefully dismounts, his true foot reaching the ground first, then the metal leg. Strange to stand on solid ground after much flight across the sea. Not free-wild island with trees and flowers and mushrooms to pick; Toothless has not been in village-human-place since bad-time (separation imprisonment so-much-pain.

“I’m, uh, sure we can squeeze the beastie inside somehow,” Gobber says when Hiccup refuses to go inside the forge alone, the Night Fury swishing its tail and snarling. Doors wide open. The forge inside is dark and cold. “Now, tell me, lad, what exactly do you need? There’s been some remodelling since last you were here. There are some tools over there …” Gesture toward wall, lined with wood-bench and many pegs with tools of many shapes hanging from them. “Ack! Bjorn let the fire die while were gone.”

“Bu-juhR-(grunt)?”

“Ah. Yes. My new apprentice.”

Why does Toothless-Hiccup smell guilt? No reason for guilt! Hiccup left without proper goodbye and nearly forgot Gobber, kindness-like-father-should, and Gobber must have thought Hiccup’s bones were buried in good-ground far, far away.

“Had to take one on, you see, I’m not getting any younger. Such is life. Well, this is a setback,” Gobber sighs, “there’s coal for fuel but the fire needs to be lit. Let me see if I can find my flint—”

[Fire? In rock-chimney-place?] Toothless asks impatiently, and Hiccup assents. Toothless breathes a steady, controlled stream of near-white fire at the forge-hearth, igniting the coal. [Burn-embers good enough for metal-work?]

“Or we do that! No need for tinderboxes, eh?” Gobber chuckles (shocked? not fully steady) and shakes his head. “Of course not. You’re a dragon! Never thought I’d see the day when my forge was tended to by a dragon. Night Fury, no less.”

“Too-(click)-less. Toothless,” Hiccup clarifies. Knows name of Gobber, of Hiccup, so only fair to know name of Toothless. The dragon warbles and huffs and, teeth retracted, opens his jaws enough for Hiccup to reach a hand inside to pat his still-warm tongue in approval, [well-done, very good fire for metal-working].

[Toothless’ fire always good! Work-now? Hurry.] Impatiently. [Should leave soon. Stormfly and Hookfang not happy waiting.]

[Yes, yes, hurry-with-work.]

“Toothless? But I’m sure I saw teeth before,” Gobber mutters to himself, confusedly and also somewhat alarmed that Hiccup so easily and calmly can put his hand within a dragon’s mouth. Clears his throat.

“Need steel-bar, flat-wire, and leather-hide, this-size?” Hiccup holds out his arms, not at full, relaxed in the middle. One fin-tail-length.

“Let me see what I can find, lad.”

The villagers of Berk stare as the Night Fury, the helmeted dragonman, and Gobber the Belch disappear into the forge. The forge has been dark and unlit for days. Suddenly, heat rises from it, smoke curling from its chimney; the dragon has lit the fire. People creep closer and cram at the sales-window and the doors to get a peek, fear falling away to curiosity. Gobber shoes them away and latches the windows and doors closed.

Soon enough the village hears the clink-clink, tap-tap of metal being shaped by hammer and anvil. 

The Nightmare and the Terror remain in the market square, and the Chief also. The inhabitants of the nearby huts have fled for time being to take shelter in the Mead Hall.

Astrid is tired and feels grimy and terrible after the voyage, and wishes deeply for a bath. She considers the work being done in the forge. If she hurries home, she could reach it, clean herself and find new clothes, assure her parents she is safe and sound, and still return to the square before the dragons leave. Decision made, sprints off. Many warriors do likewise. But some stay near the dragons. Some even try to convince the other villagers that, yes, the dragons haven’t harmed them, they even helped them get home!

Clink-clink-clink! Tap-tap!

Stoick orders food to be brought out in baskets: dried meat of lamb and yak, apples, cheese, bread, several filled waterskins, enough to last a man well over a week. Their stores are good this year, trade plentiful. He decides that there is no need for fish, since the dragons will easily catch their own. He fastens the baskets to loops of rope, so that they could be carried, if the dragons were willing, with one basket on each side of their back. The Terrible Terror comes up to nose at all the baskets. It snorts dismissively at the cheese and bread but sneaks an apple, eating the sweet fruit with delight.

The Nightmare is keeping most villagers at bay by merely sitting there. In fact, it offers no threat; it is lying on its belly, feet curled up and tail relaxed, basking in the sun. Resting. A slitted eye opens from time to time to peer at the surroundings. The Terrible Terror is much more lively. It eats two apples before Stoick shoos it off with a wave of his hand, and it doesn’t bite or use fire or even snarl, only shrieking like a disobedient child who is very aware of its wrongdoings but keeping up its mischief anyway. It grabs another apple then leaps onto the Nightmare’s back to eat its prize.

Not wild beasts at all.

Stoick remembers the eggs, the ‘good ground’, the manner of burying dead dragons that his son had spoken of. Dragons feel sorrow. Dragons understand death. They are protective, they are wary, they are playful.

Thinking. Deliberate. Joyful. Mourning.

His son is with his Night Fury and Gobber in the forge, toiling away. He’s not sure exactly what his son is making, but either it must have to do with his armour or the saddle, the tailfin. Or perhaps his flaming sword? Gobber is mightily jealous of that piece and would like to know how it works, but Stoick doubts his son will give up all of his secrets even for old Gobber.

Oh, his son. Alive and returned and so changed. 

And Stoick thinks of these changes and feels sorrow in his joy at knowing his son is alive. Hiccup has been through pain and Stoick fears that more pain lies ahead. A life in the wilderness, with dragons, cannot be an easy one. Hiding from Vikings, flying high above the clouds to not be seen by longships. At least from now on Hiccup will not need to resort to thieving from other villages; Stoick resolves to make Berk a safe place, a haven where his son can come whenever he needs food or shelter or comfort. It will be safe.

Stoick Oathbreaker failed his promise to Baldur and Þór, to Heimdall and Óðinn, to avenge his son. Revenge is no longer within his grasp. But what he can do is promise onto Frigga, the protector of children, that he will offer his son safety.

Clink-clink! Tap-tap, tap-tap!

When Astrid gets to the forge some hour later, Fishlegs, Snotlout and the twins apparently had the same idea. The windows are shut and the doors bolted, to her disappointment. Through the noise of the forge, it’s impossible to overhear any conversations within. So the youths are left to gather and speculate on their own.

“I can’t believe the Chief’s letting him just, you know, take our food and things,” Snotlout says.

“It’s—it’s his son,” Astrid lowers his voice, unsure if the whole village should know. If they already know. Surely, the truth will come out? “The Chief can do what he likes.”

“Exactly! That’s what Chiefs do. What they like,” Tuffnut agrees. “Oh, what a sweet life.”

“And thank Þór you’ll never be Chief,” Snotlout says, punching his arm.

“And I pray to Þór every day that you’ll never be Chief!” the boy retorts.

Oh, gods. Astrid shouldn’t have sought out their company.

Ruffnut thankfully ends it by shoving her brother and then Snotlout. “Shut up, or I’ll make sure neither of your live long enough to be Chief.”

“Besides, he’s not taking, it’s a gift. Or trade,” Fishlegs says. “I mean, the dragons did lead us back safely to Berk. So an exchange is only fair, I think.”

Without the dragons: no water, no fish, no boats. Without the dragons: all of them burning alive with the longships as the mountain-dragon crushed them all. The dragons and their rider had saved all of their lives, whether they wished for it or not.

Clink, tap-tap, clink!

There. [What do you think?] Hiccup holds up the new tailfin for Toothless to inspect.

[Quick work, good work, sturdy.]

Gobber has been easy to work alongside. An old rhythm only altered to fit the dragon’s presence. Toothless has kept the embers glowing and watched them work intrigued; he has never witnessed Hiccup working in a forge for real before, only memories shared or Hiccup sneaking into human-villagers with a false-name, like when he built the armour. When Hiccup made inferno-blade, piece by piece, they snuck into human-places to steal materials and tools, and then they dug a fire-pit at three-islands outside of their cave, a crude forge. There Hiccup had worked for many, many days to make old knife into new blade able to burn from the scale-oil of flame-self-at-wills. Toothless thought the work looked hard and tiring and, frankly, quite boring, and very loud. This place is also loud, much hammering and clanking and spluttering water, and Toothless keeps his ears pressed to his head a lot of the time.

Gobber-the-Belch receives Toothless’ approval. Kind to Hiccup. Helps. Gives water, reminds him to drink as he works. A shared memory of Gobber-the-Belch being kind to Hiccup when others were not. Hiccup even removes his helmet, sign of trust-friendship.

“Good work,” Gobber praises. “May I?” Holding out hands. Hiccup lets Gobber take hold of the new tailfin, look closely, flip over, test balance, fold and open. “It’s really clever, lad. These wires attach to these,” he gestures at the wiring-metal running from the saddle down Toothless’ side and tail, “and this,” the pedal-footrest, “so it can open in many positions. Very clever indeed. How in Miðgarð did you come up with this design?”

Shame-guilt (old and heady) wells up in Hiccup, physically painful, and Toothless licks the young man’s face. [Forgiveness long-ago. Silly hatchling!]

“Hiccup’s fault,” he confesses. “Shoot-down Toothless in night when young, take-away sky from dragon. Wrong! Wrong thing. Must do-right, so Hiccup repair, new tail-fin. Fly-together this way.”

Gobber hands back the tailfin and watches with interest as Hicup removes the brown one Toothless is currently wearing, folding it up and fastening it to saddle-side underneath the satchel-bags there. Replacing with new tail. Testing by pulling at wires and shifting the pedal-footrest with his hand.

“I remember when you fought that thing, the mountain-dragon,” Gobber says, “I thought I saw a red tail on fire. That prosthesis was damaged?”

“Fireproof most-times, not-always, has tested before no-problem, but Red-Death-Queen’s fire very-hot, too-hot,” Hiccup says with a shake of head. Shudders at the memory. Being lifted away from the saddle, the sheer force of the wind, the hot wrath-anger-hunger of Red-Death, encompassing roar and sky of fire (all clouds aflame), separated-from-Toothless, falling! falling! falling!

Not good memory. Hiccup wrenches his mind free from them and scratches the very-nice-spot underneath Toothless’ jaw, and the purring amuses Gobber. The human blacksmith scratches at his own chin in thought, with the real hand, not interchangable-metal one (right now in the form of a hammer).

[All right, Toothless? This-better tail?]

[Must fly to find out!]

“Must fly to find out,” Hiccup repeats out loud. “Test new-tail with short-flight.”

“Of course, lad. Why don’t you go for a spin and check if any adjustments need to be made?” Gobber says.

“Gobb-uhRr welcome Hiccup-Toothless back-to-forge after flight?” Hiccup isn’t sure why he’s surprised. Gobber has always been kind. Helpful. Gentle. Why had he expected to be kicked out as soon as they were done and not be welcomed back? Is he still that scared of the Vikings, of Gobber-blacksmith, of Stoick-father?

“Of course, Hiccup,” Gobber says and smiles. “And Toothless, wasn’t it? Go on. I’ll keep the embers going.”

Since over two hours have now passed, people have lost interest in the forge; instead they focus on the Nightmare (who appears to be sleeping in the square, wings folded in a relaxed manner) and the little Terror which skitters away from all Vikings except Stoick.

Fear is slowly lifting.

The children of the village are now begging their parents to be allowed to go closer to the dragons. One brave lass, six or so years old, saunters right up to the Nightmare to pet it, but she is snatched away by her terrified mother, resulting in whining and tears. Stoick shakes his head. The fear of dragons which they try to instill in every Berkian is being disputed and disproven right in front of them. The Nightmare shows no aggression and the Terror is very curious at the comings and goings of the village. Stoick has urged people to continue their daily business as normal; normalcy is good, safe, comfortable. It will show both the dragons and his people that the armistice is still in effect and his promises sincere.

To think so much can change so quickly!

Stoick has gone through the baskets, noted what’s in them. He has them placed in a storehouse near the square (mostly to deter the Terror, who keeps snatching apples). Then he walks the hill up to his home, gets something to eat, washes his face and hands. He leaves his shield and axe leaning against the wall next to the door. No need to bring them. He’s half-way back when there is a terrified shout.

“Night Fury!”

Ivar the fisherman has dropped the net he was carrying toward the harbour and points. The forge’s doors open, and Hiccup and the Night Fury exit. Smoke is still rising from the building, a consistent tap-tap-tap indicating that Gobber is still at work. The lad is wearing his helmet and his hands are gloved. The villagers see a frightening dragonman, but Stoick knows the face beneath the scaled armour with fondness.

“Take it easy! There is no danger,” Stoick says.

Hiccup climbs into the saddle so smoothly and easily as if born to it. His prosthetic foot clicks into place in the stirrup, and it appears that he has mended it; Stoick recalls seeing it slightly askew, but now it is straighter and the tip of it flat. Then he attaches himself to the saddle by a leather string and metal hook in his belt (Stoick hadn’t noticed that before, but finds himself relieved that his son has at least some protection against falling off), and he leans close over the dragon’s neck, black scales blending against black scales.

A fierce despair grabs at Stoick’s heart and he runs up to them as the Night Fury’s body tenses in preparation for flight. “Wait! Are you leaving already?”

The dragonman’s answer is brief but delighted: “New tail, short-flight!”

And with a mighty flap of wings, they rise almost vertically, up and up and up, dragon and rider as one. Stoick shields his eyes from the red glare of the afternoon sun.

Fishlegs goes to the Mead Hall and fetches the Book of Dragons. Normally, removing it from the Hall isn’t allowed, but with all the strange happenings today no one stops him or seems to care, not even the Chief. No, Chief Stoick is preoccupied. Fishlegs carries it under his arm and makes his way back to the square, where at the northern edge Astrid, Snotlout, and the twins have gathered around some benches cut out of timber; there is a spot available there to light a fire, but the coals remain unlit. It’s not that dark or cold yet.

He hears the debate before he reaches them. Snotlout again: “… but are you sure there are no horns?”, and Ruffnut: “Where exactly would those be hidden?” (which makes Fishlegs want to blush in embarrassment), and the retaliation from Astrid: “No, he does not have horns. That’s a helmet.” 

Once he’s seated, Fishlegs pulls open the Book in his lap and arms himself with the coal pen. Ignores the chatter beside him; at first, no one takes note of him, anyway, as usual. Fishlegs is a below-average warrior, slow and not strong enough, his size only helping when needing to scare off bullies. A little too much like Hiccup the Runt, thinking too much, writing. Any other village than Berk, Fishlegs might have perused another way of life, a scholarly life, learned more languages. But that is neither here nor there.

He glances in the direction of the Nightmare. Sleeping? Looks like that way. He leafs through the pages until he finds the one on Monstrous Nightmares. The drawings within are hideous, showing a twisted version of a Nightmare with countless teeth and long, twisted horns dramatically piercing a poor Viking warrior.

Monstrous Nightmare. Stoker Class.

Common dragon with the nasty habit of lighting itself on fire.

Well, yes, that part is true. Fishlegs has seen it happen many times, in the arena, during raids, and on the mountain-island when the two Nightmares, Night Fury, and other dragons attacked the mountain-dragon. And what was that huge beast? A whole new kind of dragon to name! Is there only one of it, or could there be more? Oh, Fishlegs prays that there are no more of its kind because if something like that got loose, villages like Berk would stand no chance!

Scales generally range in these colours: green, red, mauve, blue.

The large one resting in the square is mostly a dark shade of magenta, with a paler belly than back, and littered with dark grey spots and markings. Do those markings have anything to do with its ability to flame itself? Its hide has properties which they’ve never really managed to decipher. Not that they’ve tried too hard: no, the Book tells mostly of its strengths, speed, weaknesses, whether is sprays acid or fire or shoots spike, all with one goal. To describe the easiest, swiftest, most effective way of killing it. Fishlegs looks at the drawing again, then the real-life dragon, and then the drawing.

It’s almost a wholly different creature.

Extremely dangerous. Kill on sight!

Dangerous, yes. All dragons are dangerous. From the smallest Terror to the loudest Thunderdrum to the biggest mountain-dragon (they really need a name for it! a page in this Book) to the fastest Night Fury—they’re all dangerous. But for nine days Fishlegs shared an island with a hundred Vikings and six dragons and a dragonman, and no one was harmed, no one was bitten, burned, had a limb torn or bitten off, nothing, nothing! It wasn’t comfortable (Fishlegs barely dared to sleep or breathe too loud) but it wasn’t … wasn’t a death-sentence. And the dragonman (little scrawny Hiccup!) proves so many, many things wrong.

So many things.

Taking a deep breath, Fishlegs grips the pen, white-knuckled. He’s about to write in the Book of Dragons, and only Elders and the Chief are allowed to. Not a twenty-year-old whose one and only dragon-kill was a Terror, nothing to boast about. But now so many things are false or wrong, and Fishlegs has to fix it, somehow. He writes, hand shaking at first but steadying as the runes form, one after the other:

Monstrous Nightmares can be non-aggressive, as proven by the Dragon-Rider H

Fishlegs hesitates. Can he write down names? Surely, Chief Stoick can’t expect them to keep Hiccup’s identity a secret forever? It’s already known by many, or guessed at; rumours had spread wildly in the camp on the mountain-island, and now everyone in Berk will be informed by their returned sons and daughters, husbands and wives.

as proven by Dragonrider Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, son of Stoick the Vast, after taming the Night Fury. 

Oh wow. Oh wow! I actually wrote it! I actually dared to! He has to breathe hard for a few moments to calm down his racing heart. Determined, Fishlegs then opens the next relevant page. No, wait. The most important page isn’t that of the Terror, or the Timberjack, or Nadder.

It’s the Night Fury. Of course!

The page is mostly empty.

Night Fury. Strike Class.

Size: unknown.

Speed: unknown.

The unholy offspring of lightning and death itself. 

Never engage this dragon. Your only chance: hide, and pray it does not find you.

The Night Fury is scary, but how much is reputation? Old stories passed down through the generations? The exact time of its first sighting is not recorded; and that itself is only a vague blur, because until recently no one had seen a Night Fury. Heard its terrible shriek, yes. Its blasts of fire thundering through the night and shattering timber to splinters and burning rock itself, splitting it open; those things they had seen. Fishlegs had even been to the cove in the woods shortly after Hiccup’s disappearance and presumed death, to see with his own eyes what Astrid had described. Stone ashen and broken. Trees felled. It had led to a very grim conclusion.

Fishlegs considers what he has seen. With what he now knows, or guesses, he’d place the Night Fury in the Strike class, just as the Book says. But it is no longer a guess. It properly fits.

He lifts the pen again. Rolls it between forefinger and thumb, thinking. Where to start?

Size: unknown. This dragon is roughly three and a half fathoms in length from snout to tail-tip. All scales black as jet (but appears have some lighter markings? Uncertain until closer examination). It has ridges running down its back, which continues down its tail. Possibly four ears or ear-like structures at the back of its head. Its head is broad and flat, with large bright eyes (is green common for all Night Furies?). It possesses four legs and wings sprouting from its shoulders, as well as smaller wings for balance, speed or agility lower down at the base of the tail. Tailfin has two sides. Wingspan estimated at eight and a half fathoms.

He’s not sure how many teeth, but they’re subtle, not sticking out of its jaws like in, say, a Nadder or a Nightmare. Truthfully, while terrifying, the dragon is … beautiful. Yes, that’s the word. The Night Fury is a beautiful creature. And he tries to keep the description brief and factual and not focused on strength or weakness, on how to easiest damage or kill. Just simply … describe what it is, what it looks like, how it uses its body to master the air.

Speed: unknown. This dragon is very fast, both climbing into the air and flying straight ahead. It can also glide. Very nimble and maneuverable. Divebombs. When diving, the dragon produces a shrill shriek. The Night Fury is both quick and agile and can maneuver in tight spaces and turn very swiftly when attacking.

Fishlegs recalls the broken wing, set with a splint.

The Night Fury heals quickly when injured. This dragon breathes a fire that is very bright and hot, mostly bursts rather than a steady flame.

The unholy offspring of lightning and death itself. 

He crosses out the words, but isn’t sure what to write in their stead. The shriek when it dived out of the clouds and fired blast after blast on the mountain-dragon has haunted Fishlegs every night. Probably will for days to come. The dragon had defeated the mountain-dragon (clouds aflame, blasts like thunder, like Þór’s very hammer) in the end almost on its own, the Night Fury and its rider (lightning. lightning and death. lightning and death!)

The unholy offspring of lightning and death itself. The Night Fury is able to attack and defeat enemies many times its own size. When in battle far up among the clouds, its fire-blasts appear like thunder and lightning. Despite its small appearance, the Night Fury is not to be underestimated.

Never engage this dragon. Your only chance: hide, and pray it does not find you. As of yet, only one Night Fury has been closely observed. Therefore, it is unwise to draw conclusions about all Night Furies regarding behaviour. However, this one Night Fury, ridden by Hiccup Horrendous Haddock III, son of Chief Stoick the Vast, is non-aggressive if not threatened. But if angered, this dragon will not hesitate to

He’s so engrossed in his task that Fishlegs fails to notice his comrades falling silent, one by one. Until Snotlout has walked up to him, casting a shadow over the page, and says very loud:

“What are you doing?”

He startles in the middle of the sentence, drops the pen, nearly the Book as well. Astrid and the others are staring at him.

“I, um. I was. Writing!”

“Yes, we can see that,” Tuffnut says with a roll of eyes. “We meant with the Book of Dragons.”

“It is that Book, isn’t it? It is! Isn’t that forbidden?” Ruffnut says. "Chiefs and such only can write in it?”

Fishlegs gulps, very aware of his wrongdoings and rule-breaking. “Well. I. Maybe. Yes, it’s the Book of Dragons, but it needs to be updated! There’s so much information that just isn’t right anymore. Like the Night Fury.”

That grabs Snotlout’s attention and he tries to take the book, but Fishlegs holds it away from his grubby hands. “Hey! Just wanted to check. Did you write how deadly it is? I mean, those blasts—”

“We already know about its fire, Lout,” Tuffnut says. “What about the new stuff? Claws and teeth? You know, I’m disappointed. It doesn’t look that ferocious most of the time. Where are the big huge teeth? Now a Nightmare, that’s a proper fear-inducing dragon.”

Tuffnut does not mention that the Monstrous Nightmare in the square does not appear very fear-inducing. Fairly docile, though it snarls and does threaten to cover itself in fire if anyone gets too close to it or the Terror. Being the smaller of the two Nightmares it still has a wingspan of several fathoms. Currently it has woken from its nap and is engaged in some kind of … play? … with the Terrible Terror, and they tousle without actually harming one another. Quite comical given their size difference. And they seem to be taking care not to knock down any nearby buildings or set fire to the wooden huts. Any Vikings give them a very, very wide berth.

“Maybe you should draw it,” Astrid suggests. “The Night Fury.” The pages still so empty: Fishlegs has started filling the left-hand page with runes, but the right-hand side offers more than enough space for a rendering.  

“I—really?”

“Well, we’ve all seen it, more or less, but you’ve got keen eyes for that sort of thing. You’d do a better job than any of us.”

Oh, gods, it is a backwards day: a Night Fury in the forge, a Nightmare playing with a Terror in the market square, and Astrid giving compliments!  

Fishlegs smiles nervously. “I could try, I guess.” But he wouldn’t be able to draw it like most of the other pictures in the Book, with wide open jaws, spitting fire, claws buried in a dead Viking. In battle. Maybe in flight? That would be more fitting. “It would be easier if I could see it, though, but—”

“Night Fury! Hide! Run!” a terrified shout interrupts.

The five friends stand up, and Astrid grabs her knife from her belt, ready to intervene. The Nightmare startles and lifts its head; the Terrible Terror nearly falls off its back, flapping its tiny wings to right itself. Then the little dragon chirps (happily?) and leaps into the air, to greet the incoming dragon. Because that’s exactly what it is.

For some reason, some half-hour ago, Hiccup and the Night Fury left. The way they’d climbed straight up into the clouds and out of sight was impressive and awe-inspiring. Oh! That’s another thing he should write down. Ability to climb the air vertically.

They’re returning. 

Someone calls for Chief Stoick, who’d retreatred to the Mead Hall (at Gobber’s insistence, Fishlegs suspects, because the Chief has been so preoccupied with his son the past nine days that he’s barely slept or eaten). It’s not long until the broad, tall man comes running, no longer wearing his customary helmet. No axe or sword or shield.

“It’s all right! There’s no danger!”

The Night Fury sweeps over the village at amazing speed, wings tightly pressed to its body and its rider bent low so that the air streams closely around them both. Difficult to see in that dark armour and helmet. Then it turns, a quick twist, and spreads its wings to their full length to slow down. A few flaps, slower and slower, and they lower themselves to the ground right outside the forge, where they’d taken off from. The Night Fury shakes its head like a wet dog, a movement translating throughs whole body all the way to the tail, and the rider, now sitting straighter, moves with it comfortably, like he’s done this a hundred times and the Night Fury couldn’t possibly throw him off. The dragon warbles and clicks its tongue and snorts, and the dragonman pats its neck. Fishlegs wonders what it means. If there is some kind of language-equvivalent.

The dragonman makes some kind of adjustments with his fake foot, metal clicking and grinding, and as he does so the leather half of the dragon’s tail bends, folds, unfolds. The dragonman then leans over again, and the dragon blinks slowly. Are they communicating somehow? Are they—are they talking to each other?

Must be. Somehow.

Stoick reaches them. Expression one of relief. The dragonman slides off the saddle smoothly, knees bending as he lands on the ground, and he keeps a gloved hand on the dragon’s side as he nods as something Stoick says (too soft for Fishlegs and the others to hear from the other side of the square). 

It’s one thing to talk of the dragonman and the dragons when they’re not present. Now, Fishlegs finds himself tongue-tied and, deep down, afraid. More afraid than of wild dragons during a raid, or at least a different kind of fear. Because if their previous assumptions had been correct, then dragons are just animals. Animals with scales and breathing fire. But now, now he’s sure, these beasts can communicate, they can think, they can comprehend—

Hadn’t Astrid said something about their odd behaviour when finding dead, broken eggs?

Dragons are intelligent, the thought sneaks up on Fishlegs. And that’s what scares him. If dragons are intelligent—

The Night Fury and its rider disappear into the forge again. From within, there is the noise of the hammer and anvil, smoke rising from the embers.

Tap-tap, clink-clink, tap!

Evening is falling on Berk, the village home to six hundred men, women and children and, today, sheltering six dragons and a dragonman as their guest. Stoick gives them food and supplies and protection, and rumours have spread from and to every hut and home and ear and mouth thrice over by now. The dragons saved their warriors from catastrophe. They helped bring wood for boats. They brought them back home! There is doubt, questions about embellishment befitting sagas and songs, and Gothi knows that several such will be written of this day.

There is a Nadder and a Terrible Terror, a Zippleback and two Nightmares, a Night Fury and a dragonman in their village. The other dragons have returned from wherever they were hiding in the forest or on the other side of Berkeyja. Peacefully! No harm, no deaths, no fires. The Night Fury and its rider spent hours with Gobber the Belch in the forge, and Stoick gathered dried meats and fruits to gift the rider. They are not staying; they are leaving.

But the most prudent rumour of the dragonman’s identity is what brings Gothi to seek out Stoick and to see the dragons off herself. The Chief has only left the square or forge briefly, to eat and rest in his home; he spends hours merely watching the dragons and the dragonman, as if worried that if he takes his eyes off them they will cease to exist.

Light is fading. The forge silences. Gobber emerges with soot on his nose and in his beard, and the dragonman bears new gifts from him. The Night Fury never leaving the dragonman’s side. They are leaving. The baskets of supplies are gathered and, to the villagers’ astonishment, the Zippelback allows itself to be clad in ropes like a harness by the dragonman, and baskets hang on either side of its belly, securely fastened so that they do not dangle loosely or drop. The little Terror leaps into one but is lifted out by the dragonman, clutching a red apple in its jaws. The dragonman laughs, a clear and quite human sound, and lets the dragon keep its prize.

Stoick sees them off. His shoulders are relaxed, no longer tense with wrath or sorrow, but an air of melancholy lies over him. Gothi strays not too close at first; she knows, in her heart, this is a private moment. She is also sure she isn’t the only one listening, curious ears in the vicinity, unable to ignore the strange envoy. Astrid, Fishlegs, the twins and Snotlout are there also, with Gobber the Belch, a loose half-ring of people standing a few steps behind the Chief.

Stoick is calm, fearless; a very tall man and normally he looks down at those he speak to because of his sheer size; but the dragonman is seated on the back of the Night Fury now, and the Chief has to crane his neck upward.

“You are always welcome here. You’ll be safe here, I swear it.”

“Dragons-grateful,” the dragonman responds. His helmet hides his face. “No-promise returning, not yet. Must-find flock at home-nest. When know flock-safe, will-search skies for clever-four-wings.”

“Please come back one day," Stoick says, "whether a year or ten from now. I’ll always offer shelter and food. Without the raids, Berk will be a safer and more peaceful place.  We can change.”

“Viking-change slow. But possible," the dragonman acknowledges. “Goodbye. Many thanks. Much-luck good-flight, Stohj-(click)-Chief.” He looks at Gobber the Belch. “Many thanks. New-leather-fin good, will fly easy now. Good-see-again, Guh-bbRr.”

Gobber sounds resigned and wistful all at once. “Be careful out there, lad.”

To the youths’ surprise the dragonman addresses them too, in turn. Well, not all of them. Perhaps he doesn’t recall them, their names, or does not care for them all. Head tilting a little (and he never sits truly still on the dragon’s back, moving as it moves, breathing as it breathes) in the direction of Astrid, Fishlegs, Snotlout and the twins, the dragonman says: “Ah-sstRrdD. Feh-sshlluh-(grunt). Goodbye. Maybe changed-better future we will see-again.” The youths do not reply, stunned at being addressed, exchanging bewildered glances with each other.

And finally, to Stoick: 

“StohjK, dragons gave promise and promise-hold-always. If-find Val-(click)-uh, dragons will return swift-flight.”

Gothi holds her breath. Valka? The Chief’s late wife? She who was killed in a dragon raid two decades ago, whose burialmound lies empty? So, her suspicions were correct! There is no other way the dragonman would know the name, however garbled, or the Chief be so trusting, even pleading the dragon and their rider to stay in Berk. To shelter in his Hall. Offering food and aid and goods.

“Thank you. And I’m proud to call you my son. Be safe. Please, be safe.”

The dragonman nods once, looks across the village sweepingly. Perhaps the last time he will see it at all. Then the Night Fury flaps its wings and the other dragons follow, dust swirling. Large marks of claws and inhuman footprints have been left in the soil and matted the grass, but no fire, no ash, none of the other usually devastating signs of dragons. The dragons rise toward the sun, then suddenly, as one unit, make a turn south-east, following the curve of the island, its jagged coastline.

Soon, they are out of sight and the villagers can no longer hear the flaps of their wings.

Gothi walks up to Stoick. The Chief lingers, staring at the sky, even as Gobber and the youths have scattered and sought out their huts or families for the evening meal. His face hopeful and gladdened but unshed tears shine wet in his eyes. He averts his gaze from the disappearing dragons when the healer approaches. She waves her staff once and looks directly at him, seeking answers to questions unasked.

Stoick sighs.

“Heard all of that, did you?”

Oh, yes. And most of the village already have guessed or will hear the news before the day is up, Gothi is sure. Glares at him sternly.

“I suppose keeping it a secret would be futile. All the warriors who went to Helheim’s Gate already know, anyway. Aye, that was Hiccup. He’s alive. And riding dragons now. The dragons are no threat.”

Using her staff, Gothi quickly draws circles and runes. Boy had destiny all life. She saw it in his eyes ever since he was a babe. A fire which she had also seen in the Night Fury’s pale green eyes.

Stoick blinks. “Destiny?”

First life, death, second birth. Hiccup was born as a human Viking boy; the boy died in fire; he has been reborn as a dragon. She thumps the ground with her staff. She was right! There is a great lifetime ahead of that young man, intertwined with dragons, but it will surely affect Berk. It has already affected Berk. No more raids, Stoick says. They shall wait and see, but if it holds true, then everything else must be true. The gods have decided. Destiny and seiðr.

“You’re right, Elder Gothi,” Stoick says. "He lived and died and now he’s returned. Do you know his destiny? Have you seen it in a dream?”

She shakes her head. The future is unclear. She is no true seiðr-wielder; she only has her wisdom from a long life of studying nature itself, devotion to the old gods, a clarity of thought and understanding unblemished by a warrior’s life which most people of Berk lack. She is an Elder for a reason. But this question she cannot answer. She can try to scry to glimpse the future, but likely it will be futile. What will be revealed will be revealed; the rest must wait.

Instead, she writes in the ground a name, spelled out in clear runes: Valka.

“Aye. After finding Hiccup like this, I … I have doubts. I have a lot of doubt. It might just be possible. She’s the lad’s mother, after all. And he speaks with dragons! If there’s any chance at all of finding her, Hiccup is my best chance, our best chance.”

Good choice; Gothi agrees, and she understands that Stoick is both joyful and grieving, having gained and lost in so short a time. His old son is dead and his new son has been born. Hope given in exchange for a son-turned-dragon. Stoick should be proud of his son for his accomplishments, however unorthodox.