Chapter Text
For two weeks, Dragon's Edge has been quiet.
Not "peacefully" quiet. More like "everybody is holding their breath and waiting for something horrible to happen" quiet. But for Fishlegs, that was enough. Enough to finally focus on what really mattered. That being herbs.
Technically, the herbs were important for the whole team, for poultices, salves or when Snotlout tries to chug 5 liters of mead at once but Fishlegs had another reason for his repeated trips to the Northern Markets.
A night terror.
He had seen it on the first day he went there. Small, black-scaled, and glaring from inside a cage with eyes that glowed gold in the sunlight. It sat alone, wings pressed close, body tense. All alone.
Fishlegs had immediately frozen in place. Night terrors weren't alone creatures. They were pack animals, cooperative, intelligent and most importantly coordinated together. This one whatever had happened, was utterly alone.
He had tried every option he could think of. He had sketched elaborate rescue plans, pacing around the market and muttering to himself. He had considered sneak attacks, clever distractions, and even Meatlug casually "sitting" on the stall. Nothing had worked to not attract unwanted attention.
Finally, after much more pacing and frustrated sighing, he came to a conclusion he hated. He would have to buy the dragon.
The thought made his stomach twist with disgust. Dragons were not items, they were living, thinking creatures. But if he wanted it to be safe, if he wanted it to get back to pack, there was no other way.
He approached the stall, hands clasped nervously. The merchant was staring into a bronze shield, poking at his own reflection.
"Do you think my nose is crooked?" The man asked suddenly.
Fishlegs paused in his pace. "… Excuse me?"
"My nose. Helena left me for Erik. I think she did it because it's crooked. Do you think it's crooked?"
Fishlegs could do nothing more than blink at the man. "… No. Probably not. But how much for the dragon?"
The merchant squinted at the cage. "That thing? Twenty coppers. Practically useless without a pack."
Fishlegs felt blood rush to his face. Useless? He wanted to explain, in extreme detail, how night terrors coordinated in flight, how their communication was sophisticated, how they were one of the most social dragons alive. Instead, he shoved the coins across the counter, snatched the cage, and muttered: "Useless… unbelievable."
Meatlug was waiting just outside of the market, hidden inside the bushes, who upon seeing him started to swing her tail lazily. She sniffed at the cage once, unimpressed.
"Girl," The rider muttered, setting the cage on the ground. "you will not believe what some people do to dragons."
The night terror inside blinked, then turned its head to Meatlug, still completely calm, still completely judgemental.
Fishlegs crouched, speaking gently. "Don't worry. You're safe now … relatively. Statistically, in my care, you're about seventy-nine percent less likely to be recaptured."
The dragon blinked a second time. The rider nodded, taking it as agreement.
Fishlegs took a deep breath and carefully lifted the cage again. "Right. Step one: get you to the Edge safely. Step two: Introduce you to Smidvarg's pack. Step three: you become the social, coordinated, fully functioning night terror I know you're capable of. Step four: not step four yet, but … well we'll see."
Meatlug gave a long, unimpressed groan, swishing her tail like she was actively judging him.
"Don't look at me like that, Meatlug." Fishlegs said, climbing onto her back with the cage balanced precariously between his knees. "Flying isn't inherently dangerous. Statistically, it's very safe. but if we have an accident, I may or may not scream."
The night terror in the cage blinked slowly, clearly unimpressed with the ongoing commentary.
"Exactly," The rider muttered, nodding once again. "you agree. Good. Excellent. I knew we'd get along."
The ride back to Dragon's Edge was … tense, to say in least. Every bump, every gust of wind, every sudden flap of Meatlug's wings made Fishlegs clutch the cage just a little bit tighter.
"Meatlug! Careful!" he squeaked. "This is very important cargo! Highly valuable and fragile! And it doesn't know how fragile it is yet!"
Meatlug groaned again, which Fishlegs took as passive-aggressive confirmation that yes, she was aware of the dragon's fragility. She is aware, thank you very much.
He went on, because this is a perfect fly to analyze everything about the situation. "Now, night terrors are fascinating creatures. Meatlug, did you know their cooperative flight patterns allow them —"
He glanced down at the little guy. It was starring at him blankly, wings twitching slightly. "Yes. That's what I thought. You're not interested. That's fine. Not everyone appreciates the finer points of dragon social cues. Meatlug doesn't either, apparently."
The little guy let out a small, chirping noise, making Fishlegs jump just a little bit.
"Ah! Communication! That is exactly what I was talking about! You're starting to … well, not really, but at least signaling something. Very promising."
Meatlug snorted.
After what felt like forever, they finally landed. Fishlegs's knees were shaking from holding the cage, sweat had soaked his tunic, and the night terror was still blinking up at him like are you done talking yet?
"Okay," Fishlegs said, kneeling to the ground. "We're home, step one complete. Step two … Integration with the pack. Should be easy. Statistically, easy. You might panic. You might bite someone. But that's also … statistically unlikely. I think …"
The night terror chirped again.
"Exactly," Fishlegs said, misinterpreting. "You're already starting to understand the importance of packs. Excellent."
Smidvarg's territory was not welcoming. The outpost was hidden between the cliffs, with shadowed openings, and the feeling that at any moment a pair of golden eyes would silently judge you to death was not pleasant.
Fishlegs crept forward, holding the chest at his chest height. "Smidvarg? It's me, Fishlegs. Your friendly, highly-qualified dragon researcher. I have a friend here who needs a pack. He's friendly. Probably. Most of the time. Well, eventually I suppose …"
From the shadows, the pack emerged one by one. Wings snapped open in unison, while Smidvarg himself landed with a thump in front of Fishlegs. The dragons only looked without blinking once at him and the object in his hands. It was quite creepy, to be honest.
Fishlegs swallowed. "Hi! Uhhh… good wing beats today. Very coordinated. Very sharp. Anyway, I have… someone. A night terror. Alone. Needs a pack. I thought… you'd help?"
He opened the cage carefully.
The night terror blinked at the pack. Then froze.
The pack blinked back. In unison, which unnerved him yet again.
Total silence.
Fishlegs tried again. "Isn't this exciting? Pack integration! Formation practice! Social bonding! Anybody? Hello?"
One night terror sneezed. Another tilted its head. Smidvarg sniffed the newcomer once, then turned his back. The others melted into shadows, murmuring low noises that Fishlegs interpreted as, "What did he bring us? Seriously?"
The newcomer, unsurprisingly, did nothing. Just crouched, wings half-spread, blinking.
Fishlegs groaned. "All right, fine. Maybe this will take a little longer than I expected. That's okay. We can do … mini-sessions. Step-by step. Yeah, now that's a plan!"
Meatlug nudged the night terror. It flinched but stayed put in his place.
"Good, small progress, very small, but it counts!" Fishlegs muttered. "We'll work on the signals tomorrow. Okay. Signals."
The next morning, Fishlegs returned to Smidvarg's territory with a small basket of dried fish and scraps of meat. The little night terror peeked out of the cage it decided not to abandon last night, with his wings slightly trembling and golden eyes following his every move.
Meatlug nudged Fishlegs gently with her snout as he adjusted the cage. A low, soft rumble emitted from her throat. It was equal parts warning, encouragement, and laughter all at once.
"You're overthinking it." she seemed to say. A flick of her tail sent a small cloud of dust into the air as if that would snap him from his plans.
Fishlegs swallowed and adjusted the basket nervously. "I—I just want him to integrate safely. It's … tricky. Night terrors are very social, and this one seems to have never been part of a pack. "
His dragon gave a low, throaty chuckle and nudged the cage again. Fishlegs jumped at the sound.
"Yes, yes, I know. You think I'm over complicating. Fine!" he muttered. "But … careful observation is necessary. Social behavior, pack dynamics, signaling—"
The night terror blinked, staring at him as if he had invented a new kind of nonsense.
"Exactly! That's what I thought! You understand me! Or … you just want me to shut up …" Fishlegs whispered.
He opened the cage widely carefully. The little dragon stepped out hesitantly, claws scraping lightly on the rocks. Its wings twitched nervously, but it held itself upright. At least it seems the dragon shows more emotions than yesterday.
"Good, good." Fishlegs muttered, crouching slightly. "Step one: approach slowly, gestures low, do not panic."
Meatlug flopped down beside him, letting out a soft rumble that seemed to be laughing at his careful instructions. Fishlegs noticed and winced.
"Fine! Mock if you want, but I have to guide him. Gently and carefully."
The little night terror shuffled toward the first elder dragon, sniffed the ground, then flopped onto its side like a toy.
Meatlug snorted softly, nudging Fishlegs's arm with her snout. The movement was affectionate, but unmistakably teasing. "Very funny," Fishlegs muttered, rubbing the side of his face. "I'm aware it's clumsy. Experimental, yes. But socially relevant! Maybe it will work."
The pack remained still, golden eyes glimmering at the unmoving dragon, wings occasionally flicking in curiosity. Smidvarg sniffed the newcomer once and turned his head.
Fishlegs exhaled slowly. "Okay … minor setback. Not catastrophic! He's learning, just … in his own way."
Over the next few days, the newcomer began to mimic small gestures, head tilts, tentative wings flicks, and chirps. Each attempt was uneven, awkward yet somehow endearing.
Meatlug would occasionally roll her eyes, flick her tail, or gently nudge Fishlegs aside when he tried to interfere too much. Sometimes she leaned down and let the little night terror touch her muzzle as encouragement. Fishlegs couldn't help but smile at the two of them. It was just so cute!
Then came a minor disaster. While attempting to demonstrate a careful social gesture, the little night terror knocked over a pile of fish scraps. The pack hissed, a warning flick of wings and tails, making Fishlegs freeze at the same time as little guy.
"Oh no! Oh no, no, no, this is … this is bad. He needs intervention. Calm! Calm!"
Meatlug nudged him with her nose, gave a soft rumble, and then leaned toward the little night terror, who immediately froze, tail curled protectively.
Fishlegs blinked. "Right. You … knew exactly what to do. Brilliant. I … perhaps I overestimated my role?"
As on sight, the little night terror chirped softly, and with the help of Meatlug, nudged a small scrap toward the older dragon. The elder sniffed, accepted, and nudged it back. Finally Fishlegs's shoulders relaxed for the first time in days.
"Yes! Cooperation! Social understanding! That's … that's exactly what I hoped for!"
By the end of the week, the little night terror was cautiously approaching the pack voluntarily, sharing scraps, mimicking gestures, and even letting Meatlug nudge it gently without flinching.
Fishlegs knelt beside the newcomer, careful not to crowd it. ""Yes … this is progress. You're part of the pack now! Not fully coordinated, not yet socialized, but …. part of the pack. This is better than I expected!"
The night terror blinked once again at him, then leaned lightly against Meatlug's leg. She in return nudged Fishlegs, a low rumble in her throat.
""Yes I know girl… You were right. He just needed a little push."
The rider watched as the little night terror curled up beside Meatlug. He felt a strange, fluttering warmth in his chest. Somehow, after all the chaos, the awkward training sessions, the dragon had finally … relaxed.
Then, slowly, almost shyly, the little night terror lifted its head, carrying a small scrap of fish between its teeth. It padded over to Fishlegs, eyes fixed on him, and dropped the offering at his feet.
Fishlegs froze as his mouth went dry. He stared down at the fish as if it had suddenly turned into some priceless jewel.
"He … he's giving me a fish?" he whispered. "You … you want me to have this?"
Meatlug leaned down, low rumble vibrating in her chest. She nudged the little night terror with her nose, giving a soft, approving chirp that seemed to say, Yes, he can trust you now.
Fishlegs bent closer, heart pounding. "I… I don't know what to say. This is… this is amazing. That's… that's literally the first gift you've ever given me."
The little dragon blinked, then wagged its tiny tail slightly, clearly expecting some sort of response.
"Well… I guess," Fishlegs muttered, crouching fully to meet its gaze, "if you're giving me gifts now… I suppose… I suppose you deserve a proper name."
The night terror cocked its head, tilting it in curiosity.
"Yes, yes, that's right," Fishlegs continued, running a hand through his hair nervously. "I can't just call you ‘little dragon' or ‘the creature formerly known as terrifying.' That would be… dismissive. And inappropriate. You're… special. Definitely special."
The little Night Terror let out a small chirp, tail flicking once, almost impatiently.
"I… I need something strong," Fishlegs murmured, pacing in a small circle, "something that reflects your intelligence, your bravery… and your sheer audacity for falling into the wrong market and nearly giving me a heart attack."
Meatlug snorted softly, nudging Fishlegs with her muzzle in a clear hurry up gesture.
Fishlegs blinked. "Right, yes. Haste is necessary. Okay… names. Names. Hmm… Shadowfang? Too aggressive. Goldblink? Too literal. Midnight… No, no, too dull. Emberwing? Possibly too hopeful. Ah! Dragon names are hard!"
The Night Terror chirped again, then reached up to nudge Fishlegs' hand with its snout.
Fishlegs laughed nervously, crouching lower. "Yes! You want… you want input, don't you? Fine! Fine. That's fair. You've earned it. You… you're part of the pack now. And part of my life. So…"
He stared down at the little dragon for a long moment, eyes searching, heart thumping. "I think… I think I'll call you Blaze. Yes. Blaze. For the way you lit up this whole… absurd, stressful… socially terrifying week."
The little Night Terror blinked, then—very deliberately—snatched the small fish again and dropped it on Fishlegs' knee.
Fishlegs laughed, letting out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Ah… so that's approval. That's your way of saying yes. Perfect. Blaze it is. I… I can live with that. Very good. Excellent choice. Brilliant, actually."
Fishlegs scratched the back of his neck, smiling at both dragons. "You two… you make this so much better than I imagined. Really. All of this… chaos, and now… peace. Well, relative peace."
Blaze chirped again, flicking a tiny wing and curling closer to Meatlug, then glancing up at Fishlegs. It was a simple gesture, but it carried weight: trust, acceptance, and a quiet connection that spoke louder than any words.
"Yes," Fishlegs whispered, his voice catching a little. "We'll get through everything… together. You, me, Meatlug… and the rest of the pack. And Blaze… welcome to your home."
Meatlug let out a soft rumble of approval, nudging Fishlegs' arm once more before settling down beside him. Blaze tucked his small body close to Meatlug, tiny wings resting against her scales, and for the first time, Fishlegs felt a complete sense of quiet triumph.
Dragon's Edge was quiet again, but this time, it felt alive. Warm. Home.
And Fishlegs, carefully holding Blaze's tiny fish in his hand, couldn't stop grinning.
"Yes," he said softly. "Finally… a name. Finally… someone to belong to."